BRIZEE:

I see him,

Death standing over his shoulder.

The Devil counting the molars left in his skull,

Through his sallow, sunken cheeks.

The stubble growth of his fears.

Crack swallowing and amplifying

The mysticism of his paranoia, clenching his asshole,

Forcing his brain and his balls to peek through curtains.

Cultivating a grandeur un-due.

His imagination circling the clap-board house,

Its roof of quilted shingles,

Like so many police helicopters in a small town.

“Sit down Mikey, your trail is cold,” I say.

©MORTON 2012

CLEANSING:

The reflexology of the world has been muted.

Manny had a heart attack.

Ramon’s buddy killed himself.

Bullet for your face?

I don’t know Ramon directly.

Ryan and Keren aren’t going to figure it out.

Laurie is the queen.

The quantity.

And a simple context in this confusion.

The sense of impending doom has not lifted.

Usually I have these sinking senses in the winter.

I can’t sweat them out.

Objective. The simplicity of sorrow is surrender.

The heat lightning has even given way to threat and thunder.

Ominous and inviting.

Something cleansing.

Clear.

©MORTON 2010

DIRECTIONAL:

WokeUpThisMorning,PutOnMyShoes.

Left for the magic as it happened.

Leaving the thoughts of the night's sleep,

Betrayed,

They were strong, stormy and unsympathetic.

They were dreams.

Thoughts of reality and sanguine.

Struggles bereft of the things of life.

I walked in my shoes.

East of the West-Side highway.

Thinking about being “On the wagon,”

About not,

About Wagoners,

The Oregon Trail.

Other people have sorrow and dregs.

Other people are Somali,

Distended and shrieking;

Motherless.

Others have fathom and fury and find thirty bucks on the walk.

The ball Derek hits for his 3000^th will be worth more.

I cannot sleep to my troubles and they continue

To amount to nothing.

To the thought and the lack of money,

Real hard dollars.

But they never resonate deeply but still the sleep dwindles and it is I

And 7:30 in the morning,

A sleep-light night.

I am lucky when it rains and the conditioned-box is on “high” and we are cold.

Tombstone in Antarctica, cold.

Reason know slaps keys,

Fingered in brave.

The smallest spider is creeping across Hunter

Spinning a web for an even smaller bug.

I AM MAD!

TO LIVE!

I am sorry,

For the supposed weakness and the strange path of my dreams.

And the way that I don’t listen when I should,

And don’t forgive when I shouldn’t,

And the way I spit, sorrow, seams.

Swallows diving in divine-light Yankee summer,

I remember their silver sleek.

Their constant wet,

Slimmering Sea Lions.

Racing after prey in the semi-dark but raucous world.

Dipping and diving,

Driving me to call Dad five days before Fathers day….

Next week we head farther East

I will work on more pages.

Think about the Gas-light and the Gin in my Filmography.

Lately captivated by Cheever and the needs of the service staff,

Their capacity to captivate the imagination of someone out of such.

I don’t think it works in reverse.

I don’t think it works directionally.

The good game is the steaming condolence,

But the game is played.

©MORTON 2011

NO QUARTER:

No harboring the hand-held adventure.

I want to KNOW when shit smiles.

The leopard is pacing,

For the same reason Addicts do push-ups

In Prison.

DANIEL MORTON 2011

NEW HUNTING:

Where in the world is Hunter?

Who is doing anything?

Strange to find a similar Dagger-Man or would-be;

I suppose.

Solidity in the situation

Funny to meet a simpatico in the City Round.

These New York impressions are amiss

Abound and unfounded.

These are a kind people ready to talk and flirt.

Rewarded by the French.

An American Bulldog owner in the cold-breath, oblivious night.

We are well,

Sharing this space and these tremendously feral hands

Crammed into a spigot no bigger than Moby’s,

Dick.

Measuring, ourselves and our character.

Swimming against the streaming wildness of our quenched thirst,

Strumming the guitar with no strings.

Stringing along the people in our lives,

Ourselves.

Calling our mothers and talking about D3 and Australian Rules football.

Creamy-cries for healing truth;

And not through God.

Asphalt-green-fence-jumping-creatures of the future.

I love the night!

And the dreams, which come.

In need of pardon and the evening re-done.

Crazed and crushing the “White Fandango.”

The selfish stumps of these fingers

Stressing the times when they stop.

Strengthening the wild horses in the deap fissures in the world.

Faltering,

A Point of return.

