Dream Lover

Last night I dreamed: an old lover
spent his passion in my mouth,
laughing as I choked on the bitter torrent.

I woke, open-mouthed and gasping,
and stumbled through the darkness
to rinse the acrid dryness from my tongue.

Then, slipping back between the sheets,
I wrapped myself around your sleeping form
and brushed my lips against your shoulder--
grateful for the cool sweetness of your skin.

Working Backwards

In today's wanderings I came across a post at Rauan Klassnik's blog where he shares from his journal the grackle's effect on him. He writes:

"I am in some of my best moments this blackbird. It sings in me ruthlessly. It rules my love. Sits on my blood. And rides it hard. Swallows the stars. And smashes the moon to bits. It rolls in churches. And governments. It doesn't want to die. But it doesn't even bother to think about it."

How excellent is that? Love it. The grackle is an interesting totem. Google it.

From Rauan's blog I wandered to Reb Livingston's new blog via her old blog and found an interesting post on dreams as poetry's origin. She writes:

"People dream differently, but the psyche is communicating to your conscious part, using symbols, signs, images, metaphors, language, triggers, cues, etc. intended for YOU to hear/see/feel and understand. Your dreams aren't failing you, you're not paying close enough attention. Pay better attention, you'll get more useful dreams. Or at least they'll seem more useful because you're paying attention."

Interesting. So then I went to smoke a cigarette, and while I was standing in the back door smoking and staring at nothing, I remembered a poem I've been twiddling with this week. Here it is:


Lost

Our story gets lost
past the wheat fields,
past the pines,
past miles and miles
of dirt roads and ditches
to a creek that winds
into a cavern to merge
with the darkness
beneath our bed.

In our dreams,
where anything
is possible,
nothing happens.

There is beauty there.

Ugly Thing,

yawning amidst the snarls
and whispers in the street,
why do you still wade
through the gossips?
They will be forgotten soon,
and you will remain ugly.

Shaped as Dancing

Poetry dances polonaise.
Profane joy and sacred aches,
ritual wakes in a strange place.
Candle flickers close to dying.
Nothingness encircles longing.
Yellow rose in a crystal vase,
petals soft in sweet embrace,
bows to song's amazing grace.

Obama's forked tongue

Guess I'll just keep annoying myself.




"None so blind as those that will not see. They have baffled their own consciences, and so they walk on in darkness." --Matthew Henry

PC idiocy says, "You can't say that. Tell us what we want to hear!"

Some people are just too stupid to breathe. I really gotta quit reading this kind o' stuff. It's too annoying.


In a 4-page article at ABC News, Sarah Netter writes about a med student who was born in Africa:


Filed Monday in U.S. District Court in New Jersey, the lawsuit traces a series of events that Serodio maintains led to his 2007 suspension, starting with a March 2006 cultural exercise in a clinical skills course taught by Dr. Kathy Ann Duncan, where each student was asked to define themselves for a discussion on culture and medicine.
After Serodio labeled himself as a white African-American, another student said she was offended by his comments and that, because of his white skin, was not an African-American.
According to the lawsuit, Serodio was summoned to Duncan's office where he was instructed "never to define himself as an African-American … because it was offensive to others and to people of color for him to do so."



People suck. I'm an ignorant white trash native bitch, so I can say that. (Do I need more commas? Hyphen? Whatever.)

On a brighter note

Willie Nelson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Love me some Willie, I do. I could watch him 'til my eyes fall out. There's just something about him...

Will it never end?

This stuff makes me crazy. No wonder I have "authority" issues. Almost makes me wanna "accidentally" bust a head, I tell ya. Perhaps I'm human. Crap.

And liberty and justice for all.




::sigh:: Maybe I need a butt rub...

Raising the dead

Speaking of pages, here's an oldie.



Bad Poetry

More painful than bad poetry
is the accusing glare
of a blank white page
and the whispered taunts,
like swift razors, gone
before realization's bleeding sting.

But, I am no martyr
to suffer these bloody tears in silence.

Sacrificing poetic art,
I hold my wounds over the empty page--
a painful splatter of bad poetry
petitions the absent muse.

Go ask Alice

How to Live

People always ask,
but I've learned to wait.
I've even lied.

We live in a daydream,
while life runs on without us.

Who understands
where I'm stuck?

You can't reflect
a single word,
a single color,
revelation on a cloud.

Leave the page open.

I reserve the right
as long as I live.

Must Be Ghosts

She was good, wasn't she?

Beyond the latest crash and bang
and pink lips' muffled howl
lies a world of the dead,
of deep sand and shabby dogs
with motes of dust for eyes.
Her skeleton rests uneasy
against a wheel of sand.
In its cage of sun-bleached
ribs, there waits a crimson bird
whose smoked-glass eyes inquire.

When were you a man?

Leave

the first word,
the first minstrel show,
the last two lines
of a three-word Wednesday,
25 facts about
your first and still favorite
elephant in the room.
It doesn't have to be this way.
There are poets--
rhetoric for rhetoric's sake.
There's space.

I Gave Away

I gave away my unicorn,
the clouds, the stars, the moon.
I gave away my somedays.
I gave away my soon.
I gave away my roses--
red, yellow, pink, and white.
I gave away my mornings;
I gave away the night.
I gave away my rainbows
and pretty butterflies.
I gave away my angels;
I gave away my whys.
I gave away my sunsets
and misty mountains high.
I gave away my greetings;
I gave away goodbye.

Upon a Time

She nails herself to a ladder
because she can't find a cross.
Bystanders fold their hands,
then they unfold their hearts.

Poetry thinks Narrative is simplistic,
they whisper, and Nonsense doesn't
exist. We admire lifeless things.

Elsewhere, the Collective sells tickets.
Everything is nonsense, it insists,
but the signs say you have to buy
a membership card to get inside.

Inside Spring Distractions

It's like I've never met
songbirds or angels.
The sun, a cup,
rises half-way
between the rains,
odorless, its shame
a warm distraction.

Feminist

Feminist is another word--
Existing because it can, I guess.
Maybe it doesn't know
It smells funny. Like death.
Nobody needs it to be.
It's just a new cage.
Stink of dead women isn't better
Than the stink of dead men.

Don't do anything.

The sun is about to set.
Our lodge falls above the fray.
Perfection, a sacred activity,
confines the spirit of angels.
Am I not alive?
Fools filled with dead men's
bones cry out to me.
Stretch out your hand.
There is nothing lost to us.
Mark this transition.

The Line I Think

Ego me, you bastard.
Show me your willy nilly,
your bumper sticker,
your pledge of allegiance.
Show me your rituals,
your entry point,
your ifs, ands, ors.
Show me your nevers.

Becoming

The process of becoming
kills itself.

Flowers of a thousand
lives flow by, melt away.

Beyond the dark
is a voice:

breathless heat
that speaks and sings

“writers who are inarticulate”

It is monumental.
Nothing signals willingness in a new light.
When the old sit comfortably side by side,
literally thousands focus on the fundamental.
Nothing existed the minute poets began to think.
Born of the desire to be unmarked,
I would stand up, rich with contradictions.
Refusal is power, nothing more, nothing less.
Naming it (poetics of self) is not the new
it represents. This space without a name
notes the instant they die. Only poets
writing challenges lie outside these worlds.
Rather than become a thing, one will sit in mind
destined to fall free of all that has been written.
Thank you, Ron Silliman.

Once upon a time, Chicken Little met Porky Pig, and the walls came tumbling down