7 hours ago
September 27, 2009
September 15, 2009
What Happens Remains
Expect a flood
of lukewarm curiosity.
Between the blurs,
in the middle of the road,
people struggle with certainty.
I caught myself
becoming
conscious,
slowly slowly.
Listen to the dead babies
sing naked annihilation.
It's your thing--horror.
Get out your metaphors.
It's time to change the world.
Curse this postmodern life--
Obama, flarf, transmigration.
You should be laughing.
Whose business is it
a few souls hustle,
juggle, straddle
blah, blah, blah,
regurgitations.
Bullshit
stretches
epiphany.
The whistle's blowing
morning
light across our legs.
Time.
Why should we care?
No other has the power.
Pinned by an absent god,
I can have it both ways.
Hot and cold exist
because I don't belong here.
of lukewarm curiosity.
Between the blurs,
in the middle of the road,
people struggle with certainty.
I caught myself
becoming
conscious,
slowly slowly.
Listen to the dead babies
sing naked annihilation.
It's your thing--horror.
Get out your metaphors.
It's time to change the world.
Curse this postmodern life--
Obama, flarf, transmigration.
You should be laughing.
Whose business is it
a few souls hustle,
juggle, straddle
blah, blah, blah,
regurgitations.
Bullshit
stretches
epiphany.
The whistle's blowing
morning
light across our legs.
Time.
Why should we care?
No other has the power.
Pinned by an absent god,
I can have it both ways.
Hot and cold exist
because I don't belong here.
September 07, 2009
Summer Storm
Giddy, the wind chugs,
clatters the shutters,
then wolf-whistles wild
through the tiny crack
in the blackened pane.
Like a tornado,
white lace curtains wheel,
climb my naked flesh
to purr in my ear,
bringing strange comfort
from thick, August heat
and angry gods too.
clatters the shutters,
then wolf-whistles wild
through the tiny crack
in the blackened pane.
Like a tornado,
white lace curtains wheel,
climb my naked flesh
to purr in my ear,
bringing strange comfort
from thick, August heat
and angry gods too.
August 19, 2009
Slow Burn
Big ol' Birdy, sturdy
as an iron skillet,
wakes before the kinfolk
stir, picks through the kindling
box, and stokes the wood stove.
Aluminum bucket
and half-bushel basket
in hand, she greets the sun
and the striped snake wriggling
in the dew by the spout.
Clucking, she sprinkles corn
and plows through milling hens
to raid the coop. Sixteen
big brown eggs this morning
means custard pie tonight.
as an iron skillet,
wakes before the kinfolk
stir, picks through the kindling
box, and stokes the wood stove.
Aluminum bucket
and half-bushel basket
in hand, she greets the sun
and the striped snake wriggling
in the dew by the spout.
Clucking, she sprinkles corn
and plows through milling hens
to raid the coop. Sixteen
big brown eggs this morning
means custard pie tonight.
August 10, 2009
Dang Me
This song has been stuck in my head for about a month now. Thought I'd share. I'm generous like that.
August 01, 2009
July 31, 2009
Ire Lake
Kindness dams
Angry
Red waters raging
Inside. Ire Lake:
Landlocked,
Escape eliminated,
Entrance denied.
Angry
Red waters raging
Inside. Ire Lake:
Landlocked,
Escape eliminated,
Entrance denied.
July 29, 2009
In a Rut
"Alfred?"
"Yes, dear?"
"If you eat that, you will get heartburn."
"Yes, dear."
"Alfred?"
"My dear?"
"Alfred?"
"Sometimes a man needs a little fire."
"Yes, dear?"
"If you eat that, you will get heartburn."
"Yes, dear."
"Alfred?"
"My dear?"
"Alfred?"
"Sometimes a man needs a little fire."
July 27, 2009
July 24, 2009
Haven
I knew from the beginning,
fantasy and friction,
inconsistency and distortion,
horror,
and the power of fragments.
There's a scream
very like an owl,
a light behind my eyelids.
I miss my ghosts.
In this strange haven,
lonesome hysteria
makes me wonder,
and I wrestle with doubt.
I could step off--
a leaf falling unnoticed.
fantasy and friction,
inconsistency and distortion,
horror,
and the power of fragments.
There's a scream
very like an owl,
a light behind my eyelids.
I miss my ghosts.
In this strange haven,
lonesome hysteria
makes me wonder,
and I wrestle with doubt.
I could step off--
a leaf falling unnoticed.
July 22, 2009
There Is No Voice To Find
There is no voice to find.
Poets flit between long-past
and will-continue poetry.
Some poets can do "believe"
because they have a rule book:
Language Plays,
or something like that.
Surrounded by mirrors, I hear
Past and Future copulate.
Why must you work so fast?
Knowing that something
will aways be missing,
I love that folks trouble
with thinking all the time.
Desparate for wholeness, let's be
content with this moment of unity.
Poets flit between long-past
and will-continue poetry.
Some poets can do "believe"
because they have a rule book:
Language Plays,
or something like that.