DANIEL MORTON 2011

WEDNESDAY:

What’s wrong?

Shouldn’t

We be tripping,

The light?

Fandango?

Losing the concubines

And reveling in another year,

Of friends and fracas?

Causing trouble

And pissing in the streets?

Instead your head is heavy.

Your slant,

Tropical.

Your speech,

Slumped in corpulent circumspect.

Your dreams are not mine.

They were once,

But things change.

Reason has been lost.

Sympathy shortened,

Signed.

We used to sing!

Plan. Turn tricks. Trifle with women.

Staked claims. Surmount oblivious breeds.

Calm waters. Torment truncated verse.

Now we try,

To trust.

To be.

Together.

On the same stage,

Rule the world with much haste.

We used to be,

Lost in the Barons.

Fur trappers.

Forced by nature to nurture.

We canoed rapids.

Hunted and fished.

Ate preserved meat.

Were.

Alive without temptation.

Without words.

With worries,

But of survival,

Mannish honor,

Strength.

Will we flush this all

Into olfactory abyss?

Cry simple and die slow?

It is my fear.

Just mine.

©DANIEL MORTON 2011

MOURNING:

Again swilling back something.

Someone must be to thank.

Thinking about time,

Discontent with its speedy passing,

Its mingling with my dreams along the way.

Meddling with aspiration and assumption.

Slinking away into deep nights,
Dank dreams

Dramatically folding with the weather into,

Continuous.

Silence.

Questioning,

Wrath and wrong,

Write,

And writhing fingers.

Quick sex in the afternoon.

Long and slow,

Mornings.

©DANIEL MORTON 2011

RACE HORSES:

Coyote Blood.

Written,

On clear

Corrugated-plastic.

Tell her She is sexy,

Ramon.

Never-mind the gap.

Never-mind, La Rubia.

Never-mind…

Her eyes,

Their pain.

Triumph!

Un-like any motorcycle.

Get Tattoos!

And trust no one!

Kids sleeping

At home,

They are good.

Wholesome.

Black,

Plastic guns.

And lines of white,

Women.

She is.

All I need,

To get by.

Stuffed!

Animals on the TV.

Friar Tuck?

Oh yes,

He is a Badger.

Same story.

Big eyes,

Bright Eyes.

Lipstick, perfection red,

No,

Not Riley’s.

“I FEAR NOTHING!”

Single-Sinner-Radio.

Why do I?

Shower on the beach in my dreams?

Slide down
Never ending stairwells in the rain?

Balloons like Butterflies

Must die.

Conscience Stream.

River,

Damned:

Hydro-Electric-Evening.

Drained.

World-Smith.

Word-War.

I want to name,

Race horses.

Call her Assumption-Rewarded.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME:

He's wasted again,

I feel something.

Not remorse,

No loathing.

No disappointment,

He is happy.

I am happy.

Different levels,

Space-age bras

We are levity.

We are bearded men,

Space-suit blue.

Raging the dark wood.

Weathering the storms,

Waiting on cocaine deliveries.

Wanting to stage a night.

Little lion men.

Wishing to con the revelry.

©DANIEL MORTON 2011

RAIN OR RIVER:

East River,

First of spring,

Vested.

Craggy rocks

Vineyard sun, setting.

Queensborough Eclipse.

Rasping Red-Tug’s

Downstream dominance.

Floating above the eff D arr,

Hands refreshed,

Stiff.

Climbing iron to perch,

Lighthouse level.

A strange beauty this man,

With his gardens and

Gracfull Mansion.

Places of play,

Grand arches and spaces of quiet.

Shrieking offspring,

Huff-puffing herdsmen of another time,

Haggard yuppies sweating misspent middle age.

I am hungry but haven’t shaken,

The cold and sleepless.

The River or the rain.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

ANDY'S LAST PITCH:

Finally warm enough for stoop-side

Sanity.

Finally fit enough.

Thanking Deloitte for fermented juice.

Not your standard Wino,

This here, cost someone Thirty-six Dollars!

The bag a Nickel.

Read something about

Ginkgo-yellow New York City fall.

I think of Playoffs, the World Series.

She and I.  

The quick trip north.

Three stops on the 4 and spilled beer.

Fun and fantasy,

Andy’s last professional pitch.

I am ready for Ginkgo-green!

For spring training,

Quiet nights the same

But the air rich with propagation.

Finding her and I out,

Less rusty, and full of lust,

For life,

Each other.

