Hallowed Dance - M.Weisgerber

A little lick, a tasty treat
A billowed stance, awakened beat!
The time has come for release;
October, it is in the air.

The crisp intake of scented breath,
a hallowed grave now unrest,
to all the devils that nest in flesh:
I say to you, October is in the air.

Dance young beasts, in empty streets
Claw the door, make metal twist and creek!
Fade away upon the swiftest feet,
Rejoice, for October is in the air!

Farmer man, who cuts the land,
fills the barn with crops by hand,
to all the migrants who lazily stand,
Be swift, October is coming near!

The light fades from the face of Day,
the world of night enshrouds the bay,
to all the priests who kneel and pray,
I say to you, October is in the air.

For all the lovers between the sheets,
beware the peddlers, muggers, thiefs;
their time approaches, death and deceit.

The way it's always supposed to be.

This is what is meant by 'Trick or Treat',

Again I cry, beware!
For winter; it will be coming soon.

The End of the World, and other Bedtime Stories - M.Weisgerber

-That red/purple/green combo:
Did I imagine it?-

Time had a purpose for once this evening
and beautiful, making slow perfect sense.
Gave me courage to talk to the near moon
and every fractal pattern on the grass.
Each stem of the flower, and petal torn
existed to remind me of her face.

The clock hands thrice stretched longer, green vessels
pumping through the veins: each revealed as strands
growing from her own heart's core, of course.
Its a sign of death, beauty shortly held:
of oldening slowly. But god, how
can I describe her? Her laying upon
a wavering sea of chartreuse, not seeing
not believing, but trusting me too
with all her soul, to guide us through the haze.

Both slithering, aging, growing restless
with the movement of the light: the best part.
Of my life & that entire night was
feeding her cantaloupe & being close.
Becoming shapes in the dark, twig people
who feast on such darkness as well as life,
and with the son are reborn yet again.

In my own widening pupils i saw
death approaching fast, the end of us both
lounging; I laughed at his petty mockery.
Sat reading quotes of other safe people
to the laughing her, giddily smiling.

The trip started with soft piano tunes,
ended with I loving her. Her the same
old self she always was & will yet be.
This is a poem for she that sings life,
laughs with a smile, and plays with sink water.
That safety word has become a story,
living tattoos of the deepest clover,
coating the softest skin revealed: arms, legs.

I hope it guides her well.

Poet's Dance - M.Weisgerber

watch the little swallow, delicate
hobble from toe to toe in the cold
oh, the illusion that i could fall for such a pretty thing
just rub a finger against her breast

such delusions of my mind
only mean that i have gotten caught up in the movement
the tight constriction that comes from an angry, vocal taunt
much as in her heart

this evil nymph, i'm afraid she has come to steal my soul
seeking the color of a flushed cheek
a color i'm sure that will trail after her when she flies
startled now, such a jittery thing

Trust in It - M.Weisgerber

.................................I write while poised in a guise of chastity,
heart now lying fallow somewhere out beyond the game fields.
Shadowed by corrugated steel raised high on a pylon
barely within sight of the river quay; constantly weathering the elements.

It huddles: a talisman, a gravemarker.

I mean that honestly, I have cut out my heart this time.
Felt the arteries sigh, and dribble their contents when placed upon the soil.
Then incision upon moist clay, staining loafers and corduroy suit
followed by a slow walk across a stretched plain of stardust.

It is done, with only the mudwruckles to burp and giggle as I pass them.
Tie flapping with the wind, hoping to jump ship
or scamper away into the highgrass.
I covered the package & spit twice, pondered a different sort of outcome.

For my imaginary girl was a temporal tool, now out molting in the weed bed.
Pushing my need for love into a habiliment of grass (oh I ask how it can last):
this time I used her to whack it; to shorten its span into something useful.

Hatred makes my poetry white, a desire; a flight into a right wing adventure
alone, wishing to confide folded Confucius tales discovered wrapped in a Malabar.
The kind that glow yellow when unraveled.

Review title.
It’s the feeling I get while standing with stained shovel along the waterbed,
head hanging low with noonday sun held high; sighing
while expecting some different sort of destiny.

Tales - M.Weisgerber

Glass rose, not an enchantment for noses;
your a guilded tome for the woe-filled tale,
open only with a converse tickle.

Be worthy of my siren song to sing.

I knew a Gnome, entangled in your folds,
one who scurried with each new birth of day
away from the hurries of the light, but soft
what distant beastly noises did she flee?
No creatures, trolls, or others that make sound.
No. It was the subtleties that dawn brings:

Dry glow, diamond dew; the halo mounting
'round the Son I pray to with each passing.
She was beautiful, no less than darkness
falling fast, ensnaring toes first, then heart
held to the last. Playful rouse then to rest.
I know her only by your hanging, rose.

