2:48 a.m. hiroshima bound

the drone doesn’t know

same as it ever was

          truth is    it never was

                  jumped jim crow just to have it known

     that you wouldn’t let it go

       it’s best for both of us

                         you know why

      don’t look at my eyes

                              you might have to decide  

that brown isn’t as blue as black is white

                         that couldshe wouldshe shouldshe might   

this room felt a lot of tears

       in those  pre dawn years

                where phone calls and whiskey

                                 would have you believe that 

                                                four green lights make a green sea

     

that who you were talking to 

                         was       listening

                              man   we don’t understand anything

                     no   let me think for a minute

wai-wait 

                                                                      no

  

                                                                that’s just p l a i n bullshit

                                                            

 it’s not anything  

          that we want to understand

              it’s everything

evv err eee thing

are you listening

                            has the port 

                                     in the storm 

                            become 

                                       only   the kissing

                                                              the missing      the wishing    

listing    insisting

    that surreptitious be swallowed    

                            not watched or  written

2:48 a.m.

hiroshima bound

onehundredfortysixthousandeighthundredthirtythree

it’s sugar   sure as shit

sure as guilt’s gonna find catholics

sure as sugar bear  curly hair

      nobody seems to care

the cell phone air 
fills with yes men

      platitudes

teen angst and attitude

keep the proof coming through

reading you

              feeding you

      but ultimately

                         needing you

to be the truth

       free the proof

socrates in shiny shoes

drinking the poison kiss

of cold air's bakery bliss

little ‘love you’ s between breaths

never the right time to get wet

  or be upset

we counted every last hair 
                                          on her head

onehundredfortysixthousandeighthundredthirtythree

           at least

and about a thousand more

       in the air

                  on the floor

an even dozen on my pillow

every time that's good 

        to go

or ought 

             to know

which way the timetable wind blows

for weathermen

                  for leathermen

   making sense and recompense

                         at all the reformed catholics

         on a

red brick   noise floor

    pushing adieu   to adore

here’s one   thing   more

      to good timing

and tippage

            the full house missing

drawing two

               but daydreaming of kissing

for the first time since i can remember

and at least since the first worst of november

when germs in mouths 

      caused so much doubt

and we all found out

that smiles are

                      shouts

to the little burn brown

              in this town

that circle the sweet sound

and get up just to 

       get 

down

                                                                   Corner of Oak Lane and 12th

by Chuck Connelly

one step short of the truth with so much left to lose

four o’clock

      and what to do with   nervous hands

            wandering glances

find   the street

        the hard concrete

whatever sun might have the time   to shine

 whatever grey clouds hang around  your mind

                        you say ‘kerouac’   and ‘coffee black’

            but neither really interests me

beyond what might be termed ‘necessity’

so     best wishes to the bride 
congratulations to the  groom

on their new zealand honeymoon

watch for liars   deep in weeds

     who might just fuse your wants   to your needs

when that kind of trouble starts in to breathe

        peace can really be anything

a short list of your demands   
              1 study hands 
                  2 feel  land 

take the time to follow through

        words align   but still elude

one step short of the awful truth

        still with so much left to do

the open-hearts train came   and the  broken-hearts train   went

     both tended   to breed  the discontent

in different ways    
                         for different things   

eyes   shine  fire to light

       on the farm

easter night

try to ‘closer’ but turn away

       give up the gain

like every day

 con   gress to   reality

there is much that can be made of   me

              

build blocks     swing doors

    twice toured

                         once torn
underscore

the backside often feels like   braille

          the front just longs for holy grail

 if you’re gonna leave

           leave   a trail

so i can find your way to hell

there’s so much you haven’t said yet

          like these domestic cigarettes

you might love me   but i’ll make you sick

i think i already did

                                 this is me right before i quit the staylows

little doses of bad timing

the child was stillborn

      that was more than he could bear

tiny little fingers

 black matted curling hair

why doesn’t it breathe?

