I pray for my father’s eyes, the jade pearls they were
and move the gears forward.
These legs, going on will rely more n’ more
on crank grease
and habit.
I pray for my mother’s heart and watch the water. Kindness rises:
white caps before a storm.
This summer all humanity’s remains push south on heavy barges
pushed by racing tugs.
The Ferry Man is busy carting tired bones.
Category Archives: river life
The Storied Water in Dead Eyes, 20
Summer air is thick with wanting. These lungs wheeze sticky inhaling / exhaling through this stale soppy sour sponge.
And then the rain
the rain offers the briefest tease of a reprieve… but only a tease.
The storied water in dead eyes, 19
The dogs tell adventure stories as they sleep. I wake from a dream of an endless farm growing ranch style houses, the old farmer and his wife across the road tend tomatoes and peppers, leave the houses , sprouting weeds among over manicured lawns. In the short distance, corn. Farther and farther, back roads that leads like old tributaries to the river. Currents do not sleep or dream but the stories stretch out on abandoned riverbanks, an assault of cement and coal dust. Power plants sprout like pokeweed along ignored railroad tracks, casinos taking root in the shadows.
There are no dreams in slot machines. Take note of the faith of sleeping dogs.