It's swimming like water is under
when let go the sadness is slow
when feeling is without a tether
it's holding when all that you know
Each day the dead patch gets larger
as closer the days to you grow
when leaving is always the answer
it's holding when all that you know
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Sepia Mind
Days when the sun
cannot get through
Hours when the music
holds nothing more
than distance
Minutes that stretch
seconds behind
my sleep
///
her voice wisp hums
his tenor turns cruel
her mixed tape caught
his hands unusual
\\\
Nights when the dark
eddies in the slough
Ours was the music
holding something born
then distant
Minus the strength
the sepia mind
I keep
cannot get through
Hours when the music
holds nothing more
than distance
Minutes that stretch
seconds behind
my sleep
///
her voice wisp hums
his tenor turns cruel
her mixed tape caught
his hands unusual
\\\
Nights when the dark
eddies in the slough
Ours was the music
holding something born
then distant
Minus the strength
the sepia mind
I keep
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Cool In Its Right Time
These, but not those. This, but not yours.
Your patience withers under the sun.
Houses windows mute, but the summer of motors thrums.
Loaded in the nightlawn is a surprise.
--
Steel. Stolen. Hidden all this time along
the course of the stream in green and silver flashes.
Of course I want it, but cool in its right time
under the enigmatic star's bared breast.
Your patience withers under the sun.
Houses windows mute, but the summer of motors thrums.
Loaded in the nightlawn is a surprise.
--
Steel. Stolen. Hidden all this time along
the course of the stream in green and silver flashes.
Of course I want it, but cool in its right time
under the enigmatic star's bared breast.
Friday, April 09, 2010
Do Am Is
Staged. He produced as he expected. Because he did it, it became him. He became himself by defining. Called himself himself and then that was what he did. He was what he was because that's what he did. So a doctor doctors and is not better than an itinerant cart pusher because both of them do what they do. They are in fact the same, but the one also includes "busy and important" to what he does while the other adds "does not care". This one says about himself, "I am a health food advocate." and that's what he does. This one is a writer. Some have more than one thing, but they are still the singular. Doer. Am what he does. Has what he is. Like chaff, the man dies but what he did is harvested and claimed by others. The doing wants a body as a stage.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
About That Something Else You've Been So Sweaty to Realize
I got something in my electrons that was supposed to go to you
(the God of the Atom does not make mistakes like this one)
and though I tried not to look too deeply into the meaning
I couldn't help to notice that you are quite out of alignment
and subject to a recall, though this has not been realized
on an official level, merely suspected as an antidote
to the deepening miasma that has you currently cornered.
Your concern, it must be comforting to know, has been noticed
by the All-Knowing and responded to. The fault actually
lies with me and my inability to stay focused on anything
that is not me for very long at all; one could even speculate
that I am completely unaware of anyone except myself,
which is the purpose of this whole affair and why my face,
usually so beatific, has been so apparently petrified of late.
You can imagine my delight when I looked in to my usual
porthole to see what was mine and discovered that I am not
in fact going to be much like you after all, and that you
could only know by how much if I chose to broadcast
something else about your perspiration that you did not
already announce in your own fashion in the place you know.
(the God of the Atom does not make mistakes like this one)
and though I tried not to look too deeply into the meaning
I couldn't help to notice that you are quite out of alignment
and subject to a recall, though this has not been realized
on an official level, merely suspected as an antidote
to the deepening miasma that has you currently cornered.
Your concern, it must be comforting to know, has been noticed
by the All-Knowing and responded to. The fault actually
lies with me and my inability to stay focused on anything
that is not me for very long at all; one could even speculate
that I am completely unaware of anyone except myself,
which is the purpose of this whole affair and why my face,
usually so beatific, has been so apparently petrified of late.
You can imagine my delight when I looked in to my usual
porthole to see what was mine and discovered that I am not
in fact going to be much like you after all, and that you
could only know by how much if I chose to broadcast
something else about your perspiration that you did not
already announce in your own fashion in the place you know.
Monday, April 05, 2010
One Thing Happens
Floating through the day, bumping along the ragged terrain of depression, I can hardly get myself to feel like I matter. I feel trapped in someone else's idea.
Hemmed in by the best intentions, meaning well, laying trap after trap, front-loading guilt...I'm sick. I'm sick with what I am not.
One thing happens and I see. One thing happens and I collapse.
Nothing here but a bed of sand where the water used to be. And the boats lie up against the dunes. And the living get sick and move away if they can; die anyway.
Come and see the smile! Come and listen to the stories of fun! Come and see the treasure! Come and see what meaning makes of a man!
If I love you I know what you are. If I love you I know where you are. If I love you I know what you do. If I love you we are becoming each other. I love you.
