the shotgun house

rain, sitting in my old shotgun house
making time with my roof of tin
tapping, pushing some little steps in
that silly dance i love
and dreaming

baby boy, you can stand outside my door
all through the night
yawling and hollering, fierce in your
goodwill jacket, worn down to the
cotton fluff, ragged like your tongue
whiskeyed and slick

but don't scare away my mailman
cause the world comes calling
brings me whispers and gossips
and don't break the old man's tree
it knows secrets, it hides my
dandy charm

so tell me, little fella, pass something rare
something clever cross my door
make a bargain for a tale you've come
to hear, if you can leave me treasure
taken long ago

rain, you are a chatty tattler, hopping
here, fooling there, done with caution
making words out of the windy night
long and sleepy discourse, wrapped
for bed

here in my daddy's shotgun house, left
in a poker game, brown, like rum and
coca-cola, sweet with syrup, and he
couldn't hawk this place, or float it on
the mississippi

or i might write a book, razzing and
jazzing, full of sassy folk, all out of shame
forking twisty lines all up and down the page
write a book from no. 2 pencils, they know
the way

or i might waggle down to see new orleans
find a corner that says a thing or two,
peddle favors, get my quarters shiny
fill these pockets til they get too heavy
topped with dimes

life, you are a betting man, so take
that wandering fool somewhere he'll
win a bet, somewhere my door won't
knock him back, i aim to while away
my hours, here in this shotgun house

remember

i'm harbored by an ailing, a dwindling
gone shrunken, and i am so much
less

i've made my fight, day break punches
crippled hands, smirks like slaps
up on me

wake up, wracked in restless turn
hard twist, jiving in the dark
alone

how did this get inside of me, strike
me, push me down on that dusty floor
broken

ticks and tocks, crafty old alarms
boozy yawling between the hours
5am

give me some explanation, some
discourse, flowery words out of your
book

aren't i god's own creature, his crafty
creation, ain't i got his image down
pat ?

but confessions don't bring careless
breathing, moonlight on my bed, silky
roses

let me sit up in my window, whistling
love songs, tossing lullabies down to the
mist

don't ease my head when summer's passing
or gray the clouds with teary blathers, or am
i

full up with days gone short, nights stretched
up and down the stairs, knocking whispers
back

remember that i was once a young man
raw and gentle with my ways, now i am so much
less

days of summer

i've taken, in these days of summer
to some small and idle thoughts
writing notes upon the water
fraught with curlicues, and flourishes
deep into the mystery of the 4th street pond

but i cannot keep at bay
the jiggling minutes, of the hours
slipping, sliding
and when i turn to read your name
it's gone, and so i wonder
if by walking backward, step
by step, collapsing into seconds
that might still be caught

and so i wonder, if i reach
behind me, will the after noon
perhaps fall back, and i can
read my hobby of regret, so
recently acquired, that should be
cherished, even relished
but i'm all bound by habits
mysticked, twined inside
like spiders

i've taken, in these days of summer
to skipping like a schoolboy
between the evening shadows
bouncing down the alley ways
chased by city smells, fanciful
angry scents, singing city tunes
in my schoolish tenor

and whenever i find waters
puddled, or discarded
shared with dogs and wandered
seekers, i stop to write
so i will know
that i am here

More Blues, Cause It's Still Summertime

Random, but hardly idle, thoughts on the entertainment choices we still have. So let's start with . . .

Sanctuary, Webisode 5. It's the little things that are our undoing. And cumulatively, little things keep me from enjoying Sanctuary as I should. We've covered this ground before, but at least there's now a developing storyline and not just discontinuous episodes. I'm crossing my fingers for Amanda's project but still can't go farther than 2 stars out of 4. Soon?

The Closer, TNT, 2005 - Present. Trudging along, wearily, is our Brenda. Stressed and stressing. Not quite silly enough for USA and its breakfast of characters; not good enough for the big fellas over at HBO or Showtime. But it does have its fans as it coasts along into a 3rd season. Where do you rate this contrivance, fans? Better than my 2 stars?

John from Cincinnati, HBO, 2007. What a roller coaster of a series. I'll write a bit more about this episode 6 when I've recovered. Actually, I'm going to watch it again - there was just too much to grasp in one viewing. Imagine kabuki and ancient Greek theater combining in a chimera and you'll have the riff of John at the motel doing whatever John does. And that's the crux of the show, isn't it? 3-1/2 stars.

Wire in the Blood, ITV, Season 5. The enduring Robson Green is iconic on British telly. The opener for the fifth season (2002 - 2006) is not particularly memorable, but does come with a rather nice twist. Mr. G segued into Northern Lights and then City Lights following Wire. You just can't keep him down.

ripe

let it all begin, little sweetness
you've led no kind of life that would
make a mother proud

those broken lilies have a pungent
scent, a heady flavor, near too ripe
for some

like you, aren't they
?

too ripe, too raw
flagrant with their gifts
they push aside those
lesser flowers, toss
promise into the wind

a bawdy floozy that smirks
out in my garden
befuddles any one gone lost
gone roaming in the
darksome hours

and they are a jealous lot
just laughing at the dewy fresh
pretenders

sit up in my window while
i prune
i snip, i cut

i think to gather for your
bedside all this garden
has to give

you and your lilies can make
some dreaming
while i go on my way