Wearing out shoes in my sleep


Wearing out shoes in my sleep,

I walk along the right angled

curvature of implied spaces.


Stopping to smell the roses,

their bushes have dog biscuits for leaves –

the thorns, are the mourning dove’s call.

Knotty cabbages –

such fine billows bugle outward,

petrified olives.


Feathers fall slowly,

turn to grains of sand, bleeding –

trombones’ sleeping eyes .


Saltation ‘s shoreline –

glass harpsichord’s kiss slips by,

jellyfish rumba .

Whispering willows –

tooth paste tap dancer steps out,

coral cormorant .


Lounging out the door –

now creep pages without words,

peckish cranky oust.


Wings of cow dung hit –

a lento, cavalier stars,

a corpuscle of soil –

sandwiched between fast seconds,

soles slide past boughs of strange sheep .


Be prepared for sharp turn ahead –

watch for falling molluscs & steam tractors,

summon superlative hexagons,

small blacksmith artifacts.



Old Woman Moon laughs

as the bridge spins platitudes of pudding.

The hive is now full of tranquil ditties

sharpened on spider silk.

Finally, defoliate whine glasses

as the silence seeps into the toes.


NOTE: All images are from my archive on Dark Pines Photo. Clicking images will take you to original posts (opens in new tab).  Stanzas are a mix of free verse, haiku, and tanka.  Many thanks.


She Falls in Love Too Easily

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?


That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

A. E. Housman (1859-1936)


Source: Strange Love of Martha Ivers 1946

Asemic Noir: Make the Message Count


Make the message count

rapt in seconds away from – death

a knock at the door.


Scratched glass hides sounds

under lampshade shadow’s light –

an unmarked parcel.


Fingers peel back emotions

Like The Man who cheated himself

clock hands clap to time.


Unlock the clasp’s chill,

Empty chamber full of fear –

Breathing plans at night.



Who’s the Fool now ?

Midnight Messenger’s mistress –

walking out backwards.



Note: Stanzas are Haiku variations.  The B&W shots are from opening cuts of the noir film, The Man who Cheated Himself ( 1950 ) – can be found on archive.org .

Those Cherry Blossom Midnight Tuxedo Blues


The Three Sister Moons laughed down on The City of Baj’Haii as Geo-Grange Safaris, private investigator to the Hash Tag Celebrities, entered The Hemophiliac’s Intersection – where the blues hounds go to bleed. The club was packed as usual – Monday through Saturday were all a haze of blues days at this spot. The crowds would have shown up Sunday, but you could never find the club on that day, except in Octember, which was a month and a half away.

Up on stage the ghost/psy-loop of Patsy Cline was doing a duet with Big Charlie Freelance Husky-Paw. They were singing The Cherry Blossom Midnight Tuxedo Blues. Paw was wailing it out, while he flicked those keys – it was all piano stairs up. Patsy’s voice haunted everyone’s heart.


So, we burned the desire for happiness,

headed to the pillows,

starting from the place

we started in every morning.


Behold the past,

the past participle of yesterday,

weeping on our shoulders.


A cold castle in protest,

Hungry with assumptions,

Let’s make misfortune smile

at our midnight kisses –

thought those embraces

may always be more unhappy anyhow.

Just a different name

for –

those Cherry Blossom Midnight Tuxedo Blues.


Geo-Grange saw Spider-Sally Fourth standing by the bar. He nodded his head in the private investigator’s direction as they made eye contact. Making his way over to Spider-Sally, Geo-Grange saw others that he was acquainted with, TBH Night, Tallow & Wick, Drum-Yeller Alberta, and Diddley Squatter. All souls looking for the blues to bleed out their sorrows and forgotten dreams.



“Wondered when you would show up. Sorry to hear about, Pluto, Chowder-head Mic loved that dog.” Spider-Sally Fourth shifted on the stool as he put down his drink – the usual Spiced Ripple Metafisika. They all applauded as the song came to an end. Spider-Sally’s jade holograph gown showed off his mega-form, his legs going from here to fading memory. His steel grey optics flashed neon mauve as he took in Geo-Grange, “So whodunit this time ?”

“Still pulling it apart. Maybe The Butler.”

“Thought he uploaded.”

“Always the residual echo. Besides, I think something took out The Embassy.”

“Leaving a famous founder, as an understanding of his majestic understatement ?….. That sounds harsh. Besides, I never cared for semantic waltz fandangos . I hope it is the last two leaves that falls at Moon-rise – the Ohm Monger is still a safe bet, even though at least a little titlist in my opinion!”