took a long time

      and he could not forget

how life was an advantage when

  the air was thick and wet

why did it take so long to see?

the most ordinary things make marks    in time   mistaken for a memory connecting broken lines   move the past to the beginning   forget the history    can you explain possession     can you turn and look at me 

the rest was made up

       like the book he wouldn’t write

talked through pages

   needed more light

what was the difference in ‘had to be’?

this is after

                                                                                            a simple    thinning   rain

                                                               made meager of example

now the memory was stained

little doses of bad timing

Woman in Street Clothes, Portrait of Ellen Andrée, 1879, pastel on paper  Edgar Degas

the cut

     eyes were on the cut   just above the knee  it ran deep  i still see it when i sleep  blood  red  meat    muscle torn  neat     oblivious to those who stopped to stare   who called   who cared   who made the noise that filled the air   with screams cries  and jiggling insides  was how he didn't know what to do    or who did what to whom   which part of it was proof and   what was merely half-true  the cut didn’t care about us  it simply bled the blood that used to be   on the closed circuit see   now it’s  public domain  and ain’t it a goddamned shame   because he could run man he could do things you wouldn’t  think anyone can   never dream of it  even at night    like   a high jump or   quick lunge   in two steps  he could cheat death   but i think that’s all done  look at him now    and think hard how   it’ll go   if the medics don't show   if the blood doesn't clot and  the screams don't stop   until the  air feels quiet   and the echo life-science   of young and of yet   all the things that you will forget   like when to push back and say 'all set'   when to count the money from the alabama bets    when you’re building something   when you’re sparing necks

but then my shoulders get cold around three thirty and i start to feel dirty                 

                                                                      from   the  wasted time   

   

anything with a silent s

the world’s gonna end someday   like it did in '93

                                          i’m paraphrasing

it’ couldn’t be    me      man   

              justcouldn’t    be                          forget about jackson man

sixty isn’t enough  

                                             but anne

anne  ?

                                                                        double anne ?

flip side harmony  high

nashville strung down the upside

i thought it was about her   man

but she was just something i made

                                                  i make

got enough wood out here to build a forest

now you’re walking on it

forest

with a silent s

anything with a silent s

the good and the bad making things mix

breaking off money   dope and chicks

          the southern storm of dickeybetts hotlicks

beginner’s  scotch and luck

                                              wide eyed dark smiles                 f  u  c  k               

some people make                art

                  some people make sense 

                                  socrsese start

                film rolls  screen dark

light flickers  on the

light heart

                 

she is a bit of a hurricane

                                    and she always hates me

when did you know you were leaving 
 

                                             how can you tell  if you're breathing

           emotionally focused                   but leaking

         the bell rings  your time’s up     

secret safe

well     safe enough

that little india

touched by india

made to feel luck

laugh louder

over flowing cup

kindness flow  confidence

make the day new

morning

brighter than i was accustomed to

it all comes from the sea

which were answered for

made the last confess

sent tables to the floor

a small bit of success

made enemies

standing in a row

aware of courtesy

impaired by such a show

that little india

she stood longer than i could

blind to imagery

carved us in wood

just because she could

glorious

to all

so noted   then

history to the wall

she didn't need the men

the opposite of apathy

jealousy intrudes

i swear she's looking back at me

confidence

resumes

photo by Lisa Fletcher

ray charles at christmas

the man knew how to work

he had occipital cortex that was free to roam

  so he filled it with sound he filled it with soul

he filled it with females   and gun control

                                            filled it up           

                           weighed him down

                just like rock    

                      did  to      roll

when the blind man shoots and he doesn't miss

that'll give you pause to stop              _drop              and

                                                                                 kiss

the foundation of worry that let you believe

     that all of the sawdust should mean anything

what would ray charles do?

well

he might count off      let the band do their thing

and he might tell the truth     but then again           

                    he might sing

listen to this poem