
asking the wrong questions
if only we could
take them back
and ask the answers
instead
blind to deaf
my mute mouth moves
in time to raindrops
on summer's hot
metal roof
waiting to forget
all that i sought
to know

asking the wrong questions
if only we could
take them back
and ask the answers
instead
blind to deaf
my mute mouth moves
in time to raindrops
on summer's hot
metal roof
waiting to forget
all that i sought
to know

I seem to have puppets on the brain these past few days. In part, it has something (in part) to do with purchasing and playing a game that I wasn’t sure I would like. But that’s not the only thing prompting the ponders on puppets.
(more…)
gather bones
gather leaves
gather poppets
gather strings
pop cracks stone
dancing fire
dancing sparks
dancing poppets
dancing leaves

puppets all, we dance to
another jag-time waltz
thinking we set the rhythm
by the fumble of feet
we ain’t no hep cats
jazzing our bluejeans
the strings tangle to bind
as we stumble that last
drunken mile home

everything too suchness
fan rattle to flame seething
and shudder limbs shake
ragged wrap in arms
of rags and wraith
chasing all elder ways
knock the stone fell
rattle the bones
shake in clenched silence
rattle all those bones

The James Cameron produced television scifi/drama that aired for two seasons between 2000-2002 was one of those shows that missed when it was “a thing”. I was still fully into my turn-the-television-around-to-face-the-wall-except-when-I-really-wanted-to-watch-television phase. By the time I finally got in the mood to watch it, there was almost no way to do so easily (YouTube bootlegs were so awful that I didn’t make it fifteen minutes).
(more…)
with a head full of thistle &
hands stained of woad
skating away over water to
while away a spell
with the acorn man
you probably
would not understand
that has become a given
over these near
twin scored years
and so it comes to
wander this wodewood alone
chatting with oaks
in the blackthorn
with a head full of thistle &
hands stained of woad

oh, woodenhead
come in from the rain
quit your thefts
seeking a beauty
outside for a one
that is within
all crows make argue
for your eyes—
you do not use them
anyway, they say
instead, my woodenhead
you are a' thieving out
in the pouring rain