not sure how many words

[eagleyez]

stampede along
the stonewall,
the radio bleats
like a splash of
cigarettes and
crown
and coke.

swing wide across
the twelve string
lose you tube Jay,
to a bad browser.

clips, bits that skip
the part
about low.

I woke upand
it was january
acoustic geologic
aging.

murmurs on,
pete buck right hand
freight train michael throat
bodysurf
on a rum board outside midnight
Gaudalcanal Diaries,
Jacksonville shorebreak.

john had a wicked cough
when he rented our backroom,
drummers devotion
hacking up the mold
he shadowed.

bargain buildings
china shacks
clips of towers
fallen in chronolgy
life on a string
the faint wind of america
weatherjazz.

 

[eagleyez]

all the way to Reno, I 80
pissing in Coors talls
sniffing gasoline
with visions of suggetions
of future New Mexicos and car thievery.

if i wanted to fall down
in Baudelaire Baltimore
electrolite hills
of poison oak Oakland on acid
youthcenter dance
outside in the creekbed,

I would have
ditched the words on the rocks
clipped my head
and asked for my twenty minutes
twenty minutes ago.

 

[eagleyez]

these clothes dont fit us right
waiting on grandjuries
communists and country steel union
lap slack players,
drinkers
coffee hackers
missouri junkyard smokers
got nothin

fathers fathers tried
to riverswim
now souveniers
crow shoulders wings
dive in the quarries
these clothes dont fit us right
but this is where we walk,
tread over it
maybe pretend.

 

[eagleyez]

my tropical apartment
my body in the water
jilly has a tiger in her hips
in the kabuki garden
fog over the tenderloin.

blues walk out the man
gimme your right hand
for the love of ivy
trumpetvines across the garage.

in the district of the armory
above the sidewalk Guadalajara,
I learned the bricklayers trade
from Rudy the Checkoslovakian
escapee.

they owned the blue jean empire
we made good money
and snuck inside while they were in Aspen,
read letters bellyaching
about a prostate
and forlorn love.

south of mission
the streetlights line up
Im in the green
jeans rolled up
halfway boots
dodging chevy novas
towing pianos with a chain
over bay bridges.

 

[eagleyez]

the mexican neighbors
wonder what he was involved in,
he saved me once or twice
what should I say about him.

now he's dead on the lawn
dont ask me
oh please
oh please.

this ends the poetry.
see the water come
a mile
a long.

steel slide train brake decline,
from sierra to mojave,
choya flower
punk garage.

 

[eagleyez]

stamping along 240
the sky wrecked
in clouds that
blacken the mountains in
grey chalk.

the literate
blister the road at 70,
silver missiles
flipping channels.

driver 8
the locomotive
rings thru
and the road is panavision.

 

[butters]

*reading along for the road trip, EE... the music plays as backdrop. Awesome stuff for this little-traveled reader*

 

[eagleyez]

*reading along for the road trip, EE... the music plays as backdrop. Awesome stuff for this little-traveled reader*

I drive often thru these Smokey mtns. Like china or burma, but dry and full of hickory and cottonwood. Stunning visuals if yur watching..

I saw a lone black cow standing still
In a sugar snow field
And the lap steel
Turned the corner
He was gone and I hookd a right,
Up to horseback lane,
The yiddish weed seller
Is home from her Brooklyn.


stories fill the day
like the piano,
butt stained
and wobbling,
gather round the player
movies till dawn.

 

[eagleyez]

Del Fuegos
dodging southern pints
fairgrounds in Maine
run back to the car to
get the weed,

hell with it,
stop for ice c ream
at ho jo's
3 am
get breakfast
instead.

pour into small beds
as the birds begin the begin,
boston has a ratpack of its own.

 

[eagleyez]

jason and the scorchers
is a band you should all check out.

 

[butters]

I drive often thru these Smokey mtns. Like china or burma, but dry and full of hickory and cottonwood. Stunning visuals if yur watching..

I saw a lone black cow standing still
In a sugar snow field
And the lap steel
Turned the corner
He was gone and I hookd a right,
Up to horseback lane,
The yiddish weed seller
Is home from her Brooklyn.


stories fill the day
like the piano,
butt stained
and wobbling,
gather round the player
movies till dawn.

i'm watching you project them...

what's a lap steel?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Conversation born of Desparation

You’ve got to start writing again,
You’re impossible to live with
When you’re like this.

Like what?

Blocked. Clogged. Stuck.
What ever you call it.

You think I want to be
Blocked, clogged and stuck?

No, but do you have to
punish me? I’m not the cause.

OK! I’ll start again.

 

[eagleyez]

i'm watching you project them...

what's a lap steel?

A lap steel is a short guitar played laying on your lap, played with a slide. Some are all metal, some metal and wood. Played thru todays technology, you can make one of these sound like a freight train or twangy country slide. It all depends on the song.

I once owned a 1939 Richenbacher lap steel, and we played the shit out of it to all kinds of sounds. Its great fun.

 

[Tsotha]

You’ve got to start writing again,
You’re impossible to live with
When you’re like this.

Like what?

Blocked. Clogged. Stuck.
What ever you call it.

