One Man Band

His music is between the wrinkles in his raisin feet, grains of asphalt rhythm-ground black by sandpapered leather. He sloshes from right to left, filling one hand and then the other, a juggler inside a balloon. And it was all hands and ribs and mallets and xylophones, and cymbals and cheeks, and that backbeat of why as he banged his naked head against the wall.

I Will Never Be ...

Grammar Girl.

But I want to write to her. I want to send her love notes signed in some indecipherable scrawl of colons and elipses and interrobangs. I want to be the niggling thorn she can no longer refuse to correct, that she must attend. I want to write to her and read from her and throw her words rather than type. I want to back a truck up to her doorstep and onto her welcome mat dump heaps of incorrectly spelled, disorganized, flaming, obscene, and fantastical words. I want to give her a gift and have her write me and thank me and tell me I'm the one exploding in her parentheses and exclaiming her points.

But I'm not crazy. I really just want to know about capitalizing after a colon.

Finding Tides

     And now I'm looking over his shoulder as to the west, over peaks to sunset. 

Hoping I see the end of falling
to the sea and pushing up a wave
to dry the beaches; pull back the tide to
reveal the old junk, the treasure, the fish and the weeds, the bodies and the whales and the shells and the sand. 

     And I see, I see looking down over his chest to his feet over his shoulder I see. I see a drastic, a dramatic, I see a free fall from over his shoulder's peaks: snow capped peaks, the windy, glistening, perilous peaks of climbers, and high hand holds and slick to the foot slips and slides and down down down. He is a mammoth, a mastodon, a dinosaur with rippling scales and sinewy bones not muscles, and he drags his life behind him 

toward the end the end of the wave, 
the coming storm of darkness that blinds with black saltwater.  
But I don't. I don't. 
I would rather find the bottles and the cans and 
the stolen copper rolls for the crusher. 

     I would rather the barnacles slice and find the iron the red; I would rather the barnacles part skin from skin on my feet and fingers, the tips of my fingers, the tips of my fingers where I walk and hold and grasp and the tips of my fingers.

Untying Honeysuckle

A magnolia sprig for
honeysuckle tea
in the sun

Under the drooping
green shade sky
we were bees

Until our blue breaths
were threadbare
and dying

To mend each minute
with slim vines of
honeysuckle

The Beginnings of a Fantastic Blog

Or: why some guys just can't win for losing

more text should go here and such and a link should go here.