If I say I love you I am waiting. If I say I love you again I am ailing. If I say I love you ten times I am eating you. If I say it again you turn your face to the wall.
Hunting at the edge of the tall grass, I know what you are doing. I know who you are already and I know what would be best for you. I will control you by my fear.
Because you said you would stay but you didn't. Because you said you believed but you sinned. Because you wanted to grow strong but you let me taint you.
One thing happens and I see. One thing happens and I collapse.
Hemmed in by the best intentions, meaning well, laying trap after trap, front-loading guilt...I'm sick. I'm sick with what I am not.
One thing happens and I see. One thing happens and I collapse.
Nothing here but a bed of sand where the water used to be. And the boats lie up against the dunes. And the living get sick and move away if they can; die anyway.
Come and see the smile! Come and listen to the stories of fun! Come and see the treasure! Come and see what meaning makes of a man!
If I love you I know what you are. If I love you I know where you are. If I love you I know what you do. If I love you we are becoming each other. I love you.
If I say I love you I am waiting. If I say I love you again I am ailing. If I say I love you ten times I am eating you. If I say it again you turn your face to the wall.
Hunting at the edge of the tall grass, I know what you are doing. I know who you are already and I know what would be best for you. I will control you by my fear.
Because you said you would stay but you didn't. Because you said you believed but you sinned. Because you wanted to grow strong but you let me taint you.
One thing happens and I see. One thing happens and I collapse.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
You Make It
Neither filled with purpose nor lost
nor angry nor righteous nor bossed
though there is no hope, this is no loss
for animal for stone for moss
It's the way the scroll, unread, unrolls
as it hits the road, leaps up, unfolds
and its curves and meanings hold
to the shape embossed in gold
From the green of mold and blue
to the tireless tunnel newly hewn
from the skeptical holes in every viewer
through sea, spit and skewer
It is like this in every fenced field
that the captive wants so to feel
our life is tainted beyond by the real
that our mouthpiece minds unseal
nor angry nor righteous nor bossed
though there is no hope, this is no loss
for animal for stone for moss
It's the way the scroll, unread, unrolls
as it hits the road, leaps up, unfolds
and its curves and meanings hold
to the shape embossed in gold
From the green of mold and blue
to the tireless tunnel newly hewn
from the skeptical holes in every viewer
through sea, spit and skewer
It is like this in every fenced field
that the captive wants so to feel
our life is tainted beyond by the real
that our mouthpiece minds unseal
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Fear Day
Fear Day
- Martha Rhodes
His almost mother
And his (this) father
Ensnarled think,
Fear. Fear on this fabulous day!
Fear is what they want this day to be about.
Yes, Fear's on their written plan
For this day out, circling
Their picnic, grabbing the son
(And son's friend) by the afternoon
To dump them headfirst into the red Mazda trunk.
Just for a minute dearies, (the almost mother says),
We'll let you out soon.
Glorious day for Fear, the two adults neck,
Thinking about having another kid or two or three--
Little barbed bald kids--
To take on Sundays to the park!
After all, your son isn't mine, she says.
And her breasts extend toward him
Like two he doesn't know whats
But they're friendly and bobbing in his face
And he's going to do something with them.
He just doesn't know how/when.
----------------------------------
I love this poem so much. I've been thinking about it since I first read it in 2003, although I always thought Carol Muske-Dukes wrote it. Turns out they were in the same issue of APR, which I found I had saved all these years.
The way this poem lays out, I am disturbed in an honest way. I feel a reality underlying this. This is one of those poems that changed the way I see poetry.
- Martha Rhodes
His almost mother
And his (this) father
Ensnarled think,
Fear. Fear on this fabulous day!
Fear is what they want this day to be about.
Yes, Fear's on their written plan
For this day out, circling
Their picnic, grabbing the son
(And son's friend) by the afternoon
To dump them headfirst into the red Mazda trunk.
Just for a minute dearies, (the almost mother says),
We'll let you out soon.
Glorious day for Fear, the two adults neck,
Thinking about having another kid or two or three--
Little barbed bald kids--
To take on Sundays to the park!
After all, your son isn't mine, she says.
And her breasts extend toward him
Like two he doesn't know whats
But they're friendly and bobbing in his face
And he's going to do something with them.
He just doesn't know how/when.
----------------------------------
I love this poem so much. I've been thinking about it since I first read it in 2003, although I always thought Carol Muske-Dukes wrote it. Turns out they were in the same issue of APR, which I found I had saved all these years.
