Every Autumn, the sky a little more to stone belongs,
The immovable strata of deciduous columnar clouds,
Every leaf that falls, Rome a little more to earth’s heart recalls.

train with
crushed stone rumbles:

power
   plant chimney
      warns
         of flight
                                      too far
complicated
   i’m hooked
     with thoughts

As I ride my bicycle,
Its wheel going a dull dum-dum-dum
on the veranda tiles.
I hearken to the straining of
the bicycle chain
and screeching o so soft when I turn the steering.
I feel as though something is changing in me.
A light cool breeze enters my chest,
expanding, releasing, expanding, releasing.
As I listen to the endless melodies of the stone tile,
I feel as though something is changing in me.
As I hear the faint yawn of the wheels,
I feel cracking, twisting, shedding,
and I realize,
the work of the bicycle and tile.

                                                                   -storm-

Wounded by one
same stone
crying in many tones!

<>

reversed a verse from “Like a Rolling Stone;
~complements to Mr. B. Dylan, a Nobel man~

you, me, hear what you’re hearing, feeling it,
you, me, hear what you’re thinking, feeling that,
regenerating, excising, pinching a single word of Bobby’s
lyricizing, knowing, you’ve just handbag-snatched a poem full.

the rolling stone sings of next meal scrounging,
he’s talking to you, knowing you, you customizing
his lyrics modifying-jiggering, for your purposeful brain,
emotional crazed notions, your monsanto seed of needs and strains.

nah, I’m fibbing, polite-ly lying,
like clover waves springing up
overnight after a night’s soaking,
raining, picking up hints, misdirections, clues,
***, poem titles dripping from my glassy eyes!

des idées for the next poem, the one, in the garden hereafter,
now called thereafter, all arriving in tranches, backyard bunches,
just to write down the titles fast enough, sometimes, trouble,
oft easy, sometimes rough, but always a fast rush jiggling job.

yeah, I’m liking that word, scrounging,
got character, internal noises aclashing,

so I’m scrounging
while lounging , it’s so ******* easy,

it’s getting borrowed till you! steal
it out from under me,
like an ill reputed
good poet should...


P.S. don’t keep me waiting!
let the scrounging commencin’

tw36

Even though I wasn't dead,
           people prayed silently

at my tomb stone.