You think I want to be
Blocked, clogged and stuck?

No, but do you have to
punish me? I’m not the cause.

OK! I’ll start again.

Clearly, you should join the 30 in 30...

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Clearly, you should join the 30 in 30...

T'was that thread
that dried me out
daily dread
poetic drought.

The pastures lie
in fallow form
It's not goodbye
but just the norm

I'm writing still
not posting yet
but, yes I will
be back, you bet.

 

[eagleyez]

Its like trying to forget California,
All the way out here,
With Inmates Working signs
12 guage walkers front and back.

From the Buk live at fillmore
redwood boxcars north of Ukiah
sharkfishing off san quentin
snyder in jr high berkeley.

Travels south have yeared me,
Dont get bearcaught while in the trees.
The lore of vinegar and spanish moss collection
Like waves crashing on the beach.

Out on 441
North to Alachua,
The pepper crop come in good
We are moving
West.

 

[eagleyez]

scraping a dime in pockets
of atlantic city,
black and white
methamphetamine
goin on 6 days.

I read and get it,
Snow in North Carolina
blows forward to
Boardwalks in Jersey
and up to Old Orchard Beach,
cold today,
colder tonight..

 

[eagleyez]

blood and medicine
all the strands that carry thru

transistor radio
typewriter too

when the ground
smells of spring

across to the bay
in stands of Sequioa

all thought comes to you.

never was a doubt-

climb above the treeline
swim in the ocean
when the ground smells
of spring.

 

[eagleyez]

big sur
jersey shore
piers in southern Maine

give me amusement

let me hold
a twelvestring
reverb in abalone caves.

 

[HarryHill]

A lap steel is a short guitar played laying on your lap, played with a slide. Some are all metal, some metal and wood. Played thru todays technology, you can make one of these sound like a freight train or twangy country slide. It all depends on the song.

I once owned a 1939 Richenbacher lap steel, and we played the shit out of it to all kinds of sounds. Its great fun.

A Dolbro is played the same way, and just for fun Play me a sad song Curtis Loew Good to see you eagleyez. I always enjoy what you post, although sometime i'm mystified by the context.

 

[champagne1982]

I don't know how many words
we've written into a story
of braving disapproval
of cutting holding ties
of embracing happiness
when everyone dooms
romance to failure
and the story wrote on
words of happiness
trust and faith, words
to outnumber the crowd
of naysayers and soon
words of acceptance
once love showed
an undeniable smile
to the world. So, now
tears are part of this
and I'm still not sure
how many words
it will take to say
goodbye.

 

[The_Fool]

I don't know how many words
we've written into a story
of braving disapproval
of cutting holding ties
of embracing happiness
when everyone dooms
romance to failure
and the story wrote on
words of happiness
trust and faith, words
to outnumber the crowd
of naysayers and soon
words of acceptance
once love showed
an undeniable smile
to the world. So, now
tears are part of this
and I'm still not sure
how many words
it will take to say
goodbye.

Hard to say goodbye,
hard to think the words,
refusing to think
about having no more
shared memories.

Seems like a single-sided
conversation,
saying so long
to someone sharing laughter
or tears
as the melody required.

Hard to say goodbye,
to the silence of the words,
the gloss of a picture,
to the silent smile,
captured more than once,
in my memories.

 

[Angeline]

For my darling dharma bum.

Mine

In the long-ago
picture, the little boy
in the kiddie car is gleeful,
abandoned to all but the moment.
The sun is shining
in that photograph and later

on a concentration of fingers
knit to a Louisville Slugger.
Sometimes those fingers trailed
languid on the edge of an inner tube
adrift on the Russian River.

He has grandfather's arms,
grandfather's smile married
to steel resolve.
He has perennial innocence,
his tongue pressed on a corner of lip.
He looks to the sky. He watches
the treeline.

He is unprepared for the crash
that will end childyears and later
a fall from the roof of belief,
Icarus stilled. It would seem

only the trace of tears remain,
empty bottles, hope swallowed
like broken glass.

Who is this motherless boy huddled
in a tangled cage, whose treasure
is this shadow that curls
in a corner of expectation?

He asks why I love him.

When he says it's like finding
a diamond in a mudpuddle,
he thinks we're talking about me.

 

[pelegrino]

When he says it's like finding
a diamond in a mudpuddle,
he thinks we're talking about me.

!!!
That is ideal love to me, and lucky whoever felt it and received it in their lives.

 

[Angeline]

Your love was a force
of nature, elemental
like the Sun never stopped
shining and I feel it still,
warm and comforting
me.

When I lay my head down
I cry, just cry because I
drove past our favorite restaurant
and you started talking
in my head about the mamacitas,
the barrio ladies of Oakland
who sold you tamales,
about times you stood alone
outside the gospel church
just to hear that music.

That voice was my path
and my happy place. That smile,
those big sad eyes were
my home.

So I cry because now
I will only ever hear that voice
in my head, at least the one
that tells me it's ok:
I'm loved now, I'm safe now
because you--
my loopy unlikely protector,
are here

except you're not
even as your voice says,

Snap out of it, girlie.