Rough shards wave the shore,
she pounds a fist on the ground
and thinks of how things were.
Run to the wash of salt water,
soaking tiny feet, too scared
to trample further.
The waves swallowed her whole.
The night white ran
against silver as the moon contests
against foam. Clams sucked
away in the current
gazed at her with fear.
Water drowns their sediment holes
every time without a tear.
With homes so distant,
easily destroyed,
how could anyone stay long?
She sought to plant them in the dunes
where sunsets dye the air pink
and dark never truly comes.
She wouldn’t be back,
life dies in its days of midnight fear.
As she wades the deserted sand-moore,
she spies none of the dreams
she spied before.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Draft 3: Writing in the Sky
Space is calligraphic
in the clouds that you draw
on the ground while writing
lines in the sky.
White puffs fill with empty
empty white.
Inside cosmic planes your pens dance
around hollow raindrops
waiting to take on your form,
demanding to take on that form
of clouds turning black with ink
from your veins,
you skin dark with glittering stars
and quills set in ink wells
to wait for your day and night,
for a cloud clear slate to prance past,
loose the empty space.
Drip, drip, drip, the page bleeds
your pitch.
It can't hold all the calligraphy
of silent days that ebb
until the page runs dry.
in the clouds that you draw
on the ground while writing
lines in the sky.
White puffs fill with empty
empty white.
Inside cosmic planes your pens dance
around hollow raindrops
waiting to take on your form,
demanding to take on that form
of clouds turning black with ink
from your veins,
you skin dark with glittering stars
and quills set in ink wells
to wait for your day and night,
for a cloud clear slate to prance past,
loose the empty space.
Drip, drip, drip, the page bleeds
your pitch.
It can't hold all the calligraphy
of silent days that ebb
until the page runs dry.
Draft 2: Waiting for Mom to Come Out of the Store
We lay out under the roof,
like some great camping trip.
She's been in there for hours,
or maybe only days.
Seems like forever,
but that is a trivial time phrase.
My brother took my menu
from the chinese restaurant
next to Kroger and folded
it into a paper airplane
that won't fly because the wing
is lopped off on the side.
My seat won't lean back like his does
so I stretch out on the 3 person sofa
lounging on retractable arm-rests.
I don't like looking at the red,
so I look at the sky.
On the radio, some half-drunk stripper
sings her record hit no doubt
still in her street walker garb.
She sings of peace and harmony,
love and nirvana.
When was the last time you saw
those elements in happy juncture
together, unless you were smoking pot
with the Buddhist monks in the picture
at the chinese restaurant.
Nothing makes sense when you smoke pot,
that's why you do it.
Just like me sitting in this big red van
in the Kroger parking lot with
paper menu airplanes flying
half-heartedly above my leaking head.
like some great camping trip.
She's been in there for hours,
or maybe only days.
Seems like forever,
but that is a trivial time phrase.
My brother took my menu
from the chinese restaurant
next to Kroger and folded
it into a paper airplane
that won't fly because the wing
is lopped off on the side.
My seat won't lean back like his does
so I stretch out on the 3 person sofa
lounging on retractable arm-rests.
I don't like looking at the red,
so I look at the sky.
On the radio, some half-drunk stripper
sings her record hit no doubt
still in her street walker garb.
She sings of peace and harmony,
love and nirvana.
When was the last time you saw
those elements in happy juncture
together, unless you were smoking pot
with the Buddhist monks in the picture
at the chinese restaurant.
Nothing makes sense when you smoke pot,
that's why you do it.
Just like me sitting in this big red van
in the Kroger parking lot with
paper menu airplanes flying
half-heartedly above my leaking head.
Draft 1: Nothing
All the children and slaves demand your speed
and praise this man, Grandpa Fatso, you god
who covers upstate New York. My fellow Americans
will get your busy blizzards conjured from some cauldron.
And the poor, poor parents: do they care about your heart,
which is worthless anyways? You spirit girls away in the dark
and pollute with money, lazy in your pain. You don't invent pain.
Sorry to dash your hopes against some holy-mantled mountain
but there is the truth o great great lover. Go ahead. Cry.
Your liver will bleed through your right eye.
After all the prospected trillions of years,
and greased black maniacal engine gears
singing the same old savage dung song
the world still chugs freakishly straight along.
and praise this man, Grandpa Fatso, you god
who covers upstate New York. My fellow Americans
will get your busy blizzards conjured from some cauldron.
And the poor, poor parents: do they care about your heart,
which is worthless anyways? You spirit girls away in the dark
and pollute with money, lazy in your pain. You don't invent pain.
Sorry to dash your hopes against some holy-mantled mountain
but there is the truth o great great lover. Go ahead. Cry.
Your liver will bleed through your right eye.
After all the prospected trillions of years,
and greased black maniacal engine gears
singing the same old savage dung song
the world still chugs freakishly straight along.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
20 Junkyard Quotes
1)Burning through water
2)The list of things we know we don't know keeps growing.
3)She sounds like a chipmunk singing backwards in French
4)If cows are holy, then does that mean their milk is holy water?
5)When did humanity decide it was evolved enough to tell gravity it sucks?
6)If all humanity turns into zombies, what will we eat when the humans are all gone?
7)It sounded like you just threw up a thesaurus on me.
8)A group of church ladies discussing the difference between zombies and vampires is disturbing and exciting at the same time.
9)How do you not make hell sound scary?
10)You can't have perfect male characters. That's like making a Mr. Elsie Dinsmore.
11)Don't stop, I like making fun of stupid things.
12)If you use one more acronym you will certifiably be speaking another language.
13)Teens don't need English, they have lol.
14)The dark side can't have cookies, because there is no way Darth Vader can bake.
15)Don't ask me, that is how conspiracy starts.
16)I wanted to hack the FBI for fun, but then I realized I would be arrested for the rest of my life.
17)Dancing and nerds don't go well together.
18)I hate spiders, but they eat mosquitoes, so I guess they are okay.
19)Teach by example once, so you never have to do it again.
20)Being in charge is like having a "Kick me" sign on your back except instead of kicking you, people just kill you.
2)The list of things we know we don't know keeps growing.
3)She sounds like a chipmunk singing backwards in French
4)If cows are holy, then does that mean their milk is holy water?
5)When did humanity decide it was evolved enough to tell gravity it sucks?
6)If all humanity turns into zombies, what will we eat when the humans are all gone?
7)It sounded like you just threw up a thesaurus on me.
8)A group of church ladies discussing the difference between zombies and vampires is disturbing and exciting at the same time.
9)How do you not make hell sound scary?
10)You can't have perfect male characters. That's like making a Mr. Elsie Dinsmore.
11)Don't stop, I like making fun of stupid things.
12)If you use one more acronym you will certifiably be speaking another language.
13)Teens don't need English, they have lol.
14)The dark side can't have cookies, because there is no way Darth Vader can bake.
15)Don't ask me, that is how conspiracy starts.
16)I wanted to hack the FBI for fun, but then I realized I would be arrested for the rest of my life.
17)Dancing and nerds don't go well together.
18)I hate spiders, but they eat mosquitoes, so I guess they are okay.
19)Teach by example once, so you never have to do it again.
20)Being in charge is like having a "Kick me" sign on your back except instead of kicking you, people just kill you.
My Tin Plate
Tin plate's violet enamel veins in cracks,
and bits of straw spin in a puddle on its wall.
They spin and spin like a merry-go-round
at the fairgrounds.
Tin plate's beating sound
as rain crashes along its face
and into the ground.
The straw spins and spins around
like the tornado that tore the haunted house apart.
The fair is never whole now.
Tin plates ding in the fortune tellers hole-in-the-wall.
Read my palm or the fortune ball,
or perhaps my tin plate
lined with violet enamel
that turns colors in your magic hands.
Red for passion, black for pain,
blue for joy, and yellow
for rain rain rain,
that beats forever on my tin plate.
and bits of straw spin in a puddle on its wall.
They spin and spin like a merry-go-round
at the fairgrounds.
Tin plate's beating sound
as rain crashes along its face
and into the ground.
The straw spins and spins around
like the tornado that tore the haunted house apart.
The fair is never whole now.
Tin plates ding in the fortune tellers hole-in-the-wall.
Read my palm or the fortune ball,
or perhaps my tin plate
lined with violet enamel
that turns colors in your magic hands.
Red for passion, black for pain,
blue for joy, and yellow
for rain rain rain,
that beats forever on my tin plate.
