And there it is, the everyday
fumbling of our sparse
lives, repetitive
echo of dysfunction
like history and its natural
humanness full of blood
and the shadowed
disgrace of trading
lives for economy. Truth is,
living is
a euphemism for work suffer
scrape and murder
your inner savage heart
leaping around its bleeding cage
on the marbled steps
of your fairytale
dogmatic duty to democracy.
Living is
the sound of sucking
your soul away,
making fat the Wall
street meat market purgatory.
Stack high the bones of dignity.
Your rusted hopes mortar the walls
of the ivory tower that pisses on you,
towering over your cowered head
while you pray for tax breaks
from a broken system
that broke your ba(n)ck.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Meat Market, Part 2
What be history but the
narrative of a planet's obituary?
The evidence conspiring against
powerless masses who yearn
only to live for themselves.
History's thousand year shackle
bonds us to duties and
dowries owed to
them masters who
grant us graces enough
to be a pittance of
existence, as if
they so kind
to let you wallow in
shit and cut
you to the bone
when you need
the meat, but
you far removed from that source,
that necessary umbilical cord of life.
Your mother's planetary breast.
What?
History?
Footnote of circumstance
pointing to primal circumcision,
the excision
of your dependence
upon the land supplanted
by the smooth
talking feeding hands of
emperor king pope president
sucking on a silver
spoon: feeding you bullshit, you
chew your educational cud,
take it like bitter pills and wash your brain
white like a lily, colorless
like lies.
narrative of a planet's obituary?
The evidence conspiring against
powerless masses who yearn
only to live for themselves.
History's thousand year shackle
bonds us to duties and
dowries owed to
them masters who
grant us graces enough
to be a pittance of
existence, as if
they so kind
to let you wallow in
shit and cut
you to the bone
when you need
the meat, but
you far removed from that source,
that necessary umbilical cord of life.
Your mother's planetary breast.
What?
History?
Footnote of circumstance
pointing to primal circumcision,
the excision
of your dependence
upon the land supplanted
by the smooth
talking feeding hands of
emperor king pope president
sucking on a silver
spoon: feeding you bullshit, you
chew your educational cud,
take it like bitter pills and wash your brain
white like a lily, colorless
like lies.
Meat Market, Part 3
We, born free to die,
born to serve the
market, make meat
out of your soul.
Perhaps we prefer
this ignorance. Monotone
suffering, invisible
crushing weight.
History plagues
us.
How fast can you
run, how far
before you stumble
out of breath
and history's hounds catch up,
returning you to
your economic prison?
Them fuckers got it
figured, drown you
in mortgaged loan
debt or crush
you under
sidewalks and a chalk outline of
the american dream. Foreclose
your life, forfeit
your rights for the bills
stacking up,
amend your accounts, render them
deficient. We
prefer this train of meat
pulling into the station,
that cable channel
that is easier than
poking holes in your arms.
Being a media junkie, that
is obviously more acceptable.
Freedom of speech, that
be the opiate
needle numbing
all opinions milky clouded
and we OD on confusion
but think we're getting high.
Democracy
can be like that.
born to serve the
market, make meat
out of your soul.
Perhaps we prefer
this ignorance. Monotone
suffering, invisible
crushing weight.
History plagues
us.
How fast can you
run, how far
before you stumble
out of breath
and history's hounds catch up,
returning you to
your economic prison?
Them fuckers got it
figured, drown you
in mortgaged loan
debt or crush
you under
sidewalks and a chalk outline of
the american dream. Foreclose
your life, forfeit
your rights for the bills
stacking up,
amend your accounts, render them
deficient. We
prefer this train of meat
pulling into the station,
that cable channel
that is easier than
poking holes in your arms.
Being a media junkie, that
is obviously more acceptable.
Freedom of speech, that
be the opiate
needle numbing
all opinions milky clouded
and we OD on confusion
but think we're getting high.
Democracy
can be like that.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Meat Market, Part 4
Demonstrable monstrosity, cancer's
autocratic democracy kisses your
gullible lips, invading innocence's anus.
Oh yes, they fuck you
like the assclowns on the pornographic
soapbox overflowing with infected organs,
campaign donors falling overboard.
Maybe I could throw myself
into the sea and weep to death.
The tears don't come after all
is said and done; polls in peril as we
analyze our cosmic suicide--oh how
the lesser of two evils remains
greater than the goodness of truth's
singularity.
Still..
what remains of remnants once filled
with spirit? Myopia of anger--we cannot
muster a call to arms big enough
to hug any real hope--misplaced hostility
bankrupted our hospitality
toward salvation's anarchy.
Maybe it was evil old god's will we
raped the planet and sired this
civilized cannibalism, capital's right to life.
And Earth ain't nothing but a welfare queen
single mother freeloading off the sun
and other cosmic socialist drivel.
autocratic democracy kisses your
gullible lips, invading innocence's anus.
Oh yes, they fuck you
like the assclowns on the pornographic
soapbox overflowing with infected organs,
campaign donors falling overboard.
Maybe I could throw myself
into the sea and weep to death.
The tears don't come after all
is said and done; polls in peril as we
analyze our cosmic suicide--oh how
the lesser of two evils remains
greater than the goodness of truth's
singularity.
Still..
what remains of remnants once filled
with spirit? Myopia of anger--we cannot
muster a call to arms big enough
to hug any real hope--misplaced hostility
bankrupted our hospitality
toward salvation's anarchy.
Maybe it was evil old god's will we
raped the planet and sired this
civilized cannibalism, capital's right to life.
And Earth ain't nothing but a welfare queen
single mother freeloading off the sun
and other cosmic socialist drivel.
Meat Market, Part 5
Pledge of allegiance. Handkerchief flag
burning on waves of grief.
One nation under god: papa has a stiff one
and he likes to strut his stuff
proud on parade and petting his
bastard children.
Is there a difference between the preacher
and them hybrid elephant asses? Maybe
we could just watch the jesus tv news channels
and get our politics mixed up
with religion. Two
thousand year old fairy tales.
burning on waves of grief.
One nation under god: papa has a stiff one
and he likes to strut his stuff
proud on parade and petting his
bastard children.
Is there a difference between the preacher
and them hybrid elephant asses? Maybe
we could just watch the jesus tv news channels
and get our politics mixed up
with religion. Two
thousand year old fairy tales.
Meat Market, Part 6
See them campaign to win the pageant,
the beauty contest of the world's most
unassailable idiot in the worlds' most
unassailable idiocracy. Win or lose
they still mumble (all too audibly)
about god blessing these
you-knighted states
! ? ! ?
Ask folks in Baghdad about those blessings.
Ask folks in Afghanistan about those blessings.
What do folk in Hiroshima think about blessings?
Bronx Watts South Philly very blessed with
all that blessing. Shit.
Very least, they're not blessed with
the miracle of Pine Ridge and
other reservation utopias.
[b.less] and [beLief]
but can we not read these words?
B-less because there's a lie in the middle
of this forfeiture of intelligence.
the beauty contest of the world's most
unassailable idiot in the worlds' most
unassailable idiocracy. Win or lose
they still mumble (all too audibly)
about god blessing these
you-knighted states
! ? ! ?
Ask folks in Baghdad about those blessings.
Ask folks in Afghanistan about those blessings.
What do folk in Hiroshima think about blessings?
Bronx Watts South Philly very blessed with
all that blessing. Shit.
Very least, they're not blessed with
the miracle of Pine Ridge and
other reservation utopias.
[b.less] and [beLief]
but can we not read these words?
B-less because there's a lie in the middle
of this forfeiture of intelligence.
Meat Market, Part 7
There is something
inside us, decrepit
hanging loosely the
tongue of some dead words.
We the shame of children
left finding silently
directions and lesser
thoughts of marrow,
it pries into the bones
of hardened brains.
Rivers where birds
left straggling their trees
unfruited to sweeter lies.
The stench of governments.
The nauseous governed.
What flesh they mince
within this skin of transparence,
they cloud the eyes
and murder parades the street.
Shit of pigeons.
Clowns or gods--did we create?--
the dead voted for life
with vetoed blood
and winter drowning.
These, clowns or forms
for gods to unfulfill, deny
truth at all costs.
Paid for with blood.
Lazy diseases.
Your naked is.
Flame of unheat.
Bare down clenched
and toil your bone.
Lies all. Belief.
Picnic basket full,
panicked cacophony
of holidays insidious like seasonal
hell, economic index discards
you. Your meat on the shelf.
You.
Rattlesnakes in the throat
dead skin cannot shed.
And how you dance!
{the band plays a cold waltz
frozen to history's long rapsheet}
Clowns, gods, no circus
to cage the elephant
and the colossal shit
that stinks like democracy.
inside us, decrepit
hanging loosely the
tongue of some dead words.
We the shame of children
left finding silently
directions and lesser
thoughts of marrow,
it pries into the bones
of hardened brains.
Rivers where birds
left straggling their trees
unfruited to sweeter lies.
The stench of governments.
The nauseous governed.
What flesh they mince
within this skin of transparence,
they cloud the eyes
and murder parades the street.
Shit of pigeons.
Clowns or gods--did we create?--
the dead voted for life
with vetoed blood
and winter drowning.
These, clowns or forms
for gods to unfulfill, deny
truth at all costs.
Paid for with blood.
Lazy diseases.
Your naked is.
Flame of unheat.
Bare down clenched
and toil your bone.
Lies all. Belief.
Picnic basket full,
panicked cacophony
of holidays insidious like seasonal
hell, economic index discards
you. Your meat on the shelf.
You.
Rattlesnakes in the throat
dead skin cannot shed.
And how you dance!
{the band plays a cold waltz
frozen to history's long rapsheet}
Clowns, gods, no circus
to cage the elephant
and the colossal shit
that stinks like democracy.
Meat Market, Part 8
We still cheer,
hang ourselves from
the last dead tree.
Judging by our slow breath
we legislate our executive
branch low enough to
tie a noose but just
high enough to sway
in the breeze,
where on your
tips you toed
the line in time’s
shifting sands, forsaken
by those clown gods.
hang ourselves from
the last dead tree.
Judging by our slow breath
we legislate our executive
branch low enough to
tie a noose but just
high enough to sway
in the breeze,
where on your
tips you toed
the line in time’s
shifting sands, forsaken
by those clown gods.
irony of time
Time is this circular irony,
history’s dead coldness
reflected in strange
habits, blatant denial.
Your secret reckoning.
Naked refusal face
to face with a room
full of elephants.
Which way do you run?
Turned inside out
this pain of
living, agony like long
knives slicing through the dark
irony of time,
circulating your
bones bitten
with raw flesh pangs
of grief.
This is the truth.
When all things die.
Surrendered.
With what black magic
can you disappear
your unwanted selves?
What dark arts
have you to paint over
your mistaken bleakness,
to sculpt
your shame’s deformity?
Those things that winter
cannot bury.
Subtle winds.
Grey and failing. Where
do you turn?
Inside. out.
Unburied secrets: they know
you better than
you
know yourself.
Even still, take flight
with your collected feathers
and seek the sun.
I have no answers.
Only secrets to bury.
My funereal existing.
