loco-motive

paper cuts and split knuckles

painful every time

hands washed

paper cuts as the beat fills

in where the smoke lifts

watching the way the beat

moves the air

paper cuts colored with gray

puffs like a locomotive

up or down the track

east or west coast

it doesn’t matter

paper cuts and split knuckles

stinging under water

working out with the mind

spinning out of control

itself needs the hands not

the paper cuts

cutting short the motion

the motive as crazy

as it could be

smoke fills the room

until a window open

or a door cracked

it’s that puffin’ loco motive

behind what has been done

since trees could grow

mother nature created

who discovered fire

put them together

paper cuts from rolling

too close to the edge

might fall back a step

or two on the run again

paper cutting into

all the time he’s got

put aside for writing

with a beat behind

like the theme

of this mundane

reality…

nothing concluded 147

as if none

with the same name

have been written

standing so close

to perfection

nearly falling

off the edge

nothing concluded

everyone else is asleep

somehow he escapes

un-tired

pulling through

until the night

ends uneventful

nothing concluded

in the perfect fog

to get lost in finding

a thought beneath

the snow melting

before eyes

if you have the patience

or the time

preferably both

eyes glued to the road

ensures a healthy ride home

what if man never made it

to the moon

and what if the Tsunami

was a weather weapon

nothing concluded

no matter how you see the glass

still have to prop lids

in order to see

for the required interval

everything changes

minute to minute

my brother isn't answering

a call put in another hour

philosophizing within the self

nothing concluded

again becomes the consistent mantra

over times ten or even 100

who knows what the Popsicle epitaph

really meant who knew it would spawn

years of serial poetry...