Killed Slowly
Even the sigh of not knowing would have us go on,
the weary quietude that falls to hypnotize the great symphonic wheel.
They would have us press through the wild,
not understanding or knowing the cause.
Just support their dreams and let ourselves fall.
We are tired of running and looking behind,
led like puppets to circle, similar to a repeating song.
If you want us dead, you're doing it right.
Leading us on through soil and lies,
against the dust of earth that says
we should be laying frightened in our beds.
Don't tell me there is nothing wrong,
just tell me you want us gone.
the weary quietude that falls to hypnotize the great symphonic wheel.
They would have us press through the wild,
not understanding or knowing the cause.
Just support their dreams and let ourselves fall.
We are tired of running and looking behind,
led like puppets to circle, similar to a repeating song.
If you want us dead, you're doing it right.
Leading us on through soil and lies,
against the dust of earth that says
we should be laying frightened in our beds.
Don't tell me there is nothing wrong,
just tell me you want us gone.
Color Blind
Heart became eyelid of an eye on its way to where I am,
where I am, half drowned in the sea
of blue rimmed spectacles and red interstate rings.
My organs torqued with green and brown cringe as they are tossed around,
around to the worlds tether ball that beats left then right then right some more.
I think I see the other colors like black and grey in my head,
but inside the colors are red,
red like the moon on a night uncanny and strange,
but blue moons never come any day.
My heart beats, but it doesn't live. I beat, but I don't live either.
My eyes see, but I am color blind in my head.
where I am, half drowned in the sea
of blue rimmed spectacles and red interstate rings.
My organs torqued with green and brown cringe as they are tossed around,
around to the worlds tether ball that beats left then right then right some more.
I think I see the other colors like black and grey in my head,
but inside the colors are red,
red like the moon on a night uncanny and strange,
but blue moons never come any day.
My heart beats, but it doesn't live. I beat, but I don't live either.
My eyes see, but I am color blind in my head.
Dress-Up
Two little girls play dress up in my room.
They pick up my clothes and my shoes.
They hum gaily as they pull out pearls
from my jewel box and array their knotted hair
with diamond bands. Bracelets slip over their hands
and rings fall from their thumbs as they smear tuberose cream
on their little palms and faces.
Then they find the make-up
and begin to color their soft, sweet skin
the color of bruises and seductive innocence.
Lips turn red like Snow White and cheeks go pink
like the hues of autumn roads.
Then they prance out of the bathroom
in heels too big for their miniature feet,
and hats to large for tiny heads.
But still they think they are beautiful
and ready for their life ahead.
One day when those clothes fit better,
and the heels work right,
they will prance out of the house to their runway
instead of my hall of lights.
They pick up my clothes and my shoes.
They hum gaily as they pull out pearls
from my jewel box and array their knotted hair
with diamond bands. Bracelets slip over their hands
and rings fall from their thumbs as they smear tuberose cream
on their little palms and faces.
Then they find the make-up
and begin to color their soft, sweet skin
the color of bruises and seductive innocence.
Lips turn red like Snow White and cheeks go pink
like the hues of autumn roads.
Then they prance out of the bathroom
in heels too big for their miniature feet,
and hats to large for tiny heads.
But still they think they are beautiful
and ready for their life ahead.
One day when those clothes fit better,
and the heels work right,
they will prance out of the house to their runway
instead of my hall of lights.
Normal Tones
When I was young,
I crawled in her lap
and listened to her sing.
The sound of her voice
carried me to a distant sea,
where waves tossed gently
and my boat was her rocking
chair, and I heard the sound
of seagulls flying in the air.
I think I was dreaming,
because she was never there.
When I sailed this ocean,
she never saw me there,
among the clouds
and the birds
and the distant shore.
Her music still rang,
but her body never came
to carry me back home.
I think it was her way
of protecting me
from the noise of normal tones.
I crawled in her lap
and listened to her sing.
The sound of her voice
carried me to a distant sea,
where waves tossed gently
and my boat was her rocking
chair, and I heard the sound
of seagulls flying in the air.
I think I was dreaming,
because she was never there.
When I sailed this ocean,
she never saw me there,
among the clouds
and the birds
and the distant shore.
Her music still rang,
but her body never came
to carry me back home.
I think it was her way
of protecting me
from the noise of normal tones.
Six Children in a Bed
I came upon six children laying in a bed,
the little one on the end and the biggest at the head.
When I asked the eldest where his father was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the big one rolled down onto the floor
where he shattered into a million bones of men.
Then I asked the next one where his mother was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the next one rolled over and fell to the floor
where he met with another man and a bed.
Then I asked the third one why they were all in one bed,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the third one rolled over and splashed on the floor
as a million golden pieces.
I asked the fourth one, why they were all so young,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fourth one also rolled, and when he landed,
he turned into the sun.
Then I asked the fifth one and asked him
where the others had gone,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fifth one rolled off and before I could catch him,
he fell to the ground dead.
I looked at the little one and saw in his eyes
a maddening red.
He looked at me happily and gnashed his teeth
then said, "Won't you ask me a question?"
I shook my head and said, "I fear if I do, then you too,
would roll off the bed."
He laughed with wicked glee and said, "Yes, I would.
But don't you think that is the need?" I
shook my head again and said,
"No one should ever need to die."
He yelled at me wildly, "But we do, we do, we all have need to die."
"Then go find yourself some other executioner,
I have no more stomach for your schemes."
He rammed his head against the bed post until it bled,
"But you are the only one. After all, you created me."
the little one on the end and the biggest at the head.
When I asked the eldest where his father was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the big one rolled down onto the floor
where he shattered into a million bones of men.
Then I asked the next one where his mother was,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the next one rolled over and fell to the floor
where he met with another man and a bed.
Then I asked the third one why they were all in one bed,
the little one said, "Roll over."
So the third one rolled over and splashed on the floor
as a million golden pieces.
I asked the fourth one, why they were all so young,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fourth one also rolled, and when he landed,
he turned into the sun.
Then I asked the fifth one and asked him
where the others had gone,
and the little one said, "Roll over."
So the fifth one rolled off and before I could catch him,
he fell to the ground dead.
I looked at the little one and saw in his eyes
a maddening red.
He looked at me happily and gnashed his teeth
then said, "Won't you ask me a question?"
I shook my head and said, "I fear if I do, then you too,
would roll off the bed."
He laughed with wicked glee and said, "Yes, I would.
But don't you think that is the need?" I
shook my head again and said,
"No one should ever need to die."
He yelled at me wildly, "But we do, we do, we all have need to die."
"Then go find yourself some other executioner,
I have no more stomach for your schemes."
He rammed his head against the bed post until it bled,
"But you are the only one. After all, you created me."
The Meaning of Life
I peered down a man's throat
and saw the world before me.
He lungs held Africa,
and his stomach was Asia,
China the largest piece of fat.
His heart was America
and Europe was his wind pipe.
Australia sat on his Pancrease
and South America on his liver.
But the most startling sight was himself,
sitting on top of his kidney.
I asked him how he got down there,
and he answered me,
"I was looking
for meaning in life
inside of me."
Did he find it, I asked.
"What do you think?"
and saw the world before me.
He lungs held Africa,
and his stomach was Asia,
China the largest piece of fat.
His heart was America
and Europe was his wind pipe.
Australia sat on his Pancrease
and South America on his liver.
But the most startling sight was himself,
sitting on top of his kidney.
I asked him how he got down there,
and he answered me,
"I was looking
for meaning in life
inside of me."
Did he find it, I asked.
"What do you think?"
Ravens
Ravens line up in a row,
standing on the clothes and bodies of the dying.
They aren't hungry, and they aren't scavengers.
They simply want a life.
They hope to steal
what remains of the men here
to take as their own
to salvage their hearts.
These men can't use them anyway.
In acts of mercy,
the ravens steal broken pieces
to call in the eternal,
whatever that means for the buried birds.
They take what remains
and hope for more strife.
standing on the clothes and bodies of the dying.
They aren't hungry, and they aren't scavengers.
They simply want a life.
They hope to steal
what remains of the men here
to take as their own
to salvage their hearts.
These men can't use them anyway.
In acts of mercy,
the ravens steal broken pieces
to call in the eternal,
whatever that means for the buried birds.
They take what remains
and hope for more strife.
Birds and Fish
I watched my mother
write a letter to the man
she called her lover.
I didn't know much,
I never saw him.
She said he worked hard,
that he was very busy.
But the wind comes and goes,
it never changes and always w
hips your hair the same way.
Change won't come from a piece of paper.
The wind won't carry it that far anyways.