Eulogy for history, time
passed away.
history’s dead coldness
reflected in strange
habits, blatant denial.
Your secret reckoning.
Naked refusal face
to face with a room
full of elephants.
Which way do you run?
Turned inside out
this pain of
living, agony like long
knives slicing through the dark
irony of time,
circulating your
bones bitten
with raw flesh pangs
of grief.
This is the truth.
When all things die.
Surrendered.
With what black magic
can you disappear
your unwanted selves?
What dark arts
have you to paint over
your mistaken bleakness,
to sculpt
your shame’s deformity?
Those things that winter
cannot bury.
Subtle winds.
Grey and failing. Where
do you turn?
Inside. out.
Unburied secrets: they know
you better than
you
know yourself.
Even still, take flight
with your collected feathers
and seek the sun.
I have no answers.
Only secrets to bury.
My funereal existing.
Eulogy for history, time
passed away.
never now
I sit listen harmonic note scales like fish
Slick with swim sound rising melodic,
Tonic soothe heart/soul.
Sooth and see peace unto me:
Future-like when wants desire nothing
Or needs halfway met become.
When clutter less cluttered, squared away
Round the corner smoothed edge gets
Then I talk no talk, walk with no get there
Hurry, only now, not to be or were--
What tense verb conjugate into never nothing?
Gotta have it, but don’t get it.
Just don’t get it for seeking.
Me no or yes matter not, only do or don’t.
Doer done deeds: not-doer do not-deeds?
What done can be: undone by time.
Never is some kind of time,
Can’t find it nowhere.
When nothing multiplied by something,
Anything, one thing…more nothing?
Got plenty for this nowhere.
Falling note feathers fly by,
Song sing ebb flow, flutter and
Flattering form, make sense from
Sensation. Void filled and mind
Stilled, stalled on a thought:
Two-way highway to nowhere.
Slick with swim sound rising melodic,
Tonic soothe heart/soul.
Sooth and see peace unto me:
Future-like when wants desire nothing
Or needs halfway met become.
When clutter less cluttered, squared away
Round the corner smoothed edge gets
Then I talk no talk, walk with no get there
Hurry, only now, not to be or were--
What tense verb conjugate into never nothing?
Gotta have it, but don’t get it.
Just don’t get it for seeking.
Me no or yes matter not, only do or don’t.
Doer done deeds: not-doer do not-deeds?
What done can be: undone by time.
Never is some kind of time,
Can’t find it nowhere.
When nothing multiplied by something,
Anything, one thing…more nothing?
Got plenty for this nowhere.
Falling note feathers fly by,
Song sing ebb flow, flutter and
Flattering form, make sense from
Sensation. Void filled and mind
Stilled, stalled on a thought:
Two-way highway to nowhere.
news fresh
News say nothing fresh, no revolution or even evolution
Of speech, just same old rhetoric fodder--
Speech’s freedom gone too far
To the right, to the left
And too far gone.
News anchor weigh you down like crucified dreams,
Drag your guilt behind you and lock the door,
Vote for war and vote for no one special.
Choosing the lesser of two evils
Still chooses evil.
When will we get straight?
Straight like the preachers say on the news:
Burn the faggots and burn the dykes,
Burn the Koran and kill the likes
Of god’s dirty heathen children
In his likeness created.
God so fucked up.
Of speech, just same old rhetoric fodder--
Speech’s freedom gone too far
To the right, to the left
And too far gone.
News anchor weigh you down like crucified dreams,
Drag your guilt behind you and lock the door,
Vote for war and vote for no one special.
Choosing the lesser of two evils
Still chooses evil.
When will we get straight?
Straight like the preachers say on the news:
Burn the faggots and burn the dykes,
Burn the Koran and kill the likes
Of god’s dirty heathen children
In his likeness created.
God so fucked up.
AmeriCan
AmeriCan, but
AmeriCan’t.
AmeriCan fuck you up,
Midnight kick down your door.
Vacate you to tropical getaway islands,
See palm trees Guantanamo style.
AmeriCan take your land, seize your home,
Tax you to death and regulate your body fluids.
Pursue your life liberty happiness:
Root ‘em out like Saddam bin Laden Noriega
This land my land is your land!
AmeriCan log that bitch from sea to shining sea,
Purple majesty mountain top remove and burn
Clean coal in Al Gore’s name,
Pollute your rivers and extinctify the fish.
AmeriCan pass a clean air act or
Clean water act but act like it’s all make believe,
Just like those treaties with native tribes.
Make believe government with make believe votes,
Put *truth* on the endangered species list.
AmeriCan jump over the moon,
Cram box office big cash full of pretty faces fake,
Roll out strip malls to strip your wallet,
Rip you off as adman says:
The more you shop the more you save.
AmeriCan split an atom, bomb the world to pieces.
AmeriCan’t put the world back together with bombs of peace.
AmeriCan kick your ass like Chuck Norris
Like Dubya did.
AmeriCan dick you like Cheney
Like Nixon did.
AmeriCan’t love you like Dr. King, like John Lennon,
Like Mother Jones did.
AmeriCan invent new words to technologically
Obfuscate speech and make stupid talk
Lol lmfao
AmeriCan’t talk English no good:
Too many tea parties, frat parties and political parties
Got too many AmeriCoulds hung over the wrong side of the fence.
AmeriCan, yes we can!
Obamanos!
AmeriCan fool some of the people sometimes
But AmeriCan’t fool all the people all the time.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
now and then
now and then she
patterns me like
butterfly pollen,
her hummingbird flowers
my bumblebee lips.
swift soft kiss
ripples my wave
current like the sea,
her tides high as moon
light upon surfaced undulation.
eyes open close
to inner space
intimate with breath,
her glacial skies
flight me into her atmosphere.
now and then she
caresses me like breeze
in the grass sunlit,
her hands sculpt my
sensual pleasured body.
patterns me like
butterfly pollen,
her hummingbird flowers
my bumblebee lips.
swift soft kiss
ripples my wave
current like the sea,
her tides high as moon
light upon surfaced undulation.
eyes open close
to inner space
intimate with breath,
her glacial skies
flight me into her atmosphere.
now and then she
caresses me like breeze
in the grass sunlit,
her hands sculpt my
sensual pleasured body.
her ritual
magnolia with the glacial eyes
waxing the moon, she kisses
the fruit, sunlit and ripe,
laughing at the day and
drawing the night.
shouting jasmine, floating
in her glacial eyes deep
with oceans, she receives
the branch of day and
builds a nest for night to rest.
if only i could crawl
further into her softness,
fold myself into her ritual
of sensation underwater-like,
perhaps i freed the wind.
waxing the moon, she kisses
the fruit, sunlit and ripe,
laughing at the day and
drawing the night.
shouting jasmine, floating
in her glacial eyes deep
with oceans, she receives
the branch of day and
builds a nest for night to rest.
if only i could crawl
further into her softness,
fold myself into her ritual
of sensation underwater-like,
perhaps i freed the wind.
Name: Trillium
To think, that not one but two
Reminders of divinity appeared
Into my life simultaneously
Like carbon copies of my soul
Living the way that
I had only wished the
Universe would allow, but he is
Me as I could only dream.
Reminders of divinity appeared
Into my life simultaneously
Like carbon copies of my soul
Living the way that
I had only wished the
Universe would allow, but he is
Me as I could only dream.
Name: Silas
So many times I have wondered
If my soul could be partitioned
Like myself manifested
As a more perfected being
Suddenly younger and more free.
If my soul could be partitioned
Like myself manifested
As a more perfected being
Suddenly younger and more free.
dumb-ocracy
Where be this country they sell me is free? Tell me free, but can’t afford the cheap shit shipment meant for happy happy democracy me. Bigmart China, super bank trade firm and law office of corporate church congress make progress to free-market free-form free for all. Zombify brainwaves through Foxy airwaves and select your vote for lesser of two evils: still chooses evil. Hooray for democracy !dem-all-crazy! For democracy…other people kill and revolution to get the freemocracy but we buy that free$dumb shit …export free-dumb-ocracy to oil drenched enemy countries with whizzbangbomb Uncle Scam build with his own two hand tax labor. We no health cared schools can get or housing can afford but find great deals on pretty deadly things to terrorism your freedom…fuck you up and free your body from soul, like bullet holes: painkiller pills and needle bottles house your foreclosed war on poverty. meanwhile in Irafghakistan oil and blood flow into land of the free, sweet land of liberty…we do humble deed of demo(lish)cratizing ancient cultures so they like we can be…(sike!)…not really. We poor ignorant confused and shopping on the street can be, they poor ignorant confused and casualtied of war on the street can be. Democracy can be fun if only immigrant black muslim envirosocialist fag women sinners didn’t fuck it up for poor old Whitey who struggles under the crushing weight of his wealth and moral convictions.
deep sea sleep
sleep is a dim wave
where i follow you
into your deep sea,
an echo of a feverish
frolic where we remain
moored to each other.
sleeping in your bed
is sailing a dark sea
illuminated by mutual delight,
a place where we meet
in an unspoken dream
and greet the dawn.
sleep is a painting where i
find your name and your
flaming peach tree,
an art of sinking and floating
upon the canvas of your skin
and the sculpture of your embrace.
where i follow you
into your deep sea,
an echo of a feverish
frolic where we remain
moored to each other.
sleeping in your bed
is sailing a dark sea
illuminated by mutual delight,
a place where we meet
in an unspoken dream
and greet the dawn.
sleep is a painting where i
find your name and your
flaming peach tree,
an art of sinking and floating
upon the canvas of your skin
and the sculpture of your embrace.
laughing bell
chiming bell, ringing,
sounding the sea's laughter,
you drift to shore
on fire and glowing,
moonlit.
you come to me with the tide
and i roll out in your surf,
lost in your touch,
tied to your kiss.
always this hunger, this thirst,
appetite for your wine's flesh.
blissful lips fresh with a smile
point to her eye-colored skies.
i love the way your waves
crash, ecstatic next to me
when the sea swells
and the only thing left
is our salted skin, oceanic,
and those bells chiming laughter.
sounding the sea's laughter,
you drift to shore
on fire and glowing,
moonlit.
you come to me with the tide
and i roll out in your surf,
lost in your touch,
tied to your kiss.
always this hunger, this thirst,
appetite for your wine's flesh.
blissful lips fresh with a smile
point to her eye-colored skies.
i love the way your waves
crash, ecstatic next to me
when the sea swells
and the only thing left
is our salted skin, oceanic,
and those bells chiming laughter.
before we danced
but what of her,
the magnolia
with glacial eyes?
she is a storm
laughing with passion,
flying into the sun.
she is lunar
yet solar in spirit,
burning down the sky.
my body asks for her
like water to parched lips,
she smiles and i melt.
i yearn for her knowledge,
her cherry lips,
those glacial eyes!
the magnolia
with glacial eyes?
she is a storm
laughing with passion,
flying into the sun.
she is lunar
yet solar in spirit,
burning down the sky.
my body asks for her
like water to parched lips,
she smiles and i melt.
i yearn for her knowledge,
her cherry lips,
those glacial eyes!
a heart
because of the orange rising moon
i wanted to become a heart.
