IV from The Highway



spiritus asper


valor colored moments in patient days

lean into the wind just to feel its breath

to hear their name sung by the prairie grass

in the Rollingda Bultryple – my heart’s meter

drumming up from the dirt that coats my bones


there is another side I cannot see

facing out-taken fragments of mortar and pestle

crushed memories, congealed in tears

and painted like salve to balm my regret

off-white and sterile, dimmer and clean


perversely palatable these winnowless spaces

which pull on the edges of cheekbones and lips

turning backwards against their internal setting

until vigilance snaps with a rack-shatter clatter

and diligence stretches the joints out of keep


where is the storm to send what is the matter

at hand four beforehand and afterward never

when it’s time to fall back to the spring of complacency

comatose solitude frozen insensitive

bulwarks to blame for the faith of the enemy


lessen the teaching of carpeted clamor

when fire resounding is what my heart dreams

and fills my grip over with precipitation

that flashes with wonder and coddles the rage

against white-washed solutions and desolate gain


loosen the fount of Chimaera’s gullet

buttress the bridges that bide in between

the time to rush forward in anticipation

the time to crawl under the plunging debris

to the solace of six spaceless moments of motion


oh bring me that wind to blow through my bones

and peel the layers of paint worn and past

from the top of my head to the tip of my chin

and down to my toes where the cleaners crawl through

and make me anew

and make me anew






How Courage Looks


only wise eyes fit over

a child’s smile

festive in the gleaming

of a silent twinkle

on a slim precipice

staring into the depths

daring the dark


folly loosed at long last finding

freedom for an old soul

surrounding a gentle gaze with storm

twisting round tranquility with scorn

yet still sitting in the middle

dandelion in hand


undiluted eyes in dilapidated glass

whose face remains


and brow free of frivolous fevers

fretting in the fires of starched imposters


jasper, amber, sapphire sublime

or darker hues for shaded views

with blue-trimmed shutters

drawn and drawing


drowning a world without promise of buoyancy

these pools reign in poverty

before barns of grief


birthing stars of clarity like the dawn

reaching through windows for new rays


ever vigilant, ever vibrant