No matter how many lovestruck words
you pour out to you lover,
I doubt he cares.
Like a rose being asked by a dandelion
to stoop to it's own level and become one new flower.
You could be great together you try to say,
but does a dandelion match a rose?
Not even if its petals are littered on the ground
do they remotely ring the same.
Birds and fish, so just drop it already.
write a letter to the man
she called her lover.
I didn't know much,
I never saw him.
She said he worked hard,
that he was very busy.
But the wind comes and goes,
it never changes and always w
hips your hair the same way.
Change won't come from a piece of paper.
The wind won't carry it that far anyways.
No matter how many lovestruck words
you pour out to you lover,
I doubt he cares.
Like a rose being asked by a dandelion
to stoop to it's own level and become one new flower.
You could be great together you try to say,
but does a dandelion match a rose?
Not even if its petals are littered on the ground
do they remotely ring the same.
Birds and fish, so just drop it already.
Casino Cards
The game was spades,
I saw it coming every time,
sitting at the counter,
between players 1 and 4,
the perfect angle to see both hands,
and the mirror behind player 2.
One of them was cheating,
using an identical deck.
He had it down to a science,
switching the cards with the flick of his hand.
The Ace of Spades was his continual land.
It was only a matter of time
until he got caught by one of the players.
You have to count the cards carefully,
or else you will forget what was played.
I crossed my legs and leaned back, waiting
against the bar, barely knocking my brandy glass to the side,
for someone to notice the flip on the dime.
The pile on number 2's side of the table dwindled
as they upped the ante each hand.
He was too drunk to notice the reoccurring cards,
and I am pretty sure player 3 was paying the blonde
on 4's arm to keep him looking more at her chest
than his deck of cards. The poor fools were done for,
and the next group of drunks were up
for a similar beating.
The glass of beer and wine
in front of 1 and 3 were untouched.
Proof of the scam.
I shake my head
and walk away,
thanking the bar tender
for the lovely game.
I saw it coming every time,
sitting at the counter,
between players 1 and 4,
the perfect angle to see both hands,
and the mirror behind player 2.
One of them was cheating,
using an identical deck.
He had it down to a science,
switching the cards with the flick of his hand.
The Ace of Spades was his continual land.
It was only a matter of time
until he got caught by one of the players.
You have to count the cards carefully,
or else you will forget what was played.
I crossed my legs and leaned back, waiting
against the bar, barely knocking my brandy glass to the side,
for someone to notice the flip on the dime.
The pile on number 2's side of the table dwindled
as they upped the ante each hand.
He was too drunk to notice the reoccurring cards,
and I am pretty sure player 3 was paying the blonde
on 4's arm to keep him looking more at her chest
than his deck of cards. The poor fools were done for,
and the next group of drunks were up
for a similar beating.
The glass of beer and wine
in front of 1 and 3 were untouched.
Proof of the scam.
I shake my head
and walk away,
thanking the bar tender
for the lovely game.
Justice on Bail
Where is mom, kid? they asked me.
I don't know, and that is the truth.
She ran out on me years ago,
so I killed her. Really, I don't know.
Is she in heaven or hell?
No clue, seeing as how I'm not the judge, in any case.
Why did you steal the car, kid? the one on the left inquired.
Don't you get it, skinny little excuse for a doughnut eating cop?
I did it for the rush.
I could care less about the money
I'll get from it the second I con out of here.
I like the feeling of leather seats,
a V8 or better purring beneath my feet,
and the clutch of a steering wheel firmly in my grasp.
In that kind of relationship,
I drive where I want to,
do what I want to,
and the transmission happily complies.
Did I know I would get in trouble? the other on the right says surprised.
No, fat moron with a desire to look like Chuck Norris,
I really thought it would be fine.
Actually that wasn't sarcasm.
I've done it plenty of times before,
but you'll never know because I'll never tell. I
like that rule, innocent until proven guilty.
It has saved me many times before.
Stop asking me questions I will never answer truthfully,
they are wasted words,
and everyone knows it is a crime to waste words.
Just clap me in the cuffs and let me wait
with the other miscreants and street walkers
for my friend to come get me.
He will tell you I'm a troubled girl,
escaped from a nearby asylum,
which isn't far from the truth,
and then we will go cruising down the highway
in the stolen car, my freedom paid for with the money
I got from selling it to him. Justice is sweet.
I don't know, and that is the truth.
She ran out on me years ago,
so I killed her. Really, I don't know.
Is she in heaven or hell?
No clue, seeing as how I'm not the judge, in any case.
Why did you steal the car, kid? the one on the left inquired.
Don't you get it, skinny little excuse for a doughnut eating cop?
I did it for the rush.
I could care less about the money
I'll get from it the second I con out of here.
I like the feeling of leather seats,
a V8 or better purring beneath my feet,
and the clutch of a steering wheel firmly in my grasp.
In that kind of relationship,
I drive where I want to,
do what I want to,
and the transmission happily complies.
Did I know I would get in trouble? the other on the right says surprised.
No, fat moron with a desire to look like Chuck Norris,
I really thought it would be fine.
Actually that wasn't sarcasm.
I've done it plenty of times before,
but you'll never know because I'll never tell. I
like that rule, innocent until proven guilty.
It has saved me many times before.
Stop asking me questions I will never answer truthfully,
they are wasted words,
and everyone knows it is a crime to waste words.
Just clap me in the cuffs and let me wait
with the other miscreants and street walkers
for my friend to come get me.
He will tell you I'm a troubled girl,
escaped from a nearby asylum,
which isn't far from the truth,
and then we will go cruising down the highway
in the stolen car, my freedom paid for with the money
I got from selling it to him. Justice is sweet.
It's Coming to Get Me
I walked under the branches of my favorite tree,
an oak with spacious coverings and leaves that rose
from every possible angle. I used to sit there
when I was a little kid and scribble in my notebook
some picture of a squirrel running from Mr. Squiggles,
Amy's cat. She always thought the tabby was somehow disfigured
because of his striped fur coat.
But, now, as I stand under the branches,
I don't see Mr. Squiggles, or Amy,
just the squirrel, already old and tired of searching
for nuts under the trees. He doesn't run anymore,
just chatters with his fellow fuzzy-tailed rodents
and yells at them for making such an old geezer come out and work.
He complains to them that when he was a young squirrel,
the old squirrels never did anything and he always thought
they were the laziest beings on creation.
But they just laugh at him and agree that they were,
so the situation had to be remedied.
I might have agreed with them once, but in the old squirrel,
tired from outrunning Squiggles so much,
I realize it's coming for me too.
an oak with spacious coverings and leaves that rose
from every possible angle. I used to sit there
when I was a little kid and scribble in my notebook
some picture of a squirrel running from Mr. Squiggles,
Amy's cat. She always thought the tabby was somehow disfigured
because of his striped fur coat.
But, now, as I stand under the branches,
I don't see Mr. Squiggles, or Amy,
just the squirrel, already old and tired of searching
for nuts under the trees. He doesn't run anymore,
just chatters with his fellow fuzzy-tailed rodents
and yells at them for making such an old geezer come out and work.
He complains to them that when he was a young squirrel,
the old squirrels never did anything and he always thought
they were the laziest beings on creation.
But they just laugh at him and agree that they were,
so the situation had to be remedied.
I might have agreed with them once, but in the old squirrel,
tired from outrunning Squiggles so much,
I realize it's coming for me too.
More "Evolved" Race
I've often thought that my cat was trying to kill me.
After all, they never do anything for you,
but they always demand so much in return.
Sure they rub against your leg,
but that is only because they are mad.
They use the litter box five times a day,
not because they have to, but because they want
to watch you to clean it for them and
enjoy the look of your face as you scrunch
your nose and curse life and everything that is sane.
They are evil genius you see, but they still can't speak.
But, no one said they have to.
For con artists, all you require is a cute face and a purr
as sweet as crickets humming in the evening around a pond.
Immediately a metal heart melts into impure lava
with flecks of mortality kicking in.
Cats are immortal, I am convinced,
and they want nothing more than to amuse themselves
with the petty lives of humans who inherently believe
they are smarter than all the rest of creation.
After all, they never do anything for you,
but they always demand so much in return.
Sure they rub against your leg,
but that is only because they are mad.
They use the litter box five times a day,
not because they have to, but because they want
to watch you to clean it for them and
enjoy the look of your face as you scrunch
your nose and curse life and everything that is sane.
They are evil genius you see, but they still can't speak.
But, no one said they have to.
