we kill all vampires

watch everyone around you

every soul you see

is shedding misery

we kill all vampires

every Saturday night

we take an antidote before we go

to prepare our souls for the fight

we resurrect our monsters

bring them back from the dead

to kill them one more time

we kill all vampires

every Saturday night

we push a cure as pure as we dare

to keep off the vampire's bite

when we are conjuring our own ghosts

out there in the back

we reach way way down 

we reach way way down into our killer kits

and prepare for attack

we kill all vampires

every Saturday night

we take an antidote before we go

to prepare our souls for the fight

we kill all vampires

every Saturday night

we push a cure as pure as we dare

to keep off the vampire's bite

now where were we?

[[ a song about how we try to find and describe our own consciousness ]]

now where were we?

the parts of the thing
try to trace
the shape of the thing

a beam of light
tries to see
the source of the light

the wind in the air
wants to know
the sun and the air

we are
nowhere in particular, we are
a bend in the road, we are
a draft through a door, we are
the iridescence of fly, we are
an eddy in a river running down to the end of all time

now where were we?

neither here nor there

[[ a song about where we are when we're on the phone ]]

she is so far away

hiding words 

at the end of a corridor

she is balanced on air

reading paint 

at the end of a corridor

if all you think 

is all you hear 

if all you think

is in your ear

where are you now,

woman on telephone?

are you neither here nor there?

she is thinking elsewhere 

giving herself

to a telephone microphone

she is moving her mouth

mouthing words

to a telephone microphone

Are you picturing distance?

Are you picturing distance,
perhaps some other hills,
and the hint of water there?
This is what I thought.

This landscape is
photons, vibrations,
the inhalable molecules
of life on the air.

This landscape is
brochures and other ephemera
your mother received from
chambers of commerce.

This landscape is
the 'grey' and the 'white'
I have written on a plain
sheet of white paper.

This landscape grows
more distinct now, rolling
over the hills of the
thing in your skull.

Are you picturing distance,
perhaps some other hills,
and the hint of water there?
This is what I thought.

intentional love song 19: rescue

wounded in a corner, you sit

crumpled on the floor, you sit

slumped at the bar, you sit

falling through a door

into another country

and sending all the messages home

what will become of your soul?

where will it fly to now?

go through your inventory

let your anger roar

jealousy, lust, and fear

we've seen it all before

tick, tick, tick

the source of your fear, in here

a stack of curled bones, in here

a bundle of nerves, in here

sending out runners

to the ends of your senses

and sending all the messages home

what will become of your soul?

where will it fly to now?

you want me now 

to come to the rescue

the jaws of life opening 

wide to extricate you

tick, tick, tick

extricate your soul 

from the wreck of your heart?

as if ever the two
could be teased apart!

stumps at the VA hospital

[[ previous poem in verse/lyrics form, with two sections ]]

= = = = =

Wait for us here.

in the designated area

Don't make a move

or we may never find you.

Hang on to your balls, boy,

We're going in.

A man with a stump

for a leg wheels in

stump-first down the corridor

stage left.

A woman with more stumps,

fewer limbs, rolls in

propelled by a nurse

stage right.

The two cross in front of me

and pass with no sign

they notice me or anything.

Hang on to your balls, boy,

We're going in.

= = = = =

Now I am running

through all the possibilities

like it's my job to shoot

these action movies

A prehistoric helicopter shot out of the sky

by a man with a cylinder at his ear like he was listening

A slow fat cargo plane with entrance and exit wounds

by three gunners who simply can not believe their luck

A pressure-sensitive mine planted long ago

by a dead man and forgotten until just the other day.

An IED laid yesterday with a telephone trigger

for the man whose only job was to watch and to push

A sniper hidden, still, and unsuspected

'til he fires off one, two, three from a mile away

I can't stop running

through all the possibilities.

I can't stop running

through all the possibilities.

what could happen

I am waiting in a designated waiting area. Do not move, I am told.

So I hold still in a middle of a row of plastic chairs in a corridor with my interlocked hands resting over my crotch.

A man with a stump for a leg wheels stump-first down the corridor from the left. 

Simultaneously, a woman with more stumps and fewer limbs rolls by the other way propelled by a nurse looking for somewhere to leave her. 

By chance, they cross almost exactly in front of me, the chairs with the people with stumps, and pass on with no sign that they notice each other or me. 

Now I'm running through simple possibilities like it's my job to shoot action movies.