a heart.
when love blossomed fragrant
i wanted to become a heart.
a heart.
every time i taste her peaches
i turn into a heart.
a heart.
i wanted to become a heart.
a heart.
when love blossomed fragrant
i wanted to become a heart.
a heart.
every time i taste her peaches
i turn into a heart.
a heart.
mathematics of beauty
geometry of a smile
framework of joy
shape of happiness
lips triangulate eyes
my heart turns round
framework of joy
shape of happiness
lips triangulate eyes
my heart turns round
the art of beauty
light makes sculpture
framed by a nest,
delightful strands delicate spill
into flow river, stream upon cheek:
shape the lip's rose.
a kiss inside her waits
as full moon twinned
eclipses the sea,
her eyes full of waves.
framed by a nest,
delightful strands delicate spill
into flow river, stream upon cheek:
shape the lip's rose.
a kiss inside her waits
as full moon twinned
eclipses the sea,
her eyes full of waves.
seeing her upon waking
sun's pale glow childish
splashes softly shored skin
deep sea eyes wonder
within wells silent aglow
moon shine faces softness
smooth cheeked for a kiss
liquid languid lips tender
dream oblivion floating cloud-like
featherless hair winged wind
falls wholly earthen body
splashes softly shored skin
deep sea eyes wonder
within wells silent aglow
moon shine faces softness
smooth cheeked for a kiss
liquid languid lips tender
dream oblivion floating cloud-like
featherless hair winged wind
falls wholly earthen body
dream-like
to talk to the nightingale,
wish upon a hummingbird.
to fly with dolphins,
dream upon a daisy.
to die with her honey,
sleep upon her breast.
wish upon a hummingbird.
to fly with dolphins,
dream upon a daisy.
to die with her honey,
sleep upon her breast.
when she is away
pale light by the river, ice on fire,
speak your sparks of perfume and night.
your shadow, round behind the moon,
waxing, full of desire, hidden like treasure.
heart alive and lacking...your touch?--what scents!
flower me with your blood, rest within me.
speak your sparks of perfume and night.
your shadow, round behind the moon,
waxing, full of desire, hidden like treasure.
heart alive and lacking...your touch?--what scents!
flower me with your blood, rest within me.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
fountain of youth
childhood lost--where then innocence?--
i misunderstand the clouds--where, then
is innocence? knowing these trees
vacant with animation of birds,
would their roots know
my heart in the soil?
gnarled bark and escaped leaf,
my hands forget, deaf
to touch.
dandelion! freely breeze dreams lifted,
i sleep in starlight oblivion.
remember the rhody, the honeysuckle,
estuary of boyhood. i outgrow these shoes,
shadows of footsteps long
in the distance.
where then innocence? pennies for the fountain,
fountain of youth,
scattered among the shells.
i misunderstand the clouds--where, then
is innocence? knowing these trees
vacant with animation of birds,
would their roots know
my heart in the soil?
gnarled bark and escaped leaf,
my hands forget, deaf
to touch.
dandelion! freely breeze dreams lifted,
i sleep in starlight oblivion.
remember the rhody, the honeysuckle,
estuary of boyhood. i outgrow these shoes,
shadows of footsteps long
in the distance.
where then innocence? pennies for the fountain,
fountain of youth,
scattered among the shells.
beach 3
sheltered sea, these ships of tears,
sail! tattered wood, scattered beach,
shipwrecked shells, sailing no more.
this broken beach, shore forlorn,
sail! timeless graveyard, calcified ocean,
crows' beaks, pick through bones.
oh wailing seascape, escaping dream,
sail! deliberate heron, intentive step,
waveless water, strike deep!
sail! tattered wood, scattered beach,
shipwrecked shells, sailing no more.
this broken beach, shore forlorn,
sail! timeless graveyard, calcified ocean,
crows' beaks, pick through bones.
oh wailing seascape, escaping dream,
sail! deliberate heron, intentive step,
waveless water, strike deep!
beach 2
two heron in one sea, one
stands in water, the other
reflects silence.
heron walks in water, one
the other, the other
is neither.
one heron in two seas, one
like the other, the other
is the sea.
two heron in two seas, one
walks in shallows, the other
reflects in silence.
stands in water, the other
reflects silence.
heron walks in water, one
the other, the other
is neither.
one heron in two seas, one
like the other, the other
is the sea.
two heron in two seas, one
walks in shallows, the other
reflects in silence.
beach 1
see how mirrored smooth sea
drinks in clouds and mountains.
a forgotten piling with eagle crown
stands ever watchful silence.
sea! nary a whisper or wink
wordlessly waiting in sleepy tears.
i hear only the weeping sand. here
there is no sound, only the weeping.
drinks in clouds and mountains.
a forgotten piling with eagle crown
stands ever watchful silence.
sea! nary a whisper or wink
wordlessly waiting in sleepy tears.
i hear only the weeping sand. here
there is no sound, only the weeping.
in passing
inverted root where i find this
limit of flowers, you pass,
unheed offerings.
sun forfeits the rose's corona,
eclipse like clouds
shackles the valley muted.
there are none, they are not
here, forgotten: dictions
of salvational petals.
luminous bird, all of them,
flutters on, whimsical elsewhere,
calling to paler skies.
limit of flowers, you pass,
unheed offerings.
sun forfeits the rose's corona,
eclipse like clouds
shackles the valley muted.
there are none, they are not
here, forgotten: dictions
of salvational petals.
luminous bird, all of them,
flutters on, whimsical elsewhere,
calling to paler skies.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
moon wax
night waxing
moon shadows,
give rise
to voices.
murky whispering
in misty mind,
confused brush
faint strokes silent.
wanderer at sea:
drifting sands fall
further into wells
darkly forgotten.
moonlight's premonition
shrouds dawn delayed,
early birds
singing not for me.
voices raised
by night shadows,
moon waxes philosophical
questionless answers.
moon shadows,
give rise
to voices.
murky whispering
in misty mind,
confused brush
faint strokes silent.
wanderer at sea:
drifting sands fall
further into wells
darkly forgotten.
moonlight's premonition
shrouds dawn delayed,
early birds
singing not for me.
voices raised
by night shadows,
moon waxes philosophical
questionless answers.
know it
i want there to be
no branch for the bitter wind,
no refuge for the melancholy day,
only perfumed night guarded by roses.
let there be dead eyes among the living,
living blood poured over gravestones,
reaping years of marrowed soil.
search the crow's nest,
find my heart there.
know the thorn which wounds me
in its defense of me, wounding me,
fist tight clenched.
no branch for the bitter wind,
no refuge for the melancholy day,
only perfumed night guarded by roses.
let there be dead eyes among the living,
living blood poured over gravestones,
reaping years of marrowed soil.
search the crow's nest,
find my heart there.
know the thorn which wounds me
in its defense of me, wounding me,
fist tight clenched.
listen
i want to know
if you listen,
how can you understand?
listening to me,
how is it possible?
i am only this naked branch
bearing some strange
failing bird of unassuming
feathers.
you could be a daisy, buttercup,
grassy breeze or warm voice.
me: soliloquy to the sun.
i look to you
and i see the moon
in shadows.
if you listen,
how can you understand?
listening to me,
how is it possible?
i am only this naked branch
bearing some strange
failing bird of unassuming
feathers.
you could be a daisy, buttercup,
grassy breeze or warm voice.
me: soliloquy to the sun.
i look to you
and i see the moon
in shadows.
illusion
illusion--
elusive!
love--
tender branch.
succulent breath
whispering
inaudible.
faint star
dwindling,
twinkle
behind clouds
shrouded.
love--
exhausted,
expensive
high cost,
lost self.
love--
delicious cherry
beyond reach,
seeking you with
eyes unseeing.
love--
swollen dream
incomprehensible,
uninhabited sleep:
restless dawn.
love,
illusion:
elusive!
elusive!
love--
tender branch.
succulent breath
whispering
inaudible.
faint star
dwindling,
twinkle
behind clouds
shrouded.
love--
exhausted,
expensive
high cost,
lost self.
love--
delicious cherry
beyond reach,
seeking you with
eyes unseeing.
love--
swollen dream
incomprehensible,
uninhabited sleep:
restless dawn.
love,
illusion:
elusive!
want, not
i want it, not wanting--
is this possible?--
nothing, save blood-colored honey,
the rose that never blooms,
tarnished silver,
the impossible!
is this possible?--
nothing, save blood-colored honey,
the rose that never blooms,
tarnished silver,
the impossible!
love swords
love--
a thousand little kisses,
how many swords of agony?
touch the falling night.
slow pirouette of stillness, one-footed.
single-eyed, the clock stops.
ocean eternal! give up your salt,
forget my name but grant me
wings, or scales, moonlight scattered.
silence is not golden: leaden.
dark purpose of sinking, heart
beating...itself against the wall.
love--
a thousand little kisses,
each one: sword of agony!
a thousand little kisses,
how many swords of agony?
touch the falling night.
slow pirouette of stillness, one-footed.
single-eyed, the clock stops.
ocean eternal! give up your salt,
forget my name but grant me
wings, or scales, moonlight scattered.
silence is not golden: leaden.
dark purpose of sinking, heart
beating...itself against the wall.
love--
a thousand little kisses,
each one: sword of agony!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
questions of self
is it too early
to ask for my own pardon,
to inquire about the manner
in which i may meet myself
anew, perhaps with new shoes,
or less words, a brighter flame,
or even a definition
of my indefinite?
there are sad excuses for
wayward words, for
mistimed withdrawals and
for deliberate misunderstanding.
it is true i never loved the barber
yet sought the shears with which
to cut away the ivy
of my cluttered head.
not much has happened that went
unnoticed by those who matter
or do not matter. everywhere i am
i encounter myself in others
or in their words and actions.
therefore, when they seek to erase my name
or sing my praises i must forgive them
for not knowing me, for not knowing
i have been foolish the entire time.
what have i done? what did these hands
do, if not spell out the exact nature
of my folly? what purpose did they fulfill
by penning these forlorn pages
where the evidence of a forgotten sea
waits to be buried?
for my part i am resigned
to never taking myself as seriously
as i present in these pages.
i too am a fool and a clown,
clumsy with words.
to ask for my own pardon,
to inquire about the manner
in which i may meet myself
anew, perhaps with new shoes,
or less words, a brighter flame,
or even a definition
of my indefinite?
there are sad excuses for
wayward words, for
mistimed withdrawals and
for deliberate misunderstanding.
it is true i never loved the barber
yet sought the shears with which
to cut away the ivy
of my cluttered head.
not much has happened that went
unnoticed by those who matter
or do not matter. everywhere i am
i encounter myself in others
or in their words and actions.
therefore, when they seek to erase my name
or sing my praises i must forgive them
for not knowing me, for not knowing
i have been foolish the entire time.
what have i done? what did these hands
do, if not spell out the exact nature
of my folly? what purpose did they fulfill
by penning these forlorn pages
where the evidence of a forgotten sea
waits to be buried?
for my part i am resigned
to never taking myself as seriously
as i present in these pages.
i too am a fool and a clown,
clumsy with words.