For con artists, all you require is a cute face and a purr
as sweet as crickets humming in the evening around a pond.
Immediately a metal heart melts into impure lava
with flecks of mortality kicking in.
Cats are immortal, I am convinced,
and they want nothing more than to amuse themselves
with the petty lives of humans who inherently believe
they are smarter than all the rest of creation.
Progress
Silver lining mounts jade hills where iron boulders and crumbling face stand alone.
Here at the foot of the sea, next to the throne of Poseidon, I bow my head
to stare at the angry white foam that rises and falls after hurling itself
against impenetrable walls. The Greek warriors fought the impervious and prevailed,
but in real war, where things are not always in the hands of men, white warriors
who pounded since the world began still have not won their unending war.
The sky is at peace, the hills will always stay,
and steel stone will never break until thrown.
But the waves will always fight and the wall face will always stand in tone,
never shifted, never dying, never cracking even once.
Only crumbles fall from the rocks in small measure every age or so,
but progress is often just this slow.
Here at the foot of the sea, next to the throne of Poseidon, I bow my head
to stare at the angry white foam that rises and falls after hurling itself
against impenetrable walls. The Greek warriors fought the impervious and prevailed,
but in real war, where things are not always in the hands of men, white warriors
who pounded since the world began still have not won their unending war.
The sky is at peace, the hills will always stay,
and steel stone will never break until thrown.
But the waves will always fight and the wall face will always stand in tone,
never shifted, never dying, never cracking even once.
Only crumbles fall from the rocks in small measure every age or so,
but progress is often just this slow.
Firefly Flowers
Flower petals fall from my embers
into the midnight lake of heaven,
where the cruel stars choke
their light 'til only ashes remain.
Flower petals that turn to feathers,
floating in the winter breeze,
carried along not on wings,
but violet streams of butterfly bodies,
strung together in an endless sea.
In the seasons of spring and time
the hours trickle by in the number of drops
let out from a sieve as mindless men
search for gold in the hills.
But my flower petals rise
from my fire's tongue and
lap at the lake above.
into the midnight lake of heaven,
where the cruel stars choke
their light 'til only ashes remain.
Flower petals that turn to feathers,
floating in the winter breeze,
carried along not on wings,
but violet streams of butterfly bodies,
strung together in an endless sea.
In the seasons of spring and time
the hours trickle by in the number of drops
let out from a sieve as mindless men
search for gold in the hills.
But my flower petals rise
from my fire's tongue and
lap at the lake above.
'Til Death Do Us Part
Would it kill you, just once,
would it take all of your power
to put your dishes in the dishwasher,
not the sink?
Obviously the machine is ready to receive them,
to why not spare me the ten thousand stoops
to place your endless stream of dirty dishes,
used once for a sip of water that you didn't even drink
all the way, in the slave machine.
And would it endanger your life or strain your manly strength
just beyond the point of aid to take your shoes off at the door?
They are covered in mud that you tramp across my freshly mopped floor.
I even used the Pinesol to erase the smell of yesterday's lavatory explosion.
Now look at the tracks you left behind,
dirty boot prints that smell of grease and gasoline.
How about next time you scrub the floor
and I trample on it with my army of rhinos to completely destroy
your hopes and dreams of a job completely done?
And for heaven's sake, please,
even if it takes your last ounce of willpower and pride,
stop throwing your dirty laundry in my face,
on my freshly cleared washroom floor.
You only wore those pants for five minutes
to go get some cigarettes from the gas station at 34,
so why are you telling me they are dirty?
Oh, I forgot, your manly grime.
You just want me to wash them so you can defile them one more time.
That's beer I smell on your shirt no doubt,
but I won't say a word about it,
seeing as how you wouldn't care.
Perhaps one of these days,
I will purposely break my own back
so that you have to hire a maid and all your money
would be sucked up into the endless dishes,
dirty floors, and clothes that she would have to wash.
Just because I am your wife doesn't mean I'm free slave-labor.
I said I would love and cherish you, care for you and submit to you
until death do us part, but this wasn't part of the job description.
Perhaps it is time death did us part.
would it take all of your power
to put your dishes in the dishwasher,
not the sink?
Obviously the machine is ready to receive them,
to why not spare me the ten thousand stoops
to place your endless stream of dirty dishes,
used once for a sip of water that you didn't even drink
all the way, in the slave machine.
And would it endanger your life or strain your manly strength
just beyond the point of aid to take your shoes off at the door?
They are covered in mud that you tramp across my freshly mopped floor.
I even used the Pinesol to erase the smell of yesterday's lavatory explosion.
Now look at the tracks you left behind,
dirty boot prints that smell of grease and gasoline.
How about next time you scrub the floor
and I trample on it with my army of rhinos to completely destroy
your hopes and dreams of a job completely done?
And for heaven's sake, please,
even if it takes your last ounce of willpower and pride,
stop throwing your dirty laundry in my face,
on my freshly cleared washroom floor.
You only wore those pants for five minutes
to go get some cigarettes from the gas station at 34,
so why are you telling me they are dirty?
Oh, I forgot, your manly grime.
You just want me to wash them so you can defile them one more time.
That's beer I smell on your shirt no doubt,
but I won't say a word about it,
seeing as how you wouldn't care.
Perhaps one of these days,
I will purposely break my own back
so that you have to hire a maid and all your money
would be sucked up into the endless dishes,
dirty floors, and clothes that she would have to wash.
Just because I am your wife doesn't mean I'm free slave-labor.
I said I would love and cherish you, care for you and submit to you
until death do us part, but this wasn't part of the job description.
Perhaps it is time death did us part.
Summer Goes By
Hot summer days pass so fast,
when you are making fun with tires and grass.
Play a blade of grass like a flute in the meadow,
and watch the bugs come crawling in lines to hear you.
They applaud for your spectacle and ask for an encore.
Then make a tire roll along the ground though it has no car to push it.
You become the car and the engine and the transmission that push it.
So run as fast as you can or it will run away from you
and fall down again. Dream you are racing along a dirt road
with friendly rivals to win a golden trophy at the end of the finish line.
Then summer days go by too fast.
when you are making fun with tires and grass.
Play a blade of grass like a flute in the meadow,
and watch the bugs come crawling in lines to hear you.
They applaud for your spectacle and ask for an encore.
Then make a tire roll along the ground though it has no car to push it.
You become the car and the engine and the transmission that push it.
So run as fast as you can or it will run away from you
and fall down again. Dream you are racing along a dirt road
with friendly rivals to win a golden trophy at the end of the finish line.
Then summer days go by too fast.
Geppetto's Toyshop
A hunched old man whittles at wood with a dull knife
that is obviously too small for his large, work-worn hands.
The block of wood is smooth, well-finished, but unplanned.
Behind the counter, the shavings fall,
with bits of power and resolve in every curling ball.
Greying wood, once black and ripe,
now rots in the sun outside,
and the lack of life inside.
Chocolates five years old sit in boxes on the counter,
not on display, but still for sale.
Mice squeak in the back corner of the room where little plush dolls,
sewn with a tight stitch and stuffed with feathers
and dirt stare back at the old man with black button eyes and gruesome smiles,
forever fixed in that one position.
He doesn't care though.
His project is almost complete, and it is amazing to see,
that even though the knife was not fit, the block was so big,
and his hands to frail, and little soldier boy stands,
painted and finished grandly on the counter,
looking to the old man as Pinocchio to his father,
and the old man stares back as Geppetto without a fairy
to bring him back to life.
that is obviously too small for his large, work-worn hands.
The block of wood is smooth, well-finished, but unplanned.
Behind the counter, the shavings fall,
with bits of power and resolve in every curling ball.
Greying wood, once black and ripe,
now rots in the sun outside,
and the lack of life inside.
Chocolates five years old sit in boxes on the counter,
not on display, but still for sale.
Mice squeak in the back corner of the room where little plush dolls,
sewn with a tight stitch and stuffed with feathers
and dirt stare back at the old man with black button eyes and gruesome smiles,
forever fixed in that one position.
He doesn't care though.
His project is almost complete, and it is amazing to see,
that even though the knife was not fit, the block was so big,
and his hands to frail, and little soldier boy stands,
painted and finished grandly on the counter,
looking to the old man as Pinocchio to his father,
and the old man stares back as Geppetto without a fairy
to bring him back to life.
Imagination
Many frantic cruelties occur to the flesh of the imagination
And the imagination does have flesh to destroy
And the flesh has imagination to sever.It can burn at the steak like a withc of old,
or feel the sting of the lash like the slaves
who poured their life into the great buildings
of great men, too small to work miracles on their own.
