If someone seeks a special solace
do your words move softly
on the palette of unspoken need?
I was one with the homeless
at such times, when words failed
to express the inexpressible
those summer nights wandering
in a barefoot homage to streets
going nowhere yet everywhere
in geographies unmapped tonight
drunk on nature’s sweet song
sung by nocturnal creatures writhing.
Give me a steed, even the broken nag
yearning for his somber pasture
& no more this aimless ramble
through an inferno of suburbs
where shooters target hollow malls.
I was one with the homeless
& still am, in twilight’s rock and roll
lyrics spew out the words to live by
as rhythm sways its vibrant path
over silent crowds in the cul-de-sac
of living memory’s forgotten sounds.
There is no hiding behind gates
of arms and shut eyes
as the mind mourns its murderer
and the lungs ache to sigh,
no binding quakes with stiff white gripping
for calm within from parasitic kicking,
digging, writhing, and ripping
starving for starting the cycle’s beginning,
and no finding the time buried
as the heart heaves uncovered
the weight given back
by a false lover.
Now the rain coming down is much too clear.
I sit in a tin with bullets in my ears.
Drawing back from the heat I was dreaming
to look down at my body freezing.
All the while my mind still grieving,
for what devil left it bleeding.
we were in route to Maui
for a family wedding
when Eunice passed
and I knew it would
happen just that way,
happy and sad
of a infinite fine line
I hadn’t seen her
she didn’t want anyone
seeing her–her seeing
her in their eyes–
I understood this
more than anyone knows
I so wanted to see
her children again
remember their voices
when we were all
young and possible
hug their hearts
with an A hui hou
there is a DVD
lent to me
in the yellow-ware
on the cherry server
in the dining room
the Life of Mom that
I will need to return
but haven’t yet found
the courage to watch
to win unlikely under any circumstance. now the attendant wants all or nothing. an artist hopes to sell at least a small print. reduces price.
chill air promises frost in next few weeks. they play with the children ask only they learn to resolve conflicts peacefully. a hard iron to bear when quarters are required.
the melody engulfs us in our solitude. yet another woman murdered because of misperception of others. life invites destruction as a saying may go. deliberately avoid two random pages when reading a new book.
never the same again. slow down notice the various poses they reveal. it won’t be long now. yet the thought of not unsettles. all black they dress to oppose the sun. glide into position with modicum of grace.
less telling than their effort to exhale. apricots vary to degree unnoticed organic. mistakes add toward a later correct hour. a sudden smell of bleach clears the sinuses.
awakening to new isolation and rebound closets. an old black and white landscape. a violin sans strings knocked as drum beat. they gather to dance. how suddenly confidence reduces to insecurity.
their smell fills the memory. file away among items to be opened later. on such occasions two reduces to one without agreement or copy matters. wide feet and short legs. open sky eyes blue.
Gary Lundy’s poetry has appeared most recently in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Beautiful Losers, Vallum, The BeZine and Fragmentarily/Meta-Phor(e)/Play. heartbreak elopes into a kind of forgiving, was released this past July by is a rose press. He is a queer living in Missoula, Montana.
Beauty is all around,
it is everywhere I look,
but I tire of looking into a false expance.
I enjoy the flaws and the scars
of broken down dreams
and fragmented false promises.
The numerous stumbling bumps
Into the catastrophes of life
that make people real
and give birth to vibrant thought.
I like people who drink cheap scotch,
with a splash of water.
Not for the taste,
but for the bite
and the way it makes them feel.
It is the numbing effect
that gives a reprieve
from the thoughts and feelings
they are hiding from.
I say all this because sometimes
tire of drinking red wine
and want spiced rum,
on the rocks
with two twists of lime.
do not hand me
a fucking straw.