Tag: art

trumpet (20160925)

crow7 Comments

like harold hill with his baton
in his hand
[get your mind out of the gutter]
waiting on magic he doesn’t believe in
it took someone else to blow the
trombone [seriously, gutter mind]
to open his eyes

it was easy to watch those pastel
musicals and think love was a
recursive function
that called itself without end

but sometimes you have to put up
with the pbs station pledge drive
before you can get back to
robert preston and shirley jones
and the magical costume changes
in the last five minutes
and you can hear the great creatore
and the recursive functions runs
and runs
and blows a trumpet like gabriel
with wings on fire

the taste of failure (20160923)

crow21 Comments

i’ll tell you what failure
tastes like

tastes like needles
tastes like need
tastes like less
tastes like a fucking mirror
chewed up over a lifetime
tastes like glass
tastes like cold silver
welling up behind your tongue
tastes like every dream
you ever had
tastes like every nightmare
you ever had
tastes like staring
into the other lane of traffic
tastes like that shadow
in the corner of the room
tastes like a mouth
full of blood

september sky (20160920)

crow9 Comments

out walking
under this late
september sky

promised thunderstorms
never saw a drop of rain
dirty mud drops
spotted the bonnet of the car
where they dried

the air stinks of rain
refusing to fall
and diesel
–petrichor and fuel–
making me remember
autopia and the submarine ride
at disneyland

they don’t
take paper tickets
anymore

the blue in the sky
a cobalt strike
like earth when
you take her picture from space
clouds rolling
blisters of grey and
not quite white

i remember autumn
by the smell of leaves
wet sticky ones–all wilted lettuce
and dry ones–crackling thin potato chips

bring on the equinox
i’m ready for a day with
an equal amount of light
and darkness

no more titans (20160918)

crow11 Comments

i rest on my back
staring at a ceiling
scraped smooth
and white
by previous owners

the only thing tearing
at my liver
an eagle named
anxiety as the weekend
slips over the horizon
with the sun

i close my eyes
and see an expanse of white
and open my eyes
and see an expanse of white

i wonder what it would be like
to give the gift of fire
without getting blistered hands
if being chained to a rock
is all that bad
having made a mark
that went down on his
permanent record
and i wonder what color
his sky is