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?