The imagination isn't limited by pain, but is affected by it.
It isn't destroyed because of heat or branding,
but it is forever implanted with the reminder of a crested soul
that sought to choke it out for constant pleasure
and torture all that is good and whole.
Colors and Hues
In a field of wildflowers of every
color, shape, size,
it is hard to notice the beauty of even one.
When grouped together in a mass of color,
the mosaic blots out the individual hue.
The daisy might be white, or red, or blue,
but I will never notice until I stop and look.
When laying in a field of wildflowers,
it is very easy to see that one little raindrop,
still clinging for life to the leaf.
One droplet of water that strayed
too far to the left or right in its gravity drop,
and lingers on the petal of a pink Gerbera Daisy
as it gently bows under the weight
of a thousand more.
In a field of wildflowers,
one must take time to notice
the little things or else
they just become colors and hues.
color, shape, size,
it is hard to notice the beauty of even one.
When grouped together in a mass of color,
the mosaic blots out the individual hue.
The daisy might be white, or red, or blue,
but I will never notice until I stop and look.
When laying in a field of wildflowers,
it is very easy to see that one little raindrop,
still clinging for life to the leaf.
One droplet of water that strayed
too far to the left or right in its gravity drop,
and lingers on the petal of a pink Gerbera Daisy
as it gently bows under the weight
of a thousand more.
In a field of wildflowers,
one must take time to notice
the little things or else
they just become colors and hues.
From the Highest Peak
From my peak, I look down into the valley below,
where at the foot of the mountain leans a lake,
blowing as the wind whips its face across the glass waters.
I live on a mountain, but my mind is often in the valley,
where sheep come to drink from the lake that fills
with rain water and run off from the mud of my mountains roots.
I think the clouds roll faster over if I stare at the valley below,
where I see the shapes of shadow animals racing the green turf.
The race is exciting and moves my day along.
Days on the mountain move slowly by, not because they are boring,
but because I am so close to the sky. You don't notice the change
in astronomy from the mountain like you do from the ground.
Sometimes being too close is a curse that man alone must know.
On the valley floor, they wish to join me on my mountain
so they could see the land below, but on this mountain,
sometimes I wish I were below,
so I could see the sky above with more clarity and love.
But here I will stay and here I will cry as time holds me green
and dying though I sing in my chains like the sea.
where at the foot of the mountain leans a lake,
blowing as the wind whips its face across the glass waters.
I live on a mountain, but my mind is often in the valley,
where sheep come to drink from the lake that fills
with rain water and run off from the mud of my mountains roots.
I think the clouds roll faster over if I stare at the valley below,
where I see the shapes of shadow animals racing the green turf.
The race is exciting and moves my day along.
Days on the mountain move slowly by, not because they are boring,
but because I am so close to the sky. You don't notice the change
in astronomy from the mountain like you do from the ground.
Sometimes being too close is a curse that man alone must know.
On the valley floor, they wish to join me on my mountain
so they could see the land below, but on this mountain,
sometimes I wish I were below,
so I could see the sky above with more clarity and love.
But here I will stay and here I will cry as time holds me green
and dying though I sing in my chains like the sea.
Man's Best Friend
A dog barks from somewhere down the trail.
The trees lining my way look down and judge the mut
for disturbing their peace. He doesn't really seem to care that much
It is disturbing sometimes, how oblivious dogs are.
They hunt and climb, fetch and wag, all for the sake of man.
Why would they want such a best friend?
Haven't they discovered by now that all we do is call them stupid animals
when they don't do what we want them to.
We aren't their best friend, but they aren't ours.
If they were, they would know when to cut us loose
so that we don't drag them down with us
and force them to become
an exiled child in the crackling dusk of
the underworld, the stars blighted. Ghost Crab Hunting at the Beach
When the fisherman rock on their boats in the sea,
after pulling in a hard day with a big catch of crabs
ready to be shipped to Red Lobster for the next meal,
I sneak out of the house, my bare feet digging
into the powder moist sand. I crawl up the steps
of the boardwalk to keep from tripping down
and falling into the sand below, but most importantly,
to avoid splinters in my toes. Landing isn't as soft
as I would like, since I miss the bottom step,
but I don't linger on it long. Armed with a flashlight,
a bucket, and a net, I set off for my own crab hunt.
The little white ones are the hardest to spot,
as they dash across the sea hardened sand,
to find a hole that is probably not theirs,
but they all seem to understand.
I step as softly as possible, to keep from alarming them.
With my light glancing around, back and forth,
I finally spot a big one. The big ones scare me a bit,
because they could actually hurt if they got my hand.
But this hunt is not for the faint of heart, I decide,
and bolt after him. He didn't have time to blink before my net
came down and trapped him into the little pithole in the ground.
With a scoop and a gentle flick he lands in my bucket,
which still has some sea water in the bottom.
I look on with satisfaction as he crawls around in fright.
First one of the night and there are so many more to go.
Little pale ghost crabs always crawl along the midnight floor.
after pulling in a hard day with a big catch of crabs
ready to be shipped to Red Lobster for the next meal,
I sneak out of the house, my bare feet digging
into the powder moist sand. I crawl up the steps
of the boardwalk to keep from tripping down
and falling into the sand below, but most importantly,
to avoid splinters in my toes. Landing isn't as soft
as I would like, since I miss the bottom step,
but I don't linger on it long. Armed with a flashlight,
a bucket, and a net, I set off for my own crab hunt.
The little white ones are the hardest to spot,
as they dash across the sea hardened sand,
to find a hole that is probably not theirs,
but they all seem to understand.
I step as softly as possible, to keep from alarming them.
With my light glancing around, back and forth,
I finally spot a big one. The big ones scare me a bit,
because they could actually hurt if they got my hand.
But this hunt is not for the faint of heart, I decide,
and bolt after him. He didn't have time to blink before my net
came down and trapped him into the little pithole in the ground.
With a scoop and a gentle flick he lands in my bucket,
which still has some sea water in the bottom.
I look on with satisfaction as he crawls around in fright.
First one of the night and there are so many more to go.
Little pale ghost crabs always crawl along the midnight floor.
Grandma's Garden
We relax, side by side, thinking about the birds in the trees,
about their feathers, plush little freedom devices
of green and blue, black, brown, and white,
purest white like the sun when you look at it right.
We lay in this garden, surrounded by trees
filled with leaves that hang over our heads
like spiders in their web. We are the flies,
caught under their sticky weight as we sit
in the garden and meditate on the sound
of the flowers that blow back and forth,
then sing with the birds a nice little chorus of Vivaldi.
The roses are the piano, the birds act as flutes and trumpets,
the daisies play the french horn,
and the iris slowly draws the bow across the cello's strings.
Together, my grandmother and I listen,
with our eyes closed and minds awake.
about their feathers, plush little freedom devices
of green and blue, black, brown, and white,
purest white like the sun when you look at it right.
We lay in this garden, surrounded by trees
filled with leaves that hang over our heads
like spiders in their web. We are the flies,
caught under their sticky weight as we sit
in the garden and meditate on the sound
of the flowers that blow back and forth,
then sing with the birds a nice little chorus of Vivaldi.
The roses are the piano, the birds act as flutes and trumpets,
the daisies play the french horn,
and the iris slowly draws the bow across the cello's strings.
Together, my grandmother and I listen,
with our eyes closed and minds awake.
Witch's Pyre
Green snakes erupt from a time-glass jar,
but the lid never opened.
They seep to the air and pollute it with streams of sickly grime,
causing disease to follow every mile.
Just like her hair, that river of blood pouring from her head.
I remember it well as she passed by,
first when she was a child, and so was I.
Strange and beautiful, with innocent mischief.
Now dark and defiled.
I look on sadly as she passes by again.
No robe of green to cover her proud mane,
or shield her eyes from those who sought her dead.
I feel a tear slip down my face as she stands
on the witch's pyre, her leaf eyes looking at the men around her
with defiance. The torches are lit and set to the wood,
but I never heard her scream.
Laughing and chuckling, eerie in the wind,
like a banshee calling to her newly summoned dead,
she disappeared in the flames, but I couldn't watch.
I remember too well the taste of her kiss in my head.
but the lid never opened.
They seep to the air and pollute it with streams of sickly grime,
causing disease to follow every mile.
Just like her hair, that river of blood pouring from her head.
I remember it well as she passed by,
first when she was a child, and so was I.
Strange and beautiful, with innocent mischief.