Surrounded by mirrors, I hear
Past and Future copulate.
Why must you work so fast?
Knowing that something
will aways be missing,
I love that folks trouble
with thinking all the time.
Desparate for wholeness, let's be
content with this moment of unity.
July 20, 2009
July 18, 2009
Little Sparrows
"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall
to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very
hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." (Matthew 10:29-31)
They belong. Yes, never doubt that.
But they fear people. They crack.
I've heard it before. Art happens
without the space it takes up.
It must be better and worst--
designed
to appeal
to anyone.
Say whatever you want.
They're all out there--lost
children. It's a free culture.
The world resists resolution.
It doesn't always make sense.
to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very
hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." (Matthew 10:29-31)
They belong. Yes, never doubt that.
But they fear people. They crack.
I've heard it before. Art happens
without the space it takes up.
It must be better and worst--
designed
to appeal
to anyone.
Say whatever you want.
They're all out there--lost
children. It's a free culture.
The world resists resolution.
It doesn't always make sense.
July 17, 2009
July 16, 2009
Tomboy
Katie's Saturday shadow
capers over the cattle-razed meadow.
With every leap and wiggle,
her yellow jumper pockets rattle
pine cones, a tiny mole's skull,
twigs, stones, and shards of blue eggshell.
At long last, she settles to rest
in a nest of black-eyed Susans by the culvert.
Grubby fingers rub grass-stained knees,
as she ponders new Nikes caked with dung
then turns to watch a solitary Jersey,
its jaw working round and round--
chew, chew, chewing its cud.
"Moo to you, Mama Cow."
Then, with sudden, wide-eyed-rabbit grace,
she scrambles to her feet, jumps the ditch,
maneuvers the barbed wire fence,
and bolts up the gravel road.
capers over the cattle-razed meadow.
With every leap and wiggle,
her yellow jumper pockets rattle
pine cones, a tiny mole's skull,
twigs, stones, and shards of blue eggshell.
At long last, she settles to rest
in a nest of black-eyed Susans by the culvert.
Grubby fingers rub grass-stained knees,
as she ponders new Nikes caked with dung
then turns to watch a solitary Jersey,
its jaw working round and round--
chew, chew, chewing its cud.
"Moo to you, Mama Cow."
Then, with sudden, wide-eyed-rabbit grace,
she scrambles to her feet, jumps the ditch,
maneuvers the barbed wire fence,
and bolts up the gravel road.
July 15, 2009
July 14, 2009
Awkward Bystander
She separates herself
from a thousand rules
and waits in the margin,
unstable turf
where religion ends
and politics begins.
He's thinking of his life,
his anger, his sorrow--
the colors of annihilation,
black and white and red
smeared on canvas--
art, a product of the lost.
What's real: blood
and birth and memory
endlessly repeats itself,
rising and falling;
looping binds the edges.
She kneels before him.
It seems wrong.
She's from another world.
He doesn't believe in her gods.
Maybe I misunderstand.
from a thousand rules
and waits in the margin,
unstable turf
where religion ends
and politics begins.
He's thinking of his life,
his anger, his sorrow--
the colors of annihilation,
black and white and red
smeared on canvas--
art, a product of the lost.
What's real: blood
and birth and memory
endlessly repeats itself,
rising and falling;
looping binds the edges.
She kneels before him.
It seems wrong.
She's from another world.
He doesn't believe in her gods.
Maybe I misunderstand.
July 12, 2009
July 10, 2009
Nostalgia's Valley
There are no lilacs--
purple-sweet after the rain,
no fields of fireflies,
no grand oaks that bend
to drink from giddy creeks.
No big old barns, painted-red,
brighten the horizon.
But, there are cats--
foul screams in the dark,
scat under the bougainvillea,
and terra cotta-tiled roofs that swarm
to devour cactus and creosote bush.
Shrouded, the distant mountains
choke on the sweat of the oasis.
There is no going back and no escape.
purple-sweet after the rain,
no fields of fireflies,
no grand oaks that bend
to drink from giddy creeks.
No big old barns, painted-red,
brighten the horizon.
But, there are cats--
foul screams in the dark,
scat under the bougainvillea,
and terra cotta-tiled roofs that swarm
to devour cactus and creosote bush.
Shrouded, the distant mountains
choke on the sweat of the oasis.
There is no going back and no escape.
July 09, 2009
Silence Wails
Ten minutes rest
(perchance to sleep)
is all I ask.
Mewling kitten,
tiny fists raised,
protests silence.
Calm pink, the walls
watch trembling hands
a pillow grasp
to hide red-blotched
despair. Patient
now, they steady.
Stillness. Cries cease,
but silence wails
and echoes. White,
my hands reach down
and lift you near
my aching breast.
(perchance to sleep)
is all I ask.
Mewling kitten,
tiny fists raised,
protests silence.
Calm pink, the walls
watch trembling hands
a pillow grasp
to hide red-blotched
despair. Patient
now, they steady.
Stillness. Cries cease,
but silence wails
and echoes. White,
my hands reach down
and lift you near
my aching breast.
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