Re-set and ready to run,

To win.

To wonder,

Not how it all started,

But where it will all start again.

And again.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

GAS:

Three-headed

Apple-Aliens,

Attended.

Progression of a Union,

Capitalized.

Light of a time.

Sheltering, white geometric walls,

Conspicuous Cages.

Imposing forest

Looming, darkly tempestuous.

Surround the simpleton.

Offering cover, quiet.

He changes the bulbs.

Attends his aliens.

Polishes his pen.

Tows the clean-grey line.

Closing light cultivates.

Deep, bright-night, blue.
Radiance of Revolution!

He bounds,

Escaping with the whip,

Of new-pine-saplings on his shins.

Through the unframed, unfettered forest.

To his ancient fire-fly field:

His mistress.

He lies naked in her,

Regressing.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

MEMORY, FOND:

Acrid Big-Diesel and sweet-pipe-tobacco,

Slimy bird shit and hardened burger grease,

The mix of minerality and fish guts.

Symphonic combinations crescendo in excitement,

Made more pleasant as the trip begins,

Vending-machine doughnuts and salt water.

Lots of white people managing family situations and double-checking bank balances.

Old-crusted-men, local day labor, playing Spades in orange-backed fiberglass seats.

Only modestly contemptuous of the overwhelming crowd of khaki as they dawn.

The ride is usually smooth and first light breaks up the mist

The excitement grows.

The grinding and growling of this big old girl as she’s shoved from her slumber.

The open air will dull the symphony and settle into something a bit more Big Band.

The kreening of water birds diving for Pringles and Pop-Tarts are met by the wet Mystical air and they glide the way. 

The windbreakers come out and the sunglasses are found and the sleep slips away.

Some teenagers are causing Penny Loafer trouble,

The Long Island women are talking loudly.

No one can wait to buy Black Dog Tee-shirts.

Perhaps they should sell them in Falmouth and save us all the noise.

Something inaudible is announced.

De-De-De-dada-De-De-De rings in the littlest ears as they imagine brass

They giggle.

Eventually after the horn sounds Brash Bass

More inaudibility is announced the tune switches again.

Jazz, fast and faultless, no three-piece affair.

The smaller Diesels in the bay rumble,

The distant creak of waiting porch swings beckon.

The piers and pylons welcome and the slow arrival is met.

Fast hands and excitement.

The gangway is given with rattling chains and metal on metal scrapes.

The children are herded, wrangled by familiar whistles and far away “Dannnys.”

The moment is here and the bustle begins.

The hawkers and the cabbies are ready for something fresh and the throng breaks Into slow stride over everywhere splintered planks.

More smoke but this time cigarette and hot-dog.

Wet stone smell, slippery with seaweed and sediment and sharp crustaceans.

Fishing poles and luggage and languages are everywhere.

Finding the house will represent some challenge,

Then there will be the choosing of rooms,

The going to the grocery store for something healthy.  

It will all be worth it for the first sunset.

Down the long addled path to the stone sanctuary,

Of red with rock piles and wrinkled-asses and rough water,

Where the band is decidedly more Funk.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

REBEL AND RUST:

Think,

Tinker

Time.

Test,

Temper

Tempt.

Torture.

Tease.

Find new Sunday spots

On the day Ryan was born…

Thirstily,

Trip

Tempe, AZ.

And thank.

Thighs.

Turn corners

And traverse stairs.

Find,

Finger

And figure.

Futures.

New York twist

And turn.

Tremble.

And trust.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

TO BECK:

To my sister,
All of Twenty-Two.
Serious and self-relient,
Observer of the world,
The Continents,
The Constellations.

Wear X-Ray glasses, Girl!
And steel-toed-boots.

And if you ever get lonely just look up.
"Brother" in the Dictionary,
And you will see my face.
©DANIEL MORTON 2009

STREAMING CONSCIENCE:

I have to seem the big boy and remain the recluse.

Be the dreamer and be the man and be the center and be the strength and be.

The fervor, the hero and the crashing despot:

 Of hidden daemons,

The teller of something right and wrong and serious and fertile,

Un-hurt but scathed.

Maintain that rough texture and somewhat exposed underbelly.

I have to remain, the fixture and garner sympathy and respect and burdens.

Escape bourbon and fledgling poetry and prophetic nature.

I have to stop answering fucking questions and knowing answers and picking battles.

Fight battles.

Writing simply and without two spaces between new sentences and stop typing AND.

