Munson Diner (with found images) published NZ 2011

imgres (7)                                        I dreamed I was a yellow bird

                                a little yellow bird

                 a little fast song bird singing in the white tree

               on Moth street

     I dreamed I was a white moth

dusty wings beating fast through the trees

autumn is yellow on the avenue

outside the Munson Diner

I dreamed I was a man

driving a little too fast to the corner

city bird songs on the radio

imgres-2 (3)

                              in the little yellow beetle with white stripes

                              I struck a small black boy

imgres-1 (2)                                      in a yellow shirt on his white bicycle

                                              his small body was tumbling and tumbling

                                      and I could not stop my dusty wheels

                               I lifted his head

               his bleeding head and the siren came raining

raining his red blood on the white stripes

in the middle of Moth street

his frail limbs broken like egg shells on

the bowl of my hood

and the sky turned over like autumn leaves

and I woke up alone in my big bed

like the last eight months alone in this bed

alone as a new yellow bird

and hungry for life

all life all life and everything that it is

that it is

any life worth living for another bright sleepy day

I walked down to the corner in my blue, blue jeans

I went to the Munson Diner

sat in the white booth

behind a black and chrome table

I ordered my five dollar breakfast and a two dollar beer

yellow eggs and toast on a warm plate I ordered a cup of coffee

                                         and turned imgres-4                                                                 my spoon over

there were scratches on the back

and scratches on a the creamer pitcher

and scratches on a twin sugar shaker

as old as the diner

maybe as old as Moth street

maybe as old as me

the waitress was wearing a t-shirt

with a little bird on the front

and she brought an extra napkin for my lap

her hair was dusty as moth’s wings

and her lips were cracked like yellow autumn

cracked like yellow autumn leaves

   my thoughts stirring in of bicycles and black boy

imgres (9)

                         yellow beetles and hungry birds and fast men on the corner

                  and my thoughts are melting into a fine powder,

                stirred to mist and lightning swirling around

            stirred like the yolk of my head to life

           rising up through the low ceiling

         returning to the mouths of the clouds

the slip away clouds

above the brick and the mortar

above the tile rooftop

where it feels like the end of dreams

above the city and up-rising

above the Cirrus strands of a Greenfield sky

the stray light spills like shadows like shadows

like shadows

the sugar spills on the black table

the chrome light stirs the vapor of late morning

spilling it back into me like no cream & sugar

today I am a white cup

and this day fills me up, so up with clouds

I am stirring with my silver spoon spine

and turning and turning around and around

turning you down

turning into black,





Her silk tounge whispers

lapping at the pearls

the sweet bright

flood comes

whilst tinny ear


the glib

in her laughter

temples to teeth 

a green flicker

curling our knuckles

bending our knees,

in the attics of

our make shift salon




beat back the sorrows


clear as night’s stars


without the chill

lively characters all,


the rooftop writers

Doll Villanelle The eyes…

Doll Villanelle

The eyes of the dolls stare back from their keep,
In faces yellowing from the darkly painted tresses
Their plastic bodies twisted, limbs and hands that reek,

Of the scented oil soaked in the rosy dresses,
Softly now, the orchid’s stain will reach.
The eyes of the dolls stare back from their keep,
In twenty-two years gone from their flower’s presses.

Matted hair, boots gone, ink-on skin, button-less.
In faces yellowing from their darkly painted tresses,
In Gothic ruin, the wires hold fast in silk graves deep,

Ghost-less as a memoir’s reach,
The eyes of the dolls stare back from their keep,
Plucked like poesies from the lids of dreamless sleep.

Lured into the spinning hours that only nature blesses,
In faces yellowing from there darkly painted tresses,
A solemn-eyed stare—the longer days go colorless and bloodless.
O the dolls! Once-loved dearly, held closely;

The eyes of the dolls stare back from their keep,
In faces yellowing from the darkly painted tresses.