Human Race

When the day has surrendered to yet another sunset

Run with me to meet the morning's saving grace,

For every new day is reason enough to rise and race

The coming sun to a western horizon we just left.

Impression:You

It must have been the way the drops of moisture
gathered speed as they collected on their journey
down the vertical slope of the bathroom mirror.

There is simply no other way for me to put in words
how turned on I was by the image of your sultry echo,
an impression of nakedness obscured in humid
lust no less real than the dirty thoughts
gathering speed as they collect on their journey
down the vertical slope of my wondering mind.

Surely this is the way Monet would have painted you,
or the way Vettriano would have loved you,
or the way Picasso would have despised you.

Clarity

Years weather to
Instances.
Instances soften to
Impressions.
Impressions,
Soft,
Vague,
Melt and disolve
In the manner of a Monet.

Fishing the Fields of Foley

Morning comes early to the fields of Foley.
Before even the sun itself fully wakes to
Call away the groggy mist hugging either

Eye or ground, a strong morning chill
Penetrates through both soul and sole
As Russ and I parade in step after grandpa,

Ever mindful of the divots we dug during
Yesterday's dawn raid. With pitch fork,
Shovel, and coffe can all with us again

We stop, stab and overturn a moist mass
Of wriggling muck while breathing in
The moments of fresh dirt, worms and family.

It is from this Earth that kinship grows in soil
We now break up with our very hands.
It was here that field and family took root

Generations deep in the fertile bottom
Lands just a chew and spit away from
The muddy waters of the Mississippi River.

King of the Washing Machine

Load:
Once, perhaps twice, you were someone's pride
But now you resemble a carcass lying unclaimed
After a kill, the pride of lions long gone after having
Their fill of you, leaving your cords and hoses strewn about
The ground resembling nothing more than undevoured entrails.

Soak:
Washed up machine colored olive green
Dressed in rust and three cycle misery
Sitting abandoned in an empty lot
Your only companion a busy street
In this unsympathetic suburban Camelot

Sitting dirty, rusty, far from your norm
Dry was once your friend, now rain is home
To a washed up world and washed up machine
I ponder my own on this throne set on heavy load

Disregard those who bare you such disgrace
I know in my heart it was no mistake
Our chance encounter in this urban sea
Fore with you as my throne I will take my place
As ruling king of the washing machine

Agitate:
My subjects rot
My kingdon grows
Bother me not
Your worldly woes
Of sexual inferno
Of fashionable clothes
Of self satisfaction
Or moral agitation

My pride bleeds
As hope takes seed
Trouble me oft'
As dreams take off
Of pure honesty
Of man's integrity
Of illumination
Of God's notions

Spin:
So load me your dirty dreams and your stained woes
Toss in your thread-bare hopes and torn souls
Together, my rusty friend, we'll spin the status quo
Until the world comes full cycle of what it should already know

Plight and Faith

Be it April bathed
In her warm spring rays,
Or winter bound
Amongst her coldest days,
Else an empty night
With only a moons sliver
To light my way,
My love for you will forward on
Till you touch the clouds
Of a promised Heaven
Spoken upon our wedding vows.