Lost her no less where the trail-head foundered.
Yet every eve to take the silent gaurd,
strike out amoungst the briar patch that grows;
follow that sing song drifting through the boughs.
Search wearily till the daybreak blossoms,
again somewhere beyond the twilight fauns.

Tome, hold me close with lips that press to sip;
take this breath, let each petal drift & flow,
released upon a pinna found most worthy.
Grow upon that breast, where my longing ends.

Stolen From Carrie - M.Weisgerber

There is a girl of industrial coffee make.
I long to know her outside the grind,
glimpsed at the window seat this morning,
while my cup grows warm.
Then cool; moving towards chill.

The percolator tempered fingers so keen
to curl around the edges
while she shuffles. To smile with sadness.

Place emphasis upon the sigh
as the words drip;
expressions caught,

bitterness held.
I never enjoy after that first sip.
Glare at the rinds collecting at the bottom
only meant to throw away; nestle somewhere in a waste basket.

...for Elliott - M.Weisgerber

The horizen is lightest on thunderstorm days
rain dampering windows only as long as you let it.

Its simple mathematics to break glass & stroll through;
window panes cannot contain thee.

Private lawns become only a symbol of image crisis'
with disregaurd for public places & rain kissed sand

sticking to balls of feet; it's an adventure tossed.
Barriers jumped!

Freedom is powdered stone nestled between
briar patches and aquadic conditions.

It's the place for your soul to go
the lowest point of a gravity pull.

Lucy, I've come home now,
to stick toes in soil or ozone
and simply sit and cry.

Its an expanding ball most easy first to swallow. - M.Weisgerber

Tonight, I play this evil santa;
fly through the night on a steed of pure steel,
across dusty moors & melting snow.
Deliverance of two cards, love;
in the other, a second wolf named omittance.

I will not allow myself
tonight, to be driven by desire.
One can create a quite night,
with bullets or hellfire second:
my first choice again is love.

Love that does speak its name
each night, at nine-thirty,
reminding me we could always be.
Something more in store for the cutter,
the man who flies in a chariot with windows down.

Thinking of frozen motion, while the wind nips.

I felt a forearm once, felt the bone quiver beneathe,
setting my heart in motion, in fear
fear that I could once again fall for a supple frame,
breasts that could quiet even this still night air;
make me listen to just the sound of breathing.

Watch the exhale as a crafted smoke,
knowing that cold and heat meet to provide fug;
a misty sound that invades her navel.
I've never known how to love an artist,
yet always craft on every day myself.

It's why one card remains now in mailbox,
the other is destined for the waste bin.

Band Songs - M.Weisgerber

The pigeons flutter over, disturbed by
marching feet; today is the day of battle!

This damn mind slips, engrossed in obsessions
other than passing nights where greased valves,
should signal an act of slick defiance.
The muscles dont forget the steps as easily;
they are torn, wearied from other trials.

How odd that war should take place in this city,
with all the touching wastelands to choose from?

The horns shall call first, cutting their edge,
clustered together as the judge calls forth.
Bass to follow; winds combine to soothe
the spitting spray fly & mucus, joining
the ratt a tat tat along the drum rim.

Its a matchstick struck, then flung through the void,
flame attempting a feeble catch before...

Anger is brewing, abuse of the years
spewed passed lips, then forty feet of brasswork
to become the word called harmony,
set to the tune of loneliness, unique
to all the half children we cultivate.

...and I had forgotten it was today.

This is What Happens When You Know Too Much - M.Weisgerber

I threw out a word and watched it spin outwards, downwards.
Didn't assume I'd regret it later.

Ripples.
The effect that comes from standing on shore and
being unable to control yourself or your destiny as the pressure nears.
Watching it wash over stones, toes, and loves ones.

An imaginary thread that comes from my tounge, and
connects all those around me.
If one should bleed, I will feel it in the back of my throat:
A grinding sensation.



When I was talking on the phone this morning, I
didnt even hear it ring:
I just sat talking for many minuets before I regained myself.
Then the sweating came, and the terror sunk into the sheets.

Eyelids then feeling the same.
Unable to yell or scream, lacking the knowledge to contain myself.
Oh how the heart breaks: it is a 1/16th inch thick hide wrapped, and
then that one word broke through.

Regret will come later, but for now, I'm just glad you survived.

On Horseback - M.Weisgerber

I never tasted the salt marshes,
or was bit by the deadly cottonmouth;
but on horseback, I can pretend.

A six shooting outlaw will ride past
whooping & hollering 'bout gold dust
stashed in the foothills outside of town.

Sloshing his way through an old saloon, looking
daring someone to brawl in the bare streets,
fists gleaming with the punches, bloodstains flow'n,

this, while I ride by.


