i stood still, weary and all
at the turnstile to tomorrow/
tucking the gravity reserved
within me deeper, twitched/
nerved/ distant/ ticketed,
lodged in the locomotive of me/
gazing free to
the grave escape that i write
like poetry
on a ticket for the midnight
train to morning/,

but to who it may unnerve,
i know when it all might
end/

as if she were plain.

the only women
i’ve ever loved
had souls that were
left open…
like an old refrigerator
door,
or a wild electric
current,
or a window in a lit
december rain.
they let all the world in,
and you could see it in each iris
that all they loved was hidden deep,
for their hearts hid open
behind each insecurity
that slipped through the doors of their eyes.
and i wanted to dig deep, and
bury myself
in their golden grave minds with all
they dreamed and held in silent sigh,
just so i might fertilize their weeded souls,
and hope that the favor would be returned in
words.

bohemia.

i lost a sonnet
as i boarded the evening train to bohemia.
i felt it flee for a short moment, for
i’m not serious enough to feel my own frequency.
i watched it bounce serenely upon the stoops
of dystopia’s iambic architecture. and
looking back on it,
each street i breathed in always ended on the upside,
in a sleek tower sort of way.
so, gone, the doors to the train folded like an eye, and
my imagination delved back into the bottomless
subway train pit of time,
buckled back in, breathing
still
toward the next poem of

Life.

a poem kept safe since ’93.

Thomason,

eyes of blue iron
fixed freely
between
warriors and honest men;
soft heart strung sweetly
there
to mind of fire
behind
brimstone skull
that thinks proud, blooming
like Celtic chrysanthemums,

petal
to
petal,

breathing loud
with war drums drawn around Texas stem;
budding, beautiful, so that
even the sun must bow down,
for our roots ride

Free

like roads unpaved,
trudging toward
the promise land
beyond
the flower’s edge
of
day-break.