forgotten tavern

resurrected piece given a word-lift – thank you

warrior of the asphalt

hawk talons grapple the dense power lines
an eighteen-wheeler speeds over the underpass
he’s flying more than the raptor right now
wonder what the driver is thinking
traveling alone
heaving semi propped up on massive tires
trailing long, behind his sun-bleached Kenworth cap
burning a day’s rubber
friction not exclusive to the highway
is he fatigued
in need of sleep
in want of the broad bed where she lay
milk-curved skin and pink perfumed
the way he likes her to wait
shouldn’t have left like that
anxious for the heavy payload and burning light
regretting his exhausted voice
bellowed like his semi’s Kleinn Triple Horn
he soars again and again
cranking his hand to move the big lady into gear
her gentle touch lingering on his skin
honeysuckle freshener and hand-rubbed leather
he’ll get the haul done
always does
this warrior of the asphalt
dreaming of flying highways
that speed him back to her

boxes of words

quicksand headfirst went I
anything, I’d offer up
to dwell in my dark, sticky, shadowed corner
thin shards of light slipping the cracked walls
forgotten tavern
my place
rank humid paper, pen scratching
laying into pulp flesh
echoes around strangers
passing through
tipping hats and money, conversing, suggesting, kissing, hiding
life going by the window on the 8 PM train
vacant eyes, weighted hearts
grabbing my free hand
I am alone
I am alone
no electric lights
satellites, a galaxy far, far away
no tiny faces in circles or squares
I’m interested in knotting
tempestuous nets
catching dry fish and wet spirits
what matters? asks the man sitting across from me
or is he a woman tapping long, seductive fingers on the marred wood
too dark and the voice too low because I chose it
what matters?
not answering
not answering
boxes of words at my feet
none of them comforting
what matters?

another stranger has arrived
to plug in my room

MeAnn der Ingline

MeAnn der Ingline

sketched this a few months back

glass teeth

island pirate mask warmwords meticulously cultivated
thoughts dribble sideways in
blood ink
coagulate on pulp
thin dressing on a deep wound
no thoughtful phrases beat
sorrow back
no meditation releases
terminal exasperation
of the flesh
of the mind
of the spirit

it is to be a journey then
off to the forest
where nothing will bother you
unaffected by mortal issues
trees are preoccupied with synthesizing
morning ’til evening
the moss will suck up your footprints
but when the leaves crash down
you must run to the ocean
or be exposed
water head-rushing into itself
perpetual frothing
sunrise to sunset
billions of glass teeth
willing to open up
and swallow you whole
and if they do
you’ll never make it
to the mountains
the desert beyond

drinking alone

I suck my drink down
all the way to the bottom
just like my life
all the way to the bottom
the fractured chips
how beautiful they shine
way up there in aroma heaven
my dark crimson ‘lipstuck’
always looks prettier on the rim
after the glass has been emptied
when staring up isn’t so painful

Upright nude trio/charcoal

charcoal nudes done way, way back in high school
this was an experiment – from the writing aspect, not the drinking;)