A jet fightSURPRISEer shot right out of the sky by a man with a cylinder held to his ear like he was listening for them coming. No, a big fat slow cargo plane shot at and shot at aSURPRISEnd shot right through lots of smoke and three men with artillery who cannot believe their luck. 

A pressure-sensitive mine planted by a dead man, by which of course I mean he has since died, and forgotten, the man and the mine, unSURPRISEtil the other day. Or a mine laid just yesterday with a telephone trigger for the man whose only job was to keep watching keep watching for tSURPRISErucks coming out of the town. 

A sniper half buried in sand and invisible for all practical purpSURPRISEoses witSURPRISEh a riflSURPRISEe designed for such occasions. 

I can't stop running through all the possibilities.

we sailed with the pilgrims

[[ a drinking song? no idea. it just came out this way. ]]

we sailed with the pilgrims

but not what you think 

for we were all pilgrims 

alone on the drink

we sailed with the pilgrims

but not how it sounds 

for we were all pilgrims 

lost in the rounds

looking for a home from the sea

looking for a sea that would carry us home

looking for daylight after the moonlight

looking for dark under the big starry dome

with the scouring sky hanging over

with the swallowing sea shore to shore

with the dread of the known close behind

with the dread of the unknown before

we sailed with the pilgrims

but none of us pure 

for we were all pilgrims 

in need of a cure

we sailed with the pilgrims

but none of us good 

for we were all pilgrims 

in need of a bed

intentional love song 18: love is love

[[ As in all situations, change genders freely. It's a love-centered love song about love (losing love) love love.  ]]

love is longing to be

love becomes love

love is love is love is love is love

I am only love

but

love is falling apart

love undoes love

love is no longer, no longer love 

I am nothing

then I am mourning

I am mourning love

you catch yourself 

crying for

crying out loud

get hold yourself

you're s'posed to be 

right by now

get over yourself

but it's not me 

I am mourning

then get over him

but it's not him 

I am mourning

I am mourning love

but 

love is longing to be

love becomes love

love is love is love is love is love

I am only love

love is falling apart

love undoes love

love is no longer, no longer love 

I am nothing

then I am mourning

I am mourning love

you catch yourself 

crying for

crying out loud

get hold yourself

you're s'posed to be 

right by now

get over yourself

but it's not me 

I am mourning

then get over him

but it's not him 

I am mourning

I am mourning love

I no longer breathe the breath of life

love is the aroma of life

I no longer taste the flavor of life

love is the season of life

love is the season of life

love is the season of life

and love has died

but

love is longing to be

love becomes love

love is love is love is love is love

I am only love

dispossessed

[[ An ambiguous song about an ambiguous persona imagining a home he (could be she) used to know. Someone else is in the home now. A feeling of dispossession, real or imagined, some sort of revenge planned or fantasized. Fire and smoke imagery, maybe imagining the old chimney smoking, maybe imagining arson, maybe just a crazy phone call, maybe all in his head. The old phone is there for strangeness and to evoke an old time, dialing the number like a secret combination on a safe, with the phone's "cradle" doing double duty for imagery. Senses (taste and smell, fingers, warming, creaking) to introduce an uneasy nearness. And is he thinking of someone else (an invader? just a new owner) in his old home -- or is that "someone" just the persona sneaking back and creepily intruding in (calling on) his old home? It's coming from inside the house! Or not. ]]

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

someone tastes the fruit still growing

in our garden

someone smells the flowers planted

by our mother

smoke will be coiling

over our old home

sparks will be floating

floating on air

someone opens creaking cupboards

in our kitchen

someone warms his chilly fingers

round our fire

someone feels like he belongs now

in our old home

now I am calling

dialing the rotary

my combination

into the past

lift the receiver

out of the cradle

lift the receiver

out of the past

fire will be burning

up through the blue air

sparks will be floating

floating on air

to capture our gods

to capture our gods

catch them in motion

drawing on walls

living on the threshold

waiting for rain

wishing the rain away

waiting for rain

cats in the corridor

always wanting in

and out again

always wanting in and out

to capture our gods

catch them in motion

banging out sound 

living by owl-light

waiting for sun

wishing the sun away

waiting for sun

cats in the corridor

always wanting in

and out again

always wanting in and out

to capture our gods

catch them in motion

wearing new faces

living by hoax

waiting for moonrise

wishing the moon away

waiting for moonrise

cast in the corridor

always wanting in

and out again

always wanting in and out

intentional love song 17: the whole bed

he thinks 

she steals all the covers

he thinks 

she takes the whole bed

she feels

like lovers should be lovers

she feels 

alone in her head

she reaches -- 

he slides away

she pulls 

the blanket in like a net 

and finds the net empty again

she is

alone on the sea

cold spell

Push back the blossom
into the bud.