just a gray day in spring
give me this sea, this placid longing
through a sad and sinking window,
allow me the currency of the present curtain
of gray fabrics drawn against the sun.
the window of spring has shut,
and i am pushed into a misty
form that is formless. tiny needles
of rain shatter the surface of the sea.
she is a refracted mirror too tired
to stir her appendages, unable
to walk or swim.
so it is i, eyes and ears and heart
afire, looking, listening, feeling my way
through a topsy-turvy season,
witnessing footprints, watching them
recede. i cannot find
the precision of my path
amid such shifting shores.
i have seen it all before.
this is my home, my cradle
and my grave.
i greet this gray curtain
with a steady hand, parting
the liquid illusion, seeking
evidence of blue, gold, green,
or just a falling feather.
through a sad and sinking window,
allow me the currency of the present curtain
of gray fabrics drawn against the sun.
the window of spring has shut,
and i am pushed into a misty
form that is formless. tiny needles
of rain shatter the surface of the sea.
she is a refracted mirror too tired
to stir her appendages, unable
to walk or swim.
so it is i, eyes and ears and heart
afire, looking, listening, feeling my way
through a topsy-turvy season,
witnessing footprints, watching them
recede. i cannot find
the precision of my path
amid such shifting shores.
i have seen it all before.
this is my home, my cradle
and my grave.
i greet this gray curtain
with a steady hand, parting
the liquid illusion, seeking
evidence of blue, gold, green,
or just a falling feather.
a prayer
give me this day my daily bread:
sunlight crisp and unclouded,
the laughter of my mirrored offspring,
frog song and owl speech at night,
the sleeping logs aglow with warmth,
pen and page, cedar and sage,
another day to age, to grow and die into,
the jazz of this musical planet,
a whirling tail of canine fluff,
oh wine and wonder!
is it for this that i live and suffer to live
until the suffering is but the rose of spring's thorn?
cast me into the sea and sing like the moon,
grant for me this companionship with all things,
one to break bread with, or two or three,
until the blessings cannot be counted,
until i may find peace, a piece of cake
so i may eat it too.
sunlight crisp and unclouded,
the laughter of my mirrored offspring,
frog song and owl speech at night,
the sleeping logs aglow with warmth,
pen and page, cedar and sage,
another day to age, to grow and die into,
the jazz of this musical planet,
a whirling tail of canine fluff,
oh wine and wonder!
is it for this that i live and suffer to live
until the suffering is but the rose of spring's thorn?
cast me into the sea and sing like the moon,
grant for me this companionship with all things,
one to break bread with, or two or three,
until the blessings cannot be counted,
until i may find peace, a piece of cake
so i may eat it too.
the ex factor
excerpt from the extirpated:
expectations can be excessive,
like baggage unaccepted and excised.
i expect that i must inspect
those expectations in order to extricate
myself from having to exhume my heart
after exonerated reality exits its hidden dimension,
exerting pressure on existence excommunicated.
i expect to expel expectations from my existence,
though i expect exceptions to the rule,
ex post facto.
expectations can be excessive,
like baggage unaccepted and excised.
i expect that i must inspect
those expectations in order to extricate
myself from having to exhume my heart
after exonerated reality exits its hidden dimension,
exerting pressure on existence excommunicated.
i expect to expel expectations from my existence,
though i expect exceptions to the rule,
ex post facto.
retreat
and after all of that, after all that
worrisome wonder, all that trepidation
and torment over what to do with my feeling heart,
after all that confusion i set myself
apart from the world, from the sullen days
and hesitant nights, i flee from the memories of the women
who once fluttered before my eyes,
feathered and fanciful. i run and dive
into the wine, into dreams, self and home;
i retreat toward the sound of the drums
and with the moving fire, seeking root and stone,
hounding the trail of blood in the sun,
swimming, swimming to shore.
i need to understand only my own dark wing,
the soil of my native bone, the stain of soil
on my hands; i need only to find myself
standing with my face to sea, still,
in stillness.
worrisome wonder, all that trepidation
and torment over what to do with my feeling heart,
after all that confusion i set myself
apart from the world, from the sullen days
and hesitant nights, i flee from the memories of the women
who once fluttered before my eyes,
feathered and fanciful. i run and dive
into the wine, into dreams, self and home;
i retreat toward the sound of the drums
and with the moving fire, seeking root and stone,
hounding the trail of blood in the sun,
swimming, swimming to shore.
i need to understand only my own dark wing,
the soil of my native bone, the stain of soil
on my hands; i need only to find myself
standing with my face to sea, still,
in stillness.
new old moon
this moon is new, once again.
she's so old.
she's been up there
the entire time, aging,
growing ancient,
being reborn to our monthly lives.
is she dead?
does she look down on us
with cold dead eyes,
feeling the frost of space,
of time, dictating
her diction of the tides
from beyond her grave?
is she alive but silent,
motionless, mute witness
to the terror of love and war,
weeping silver tears,
constantly rebirthing herself
through the world's women?
all i know is she falls into the sea
on cloudless nights, disappearing
whenever i need to reinvent myself.
she beckons me whenever i am
at my limits, overflowing with light,
with darkly muted light,
lifted to dreams and forever
searching for her hidden heart,
needing to understand myself.
she's so old.
she's been up there
the entire time, aging,
growing ancient,
being reborn to our monthly lives.
is she dead?
does she look down on us
with cold dead eyes,
feeling the frost of space,
of time, dictating
her diction of the tides
from beyond her grave?
is she alive but silent,
motionless, mute witness
to the terror of love and war,
weeping silver tears,
constantly rebirthing herself
through the world's women?
all i know is she falls into the sea
on cloudless nights, disappearing
whenever i need to reinvent myself.
she beckons me whenever i am
at my limits, overflowing with light,
with darkly muted light,
lifted to dreams and forever
searching for her hidden heart,
needing to understand myself.
some sadness passes
well, it is what it is, what it was.
i have traveled many roads,
through endless countries with or without borders,
through treeless forests and tired mountains,
airports full of passengers without direction.
i have moved ceaselessly,
always trying on new hats, washing and rewashing
the linens of my life, searching, perhaps
finding some semblance of home, of peace.
from sadness to sadness i have gone, finding
bones of death and the flowers of dark despair,
learning of children's ribcages and empty bellies,
gathering tears, harvesting salt and tears and
wave after wave of tears: the falling rain of the dead,
the dying and the living dead: those victims
of freedom that my country seeks to kill
and kill again, to eat but not consume.
i have seen this, i have seen the forlorn lover
whose fist strikes a blind wall and whose bones
break like an endless ocean with its furious duty
of shattered shores. i have seen the damage done
by simple misunderstanding, by not understanding
what love is.
the sadness of this world flies like an invasive wind,
fully encompassing us, feeding us strange fruit,
feeding upon us, inventing new words for itself,
for fear, for despair, for silence, and for spring.
i reject it all, i sing the names of the dead,
those i know and those i never knew,
could never know. i remember for what reason
love brings its vengeful sword down
upon the oppressed, inventing new words for hope.
i have traveled many roads,
through endless countries with or without borders,
through treeless forests and tired mountains,
airports full of passengers without direction.
i have moved ceaselessly,
always trying on new hats, washing and rewashing
the linens of my life, searching, perhaps
finding some semblance of home, of peace.
from sadness to sadness i have gone, finding
bones of death and the flowers of dark despair,
learning of children's ribcages and empty bellies,
gathering tears, harvesting salt and tears and
wave after wave of tears: the falling rain of the dead,
the dying and the living dead: those victims
of freedom that my country seeks to kill
and kill again, to eat but not consume.
i have seen this, i have seen the forlorn lover
whose fist strikes a blind wall and whose bones
break like an endless ocean with its furious duty
of shattered shores. i have seen the damage done
by simple misunderstanding, by not understanding
what love is.
the sadness of this world flies like an invasive wind,
fully encompassing us, feeding us strange fruit,
feeding upon us, inventing new words for itself,
for fear, for despair, for silence, and for spring.
i reject it all, i sing the names of the dead,
those i know and those i never knew,
could never know. i remember for what reason
love brings its vengeful sword down
upon the oppressed, inventing new words for hope.
muse in the wine
muse sings in the wine:
musings in the wine:
singing vines and divine
pressing of grapes brings
mating of mutual lips,
inescapable like unity.
wine is the poet's companion,
the muse at the table, breaking bread
and silence, sips of bliss to sink into,
to spill ink onto pen tips, toes in sands
of time spelled out to rhyme, singing,
singing, rhythmic catharsis part of this
dance cadence dressed in bird feathers:
word tethers: noun and verb now tied
in time, wed to space, placed upon a pedestal.
call it pedestrian poetry.
wine,
you do this to me.
amuse me, oh muse,
use me, produce for me
purple, burgundy, velvet,
introduce me
to your curve in the glass.
stain me with your ink,
let me drink and i will sink
into that place
where i do not think,
where it is only you
who speaks,
sings what i merely dream.
musings in the wine:
singing vines and divine
pressing of grapes brings
mating of mutual lips,
inescapable like unity.
wine is the poet's companion,
the muse at the table, breaking bread
and silence, sips of bliss to sink into,
to spill ink onto pen tips, toes in sands
of time spelled out to rhyme, singing,
singing, rhythmic catharsis part of this
dance cadence dressed in bird feathers:
word tethers: noun and verb now tied
in time, wed to space, placed upon a pedestal.
call it pedestrian poetry.
wine,
you do this to me.
amuse me, oh muse,
use me, produce for me
purple, burgundy, velvet,
introduce me
to your curve in the glass.
stain me with your ink,
let me drink and i will sink
into that place
where i do not think,
where it is only you
who speaks,
sings what i merely dream.
remembering/forgetting
days of hunger, days of appetite's absence,
days of labor and long naps
that arrive nowhere:
where do you depart to when
the singing of frogs arise,
cutting the night's density
like a thousand little saws
preparing the lumber of tomorrow?
i am a carpenter shopping for fish,
a fisherman netting hours,
laboring like a farmer planting time,
harvesting the rays of sun and threshing
the wheat of golden seasons.
i am accustomed to these rituals of passage.
i awake and set forth each day,
winding the clock and tracking the sky,
measuring each cloud and finding
only birds with feathers of rain.
what has happened?
did we live only to go on dying?
did we yearn to forget so much
we left our luggage on the platform
and boarded the wrong train,
leaving behind an empty station?
maybe we no longer understand ourselves,
with our barbaric words and science of extinction.
and so the heart wills itself
onward, pulsing its heat and current,
always wanting us to listen and hear, to understand,
to cease the damage of wearisome words,
to forget the newspapers, the sidewalks,
the steel towers and the unreachable palace,
to forget the dwindling past that kills us
like a suffocating shadow, to seek our voice
in rambling rivers, renewing our song
as spring is overrun by frogs.
we need to sit at the edge of the sea
and beg for our own forgiveness,
to cast the stones of forgetfulness
into the empty sea.
days of labor and long naps
that arrive nowhere:
where do you depart to when
the singing of frogs arise,
cutting the night's density
like a thousand little saws
preparing the lumber of tomorrow?