Now dark and defiled.
I look on sadly as she passes by again.
No robe of green to cover her proud mane,
or shield her eyes from those who sought her dead.
I feel a tear slip down my face as she stands
on the witch's pyre, her leaf eyes looking at the men around her
with defiance. The torches are lit and set to the wood,
but I never heard her scream.
Laughing and chuckling, eerie in the wind,
like a banshee calling to her newly summoned dead,
she disappeared in the flames, but I couldn't watch.
I remember too well the taste of her kiss in my head.
The Old Druid Man on Beggars Hill
Does anyone know what happened to the old man
who lived in the mire below Beggars Hill?
Some say he was a wizard, or perhaps a druid.
Are druids really evil?
I can't tell the difference.
They say he had a daughter
who was brought to the village as an orphan.
Do you know how many orphans we have in this village?
Enough to overrun America, for sure.
They run among our people like pathogens run
in the air around a hospital.
She could be around us right now.
I bet she has the talents of her pa.
Magic never looks good on a man, but for women,
it seems to fit. They are all witches in their rite it seems.
Perhaps she will survive,
and maybe my own boy fall for her scarlet eyes.
who lived in the mire below Beggars Hill?
Some say he was a wizard, or perhaps a druid.
Are druids really evil?
I can't tell the difference.
They say he had a daughter
who was brought to the village as an orphan.
Do you know how many orphans we have in this village?
Enough to overrun America, for sure.
They run among our people like pathogens run
in the air around a hospital.
She could be around us right now.
I bet she has the talents of her pa.
Magic never looks good on a man, but for women,
it seems to fit. They are all witches in their rite it seems.
Perhaps she will survive,
and maybe my own boy fall for her scarlet eyes.
Illusionist
Magic blue eyes run over the white page,
but they don't see white. They see black,
black and red, gold and green, yellow or brown,
perhaps a touch of grey.
The image of a tree, bending beneath the load
of a thousand little sparrows lives there,
but never once on the canvas.
The birds chirp happily and stare at his electric blue.
They chirp one triumphant blow in unison
and take off to torture some poor soft wood,
winking at him as they go.
A lion lays down beneath the shade of the freshly renewed tree,
with leaves growing like daisies from the snow,
out of nowhere, but fully alive.
The lion snores and rolls over to more comfort.
Ghostly hands spring from the tree
and caress the lions fur,
the branches reach for the brush
and finally the sight begins to grow.
but they don't see white. They see black,
black and red, gold and green, yellow or brown,
perhaps a touch of grey.
The image of a tree, bending beneath the load
of a thousand little sparrows lives there,
but never once on the canvas.
The birds chirp happily and stare at his electric blue.
They chirp one triumphant blow in unison
and take off to torture some poor soft wood,
winking at him as they go.
A lion lays down beneath the shade of the freshly renewed tree,
with leaves growing like daisies from the snow,
out of nowhere, but fully alive.
The lion snores and rolls over to more comfort.
Ghostly hands spring from the tree
and caress the lions fur,
the branches reach for the brush
and finally the sight begins to grow.
Pocket Watch
Golden metal gears, running in circles,
like a guineapig in the Matrix on his wheel.
Even then, he runs faster than they.
Unlike watching sand slip through a tiny crack
carefully measured with size and weight in mind,
these mechanical wheels move on their own
nothing but gravity, springs, and two giant hands to hold.
In the metallic reflection,it glows red like the marriage
thread of old, tied to two separate fingers
on two separate hands, to show and unending connection.
And unending stream of love and minds,
where two chaotic forces meet to make something of mankind.
like a guineapig in the Matrix on his wheel.
Even then, he runs faster than they.
Unlike watching sand slip through a tiny crack
carefully measured with size and weight in mind,
these mechanical wheels move on their own
nothing but gravity, springs, and two giant hands to hold.
In the metallic reflection,it glows red like the marriage
thread of old, tied to two separate fingers
on two separate hands, to show and unending connection.
And unending stream of love and minds,
where two chaotic forces meet to make something of mankind.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Unfaithful Hands
Black ivory and pearls connected to drums lay waiting, hoping to burst into symphonic praise.
They won't be toyed with today by anything other than sunbeams
playfully running their fingers across the taught strings
and carefully tracing the golden rims.
Pieces of paper littered with the minds of great men
who donated their skulls to the world at large
before passing away to be forgotten forever more,
leaving behind no more than the legacy of a soul.
But you don't follow music.
You just let you hands crawl seductively along.
You play each string like a cassanova,
making love to one then moving to another,
but never two at once. At least you stay true for a moment in time,
even if not for a whole measure.
Don't tell me you love me more than her
because I know it isn't true. Anyone who can trade ladies like that could never be loyal,
but if you will settle for second best sometimes, I will content myself in your hands,
in watching them swerve and dance, like a bird in the air.
Birds dance the best of all creatures, even bears.
Hold her carefully, touch her gently, don't let go.
I want to hear you play her some more. I know you are cheating on me, but I like the sound.
So play it like you love her, but play it only for me.
They won't be toyed with today by anything other than sunbeams
playfully running their fingers across the taught strings
and carefully tracing the golden rims.
Pieces of paper littered with the minds of great men
who donated their skulls to the world at large
before passing away to be forgotten forever more,
leaving behind no more than the legacy of a soul.
But you don't follow music.
You just let you hands crawl seductively along.
You play each string like a cassanova,
making love to one then moving to another,
but never two at once. At least you stay true for a moment in time,
even if not for a whole measure.
Don't tell me you love me more than her
because I know it isn't true. Anyone who can trade ladies like that could never be loyal,
but if you will settle for second best sometimes, I will content myself in your hands,
in watching them swerve and dance, like a bird in the air.
Birds dance the best of all creatures, even bears.
Hold her carefully, touch her gently, don't let go.
I want to hear you play her some more. I know you are cheating on me, but I like the sound.
So play it like you love her, but play it only for me.
Tortured by Ravens and Odyseus
Night, sky like a raven, no moon, no stars, no sky. I looked back. I always look back before I step inside the house. Savor that last glimpse of beauty, no matter how haunting. The stars never shine. The moon is never new. The sky is never there. A sun never shines, instead, a burning slave driver with whip in hand lashes me on. Awake! it cries. So awake and I rise.
But I am darkness, never looking back again after once glancing into the void to clear my mind. Do adults do that too? I must practice patience and might. But I am a patient, or I will be soon. Every threshold is simply another move, a move towards a cave where a one eyed cyclops stands in my way. In my way to the warm bed that I crave. I craved it since the task master first woke me, now I crave it no more. I know what comes to me. The cyclops isn't evil, just misunderstood. He only has one eye, because wily Odyssean Bud Light stole the other, so he can't see me. When he asks my name, I only say, "Nobody."
Stand in the corner as long as you can, there is shelter there. I don't feel scared now, because I know, I know, I know, it ends. Sometimes it misses, sometimes it's the wall, instead of my face, but sometimes the monster catches a sheep and I don't cry. Never reprimand me, because I will cry, but show me why, and I will be fine. So I count, one, two, three, four, five. Give me my bed now and go to your Wheel of Fortune game with your Odysseus brew and leave me to my piece of tender, healing meat, and a dream that tells me I didn't get hurt.
But I am darkness, never looking back again after once glancing into the void to clear my mind. Do adults do that too? I must practice patience and might. But I am a patient, or I will be soon. Every threshold is simply another move, a move towards a cave where a one eyed cyclops stands in my way. In my way to the warm bed that I crave. I craved it since the task master first woke me, now I crave it no more. I know what comes to me. The cyclops isn't evil, just misunderstood. He only has one eye, because wily Odyssean Bud Light stole the other, so he can't see me. When he asks my name, I only say, "Nobody."
Stand in the corner as long as you can, there is shelter there. I don't feel scared now, because I know, I know, I know, it ends. Sometimes it misses, sometimes it's the wall, instead of my face, but sometimes the monster catches a sheep and I don't cry. Never reprimand me, because I will cry, but show me why, and I will be fine. So I count, one, two, three, four, five. Give me my bed now and go to your Wheel of Fortune game with your Odysseus brew and leave me to my piece of tender, healing meat, and a dream that tells me I didn't get hurt.
Corn Husk
Maybe his life was there, maybe it wasn't.
There were plenty of times I wondered.
A lifeless husk, a shell of reality.
Beauty resides in hidden places they say,
so I went looking in the darkest holes and closets.
I found him there, covered in bats and spiders
that sucked at his blood like a vampire binge eating.
