Poem 20150319

crow

the lion stands on the plains
in the morning sun
his mane matted
and falling out
his bones ache
he may be losing a tooth
he doesn’t have any roars left
to rise like thunder from his chest

the other males have driven
him to the edges
and the females ignore him now
there’s little game for him when
the hunt is over
forcing him to scavenge the stripped bones
and risk the hyenas
their snarls and their laughter

his big-cat memory
reaches back to a morning
when he rose proud, as golden as the dawn
when his voice made flocks of birds wheel
black and graceful in the blue-white sky
as if by his command

this pride won’t bear him any more cubs

he pants
staring into the distance
watches the grasses wave
watches the solid shadows that are birds
peck and hop and scratch for food

maybe he can work up
one last roar

Lyrics 20150315

crow

There’s nothing here to see, folks.
You should all just move along.
Is that a siren in the distance?
Excuse me, miss, yes, you in the sarong.

There’s nothing in this duffle bag,
Nothing interesting to see.
Just several weeks of dirty laundry.
Now if you’d only just excuse me.

Can’t let them take my friend away.
I really must insist.
I say I’m not a violent man,
But I’m likely to resist.

Oh, wouldn’t you agree, my dear,
This alley was grave mistake?
Cornered like a common thief.
I hope that you don’t break.

The clubs are out and so are the guns.
This might sting a little bit.
I’ll set you by this garbage can.
I’d cry if you were hit.

Can’t let them take my friend away.
Cause we love to talk for hours.
If they hit me like that one more time
I’ll tell you where to send the flowers.

They’re saying horrible things to me,
Things that just aren’t true.
Blood and knives and tarps and tubs,
And someone headless, just like you.

I found you on the street, I tell,
And you became my friend.
You told me all your secrets.
We’ll be together to the end.

A talking head is not so strange
A thing beyond imagination.
If only they let me show
You sing down at the station.

Can’t let them take my friend away.
I wish my hands weren’t tied.
I’d whisper softly in your ear,
Since you never really died.

Poem 20150314

crow

is this better?
sharp focus
clear lines between the letters
the card a sharp, painful white
so clear
you can see it all

or worse?
the room fuzzes over
instant caterpillarization
of letter forms
and lamp arms
and everything at arm’s reach
recedes
like a gel lens on a doris day
movie

how about now?
and the lights go off
and there’s nothing to see
except the afterimages
popping like fireworks
and your imagination
popping like fireworks