Push back the sea
from the shore.

Coltsfoot and hackberry,
Coughwort and bird cherry,
Back in the bud with you!
Wait for your time.

Silver birch, white birch,
hazel and horse chestnut,
Back in the bud! Do not
come before your time.

Black locust, linden.
Black locust, lime.
Do not come before your time.

Lilac, save your purple.
Dandelion, your sun.
Priest, take your turn:

Corylus avellana
Tussilago farfara
Padus avium
Taraxacum officinale
Betula pendula
Syringa vulgaris
Aesculus hippocastanum
Robinia pseudoacacia
Tilia cordata
Wait for your time.

[[ A spell ]]

[[ Jablonska, Katarzyna & Kwiatkowska-Falinska, Anna & Czernecki, Bartosz & Walawender, Jakub. (2015). Changes in Spring and Summer Phenology in Poland — Responses of Selected Plant Species to Air Temperature Variations. POLISH JOURNAL OF ECOLOGY. 63. 311-319. 10.3161/15052249PJE2015.63.3.002.  ]]

intentional love song 16: everything runs down, everything runs away

[[ from a photo of Appalachia in the paper ]]

everything runs away

down this valley

everything runs away

the railway follows on one side

the highway holds to the other

the river flows in between them

down to the sea

everything runs down,

everything runs away

everything runs down, runs

down to the sea

there's even a mist on the river

who put that mist in the air?

as if someone drew it that way

knew I would need to go

knew I would need to stay

I could take a photograph of you

steal a photograph of you away

I could take a photograph of you

maybe give it back another day

I know there is nothing up above us

but a sky full of chance and blame

I know there is nothing up above us

but people like to give chance a name

Don't say you're going to turn it round

and make it like it was back then

Might as well pull all those trains back up the hill

and push that river back up the valley again

everything runs down,

everything runs away

everything runs down, runs

down to the sea

phenology 3

the velocity (almost 

two miles an hour) of 

spring is accelerating

#spring #phenology 

phenology 2

these long orange legs 

and beaks in the grass

are sworn carnivores

they have dined on frogs 

all the African summer 

while I stood in snow

now they pace the fields

wings behind their backs

watchful and expectant 

#storks #spring #phenology 

phenology 1

Now she approaches,
dressed in birds and bumblebees,
walking from the south.

vestigial virgin

[[ Wordplay on Vestal and vestigial, to begin with, and building on that to make this a woman literally in touch with her vestigial characteristics. ]]

The vestigial virgin

in morning retraces

the route she retraces

each morning she rises.

She touches 

the tip of her tongue 

to her four wisdom teeth.

She touches 

her tailbone and where 

her appendix might be.

She feels the hair rise on her skin 

and continues the tour

and comes away pure.

She chases 

a tingle that leaves her 

completely in tears.

She rubs her 

third eyelids and curls and 

wriggles her ears.

She feels the hair rise on her skin 

and continues the tour

and comes away pure.

Bluebird Matchbox

[[ A transformation of an actual childhood visit to relatives in Dundee and Perth. The long wait for adults to finish visiting grows to an evolutionary scale. The Bluebird Matchbox (actually a Corgi, says the internet) was produced to keep me or my brother or both of us busy while adults talked for the last time. ]]

In childhood I am guided in

to meet the ancient Britons known

to other ancient Britons then

as Helen, Bunty, Joe. All gone.

They are all shades of vein and chalk

and pebbledash and cardigan

and close-cut grass and gravel walk

and kindly smiles all wired in.

I play while they discover fire 

and pour a drink to warm their skins,

and ages pass while they admire  

how fingers grow where once were fins.

listening song

[[ Surveillance society. ]]

Do you hear the whir

in the night air, children?

In the glow of 

an infrared picture evening?

The wash of a thousand

watching things watching?

This is the sound of the 

listening.

This is the sound of 

the great going wrong.

This is the sound of

the final song.

Mr Jones 

coils

in your toilet

Mr Jones 

crawls 

up your walls

Mr Jones 

hmmms above 

your love 

Mr Jones

is the whir of drones

Mr Jones
knows your bones