He never fought once, even when I pulled him away.
But he also never fought as the rope fell tight.
They say it doesn't take much, just a little push.
I am still not convinced he was alive to begin with.
There were plenty of times I wondered.
A lifeless husk, a shell of reality.
Beauty resides in hidden places they say,
so I went looking in the darkest holes and closets.
I found him there, covered in bats and spiders
that sucked at his blood like a vampire binge eating.
He never fought once, even when I pulled him away.
But he also never fought as the rope fell tight.
They say it doesn't take much, just a little push.
I am still not convinced he was alive to begin with.
Ignorance Is Bliss
The heart of you is something I don't quite get, but I don't wnat to.
It beats inside you but nothing makes sense.
You don't breath, and your blood is dry.
You look like a piece of paper,
paper like wrapping for my father's cigarette filters.
He burnt those things down to the nub, smoked three packs every day.
But I don't smoke, so I don't understand
that thing inside your chest, covered by something close to human scales,
but not quite squishy enough. More like fine Italian leather
on the Ferrari's dashboard. But you aren't like the Ferrari
which burns medicine red, you,
you, you are dead.
It beats inside you but nothing makes sense.
You don't breath, and your blood is dry.
You look like a piece of paper,
paper like wrapping for my father's cigarette filters.
He burnt those things down to the nub, smoked three packs every day.
But I don't smoke, so I don't understand
that thing inside your chest, covered by something close to human scales,
but not quite squishy enough. More like fine Italian leather
on the Ferrari's dashboard. But you aren't like the Ferrari
which burns medicine red, you,
you, you are dead.
Looking Out
Trapped in a cage, a cold hard cage, I stare at the wall, the door, blasted monotonous white wall, tantalizing transparent door. Both shred my mind, call me away. I don't hear the words, I am too busy dreaming of birds. They see all things. Why would I want to stay and hear these woeful words of the world, when there is earth outside, sweet dirty earth, where worms crawl and bugs scrape their way to trees. Enticing with a bright sun and purple flowers, this report of stately affairs and foes holds nothing to the real. Real grass that tickles a cats paws and sticks in their throat as they chew it for fun, for it certainly isn't to sharpen their teeth. No for that, they eat bones and food. The fires burn only in the UV rays. Then the squeak, as the wind grasps the handle, calling me to come out and play with deer and dogs that bark as they walk by, still wet from yesterday's rain. I can smell them from here. Still, I sit, bored in my misery.
Sword-Play in the Rose Bushes
I sit in the rose garden and watch my brother play.
He will pass away one day.
With two wooden swords he strikes a calculated blow
at his fake foe.
"AH HA!" he cries, and I jump a little from my seat.
He thrust his second sword into the air, his other straight ahead.
"Victory! Victory! I've won again!"
I nod a little, something that resembles a smile on my face.
But he sees, he knows me better than all.
"Why are you sad?" the young knight sheaths his sword
and rests his head on my knee.
I shake my head,
nothing,
and I know he saw through me again,
but he stays there, little skull so warm against my leg.
When he walked away, his face was a little darker.
He will pass away one day.
With two wooden swords he strikes a calculated blow
at his fake foe.
"AH HA!" he cries, and I jump a little from my seat.
He thrust his second sword into the air, his other straight ahead.
"Victory! Victory! I've won again!"
I nod a little, something that resembles a smile on my face.
But he sees, he knows me better than all.
"Why are you sad?" the young knight sheaths his sword
and rests his head on my knee.
I shake my head,
nothing,
and I know he saw through me again,
but he stays there, little skull so warm against my leg.
When he walked away, his face was a little darker.
Ode to a Pansy
Little flower with a colorful face,
little pansy so full of beauty.
Sometimes I wonder to myself,
how do you endure the cold?
Do you fight to the last breath
to keep your head held high?
And what about the heat of the day,
how do you manage to live
after the cruel sun has scalded you since 10?
Sometimes I think I should be better off as a pansy,
so I could endure the heat of the world,
and the cold glares from outsiders.
This place is tough for the both of us,
so let's agree to trade places now and again.
little pansy so full of beauty.
Sometimes I wonder to myself,
how do you endure the cold?
Do you fight to the last breath
to keep your head held high?
And what about the heat of the day,
how do you manage to live
after the cruel sun has scalded you since 10?
Sometimes I think I should be better off as a pansy,
so I could endure the heat of the world,
and the cold glares from outsiders.
This place is tough for the both of us,
so let's agree to trade places now and again.
Flies
Flies. Buzz and zing like the saw in the mill,
cutting freshly sliced trunks.
The smell of sawdust always makes you sneeze.
Now the flies buzz around your head
as you sit in your silver chair and snore.
Crickets chirping couldn't be more annoying,
but to a fly and me, the sweet vibrato
of your ins and outs make little bass sensors bounce.
Don't let them worship you too long,
they will see your flesh and realize you aren't a god.
I see you well.
cutting freshly sliced trunks.
The smell of sawdust always makes you sneeze.
Now the flies buzz around your head
as you sit in your silver chair and snore.
Crickets chirping couldn't be more annoying,
but to a fly and me, the sweet vibrato
of your ins and outs make little bass sensors bounce.
Don't let them worship you too long,
they will see your flesh and realize you aren't a god.
I see you well.
X
Stumble into the middle of life, tired and faking your sway
of joy and merriment to stay.
Stay within bounds and smoothly let fly your curses
and eyes as they glare at blond curls bouncing on my shoulders
broad from bending over the kitchen table
and books where my blue eyes fixed themselves on books,
and then on the soft pink skin that rests beneath my lips.
You said it once to me, but she means it.
All humanity is cursed to wait for pain to bear us to the world
where we wait to be born again after already being born once.
This time with the ease of disappointment,
and the prospect of understanding strife.
of joy and merriment to stay.
Stay within bounds and smoothly let fly your curses
and eyes as they glare at blond curls bouncing on my shoulders
broad from bending over the kitchen table
and books where my blue eyes fixed themselves on books,
and then on the soft pink skin that rests beneath my lips.
You said it once to me, but she means it.
All humanity is cursed to wait for pain to bear us to the world
where we wait to be born again after already being born once.
This time with the ease of disappointment,
and the prospect of understanding strife.
Hills in the City
These gutted hills, hills by note, hills by permission.
Empty rolling waste filled with trash and nothing
but music and volume far too soft for the composer's ear.
The call of wild stands for centuries while mountains long
for Everest glittering as brightly as they can and show
their royal decrees sealed by God Himself allowing
them sprawling lands of lightbulbs.
They crawl before before our metal eyes in rising glass towers
where expansion finds home. To think that liberty be given
to the poor to span the depths of the terrestrial sea
so that someone dares those pudgy hills to say what they really need.
Empty rolling waste filled with trash and nothing
but music and volume far too soft for the composer's ear.
The call of wild stands for centuries while mountains long
for Everest glittering as brightly as they can and show
their royal decrees sealed by God Himself allowing
them sprawling lands of lightbulbs.
They crawl before before our metal eyes in rising glass towers
where expansion finds home. To think that liberty be given
to the poor to span the depths of the terrestrial sea
so that someone dares those pudgy hills to say what they really need.
The Sword Was Moments Away
Ashes fall from a lava spring
around a city of white marble and ivy.
The sea blows snow crested wind
out of the way to make room for a grey bath,
like the robe of King Solomon falling to the ground
as wisdom buckles at the knee.
More like Caesar with knives in his throat,
blocking his will from making him immortal
once again.
This race of warriors gaze upon a broken man
covered in ashes and wreaths.
How sad to see the giants slain by a rock
when the sword was mere moments away.
around a city of white marble and ivy.
The sea blows snow crested wind
out of the way to make room for a grey bath,
like the robe of King Solomon falling to the ground
as wisdom buckles at the knee.
More like Caesar with knives in his throat,
blocking his will from making him immortal
once again.
This race of warriors gaze upon a broken man
covered in ashes and wreaths.
How sad to see the giants slain by a rock
when the sword was mere moments away.
I Want to Write You a Letter
I never wanted to write you a letter
because I was scared of what you might say.
Don't you think it's time to put the knives away?
How many times I heard you cursing art,
shredding a written page.
Have you thought about my browning roots,
sagging streams
where papers sucked into a vat
tucked away for many days
hide from ember eyes
that scar forever my canvas page.
I want to write you a letter,
but I know what you will say.
because I was scared of what you might say.
Don't you think it's time to put the knives away?
How many times I heard you cursing art,
shredding a written page.