i am a carpenter shopping for fish,
a fisherman netting hours,
laboring like a farmer planting time,
harvesting the rays of sun and threshing
the wheat of golden seasons.
i am accustomed to these rituals of passage.
i awake and set forth each day,
winding the clock and tracking the sky,
measuring each cloud and finding
only birds with feathers of rain.
what has happened?
did we live only to go on dying?
did we yearn to forget so much
we left our luggage on the platform
and boarded the wrong train,
leaving behind an empty station?
maybe we no longer understand ourselves,
with our barbaric words and science of extinction.
and so the heart wills itself
onward, pulsing its heat and current,
always wanting us to listen and hear, to understand,
to cease the damage of wearisome words,
to forget the newspapers, the sidewalks,
the steel towers and the unreachable palace,
to forget the dwindling past that kills us
like a suffocating shadow, to seek our voice
in rambling rivers, renewing our song
as spring is overrun by frogs.
we need to sit at the edge of the sea
and beg for our own forgiveness,
to cast the stones of forgetfulness
into the empty sea.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
potential of emptiness
i lift my hand to gather up this emptiness,
all of this vacancy in the world, where water
leaves space for the air, where wind is silenced
and light grows tired in the shade.
these in between spaces of hollow rapture,
the tumult of the timeless, these are the seeds
of contemplative creation i collect,
preparing a garden where uninhabited dreams
can grow wings and feather their songs
with the form of their latent longing for fruition.
within my hands i caress the nascent gestation
of suggestive thought and action, a plenitude of possibility
and formative birth. i possess the keys
to a crossroad, unlocking potential and speaking
portents of prayers fomenting in the passing moment.
it is the emptiness of mind, absence of desire,
that feeds these flames of the future,
when the tide is slack and the wind is shut in.
within these moments of infinity i inhale the sky
and exhale the sea, i see the sky as my canvass
and i paint myself into existence reborn and renewed,
imbued with new old views to hold space for the void
to be invaded with fresh sensation.
all of this vacancy in the world, where water
leaves space for the air, where wind is silenced
and light grows tired in the shade.
these in between spaces of hollow rapture,
the tumult of the timeless, these are the seeds
of contemplative creation i collect,
preparing a garden where uninhabited dreams
can grow wings and feather their songs
with the form of their latent longing for fruition.
within my hands i caress the nascent gestation
of suggestive thought and action, a plenitude of possibility
and formative birth. i possess the keys
to a crossroad, unlocking potential and speaking
portents of prayers fomenting in the passing moment.
it is the emptiness of mind, absence of desire,
that feeds these flames of the future,
when the tide is slack and the wind is shut in.
within these moments of infinity i inhale the sky
and exhale the sea, i see the sky as my canvass
and i paint myself into existence reborn and renewed,
imbued with new old views to hold space for the void
to be invaded with fresh sensation.
love and nothing else
i love
but is there nothing more?
have i traversed these lyrical wilds,
roaming the jungle, thirsty in the desert,
adrift at sea, only to arrive
back at myself with worn shoes
and spent change, a bent
spine and tattered umbrella?
the bells of my journey have chimed,
have been rung by winds,
wrung out to dry after so many sadnesses
and salty storms, ringed with age
after so much triumph and passionate folly.
i return to myself, again and again,
wave and tide, smoothing each grain
of sand, grinding the stones of my shore
into perpetual sand, seeking
only this reunion with those forfeited
parts of myself.
i believe i have lived all this before, as if
i never left home, just dreaming of the world
outside my door, painting my imagination
with wild fantasies of amorous tendencies,
only to wander absent-mindedly
within my own halls, waking to myself
each time, finding my own personal
dream come true, so true and so real.
so me.
i love
and there is nothing more
until the sun rises and a captivating bird
sings to me, or a lone leaf flutters its way
at my feet, and i dream all of this,
dreaming.
but is there nothing more?
have i traversed these lyrical wilds,
roaming the jungle, thirsty in the desert,
adrift at sea, only to arrive
back at myself with worn shoes
and spent change, a bent
spine and tattered umbrella?
the bells of my journey have chimed,
have been rung by winds,
wrung out to dry after so many sadnesses
and salty storms, ringed with age
after so much triumph and passionate folly.
i return to myself, again and again,
wave and tide, smoothing each grain
of sand, grinding the stones of my shore
into perpetual sand, seeking
only this reunion with those forfeited
parts of myself.
i believe i have lived all this before, as if
i never left home, just dreaming of the world
outside my door, painting my imagination
with wild fantasies of amorous tendencies,
only to wander absent-mindedly
within my own halls, waking to myself
each time, finding my own personal
dream come true, so true and so real.
so me.
i love
and there is nothing more
until the sun rises and a captivating bird
sings to me, or a lone leaf flutters its way
at my feet, and i dream all of this,
dreaming.
learning to breathe underwater
here i arrive at the border of language,
where nothing need be said
that hasn't been said before.
there were all those times i wrote about
how much i loved you
like you were some exotic fruit or flower;
all those times i wrote about
how sad and broken i was without you
like i was some abandoned railcar in the rain;
all those times i had no one to love
except my confused and inadequate self
and my tireless yearning for some distant tomorrow.
happy happy joy joy lovely love fluff.
sad sad lonesome lonely heartachy guff.
marathon of longing and reaching for thin air stuff.
PUFF!!
here i declare my lack of words for such things,
my complete and utter disinterest
in that shambolic state of anarchy. and let's face it:
love, heartbreak, longing, it is all anarchy.
who can agree upon any colorful or even inordinary
terms for such trivial and trifling affairs?
no, today is much more than all of that.
i celebrate my woodstove with a glass of voluptuous wine
and the pleasures of hash-laden tobacco.
i welcome the frogs who keep me up all night
with their incessant echoing song.
i am enraptured with the revelations
of a saxophone solo falling out of coltrane's brain.
what else do i need? a lover with amorous eyes
and soft curves enticing me into her bliss,
or an ex-lover on my mind, weighing anchor
in my seascape, or the desultory longing
that accompanies fallow times like these
like standing ashore and wishing for some distant horizon?
please...i got a pen with green ink
and no words for such sordidness.
i want only to sit here by my fire and forget
all of that, at least for a day, a week, maybe
a month even, at least until
i can learn to breathe underwater.
where nothing need be said
that hasn't been said before.
there were all those times i wrote about
how much i loved you
like you were some exotic fruit or flower;
all those times i wrote about
how sad and broken i was without you
like i was some abandoned railcar in the rain;
all those times i had no one to love
except my confused and inadequate self
and my tireless yearning for some distant tomorrow.
happy happy joy joy lovely love fluff.
sad sad lonesome lonely heartachy guff.
marathon of longing and reaching for thin air stuff.
PUFF!!
here i declare my lack of words for such things,
my complete and utter disinterest
in that shambolic state of anarchy. and let's face it:
love, heartbreak, longing, it is all anarchy.
who can agree upon any colorful or even inordinary
terms for such trivial and trifling affairs?
no, today is much more than all of that.
i celebrate my woodstove with a glass of voluptuous wine
and the pleasures of hash-laden tobacco.
i welcome the frogs who keep me up all night
with their incessant echoing song.
i am enraptured with the revelations
of a saxophone solo falling out of coltrane's brain.
what else do i need? a lover with amorous eyes
and soft curves enticing me into her bliss,
or an ex-lover on my mind, weighing anchor
in my seascape, or the desultory longing
that accompanies fallow times like these
like standing ashore and wishing for some distant horizon?
please...i got a pen with green ink
and no words for such sordidness.
i want only to sit here by my fire and forget
all of that, at least for a day, a week, maybe
a month even, at least until
i can learn to breathe underwater.
caring, not caring
today, i do not have it within me
to answer the distress call of the aching sea,
i have not the energy for a search and rescue
mission for a heart setting, sinking over the horizon.
today, a brilliance of light and reflection
is emblazoned throughout the air, the sea
does not move. my heart is here, not out there,
and i need not move, to go off searching,
fleeing, departing.
there are days like these within which i float,
or i could tumble like a seed, smile like a child,
dance, or sleep. i know i'm alive, incorruptible
and innocent, yet prone to the folly of tomorrow.
i don't care, i only live for today.
to answer the distress call of the aching sea,
i have not the energy for a search and rescue
mission for a heart setting, sinking over the horizon.
today, a brilliance of light and reflection
is emblazoned throughout the air, the sea
does not move. my heart is here, not out there,
and i need not move, to go off searching,
fleeing, departing.
there are days like these within which i float,
or i could tumble like a seed, smile like a child,
dance, or sleep. i know i'm alive, incorruptible
and innocent, yet prone to the folly of tomorrow.
i don't care, i only live for today.
departing
always there is this departing, this separation,
of rain from cloud, leaf from branch, wave
from sea, heart from throat,
clumsy words from these unspoken lips.
i depart from fire and ash, returning
to this root and stone:
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
this aimless rambling bird of haphazard feathers.
why is it that i tread a daily path toward some heaven,
only to depart those gates, returning again
to this vacant longing and restlessness,
slipping into a dream, waking, setting forth
on my daily sojourn, trying to remember,
learning to forget?
what part of it is missing? what sense of self
has also departed which i find lacking?
behind which gate, and with what key?
why can i not get the words straight?
is my heart turned inside out, or is it
my enormous head that bars the way?
why must this skin prevent me from erupting
into pure flame? when will this form
rise into its conflagration, an incarnate
carnation with carnal petals that spring
from winter's ash?
the ceaseless sea waves to me,
i ripple back, departing her door,
and i die with each wave,
rearranging the stones and dispersed time,
sands that sink by the hour, and still
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
these scattered shells, wordless words,
this departure due to arrive
according to its daily schedule,
returning me to my self.
of rain from cloud, leaf from branch, wave
from sea, heart from throat,
clumsy words from these unspoken lips.
i depart from fire and ash, returning
to this root and stone:
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
this aimless rambling bird of haphazard feathers.
why is it that i tread a daily path toward some heaven,
only to depart those gates, returning again
to this vacant longing and restlessness,
slipping into a dream, waking, setting forth
on my daily sojourn, trying to remember,
learning to forget?
what part of it is missing? what sense of self
has also departed which i find lacking?
behind which gate, and with what key?
why can i not get the words straight?
is my heart turned inside out, or is it
my enormous head that bars the way?
why must this skin prevent me from erupting
into pure flame? when will this form
rise into its conflagration, an incarnate
carnation with carnal petals that spring
from winter's ash?
the ceaseless sea waves to me,
i ripple back, departing her door,
and i die with each wave,
rearranging the stones and dispersed time,
sands that sink by the hour, and still
i am left with this cluttered poetry,
these scattered shells, wordless words,
this departure due to arrive
according to its daily schedule,
returning me to my self.
killer wind
oh, these long and obtuse nights, evenings
with little cheer, filled with wine and smoke,
a hissing fire and invasive shadows.
tonight all the winds of the world
converge upon this land, testing the limits
of tree tops and threatening to scatter
even the stars from their impervious perch.
i am shut in, solitary
and confined to this hermetic duty,
watching over wrinkled logs who journey
toward their bones of ash.
the wind could kill me if it wished.
