Song O’ The Willamette

Seek ye sounds and hear the collective bugle calls!
O’ osprey n’ lumbering locomotive bawls
Hear its honking trombone plunger muted feature
Garbled warble like the voice of Charlie Brown’s teacher

Galileo

Like all the famous
astronauts and astronomers
who spent days
peering at the heavens
I’ve stared too long at the stars
orbiting inside your baby blues
to no longer deny that God exists

Prosopagnosia

Night and day’s tied faces to the plainly hidden
Double helical wrapped Christmas morning gifts
Opened up like halos when street lamps kick in

The Antihero

I am the undrank cheer
and the spilled champagne
Of the New Year’s promises
that wind up supine, dead

If I Was The Planet Mars

If I was the planet Mars
I’d break free from the Sun’s hold
And escape into the dark cold
Forge a path into the vast black
and never, ever, ever come back

This Muddy Wake

Soon I’ll molt off my sun dried summer skin
And ditch the campfire and beer songs
To a cowboy’s goodbye, a wink and a smile
Knelling his shiny bell and his trusty steed
A sequin stitched requiem fallen fallow
Of Fall’s fraying executioner’s dark hood

Solvitur Ambulando

This is my journey
To this goddamn place
I pace just behind the edge
Or at least what’s left of me
This, my purgatory
My paradox
My gathering
My reckoning

Born Shy

I live on the wrong glassy frosted frame side
Of a Norman Rockwell doctor visit painting
And the museum security staff roping it off

Undetonated

Rubbing my sleepy eyes
Peering past them
in total disbelief
Like a half asleep
scared latchkey kid
whose hometown
just burned down

Turn Out The Lights

Somewhere the party never stopped
Somewhere the 7th floor of the Sheraton
in Madison, Wisconsin is still shaking its head
Gathering its tables and chairs up from outside

Somewhere there are still packed music venues
With sweaty teenagers hanging on every note
By just word of mouth and zero promotion
Somewhere the ice cream man ain’t talkin bout love

Some Kind Of Blue

The Prince of Darkness
Was beaten by the police today
His khaki suit and tie baring, crimson splat
From his head struck by a cop at Birdland
His blood gushed over like oil from a tanker
Tragic ballads of yesterdays and moon frowns
I still hear Morpheus skipping rocks across dreams
If I were a bell I’d toll for gone gone gone oceans

The Escape Artist

Fawn eyed creatures
Like me have no chance
My ocean targeted. Dredged
Every sea dollar spent
My hiding spots albescent
Snowing and pregnant with plastic
I hide out during the workday
Sitting on my gender neutral throne
My island at my job. I write poems
While pretending to excrete
While thinking these words

The Voice of Alexia

They say the gauge of railroad tracks
Is the same width of Roman chariots
When i hear the trains go by every night
Trumpeting their 7 million dollar suicidal horns
I hear the clickity clack over Chinese immigrants
Backs and listen to the Christian and the lion
Still negotiating some kind of deal

Asystole

The shimmer of tragedy like a haloed Belladonna morning of alabasterine dusted pounce. A snowy, dappled blanket of zagged inches anew on top of at least half a horse’s leg or more. Air crystalline, frozen breath of ghouls. Visible in speech, open mouthed, flared. Impossible to move without plowing through. Drifts of frozen water chanced to exist, hindrance blocked driveway on this windy, Wyoming moving day. My Pa fresh off just retiring, bought a house and an acre out of the city. This was his day.

Summer Air

Clinquant melodies of scattering leaves and seed Soughing plaintively between sunburned hollows Like perfumed tiny tourists from a passing charabanc Their lilacs’ scent of sweet sillage lingers for a puff Leaving painted imaginary doodles of agitated air behind Foregathering in the wakes of napes, and marooned nooks Of plumped and ripened orange bursting splurt lilyContinue reading “Summer Air”

Happy Depressive Sounds: Cara’s Music Corner

o I’ve been having a difficult time lately with my depression or as I like to call it, my weltschmerz. The word weltschmerz is a German word that translates literally to world weariness. This describes the feeling that I get when the weight of the world bears down on me. Luckily, I have music to help get me past that feeling. In today’s episode of Cara’s Music Corner, I am going to talk about music that sounds as equally depressed as I am at times.

Angel Light

In moonlit alley
Ashy clotted arms
Tangled silhouettes
Gather like crows

Rundown carousels
And jilted roller coasters
A perpetual creepshow
Of attractive nuisances

Like bare veined angels
With come fuck me eyes
Pinhole sized pupils flash
Dirty wheedle smiles

Mountain Mettle

Mountain don’t give a fuck
Way up there we must appear
Like nests of rustling ants and ticks
Scurrying about everywhere
Making jobs, lies and politics