Have you thought about my browning roots,
sagging streams
where papers sucked into a vat
tucked away for many days
hide from ember eyes
that scar forever my canvas page.
I want to write you a letter,
but I know what you will say.
Family Graveyard Garden
I planted a garden behind the family graveyard so the rotting corpses feed me.
There is truth to the circle of life.
I am not a cannibal, but if it weren't a crime,
I would be.
I can't stand you.
Children are starving in Africa, so give them my steak
and I'll chew your bones for a while,
until I go after the children in Africa as well
because you aren't satisfying enough.
Never have been.
I am sure it will help the world for a little while,
to have you gone and feed the children cow,
but I know it will help me now.
There is truth to the circle of life.
I am not a cannibal, but if it weren't a crime,
I would be.
I can't stand you.
Children are starving in Africa, so give them my steak
and I'll chew your bones for a while,
until I go after the children in Africa as well
because you aren't satisfying enough.
Never have been.
I am sure it will help the world for a little while,
to have you gone and feed the children cow,
but I know it will help me now.
Vultures
You are a vulture, I am a mouse
who climbs ceilings in search
of foreign seas where bones
and fish and jelly,
and bones lay scattered,
crumbling little specs
to make sand in the wide,
acidic water that wears away our lives
and seagulls swarm overhead,
just like the vultures.
No matter where
vultures and birds,
like life and death.
who climbs ceilings in search
of foreign seas where bones
and fish and jelly,
and bones lay scattered,
crumbling little specs
to make sand in the wide,
acidic water that wears away our lives
and seagulls swarm overhead,
just like the vultures.
No matter where
vultures and birds,
like life and death.
Revolution, 1789
The sun comes up every morning, as always.
The day passes still in 24 hours.
Just as the moors in England rise and fall,
so too will I. My astral schedule beats to the rhythm
of the executioners drum.
Up and down.
A tug on the rope, or a tight grasp
make the difference between a lost finger, foot,
scalp, neck. Never once, when I was simple steel
did I drink death. Now I am the executioner.
My scythe cuts flesh like wheat.
My romantic crop realizes their population
dwindles through fear.
But what do rolling heads do to revolution,
save stoke a fire?
The taint of a tyrant's blood rusts on my fang
but will be washed with the innocent children,
children caught in the wilds of anxiety and cunning.
Speeches arouse corpses only,
they will all be dead. And when they are gone,
I will sit and smile at the dust
with the sounds of discontent and rhetoric vibrating in my blade.
The day passes still in 24 hours.
Just as the moors in England rise and fall,
so too will I. My astral schedule beats to the rhythm
of the executioners drum.
Up and down.
A tug on the rope, or a tight grasp
make the difference between a lost finger, foot,
scalp, neck. Never once, when I was simple steel
did I drink death. Now I am the executioner.
My scythe cuts flesh like wheat.
My romantic crop realizes their population
dwindles through fear.
But what do rolling heads do to revolution,
save stoke a fire?
The taint of a tyrant's blood rusts on my fang
but will be washed with the innocent children,
children caught in the wilds of anxiety and cunning.
Speeches arouse corpses only,
they will all be dead. And when they are gone,
I will sit and smile at the dust
with the sounds of discontent and rhetoric vibrating in my blade.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Slaves of the Root
Jane and I walked through a field and saw
Flimsy tornadoes of dust and steam raise bleached eyes alongside the mountain of age.
They look on with joy and tears
as we look on without ears to speak
the language as they,
they look at lilies and formed birch wood
soiled in the soil that clings to the leaves and box.
They are ready to go.
Jane stoops to touch the
Gentle whirlwinds of dirt and water burning their mouths of sand,
sand dry from baking in earth,
earth that her hands don’t know well
like the days of old where food was our own,
so we linger here
on the edge of break and wilderness.
They work here.
I wonder if Jane understands now this
Big torn atmosphere of condensed thought showing their skin to the rage of grass
waved in fields of chains
like the ones that bind men
in lines of execution lists
as the rope hangs in front of a casket.
But the roots hold them fast.
Flimsy tornadoes of dust and steam raise bleached eyes alongside the mountain of age.
They look on with joy and tears
as we look on without ears to speak
the language as they,
they look at lilies and formed birch wood
soiled in the soil that clings to the leaves and box.
They are ready to go.
Jane stoops to touch the
Gentle whirlwinds of dirt and water burning their mouths of sand,
sand dry from baking in earth,
earth that her hands don’t know well
like the days of old where food was our own,
so we linger here
on the edge of break and wilderness.
They work here.
I wonder if Jane understands now this
Big torn atmosphere of condensed thought showing their skin to the rage of grass
waved in fields of chains
like the ones that bind men
in lines of execution lists
as the rope hangs in front of a casket.
But the roots hold them fast.
A Victimized Wolf
I remember the little coal dress and bright red hood,
sky high heels, and heart black curls.
I remember she skipped along, happily,
innocent, naive, trained, knowing.
I remember asking her if she needed a ride home,
that she lived “just around the bend.”
I remember her sitting in my Chevy leather seats,
legs crossed and smile trained on me.
I remember brown eyes and cherry red lips
that lured me closer and closer--
closer, closer, yet farther, farther.
I remember stopping outside a wooden house
and looking through the four-square window panes.
I remember an old woman sitting by the fire
chewing meat from the bone like a dog.
I remember asking for her number
and getting a kiss in return.
I remember the feel of fireflies in the air
and the life of my skin seeping from my toes.
I remember seeing my life, in golden essence
drained from my mouth as her lips slowly pulled away.
I remember nothing more,
she enslaved my eyes.
I remember only waking up here, in hell
with her kiss branded on my lips
and my bones dismantled.
sky high heels, and heart black curls.
I remember she skipped along, happily,
innocent, naive, trained, knowing.
I remember asking her if she needed a ride home,
that she lived “just around the bend.”
I remember her sitting in my Chevy leather seats,
legs crossed and smile trained on me.
I remember brown eyes and cherry red lips
that lured me closer and closer--
closer, closer, yet farther, farther.
I remember stopping outside a wooden house
and looking through the four-square window panes.
I remember an old woman sitting by the fire
chewing meat from the bone like a dog.
I remember asking for her number
and getting a kiss in return.
I remember the feel of fireflies in the air
and the life of my skin seeping from my toes.
I remember seeing my life, in golden essence
drained from my mouth as her lips slowly pulled away.
I remember nothing more,
she enslaved my eyes.
I remember only waking up here, in hell
with her kiss branded on my lips
and my bones dismantled.
My New Coloring Book
I want to color the world with crayons
because I don’t think it was properly done.
The hues work for grown ups,
but not for this little girl.
I want the sun to be lemon, not fire,
and the clouds to be silver, not white or grey,
they look like cotton balls soaked in ashes from the fireplace
or the dirty water from mother’s bucket as she mops the floor.
Indeed, the sun should always be shining like a light bulb,
since that is the clearest light I know.
When I make a work of art, I don’t think about the reality
because if I wanted to make reality, I only require life.
Instead I want to take my crayons and mark the world
with purple and blue, and orange too,
but my favorite one is called indigo.
I use it on the sky, and the water, and my favorite Sunday dress
through my eyes all the world is summarized in these simple tests
does the color make me happy,
does the color make sense,
does the color want for interest,
does the color hurt my head,
can it claim the sole variety of every flower bed,
does it calm my eyes with lullabies that sift through evening towers
of sheet forts and coloring books
where everything is as I see,
as it should be,
as I want it to be,
Just as me in indigo dreams.
because I don’t think it was properly done.
The hues work for grown ups,
but not for this little girl.
I want the sun to be lemon, not fire,
and the clouds to be silver, not white or grey,
they look like cotton balls soaked in ashes from the fireplace
or the dirty water from mother’s bucket as she mops the floor.
Indeed, the sun should always be shining like a light bulb,
since that is the clearest light I know.
When I make a work of art, I don’t think about the reality
because if I wanted to make reality, I only require life.
Instead I want to take my crayons and mark the world
with purple and blue, and orange too,
but my favorite one is called indigo.
I use it on the sky, and the water, and my favorite Sunday dress
through my eyes all the world is summarized in these simple tests
does the color make me happy,
does the color make sense,
does the color want for interest,
does the color hurt my head,
can it claim the sole variety of every flower bed,
does it calm my eyes with lullabies that sift through evening towers
of sheet forts and coloring books
where everything is as I see,
as it should be,
as I want it to be,
Just as me in indigo dreams.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)