True, tis no mainstreet, just a path outwards
through the woods, over hill to grandmas house;
my weathered jeans, not homespun of cotton,

nor tweed hat to adorn my brow;
but horseback is not for fairy lovers,
only those seeking hold of open land,

skirted girls who spit fire, brandy. Guilt.
All found in a lazy eye, while wandering.
Stables reached, and with one fair glance backwards,

I am the old man wrapped in a young'ens brow.

February. - M.Weisgerber

---Sometimes I have a telling, story worth;
as always, it sings best by candlelight.---

February. - M.Weisgerber

Clearly, I saw two men nearing on horseback,
one, truly mounted, the other leading both mare
& fellow countryman through the shifting whiteness.
Such signs cannot greet many simple folk,
attendants stuck in the machine age
waiting for their shifts end with weary bones.

Puzzled, I only stood, disbelieving
that at once was there, now presently gone.
That pair, wandering out of a lost age
into a falling rice spectacle
unawares, made this spectator gape
listen to the horse snort fading at length.

The horror that followed, an item of legs
gelatinous forms that flowed as water does,
streamed forward. This creature, it too was led
by a man of simple height, unawares it seem'd
at the frightening steed that followed behind;
he only snatched at the haze before him.

Local petrol stations were not designed
to hold the horror I felt leaving my heart
out through my throat as a whisper.
Expecting the beast's 'lectric eye to turn,
spot my soul naked under the pump sign,
then eat eyes and marrow from my skull.

Like so much wind in the summer barely,
both gone, without so much as a hiss of teeth.
That, all I saw, and then nothing else more.
The star wheel spun, but let simple folk fall
through the spokes; had us endure another day
to enjoy the fruits of our labors only.

I'm sure I'll survive to see non-being,
but a man should not perspire so much
before the cock decides to greet fair dawn.
Question existence due to his boarders,
relationships with near reality
that wear so thin were edge joins the middle.

If you dare friend, to question: seek the fields
of the near east side if you doubt the tale.
The grass, you'll see, it still refuses to grow
where such a party sojourned, lost to time,
even as mid march nears, and the flowers bloom.

Burned, sizzled upon the dark gray matter;
I can only imagine what it did to the snow,
a haunted sigul that mine still digests.
...will you believe?

My Take on the Old Ways - M.Weisgerber

Tonight, we're bringing back sky-diving,
horizontal. Exhaust plumes call me home,
while the landscape lips whisper freely
'round parts best left empty or unexplored.

It starts, with one leg over leather steed,
then jack rabbit advancement o're plains. We
two diametric poles opposed: I - one,
the other, a whip of flame in the dark.
Splitting the ground, pulling even the earth
farther, to the nearest edge of twilight;
Mad Men: we exist to drive away night.

Guns burst, smelling of passing fumes, bullet
forms smelted then dislodged from hot chambers.
It's me, screaming as I fly along them,
the back streets. Loggers trails; forgotten land.
Viewing the roots that seek to end my blaze,
dodged with crisp laughter; I know so much better!

Even managed to steady hushed God-calls
in the whir of machinery; a blur
passing, matching the heartspeed and spittle.
This is ours, bird country; a forge that's longed
to create sparks that hiss or fly freely.
We, happy to abblige simple requests.

Peripheral: gone. Forward; meaningless.
It is here, amongst the adrenaline
that we may be allowed to forget all:
simple rose petals catching in the twigs.
Mud-stuck, holding up the fishbowl bottom
of a twisted sky carved of stars, blue shade:
better than crosses drawn upon both wrists.

And I, God I need to see the moon, sun
plucked from the eastern-most sky where they feed.
Drive now, if only to use the windburn
to dry my eyes.

Written Quick - M.Weisgerber

I walked the world today, and did not know I sinned

I saw the world, the world replied, and yet, I know I did not sin.

This they yelled at me, scolded; they even begged

Yet still I skip along with frilly flip flops, and know better: they lie.

The preacher man looked down upon me, while I was on my knees

Because he had the men build his pulpit tall, that’s all.

I don’t know what is in it for him, but I know

Not lordship, only “good lord”. I know.

If no one around me said I sinned, then I would not

If I didn’t believe that I’m a wretched person, indeed I would not be.

Somehow, as I pen these words, I am free

And that is all I need.

In a moment soon in Leaving - M.Weisgerber

"Trouble now. Trouble close ahead."
These words spoken deftly in the gloom,
I, not realizing they were of warning
hidden within a hug.

Three hundred or so dark days show its clear
you don't desire a man who cries
across his soaked fields or mudded wallows.
What about a boy that smiles?

Plays ball upon the sewn long-grass by firefly light.
Now paper child. Framed cute eyes stuck behind the lens,
uncrimped hair, drifting along with the wind.
French perfect.

