Saturday, September 20, 2008

Thursday, September 18, 2008

The Wooden Whining Box

the wooden whining box
it's my instrument of choice
when the world goes grey
and words just won't suffice

it moves to the rhythms
of a melancholy mood
it sings a gentle song
only time cares to forget

it's my surrogate heart
with a four string pulse
it's the heartbreak I hold dear
on seven simple bars, only I can hear

I'm standing in the doorway
looking at you, looking somewhere else
I've got one foot out the door
and one hand, on my wailing wooden box

someday I'll find a hammer
and smash that box to pieces
because every time I play
the sound remains the same
on that wooden whining box

Monday, September 8, 2008


In the amusement park wilderness, through the narrow gates
Sloping horizons lie
Tilting my memory head
and sifting sentimental traces onto the rocky creek shore

Time and terrain feel tightly compressed, violently pushed together
But only with finger tips, Earthly and Otherwise
The stately tenants, invisible, whisper through their shadows
language unknowable but felt cooly across the neck.

This world, raw but ripe for rotting, demands a particular attention
A loop of thought that begins and ends in front of a mirror
may infect the spotless dew

In the midst of nature's tour, exposed, vultures pluck away affections,
secret hearts ride the lightning wind
They strike the distant plains—too quick for you to see
too wild to explain.

These are traces of beauty lining the prickly dirt path,
fading with each step
leaving just a dream—thoughts of you and evergreen trees