steal your face right off your head
some people have ‘that’ smile. so damn believable they are. and then they just fly away with your heart your cash and your lover. well my smile is just a silly smile. i would rather give you my money than take yours and your lover you can keep. i have one of my own you see. your heart is all i want and in return you can have mine lock stock and barrel. you cant steal intangibles they stick to your skin like grease in an old iron pan.
in my kitchen
the tea kettle whistles
let your soul spirit fly
the way wind blows through our mind. i feel the tension of my body slowly leaving me. it is all right. it really is you know. on the other side freedom is not fleeting. it is a permanent state you know. dont ya know.
of every past storm…
innocent when you dream
i dream very little. at least i think that is true. who can really tell. if you wake with a warm and happy feeling was it the result of a deep dream or are you just thrilled to have checked the box for one more morning. sunlight through the blinds in our bedroom always seems welcoming. i believe it is the closest we can come to resurrection.
i see my footprint
in front of me
every child of the sixties loved kerouac but wanted to be gary snyder or maybe lew welsh. kerouac lived with his mother. hell we all wanted out of our parents house. me. oh i loved lew welsh. until he committed sucide (allegedly since they never found the body but the gun was missing and he left a note). anyway your gods all have to die. it is a rule.
flies and buddhas
i love hanging out. just being. people are a great species. all of us. we kill the flies and ignore the buddhas. why you ask. because we are stuck in the web of finding ‘ourselves’. the flies must die. and buddhas must leave their bodies to be rid of US. and now i have to leave to write the poem at the end of this haibun. bye.
the soul of buddha
follows the fly
slow like honey
dont rush. just watch every millisecond unfold. the seeds of milkweed just hang onto the edge of the pod. waiting for a breeze. the perfect breeze. i would like to capture that tenacity. oh the way things happen just when they have to. the wait until next year will involve cold wind and snow. but then…
out of something~
birth and death
like a scent in the breeze
fall. and everything is about to change. not forever. just for a season. the way we rely on the seasons matches our lives. each moment has meaning. for me one thing. for you another. but we should not fail to accept the gifts each fragment of the seasons touches us with. the changeless verity of the seasons is one thing worth clinging to.
the sunset leaves me
with crackling leaves
blue eyed soul
when you are born in detroit you join a club. it is a lifetime membership. no matter where you are you are a big ‘D’ boy. now older but no wiser i still have the invisible badge of that tattoo. after hours jazz. seedy movie houses and places where they have a dozen locks on the doors. but it is home somehow.
the police light up cars
for no reason
my neighbor was a cop in the city. they raided an ‘after hours’ place. when they did that almost every time the evidence and cash came up short. this time it was no different and as he was taking two cases of scotch and bourbon down the stairs to this squad car he was juggling them and in one hand was his gun. you guessed it. he shot off his toe. well the booze crashed down the stairs before he did. but. he ended up with a full pension in his thirties. shot in the line of duty. welcome to detroit. he was a good guy though and my wife liked his wife. so. to hell with it i say. they sold their home and retired to live on a lake up north.
with the precision
of a creaking stair
channeling basho and the oracle at delphi
i dont want to find the spirit of basho. if i did i would just shake him silly for creating my addiction. what the hell was he thinking. rambling around the backcountry like a lonely bob dylan. inventing a ‘stage name’ out of a tree. i always laugh when people pretend they know what he was thinking when he wrote that hokku or this other one. right now i cant figure out how the oracle at delphi got into the title of this haibun. for the love of christ dont ask me what a haiku is. ask that pine over there instead.
into a pond
all the frogs leave
say a word for jimmy brown
when you are poor you really can focus. or not. the choice is yours. pitch a tent on the town square and shit in the gutter or find a nothin job and work on your self esteem pushing a broom or emptying the trash at a mickey d. i always opted for menial labor in a pinch. pushing a rock up a hill made sisyphus a household name (among hippie neer do wells anyway).
sings my epitaph…