Rehearse the smart guy sympathy

Playing the taught guy game.

I have to work with Ryan and find a way to further the sound of these gracious keys.
I have to learn to type.

I have to find another outlet, maybe the photos.

Maybe more writing.

Fewer 40 oz’s from Park and his kitten.

Is it his kitten?

And then, when? Where? How? The break in this shell?

So, grate the rhythm!

Less red lines and fuck the green.

Damn the consequence and the posture and the smoking and the trash organization. Put the cigarette butts where they fall.

Dream less of the right place to work and more the right thing to do.

“Go on take the money and run.”

Thanks a whole bunch for putting that in my head Steve.

And speaking of things in the head:

I wonder if wounded, my “addiction makes me, pretty ugly.”

I wonder what people think?

When they pass whether they think they are witnessing anything?

Good-great-bad-futile-fringed-frank?

THEY are trouble.

What is a Catholic Kolping house? Is Kolping a verb?

Can you wear white after Memorial Day or is it Labor?

If you are worried about when to wear white are you capable of labor?

Did I reminisce the other day about life post Ecstasy? And Exes?

Did I wander into a memory not worth sharing or shinning?

I have never seen “The Shinning.”

Does that matter?

Will this be worth re-reading and putting into some form or is this a diary?

IS this stream-

Of-conscience worth exhibiting even to myself? To others?

Am I interesting enough to draw interest? Is alliteration my only form?

Format?

Or is the escape from both more interesting than the senses?

There are five I am aware of.

And five tastes. And Umami: Savouriness.

Does the rant become fact or fiction?

Does it blur lines?

If I answer the sentence with a period does it mean more.

Is she on her period?

Are we more or less adult to discuss period-sex?  

Is this fancy or phenomena? Between?

The wind has picked up and the weather has shifted and I will punch the keys to debt.

To flying finger phantoms and furious anger.

I will type harder from now on.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

CONVERSATION:

The Young Man is leaving the house. His hair is wet, a combination of a recent shower and sweat. As he exits, fumbling for a cigarette, head cooled by the sudden cold, he sees the Old Man. The Old Man is sitting on the stoop waiting. He is always waiting. His clothes even, are waiting. Waiting for their return to style. Or the Old Man to turn, to dust.

"Happy New Year, Brother." The Old man mentions, his greeting half question half suggestion.

"Happy New Year." Replies the young man.

The Old Man ponders, just for a moment. "Another one, Huh?"

The Young Man finds the cigarette, lights it and walks down the three steps. He turns, taking a pull off the cigarette-it's cherry flares yellow gold- He exhales through his nostrils.

"Aint going to last forever I suppose."

The Old Man nods, "I hear that," quietly and half to himself. He has turned away, eye caught by the sudden erratic flight of a pigeon or the flash of a car horn. When He turns back the Young man is rounding the corner, half-way to the train. A whisp of blue smoke trailing his tall figure. An ever-so-slight swagger in his step.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

CHEMICALS IN ORANGE CRUSH:

Creative thought on cremation:

Burn, baby-burn,

Dark and high,

Heavy with smoke and boy’s choirs.

Round houses in trees,

Temples in caves.

Creatures under rocks,

Chemicals in orange crush.

The wild blue basin.

The white abyss.

The brown beacon of health on earth.

Cram the crazy deeper and deeper,

Then dredge up all those old feelings.

Again.

Crisis-mode in pink shorts.

Whatever happened to the Funky Bunch?

©DANIEL MORTON 2011

DIVINING:

I prefer my distances
My dragging.
Trusted.
Digging ditches and swimming in circles
Drinking in waves.
My poetic instinct intact,
Jameson symphonic.

I defer to kinder judgment.
Tell my story more quietly
Listen to their's less intently.

Celebrating twins?
Sure.

Divorcing.

Divining water.

High times,
Recommendations.

Legs like Racing-stripes
Ravenously slashing at ass-cheeks.
©DANIEL MORTON 2011

MEXICAN EYES:

We had Mexican mustaches and honest eyes.

Since when angle face?

We were kids on a wave,

Weren’t we?

We had weed to smoke,

A world to change,

Fledgling parties to crash.

I stole a gold bracelet once.

And pawned my guilt.

We stood.

I couldn’t jump the wall behind your house,

Lost a shoe in the muddy-ditch.

436.

Trusted.

Had madman-hair.

Red-eyes and souls to burn.

Did we win?
©DANIEL MORTON 2011