san antone

The sky is purple with the heat

somewhere a trumpet is trapped

inside a stuffy cheap radio.

There's not a hope for the

dark smell of rain.

Now, there's an accordion

jammed in there with the trumpet.

The singer can't stand it anymore

It's a goddamn sauna, as if to say, busting out

with that long, high pitched Mexican wail, part

laugh, part sadness at this bitch of

a world.

Rimbo the Sailor

Do you turn your face to the wall

and let your breath hang low

to hover and stain the curtains?

Will you let the memories become

dry grey stones streaked

white, itching with , shriveled vines

withered hands brown and curled?

Suspended in a box you are,

diorama hanging from strings made

of twilight.

Think, then, drink instead

the deep,sweet wine of your days with

the Ocean, under her in the blue cathedral

of her womb,

on her supple belly.

Guzzle the nights, the incense, the smooth

bronze country of a woman's shoulder.

In the thundercloud of your brain, tell

me of the electric magic of

ON and OFF dancing

through your fingers and making

rivers through your head

and tell me if you be truly dead.