I merely stand among the rotting flowers
stuffed gaily into another pine tar heel.
Meant to plant seeds of hopes or lover's fruits,
wandering now without a tears to nourish them.
Finding it ironic.

Forgot we dreamers can only bleed daffodils.
Professional fakers, always with an alibi,
seeking the next moonbeam to bend to encourage a grin.
Meant not to breed, or spread the disease.

No wonder itchy feet begin to walk.
I hope he/they/(it?) fits the stereotypes; sellers type.
I am, forever have been a man who whispers please.

Black 21 - M.Weisgerber

Every day, she comes down from the window
walking by the boy with flowers stick-stuck,
looking anxiously at the passer-bys,
catching each in some pose or reverie.

Four times of ten she catches those soft blues
from the eye corners only, refraining.
"Ah, he is 'merican!" says she, in mind
conspiring reasons for abatement.

Has he long made up his to travel there
bouquet under arm, to view only the Seine?
A river sprite with good grin, cut features
meant to impress, and almost doing so.

Looking like those that read blog life stories,
then put his on a number; the wheel spun,
landed him on these banks so he slowly,
soulfully may soak up the river smell.

And wait.

She giggles, thinking of writing this too;
her life, and an 'merican boy fused? PAH!
But the days never shift, and he daily
spies at her, always in recognition.

She awakens one dawn to a startling,
removed from a dream where the waters spoke,
long, slow sounds lapping at the edges of
her, her spectacle, and nothing else more.

This time, she scents the roses wafting early,
goes to the window sill with nightgown drawn,
peering; a chance to catch sapphire rising,
with hope, wonder now in heart held.

(Unnamed) - M.Weisgerber

The thought of a train
plunging through the sheathing of this bus, hot screams & soft steel rivets escaping
awakens me from half hearted slumber
with a start.

I must have gotten rest, I suppose
seeing as my blood is cool to the touch, bones refraining from ache.
Lifting eyes to houses along this east side boulevard
I discover it is only winter, nothing more.

Even as my gaze remains fixed, these wheels roll on
causing the backround to shift; I find that I have to keep changing positions
just to stay fixed upon the same point of charred lumber.
But that too passes, swallowed up somewhere "behind".

The image of that house long remains, somewhere burried in my mind,
one built of strong hands & immigrant care.
Proud. Tall. Giving in only to moisture or reprise.
However, it too has also burned, flames dancing in the midnight sky.

Now sits, a sigh; husk of its former life,
surprised that it could survive just one more day of snowfall.

As if houses could feel such things.

Its windows catch my eyes while my face alights in its glazed pitch
for this one brief second; a glance between strangers.
And in that moment, so many sad slow stories pass.

Perhaps they were always fiction,and never will have a chance to be.

Meloncholy - M.Weisgerber

This one is for bill,
for reasons I dont think even I
understand.

(oh yes, and on to the poem!)


Knowing we've locked the Seine in,
begun to choke the mighty Thames.
...but also knowing they will prevail:
how timid it makes the pulse beat.

That their decent into Hades will always remain pillar mark'd,
just a sliver of the smallest fing'rs nail,
stuck into the fabric; everything else swirling 'round.

I'd love to see the earth raunt there bare,
just to examine the curve of the soils breast;
an instant of alarm distributed on this little hill
outside my fair industrial city.

Watch it all with patient eye as the wind sifts
winters breath upon the singed concrete canyons and lessening,
letting the same fug that tatters my golden locks
ushers old dust motes back into the north.

I do not sing to what I cannot swim across,
wallow in the mud o'the banks with tinged breeze
and miss the smell of salt upon the air;
it's a title soon in coming.

Notice the pall rising, yet do not fear it;
there never were ghosts that roam'd the river
near hospital beds, or infect open manufacturing bays.
The only old spooks festering in the mansions

or open pustules that make the streets
whisper the loins of history, not one word more.
They already had their centuries of lore,
and are ok about being forgotten.

(Currently Unnamed) - M.Weisgerber

Every Friday night, I sit down to play a game
If I can live till Monday's dawn , I may actually win one

See, the world no longer seems full of human things
It is sharp edges cut with a green reminiscent of computer screens on mute
Or the look of an ocean after the storm break: glowing lightly at the seams

I stand on one end of the beam, twisting silently in midair,
watching you sway precariously upon the other
Claw the air into a frothy boil while going tiptoe along the rim
Push yourself again and again, ever further outwards from the center; hope?
How strange, because you were once a noble creature, now at the end of your time

All that lies between us is the gulf, an abyss from which none return once entered
Such a shallow hole sunk into the earth crust

You will turn and come back from the borderlands to kill them all; dear pen
let this note draw blood indiscriminately
Will I find freedom in the sky, or instead in the coldness of the liquid torn from it
Hold steady fate; allow me to bide my time