4 hours ago
November 27, 2009
November 24, 2009
November 19, 2009
Madness is a work of art
Madness is a work of art.
Fear and failure. Irritation.
Nothing becomes a voice--
a shout, a whisper, a scream.
It's a necessary waste of time.
These spaces must be filled.
I will call it music.
Fear and failure. Irritation.
Nothing becomes a voice--
a shout, a whisper, a scream.
It's a necessary waste of time.
These spaces must be filled.
I will call it music.
November 18, 2009
November 16, 2009
My Life I Sing
And more, I'm growing old.
Through it all, the odd
beauty in refusal remains.
Conviction's an awkward feast.
I haven't changed the world.
Risk sometimes is poetry.
Through it all, the odd
beauty in refusal remains.
Conviction's an awkward feast.
I haven't changed the world.
Risk sometimes is poetry.
November 10, 2009
Consolation
I suspect it's only
failure you expect.
The tree line takes me
through gentle country.
I lose you in the flow.
I have nothing. No song.
The silence uneasy--
it started like that.
Negative numbers
bother me.
I used to have hands
outstretched.
Those days are gone.
Stronger this time,
identity brings back
what connects.
failure you expect.
The tree line takes me
through gentle country.
I lose you in the flow.
I have nothing. No song.
The silence uneasy--
it started like that.
Negative numbers
bother me.
I used to have hands
outstretched.
Those days are gone.
Stronger this time,
identity brings back
what connects.
October 04, 2009
October 01, 2009
Spit ghazal
Look there, on your car's hood: Spit!
So? Any dumb bug could spit.
His mouth's full of cherry pits.
He wonders if he should spit.
With Mountain Dew and Cheetos,
you can create some good spit.
Do you suppose anyone
who achieved sainthood spit?
Rabbit, beef, chicken or fish--
Don't forget: Soak a wood spit.
Organized religion sucks.
They say Jesus withstood spit.
If I just knew how to hawk,
I might fly, or I would spit.
Agnes, whatever you say,
you never understood spit.
So? Any dumb bug could spit.
His mouth's full of cherry pits.
He wonders if he should spit.
With Mountain Dew and Cheetos,
you can create some good spit.
Do you suppose anyone
who achieved sainthood spit?
Rabbit, beef, chicken or fish--
Don't forget: Soak a wood spit.
Organized religion sucks.
They say Jesus withstood spit.
If I just knew how to hawk,
I might fly, or I would spit.
Agnes, whatever you say,
you never understood spit.
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
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