i could die and be reborn by the end of this poem,
broken and reassembled, torn apart
by this hounding hunger
and passed through the guts of despair
before emerging with naked wounds
and wishing for a new song,
wishing for you still, for an impossible spring,
a peace treaty with gravity, a fresh memory bank,
empty of desire, needing nothing.
with little cheer, filled with wine and smoke,
a hissing fire and invasive shadows.
tonight all the winds of the world
converge upon this land, testing the limits
of tree tops and threatening to scatter
even the stars from their impervious perch.
i am shut in, solitary
and confined to this hermetic duty,
watching over wrinkled logs who journey
toward their bones of ash.
the wind could kill me if it wished.
i could die and be reborn by the end of this poem,
broken and reassembled, torn apart
by this hounding hunger
and passed through the guts of despair
before emerging with naked wounds
and wishing for a new song,
wishing for you still, for an impossible spring,
a peace treaty with gravity, a fresh memory bank,
empty of desire, needing nothing.
careful folly
only now, at this time,
in these moments between breaths,
when it is i, the slow fire burning,
only now, when i see myself
within this oblivion, this orchard
of potential triumph, when i can
fully encompass this solitude, this
grand melancholic longing,
the unforfeitable desire
to embrace the grey wind
and the green tears of this
ancient tapestry.
i am moved by certain ailments.
maybe it's love, or passion,
or careful folly...careless ambition.
i am trapped beneath this
falling sky and swelling soil,
the sea marching inland to wash
my soul, to memorize my blood
so i can navigate these foreboding waters.
i am in this epic tale of wandering,
wondering where these pages end,
bewildered by these feathered clouds,
astonished by this abundant
decay and renewal.
and now, in the small hours
of dying embers, i raise my wine
and kiss the dream, kiss
the imminent future,
dreaming of wine and women,
fruitful desire, empty bottles
and nothing else,
nothing but emptiness.
in these moments between breaths,
when it is i, the slow fire burning,
only now, when i see myself
within this oblivion, this orchard
of potential triumph, when i can
fully encompass this solitude, this
grand melancholic longing,
the unforfeitable desire
to embrace the grey wind
and the green tears of this
ancient tapestry.
i am moved by certain ailments.
maybe it's love, or passion,
or careful folly...careless ambition.
i am trapped beneath this
falling sky and swelling soil,
the sea marching inland to wash
my soul, to memorize my blood
so i can navigate these foreboding waters.
i am in this epic tale of wandering,
wondering where these pages end,
bewildered by these feathered clouds,
astonished by this abundant
decay and renewal.
and now, in the small hours
of dying embers, i raise my wine
and kiss the dream, kiss
the imminent future,
dreaming of wine and women,
fruitful desire, empty bottles
and nothing else,
nothing but emptiness.
poet's death
do not misunderstand me
when i speak of death.
forgive me, it is a poet who lives here,
someone in love with life,
but a book is not a book
without its final page.
therefore
my life is empty
without death.
i want only to hear the rain,
to understand why this land
weeps transitory tears, why
she tolerates so much fickle wind.
i want only the majesty
the sea will allow me to abide.
i was born by her side.
i live by her side.
forgive me, but when my terminal wave
departs, i will die beside her.
when i speak of death.
forgive me, it is a poet who lives here,
someone in love with life,
but a book is not a book
without its final page.
therefore
my life is empty
without death.
i want only to hear the rain,
to understand why this land
weeps transitory tears, why
she tolerates so much fickle wind.
i want only the majesty
the sea will allow me to abide.
i was born by her side.
i live by her side.
forgive me, but when my terminal wave
departs, i will die beside her.
lusty tomato
my heart sits adjacent a ripe fruit,
a perfect delicacy of plump flesh, on fire
and singing in perfume.
a tomato languishes upon the kitchen counter,
voluptuous and on the verge,
bursting with insatiable desire.
soon, my love, these hands,
these lips, will traverse your luscious hemispheres,
and we will find bliss together,
unifying our flesh, solar and foliar.
a perfect delicacy of plump flesh, on fire
and singing in perfume.
a tomato languishes upon the kitchen counter,
voluptuous and on the verge,
bursting with insatiable desire.
soon, my love, these hands,
these lips, will traverse your luscious hemispheres,
and we will find bliss together,
unifying our flesh, solar and foliar.
old news is new
round and round and round we go.
enter the dragon, liquify the fire
and magnetize the salt, salinate these
oceanic emotional waves, watered tears
gardening lunar fruit, flow now
with passion toward a rebirth,
reborn.
this is nothing new.
this is completely new.
this land, this sea, this air,
these mountains and forests,
birds and beasts, friends, family,
lovers, this time and place,
a familiar tune with an evolving rhythm:
i have lived this before
and i will live it through again,
i will die within the framework
of this eternal song.
so magnificent, so precious,
so uncommonly worthwhile,
and all the while i am on the shore
with my heart and its roots,
i am witness and participant to this
highest lived moment.
i am forever growing inside and out,
declaring my love for this, declaring
my melancholy banner of personal ecstasy.
enter the dragon, liquify the fire
and magnetize the salt, salinate these
oceanic emotional waves, watered tears
gardening lunar fruit, flow now
with passion toward a rebirth,
reborn.
this is nothing new.
this is completely new.
this land, this sea, this air,
these mountains and forests,
birds and beasts, friends, family,
lovers, this time and place,
a familiar tune with an evolving rhythm:
i have lived this before
and i will live it through again,
i will die within the framework
of this eternal song.
so magnificent, so precious,
so uncommonly worthwhile,
and all the while i am on the shore
with my heart and its roots,
i am witness and participant to this
highest lived moment.
i am forever growing inside and out,
declaring my love for this, declaring
my melancholy banner of personal ecstasy.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
mirror moon
mirror, mirror
in the sky,
silver chalice
fill my third eye.
the moon chases
the sun,
capturing light:
translated and
transmuted
sunlight, muted
as transpired
daylight;
it resembles
liquid fire.
in the sky,
silver chalice
fill my third eye.
the moon chases
the sun,
capturing light:
translated and
transmuted
sunlight, muted
as transpired
daylight;
it resembles
liquid fire.
Friday, March 2, 2012
freaky
sit with liquid sunshine,
my cup runs over the moon,
bark like a hyperspace dog,
wag the tail wag the tail...
wind in the trees,
wind up the tongue and
lash out at the fuckers in the world,
crash out on the lawn,
crash the political party
going on the old news tv,
crash this shit come crashing down,
coming down after this democracy high,
get a capitalist hangover,
hang your head over the toilet bowl,
vomit your poverty into muddy waters,
sing the blues for lack of greens,
bills bills bills and more bills,
less bills in your wallet skinny,
skinny like those poor kids on the commercials
with the nosy flies all over the place,
all over like wall street chickens
flying the coop flying into a coup d'etat
but nah, what do we know about walls or streets?
me want garden space and wild shit,
unrecognizable wild assed boogie down jazz planet,
funk some shit up and blast the moon jams freaky,
dance like you ain't got no underwear under there
and dance like we're all watching
because we are all veeeerrry interested,
interested in live things as they were meant to live,
in living our lives without walls streets banks or
congress or progress,
we ain't in it for a petty revolution just so we can
rewrite history, his stories are done
and were all a lie anyway, so anyways....
we lie down in the naked grass and we smoke it,
smoke out the old geezer behind their smokescreen,
lift the curtain on the land of oz and
stay the fuck out of kansas, we're going
to the center of our being, in love with each other,
in love with all the wholesome freaky sinful unpatriotic
disobedient chicanery we can come with in order to
poke holes in the order of things just so we can celebrate
the way that political parties wish they could party.
my cup runs over the moon,
bark like a hyperspace dog,
wag the tail wag the tail...
wind in the trees,
wind up the tongue and
lash out at the fuckers in the world,
crash out on the lawn,
crash the political party
going on the old news tv,
crash this shit come crashing down,
coming down after this democracy high,
get a capitalist hangover,
hang your head over the toilet bowl,
vomit your poverty into muddy waters,
sing the blues for lack of greens,
bills bills bills and more bills,
less bills in your wallet skinny,
skinny like those poor kids on the commercials
with the nosy flies all over the place,
all over like wall street chickens
flying the coop flying into a coup d'etat
but nah, what do we know about walls or streets?
me want garden space and wild shit,
unrecognizable wild assed boogie down jazz planet,
funk some shit up and blast the moon jams freaky,
dance like you ain't got no underwear under there
and dance like we're all watching
because we are all veeeerrry interested,
interested in live things as they were meant to live,
in living our lives without walls streets banks or
congress or progress,
we ain't in it for a petty revolution just so we can
rewrite history, his stories are done
and were all a lie anyway, so anyways....
we lie down in the naked grass and we smoke it,
smoke out the old geezer behind their smokescreen,
lift the curtain on the land of oz and
stay the fuck out of kansas, we're going
to the center of our being, in love with each other,
in love with all the wholesome freaky sinful unpatriotic
disobedient chicanery we can come with in order to
poke holes in the order of things just so we can celebrate
the way that political parties wish they could party.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
this is it
this
is it,
the end
the beginning
and the intermission,
this
is between breaths,
a sigh or
heaving chest,
tears followed
by smiles.
this
is it,
the edge
the verge
and the threshold
of pain,
of freedom,
of
letting
it
all
go.
.
.
is it,
the end
the beginning
and the intermission,
this
is between breaths,
a sigh or
heaving chest,
tears followed
by smiles.
this
is it,
the edge
the verge
and the threshold
of pain,
of freedom,
of
letting
it
all
go.
.
