Brain rocked dry spell,

this green fist

recovering, finger

joints swelled


plush flesh and hair




with supposed despair

negative words

followed by shakes, caught


sitting through night

until red daybreak

catches itself up

and yellows to work.


Rain hangs

misting silent live oaks,

leaves dropping on trucks

coughing by, dipsticks

caked with oil

and dust.


Disposal service flags

and skull crowns are touched.

The fist is unfurled.


Blood apologizes

too often; glass

substitutes, splintered,

a bull head impasse,


a distraction.  Toss

in a craning throat

no alcohol could slit,


surge strands of fight,

rebel, anarchy,


called disharmony,


the strange symphony

of constructed

catacombs through

bone marrow octaves


roaring coursed

plasma cells –

a hare hound crossed,

taut, scampering lost.

Third Wheel 


Cracked case chipped

exposing fleshy speculator softness –

terror in the second quarter.


Prod the membrane

stirred in pokes,

translucent yoke denting.


Reluctant defunctory member,

third disappearance, Savannah

engulfs with an English muffin.


Seat filler spine, melt

into lights high on turpentine.


Maintaining Control 


Primal morning, a sharp citrus-colored

break through lazy rain misting his

steps over a spit of salt severed land.


Paling throat,

crooked grin, games,

flat hair,


his soaked feet drove more than one occasion.

Morning thickened,

desiccating wind and motivation.


The sun, a chasing mirror

quadriplegic thrashing air,

riveted his mammoth ivory tongue.


Blurred Daydream 


Retrograde – memory draws itself lines
from a bowl of black-eyed pea stew,
forced exposition speech deluges
engage potato or beef chunks
in this city raised to ruin.

Oblivion blinks and I return
to myself, the same gun metal sky as
the morning before, restaurant windows bricked up; chairs
scraping under a Georgia family, two beers
empty by my bowl, waiting for my rye.

I learned a spell ago returning
to past cerebral landscapes never remains clean
or gets any easier, just a bit more fun.


Water Bearer 


This is remembrance next to a hibachi
crackling coals and whiskey.
I am a god’s coiled desire.

A horned boy screams a low choir
lost to fallen leaves and a lie.
This is remembrance by that fire.

Crossed legs and PBR don’t give us clear
reasons why rain screens sky
which underneath I am a god’s coiled desire.

Drag wet glasses with a finger.
This boy cannot fail, but sigh.
This is remembrance by a fire.

We eat nothing, only listen
to silence and pyre harmony.

You hum, dousing the moon’s collar;
sing falsetto, least try.
I am a god’s coiled desire.


David L. Paxton currently works as a chef for the University of Washington