Geo-Grange looked carefully at Spider-Sally Fourth. His response was emotional, even for him under the circumstances, always had a soft spot for pets & pet owners, especially dog owners. As he mulled this, he sipped his drink, Moose Mile Vodka, and let the song drift in his ear from the stage .

Didn’t you ask in those 70s,

whose stars are far away from my pillow?

Well, I am tired now.

I will return to you on any day

that it snows in the desert of your desire.


Sang my heart out

with a torrent of dry tears,

when the branches clung to evening.


I will live without your love –

Home is found in the sky –

may you rest in that large crowd

of narrow schemes –

promises made of broken pavement.

Oh how I miss your frozen eyes,

and frosted kisses.


As Geo-Grange turned to look at Spider-Sally, an incandescent ripple spread out over the patrons at the bar. Mezo-cinq Tract, professional photo-bomber, shouted out his birth code and fell over – dead by drowning. Water gushed out from his now pale blue lips. A very small purple catfish flopped about in the thin pool of water – not part of the regular menu. Spider-Sally Fourth was nowhere to be seen. Through the growing murmurs, the sound of a barking dog. Pluto was sitting on stage next to the body of Drum-Yeller Alberta. 

Note: Spider Sally Fourth Composition derived from photograph by Josue Bieri on Unsplash.  If anyone can not get the tune for one of the songs feature in this narrative out of their head, please contact us and let everyone know what it sounds like.


The Hemophiliac’s Intersection at Pixie Plenitude


Above The City of Baj’Haii, the first of the Three Sister Moons was unveiling herself. Geo-Grange Safaris, private investigator to the Hash Tag Celebrities, was just finishing his decent meal and a drink, while great jazz filled the air of The Doppelgänger’s Epistrophy. No point checking the time, most of the clocks were still stuck at 11:01 a.m. – or they were having an identity crisis. It was about time to chase down the clues.

The private investigator made his way to the bar, and put down his recently acquired postcard. Eyeing the postcard, the bartender directed her four eyes at Geo-Grange.

You want to know what happened to the dog. The pooch sang the blues and got a gig at The Hemophiliac’s Intersection.”

“Any other tips ?”

“You’re the customer, you should be tipping me.”

“Love to, but my mother said I should save myself.”

Well remember what they say in Aztech’Haii, fiddle while gnomes burn and nobody gets any Déjà vu.”

I’ll try to remember that, if I hear it again.”

You just do that – the next time I tell you.”




Geo-Grange picked up the postcard and left a ten quid’kii for her troubles. There would always be troubles with a case like this, and there was no way of knowing who would be collateral damage, like silver swan feathers in the night sky.


He made his way down Pixie Plenitude towards The Hemophiliac’s Intersection – where the blues hounds go to bleed. Pixie Plenitude was filled with the regular mix of tourists, wannabes, winnebago-toxies, wizards in waiting, the real deal tango fox-trotters, and all the other street life trying to co-exist in the stream. Some of them were his past clients, so they ignored each other – better for business that way. Others knew him by reputation, so they ignored each other – better for future business that way. The rest didn’t know him, and fortunately for them, they also ignored him.


Just before he got to the end of Pixie Plenitude, where The Hemophiliac’s Intersection usually sits on Mondays, Smiling S’Sound-rheim slides up to him with the old Bahlee’Haii .

“Now the ice-fog is clearing and the mantra-mist has lifted, the bright moons will penetrate the billows of damp vapour touching the glory of things beneath the world.”

Geo-Grange looked at S’Soundrheim, the fire frost eyes glittered with yesterday’s shadows.

Do I hear a waltz, or is it just the time of the cuckoo ? By the way, you should see a barber.”

Smiling S’Sound-rheim took a vermilion tarq cigar from a pocket in his sapphire vest, bit off the end, lighted it with a snap of his fingers, and puffed a cloud of fragrant amber smoke into the air. He looked about before responding.

“Where the blues hounds go to bleed, you will find postcards from the edge. Take this and give it to Evening Primrose.”




He slipped into the flow of the crowd, leaving Geo-Grange holding the bag – made of brown rice paper, very rare. Looking in it, Geo-Grange saw a garnet Neg-lace . Easing the Neg-lace into his pocket, he proceeded down Pixie Plenitude and entered The Hemophiliac’s Intersection – he knew there would be blood on the floor before the night was over.