.
lips stick
stuck on words like lips
stick to tongues tied in
kisses, thoughts form and
fumble down the page
turned into poetic ink
blot tests: do you see
the naked girl in the verse
or the flaming moon
of universal emotion?
this constant motion of
penning page after page
propagates leaf litter
bound and tied, it goes
its own way like wild
horses in my head,
herding thought-feelings
in pens of ink-stained
fingers, lingering scent
of rain falls on my heart
broken open, bleeding
what i have to give, every
breath till death do me part
of the way to eternity.
i hear Trane a comin'
blowing sadness away
note by note.
stick to tongues tied in
kisses, thoughts form and
fumble down the page
turned into poetic ink
blot tests: do you see
the naked girl in the verse
or the flaming moon
of universal emotion?
this constant motion of
penning page after page
propagates leaf litter
bound and tied, it goes
its own way like wild
horses in my head,
herding thought-feelings
in pens of ink-stained
fingers, lingering scent
of rain falls on my heart
broken open, bleeding
what i have to give, every
breath till death do me part
of the way to eternity.
i hear Trane a comin'
blowing sadness away
note by note.
personal sea
my dear, my sea, my salt,
personal wave, intimate tide:
living with your beauty and fury,
i lose myself in your surf.
and that
is okay.
scarcely do i need to be
found, tangled in your heaps
of seaweed; no, just leave me
on the rocks, under the logs,
below the gravity of tears.
i'll find my way back, don't
worry, the moon may guide me,
the sun will call me, the stars
will bind me to a charted course,
sailing home,
sailing home.
personal wave, intimate tide:
living with your beauty and fury,
i lose myself in your surf.
and that
is okay.
scarcely do i need to be
found, tangled in your heaps
of seaweed; no, just leave me
on the rocks, under the logs,
below the gravity of tears.
i'll find my way back, don't
worry, the moon may guide me,
the sun will call me, the stars
will bind me to a charted course,
sailing home,
sailing home.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
savior
music my savior, friends and loved ones
my savior, musical friends i love: my savior.
a bowl of stones sing grace amazing,
melodies to melt to, melting under
caring hands massaging my cares away.
i always seem to find a way
back from darkness, walking under the moon,
as high as a tree, rooted as a tree,
finding shelter under a yogi tree.
the air is a silent symphony, as cold
and still as the space between stars.
every place and time can be a playground,
a song and dance, a chance to laugh,
to chase coyotes or receive the ridicule
of a posse of ducks.
and that's all it takes, all that is needed:
a friendly presence, the gift of friendly grace,
wisps of green wisdom, the singing earth,
a singing bowl of stones, and a heart flower
opening: laughter--my medicine, my musical
friend, my savior.
my savior, musical friends i love: my savior.
a bowl of stones sing grace amazing,
melodies to melt to, melting under
caring hands massaging my cares away.
i always seem to find a way
back from darkness, walking under the moon,
as high as a tree, rooted as a tree,
finding shelter under a yogi tree.
the air is a silent symphony, as cold
and still as the space between stars.
every place and time can be a playground,
a song and dance, a chance to laugh,
to chase coyotes or receive the ridicule
of a posse of ducks.
and that's all it takes, all that is needed:
a friendly presence, the gift of friendly grace,
wisps of green wisdom, the singing earth,
a singing bowl of stones, and a heart flower
opening: laughter--my medicine, my musical
friend, my savior.
sea the sun
see the sun, sea and sun walking
together in this season undone
by unexpected reflection, internal
combustion of scattered tears fused
to fired desire, the compulsion to act
on an emotion in motion, to wax with the moon
and to cup her fullness in hands outstretched
in prayer, in gratitude, to adopt the
attitude of letting go, of letting it all go
so i can fill my cup once more
with the dreamy light of the moon's fruit,
hands cupped in prayers of gratitude,
attitude shift and change of perspective,
refusing to hold onto the refuse of self abuse,
i have no more use for this mistaken
identity misshapen by clumsy hands
molding this all-too-wet clay.
no, it is an internal combustion firing
this desire for feeling higher and adopting
the attitude of gratitude for all things
under the sun.
see the sun, sea and sun walking together,
the sea and her son, me, reflected,
perfecting the moonlight, the fruit of
mutual influence, i am the confluence
of day and night, i am growing towards
her tranquility, the sea of endlessness,
ocean of possibility, i am fast becoming
my self again, seen in light of day,
seeing the sun reflected in the sea, i see
myself in the sea's reflection, the salt of her
waters attracts my heart, magnetic,
finding the purpose of the shore,
finding my purpose on the shore,
once more feeling love by the shore,
once more, by the shore.
see the sun, this season, the sea
and her son, the sea, me, the sun,
filling up, filled up, overflowing,
overflowing.
together in this season undone
by unexpected reflection, internal
combustion of scattered tears fused
to fired desire, the compulsion to act
on an emotion in motion, to wax with the moon
and to cup her fullness in hands outstretched
in prayer, in gratitude, to adopt the
attitude of letting go, of letting it all go
so i can fill my cup once more
with the dreamy light of the moon's fruit,
hands cupped in prayers of gratitude,
attitude shift and change of perspective,
refusing to hold onto the refuse of self abuse,
i have no more use for this mistaken
identity misshapen by clumsy hands
molding this all-too-wet clay.
no, it is an internal combustion firing
this desire for feeling higher and adopting
the attitude of gratitude for all things
under the sun.
see the sun, sea and sun walking together,
the sea and her son, me, reflected,
perfecting the moonlight, the fruit of
mutual influence, i am the confluence
of day and night, i am growing towards
her tranquility, the sea of endlessness,
ocean of possibility, i am fast becoming
my self again, seen in light of day,
seeing the sun reflected in the sea, i see
myself in the sea's reflection, the salt of her
waters attracts my heart, magnetic,
finding the purpose of the shore,
finding my purpose on the shore,
once more feeling love by the shore,
once more, by the shore.
see the sun, this season, the sea
and her son, the sea, me, the sun,
filling up, filled up, overflowing,
overflowing.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
noli me confundere amore
do not confuse me
or my acts of love
with me or other
acts of love.
i am not an ideal,
i am not a wish
nor a fulfillment
or an expectation.
i am a mirror,
a polished surface
reflecting your desire,
distorting your vision
of who you are
and what you want.
but i am no dream.
just a coincidence,
a mere whim and fancy
dancing in your eye.
do not confuse me
with love.
or my acts of love
with me or other
acts of love.
i am not an ideal,
i am not a wish
nor a fulfillment
or an expectation.
i am a mirror,
a polished surface
reflecting your desire,
distorting your vision
of who you are
and what you want.
but i am no dream.
just a coincidence,
a mere whim and fancy
dancing in your eye.
do not confuse me
with love.
stimulate this!
exhortation of death
and taxes duty to the
union, booty loot man and
woman extorted in come tax
what we ain't got, some use
the word dispossessed
like we ever had some shit
to begin with; some of us are
disenfranchised, as if we
all been a golden arches
feed lot of excess but some
fat neck fool stole our pickles,
put the meat in between the buns
and pulled it back, so don't
vote for cows.
how many of us really
been developed by a white sheet
boardroom plan, had our
economics stimulated
cheap whore-like, suckcoming
to food bank lines with broken
backs from fractured tax breaks,
and still we plead to these fuckers:
please break us off some, pray
please Lord deliver us from evil,
but there ain't no heaven cuz
we forgot, oops, we logged that bitch
and siphoned it away.
yeah, lordy lord, deliver us and bedevil
us with crown thorn worship
miracle blood...that's some racket
you're runnin' up there lord...
i'll sell my soul for some stimulation,
the virgin mary don't put out
anyhow, never did.
but them robed pedophiles tell us,
you'll get some stimulation
on your knees.
and taxes duty to the
union, booty loot man and
woman extorted in come tax
what we ain't got, some use
the word dispossessed
like we ever had some shit
to begin with; some of us are
disenfranchised, as if we
all been a golden arches
feed lot of excess but some
fat neck fool stole our pickles,
put the meat in between the buns
and pulled it back, so don't
vote for cows.
how many of us really
been developed by a white sheet
boardroom plan, had our
economics stimulated
cheap whore-like, suckcoming
to food bank lines with broken
backs from fractured tax breaks,
and still we plead to these fuckers:
please break us off some, pray
please Lord deliver us from evil,
but there ain't no heaven cuz
we forgot, oops, we logged that bitch
and siphoned it away.
yeah, lordy lord, deliver us and bedevil
us with crown thorn worship
miracle blood...that's some racket
you're runnin' up there lord...
i'll sell my soul for some stimulation,
the virgin mary don't put out
anyhow, never did.
but them robed pedophiles tell us,
you'll get some stimulation
on your knees.
free-dumb
freedom rings when death brings
change spare in a cup of empty
charity, seasonal shifts down
speed accelerating growth
potential promise of life
eternal, until cup runneth
over and over, lesson repeated
class dismissal, dismal abyss
filled in, substitute teaching
course in flow free, dumb ringing
deaf in ears blind, fears seen in
light of day, come what
may i mother my rebirth
reboot system restore, compute
cannot into can do, candid
camera capture image of self
imposed impersonation, me, peopled
with person habits per sun sign
language translated permutations
of infinite parallel truths, sooth
and say freedom ain't free but
no price to pay per viewpoint from
a prison cell, your soul is for sale
or soars free, what will it be
and how much are you worth
or how much do you cost?
lost wages for lost time for lost
ways when most days we're
really here but where were we?
were we on the way?
we'll get there when we get
here, not on the x-spot
mark my words, it's a circus
ring and we clown pack the cars
for piling out onto the staged show
of your good side face to the sun,
we moon the crowd to
fem-in the masked man selling
cheap waves, good-bye free-dumb,
i don't need you no more
i got sunshine.
change spare in a cup of empty
charity, seasonal shifts down
speed accelerating growth
potential promise of life
eternal, until cup runneth
over and over, lesson repeated
class dismissal, dismal abyss
filled in, substitute teaching
course in flow free, dumb ringing
deaf in ears blind, fears seen in
light of day, come what
may i mother my rebirth
reboot system restore, compute
cannot into can do, candid
camera capture image of self
imposed impersonation, me, peopled
with person habits per sun sign
language translated permutations
of infinite parallel truths, sooth
and say freedom ain't free but
no price to pay per viewpoint from
a prison cell, your soul is for sale
or soars free, what will it be
and how much are you worth
or how much do you cost?
lost wages for lost time for lost
ways when most days we're
really here but where were we?
were we on the way?
we'll get there when we get
here, not on the x-spot
mark my words, it's a circus
ring and we clown pack the cars
for piling out onto the staged show
of your good side face to the sun,
we moon the crowd to
fem-in the masked man selling
cheap waves, good-bye free-dumb,
i don't need you no more
i got sunshine.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
music make
music make me smile and take
frown upside down,,,,really?
really it's real when heart not
quite breaks, little quakes not
quite breaks off, maybe opens, shakes off
shiver frost, or risk: cost of living
so near the edge, really it's child's game:
dare you dare me over this (?) line
in sand shifting, rifting
growing apart. really it's ok,
two letters like spoken spells
omen boding well for future arriving
here in the now now, hear ye hear me
now or never, if ever i existed it was
twixt this or that, otherwise it
wasn't, never wasn't, or is, were
to be making music to song air filled
lifeboats floating to shore: i hear
menstrual muse use music,
melodious minstrel musings and siren
whales frequen-singing memory
chips off the old indigenous block party.
we're all invited, bring a song
sing a sonnet sun bonnet,
we're all bows translating rainlight.
frown upside down,,,,really?
really it's real when heart not
quite breaks, little quakes not
quite breaks off, maybe opens, shakes off
shiver frost, or risk: cost of living
so near the edge, really it's child's game:
dare you dare me over this (?) line
in sand shifting, rifting
growing apart. really it's ok,
two letters like spoken spells
omen boding well for future arriving
here in the now now, hear ye hear me
now or never, if ever i existed it was
twixt this or that, otherwise it
wasn't, never wasn't, or is, were
to be making music to song air filled
lifeboats floating to shore: i hear
menstrual muse use music,
melodious minstrel musings and siren
whales frequen-singing memory
chips off the old indigenous block party.
we're all invited, bring a song
sing a sonnet sun bonnet,
we're all bows translating rainlight.
Friday, January 20, 2012
jesus is love
they said jesus is love.
funny, cuz jesus must be
one sad, lonely and confused
sack-o-shit most of the time.
poor jesus, he must be
broken and unfulfilled,
with a half-assed empty glass
of tears and long nights
at the bottom of a bottle,
stinking like an ashtray.
jesus is probably
a nina simone fan, probably
likes a good juke joint or
a long drawn out sax-trane
wailing like a lost siren.
yeah, jesus probably knew
his cross was coming down
the road, the devil was waiting
there on the corner,
hammer and nails in hand
ready to turn his world
inside out so his guts were
in his throat and his heart
sank into the dirt.
poor old jesus, i feel for him,
i feel like him sometimes,
crucified by trust and cryin
out to heaven, but instead of a
miracle, it just rains and pours,
and next thing you know
you're waking up from being
dead.
now ain't that some shit?
maybe we will find heaven.
funny, cuz jesus must be
one sad, lonely and confused
sack-o-shit most of the time.
poor jesus, he must be
broken and unfulfilled,
with a half-assed empty glass
of tears and long nights
at the bottom of a bottle,
stinking like an ashtray.
jesus is probably
a nina simone fan, probably
likes a good juke joint or
a long drawn out sax-trane
wailing like a lost siren.
yeah, jesus probably knew
his cross was coming down
the road, the devil was waiting
there on the corner,
hammer and nails in hand
ready to turn his world
inside out so his guts were
in his throat and his heart
sank into the dirt.
poor old jesus, i feel for him,
i feel like him sometimes,
crucified by trust and cryin
out to heaven, but instead of a
miracle, it just rains and pours,
and next thing you know
you're waking up from being
dead.
now ain't that some shit?
maybe we will find heaven.
ain't no use
ain't no use.
ain't no use tryin
to flog a horse dead
in broke tracks, hamstrung
crippled smiley face turned
upside down, ain't no
use to doin what ain't needin
done, dead and gone, buried
at home and hosed, ain't
nothin to hold onto but
your integrity, gritty
between your teeth clenched
jawbroken dreams in dreamcathcer
jailed, ain't no use, ain't no
use when truth spilled like beans
roll out on the floor refried,
but ain't no dip for them chips
cashed in, nah, ain't
no use or reuse for abuse of refuse,
junk smack and talk of self-righteous
sugar daddy pills to the brain,
closet bones up and dance
jingling keys to skeleton memory
identity, ain't no use but just try,
deny them demons, let them eat
holes in your arms or savor
the aroma of powdered
reflections, just don't spout
like some Hamlet speech of
unreachable bones and the
redemptive powers of now or later,
just wait and see, ain't no use
lest you seek your self right where
you left it, dress it down
to bones and flesh it out,
preach to your choir, stomp
shout and sing, it ain't no thing,
baby, it ain't no thing.
ain't no use tryin
to flog a horse dead
in broke tracks, hamstrung
crippled smiley face turned
upside down, ain't no
use to doin what ain't needin
done, dead and gone, buried
at home and hosed, ain't
nothin to hold onto but
your integrity, gritty
between your teeth clenched
jawbroken dreams in dreamcathcer
jailed, ain't no use, ain't no
use when truth spilled like beans
roll out on the floor refried,
but ain't no dip for them chips
cashed in, nah, ain't
no use or reuse for abuse of refuse,
junk smack and talk of self-righteous
sugar daddy pills to the brain,
closet bones up and dance
jingling keys to skeleton memory
identity, ain't no use but just try,
deny them demons, let them eat
holes in your arms or savor
the aroma of powdered
reflections, just don't spout
like some Hamlet speech of
unreachable bones and the
redemptive powers of now or later,
just wait and see, ain't no use
lest you seek your self right where
you left it, dress it down
to bones and flesh it out,
preach to your choir, stomp
shout and sing, it ain't no thing,
baby, it ain't no thing.
inspired by what?
autumned leaves on fall
ground like yellow heart
soaked rain,
shed skin for
tears of drip-drop...drop
the pretense bullshit present,
and for now-sake take
stands against winter
backdrop of sky trickling
sandcastles and melt in
melancholy saxophone riffs,
musical wind playing trees
shush the silence loud
'cause sunlight tired in the shade,
can't get up to usual speed
with weight of slave chains
to darkness propelled.
orbital sadness revolve around
mistaken identity
when clouded truth eclipsed by
slow motion moon phase.
take now life boat to ocean,
walk with fisherman's net
to drift catch range of emotion
under currents now in the now now.
comedy study of drama unfolds
dusty script from forgotten manual,
me play-act myself the clown fool
and clap with audience contrived cheer...
that shit busts me up sometimes.
ground like yellow heart
soaked rain,
shed skin for
tears of drip-drop...drop
the pretense bullshit present,
and for now-sake take
stands against winter
backdrop of sky trickling
sandcastles and melt in
melancholy saxophone riffs,
musical wind playing trees
shush the silence loud
'cause sunlight tired in the shade,
can't get up to usual speed
with weight of slave chains
to darkness propelled.
orbital sadness revolve around
mistaken identity
when clouded truth eclipsed by
slow motion moon phase.
take now life boat to ocean,
walk with fisherman's net
to drift catch range of emotion
under currents now in the now now.
comedy study of drama unfolds
dusty script from forgotten manual,
me play-act myself the clown fool
and clap with audience contrived cheer...
that shit busts me up sometimes.
a death wish
for once i wish
for love to never have existed,
for egos and desires,
feverish clutches and
long tears that follow the heart
and its follies;
i wish for the death of wishes.
broken branch, burned hat,
torn umbrella and decimated glass,
lend your story
to the story of every
heart betrayed,
give your wisdom
to the keeping of wise hermits.
let us abandon this passion,
these passing fancies
whereby we are dismayed
by rain and crucified
by sunlight.
never again, but perhaps
this is a lie,
will i look for the rose
that hides its thorns
behind the sculpture
of its figured scent.
no, give me a simple fish,
a commoner's potato,
rusted tool or glass of water,
an honest piece of cloth
and a straightforward pair
of scissors, so i can cut an image
of my heart and stitch it
to my sleeve, so you can see
i am not a wish,
no dream, no ambition,
merely a poem.
maybe you will get the words
in the right order.
for love to never have existed,
for egos and desires,
feverish clutches and
long tears that follow the heart
and its follies;
i wish for the death of wishes.
broken branch, burned hat,
torn umbrella and decimated glass,
lend your story
to the story of every
heart betrayed,
give your wisdom
to the keeping of wise hermits.
let us abandon this passion,
these passing fancies
whereby we are dismayed
by rain and crucified
by sunlight.
never again, but perhaps
this is a lie,
will i look for the rose
that hides its thorns
behind the sculpture
of its figured scent.
no, give me a simple fish,
a commoner's potato,
rusted tool or glass of water,
an honest piece of cloth
and a straightforward pair
of scissors, so i can cut an image
of my heart and stitch it
to my sleeve, so you can see
i am not a wish,
no dream, no ambition,
merely a poem.
maybe you will get the words
in the right order.
Friday, January 6, 2012
figures
it's just like that--
the wind cold gets in
the skin under fire
frozen with moments of
-this-that-n
the other and the other others,
wise on the up down there
so no blind-sided ramifications
crash the door in,
in.
figure it out, so it figures
if figuratively speaking i
speak figures of speech,
it figures, well what can one
expect--the truth? it comes
like pulled teeth sometimes,
just gotta give it up, sad i
know but ain't no jesus buddha
oprah dr. phil for real
can make you real.
change is the catch phrase
for the new age but all i
caught's a flu bug tired
sack of bones, shit the bed
and piss bucket for nightly
fits of no sleep with change afoot,
can't get no flow for tired ass
lazy sunlight to go south
looking for a new day, another
one to replace this broke ass
shit, just like the other one.
yeah, and now like a swarm bees
make a buzz in my head noise
goddamn noise fuzz buzzing
silent silent, the entire fucking
universe silent but i ain't
been there to see myself,
only got pockets for the stuff
into stuff trick, see it now don't
you take your eyes off these hands.
those blind-sided ramifications
are a motherfucker, kickin down
the door, now who's gonna pay for it?
i mean, besides me?
the wind cold gets in
the skin under fire
frozen with moments of
-this-that-n
the other and the other others,
wise on the up down there
so no blind-sided ramifications
crash the door in,
in.
figure it out, so it figures
if figuratively speaking i
speak figures of speech,
it figures, well what can one
expect--the truth? it comes
like pulled teeth sometimes,
just gotta give it up, sad i
know but ain't no jesus buddha
oprah dr. phil for real
can make you real.
change is the catch phrase
for the new age but all i
caught's a flu bug tired
sack of bones, shit the bed
and piss bucket for nightly
fits of no sleep with change afoot,
can't get no flow for tired ass
lazy sunlight to go south
looking for a new day, another
one to replace this broke ass
shit, just like the other one.
yeah, and now like a swarm bees
make a buzz in my head noise
goddamn noise fuzz buzzing
silent silent, the entire fucking
universe silent but i ain't
been there to see myself,
only got pockets for the stuff
into stuff trick, see it now don't
you take your eyes off these hands.
those blind-sided ramifications
are a motherfucker, kickin down
the door, now who's gonna pay for it?
i mean, besides me?
Life, Is
Life
Is twisted
Ropes
Frayed knots
Chafing
Glove skin
Hands
Blistered
Like rawhide
Deserts
Life
Is broken
Pallets
Frozen hoses
Chains
Rusted and
Cheap
Tricks, magic
Mistakes
Gambled
Stakes
Too high
For you
To smoke
Anymore
To come
Down
Life
Is masked
Villages
Unholy
Pilgrimage
Unknown neighbors
And parables
When spite
Your face
So nose
Cuts off
Truth smells
Rotten like
Lies
Life
Is delayed
Paychecks
Debt ridden
Depression
Bed ridden
Problems
Drinking problems
Hangover
The edge
Bottles
At the end
Empty
Like sleepless
Dreams
Life
Is salty
Blood
Tearful
Streams
Falling, just
Falling
In love
Holes
To disappear
Into
Tasting dregs
Bottom
Feeding
Life
Bleeding
Life
Ain’t shit
If shoe
On foot is
Other than
Left, right
Left right
In the way
To step
In it
Shit
To stick to
Your tread
Path going
In circles
Coming round
To what? Goes
Around
Is twisted
Ropes
Frayed knots
Chafing
Glove skin
Hands
Blistered
Like rawhide
Deserts
Life
Is broken
Pallets
Frozen hoses
Chains
Rusted and
Cheap
Tricks, magic
Mistakes
Gambled
Stakes
Too high
For you
To smoke
Anymore
To come
Down
Life
Is masked
Villages
Unholy
Pilgrimage
Unknown neighbors
And parables
When spite
Your face
So nose
Cuts off
Truth smells
Rotten like
Lies
Life
Is delayed
Paychecks
Debt ridden
Depression
Bed ridden
Problems
Drinking problems
Hangover
The edge
Bottles
At the end
Empty
Like sleepless
Dreams
Life
Is salty
Blood
Tearful
Streams
Falling, just
Falling
In love
Holes
To disappear
Into
Tasting dregs
Bottom
Feeding
Life
Bleeding
Life
Ain’t shit
If shoe
On foot is
Other than
Left, right
Left right
In the way
To step
In it
Shit
To stick to
Your tread
Path going
In circles
Coming round
To what? Goes
Around
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