The way this poem lays out, I am disturbed in an honest way. I feel a reality underlying this. This is one of those poems that changed the way I see poetry.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
My Killer
My killer has tomatoes in her pocket
She's gliding with the jelly in her shoe
And when she gets to market she'll unlock it
And the odor will imbibe a bit of you
Come tell me there's a hole without your face skin
Plastering itself upon the view
Or portals both unbound and unforgiven
From which kettle's black and boundless waters spew
My killer has a cold and heaving blanket
She rescued it from sometime broad and blue
And when she gets to bed she's gonna yank it
And the corner with the stain will come untrue
She's gliding with the jelly in her shoe
And when she gets to market she'll unlock it
And the odor will imbibe a bit of you
Come tell me there's a hole without your face skin
Plastering itself upon the view
Or portals both unbound and unforgiven
From which kettle's black and boundless waters spew
My killer has a cold and heaving blanket
She rescued it from sometime broad and blue
And when she gets to bed she's gonna yank it
And the corner with the stain will come untrue
My Side
Call my side revenue that glory betrays
when word has ten uses
but goes for the blade
When babble is taken for gospel, and dross
is the lightening label
that torches the cause
Cool sayer a pale invocation to dine
with right as a needle
the armed would decline
Call out my side's neighbor for tangles of leaves
when dog has a fight
but just dangles the keys
Then back again round with the story of cash
in large unmarked bags
in the old nabob's trash
Who whistles past graveyards and keeps to the porn
with pictures of whiz kids
and mazes of corn
Just keep us hard lucked and shout out when to blow
and we'll kiss you and kiss you
and we won't make you go
when word has ten uses
but goes for the blade
When babble is taken for gospel, and dross
is the lightening label
that torches the cause
Cool sayer a pale invocation to dine
with right as a needle
the armed would decline
Call out my side's neighbor for tangles of leaves
when dog has a fight
but just dangles the keys
Then back again round with the story of cash
in large unmarked bags
in the old nabob's trash
Who whistles past graveyards and keeps to the porn
with pictures of whiz kids
and mazes of corn
Just keep us hard lucked and shout out when to blow
and we'll kiss you and kiss you
and we won't make you go
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Take One
If I were a bird only
with one song I wanted
to perfect, one tuned
bell to toll about
a river coursing near
or the echo
drawing closed the shape
of something I meant to keep
to remind me...
My ears are overfull
with froth and loam and bees
busy with the sound
of steadfast looking away
blinking into the distance
holding one note
between one hand
for all the flights
I will not take
with one song I wanted
to perfect, one tuned
bell to toll about
a river coursing near
or the echo
drawing closed the shape
of something I meant to keep
to remind me...
My ears are overfull
with froth and loam and bees
busy with the sound
of steadfast looking away
blinking into the distance
holding one note
between one hand
for all the flights
I will not take
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Doubt. Toilet. Fascination. Table.
There was a time when I understood
more or less as everyone else I knew.
I wanted what we wanted. I was what
we were. Now, not so much but maybe
now, moreso maybe. Like a baby ten feet
tall, wrestling atoms - "Please stay!"
The world and I think of ants and how
for some few there is enough about them
to interest us though the news is bad.
These ants, you see, are made of fire
and they are burning legs of dogs and
folks like us. How would we feel?
How do we feel? Lost in a sea of
ants. Swarming with flame. Eaten alive.
So that we become ants. What was
us now incorporated into ants.
Not the soul, some voice clambers loudly
with hammers bang bang not the soul!
The conviction strident beyond rumor
crusted over with religion and what mom said.
Shh. A hiss. The look.
I'm too afraid not to believe.
All seems reasonable, really, until you ask.
Until the snake comes whispering
questions mom did not want to hear
emerge from my lips. It's all dangerous.
Atoms especially and their silly children
And out there already (not now)
I am not doing this work, instead I'm
mouldering back into separate particles,
disseminating out into the world because
one day I knew what to do and began.
more or less as everyone else I knew.
I wanted what we wanted. I was what
we were. Now, not so much but maybe
now, moreso maybe. Like a baby ten feet
tall, wrestling atoms - "Please stay!"
The world and I think of ants and how
for some few there is enough about them
to interest us though the news is bad.
These ants, you see, are made of fire
and they are burning legs of dogs and
folks like us. How would we feel?
How do we feel? Lost in a sea of
ants. Swarming with flame. Eaten alive.
So that we become ants. What was
us now incorporated into ants.
Not the soul, some voice clambers loudly
with hammers bang bang not the soul!
The conviction strident beyond rumor
crusted over with religion and what mom said.
Shh. A hiss. The look.
I'm too afraid not to believe.
All seems reasonable, really, until you ask.
Until the snake comes whispering
questions mom did not want to hear
emerge from my lips. It's all dangerous.
Atoms especially and their silly children
And out there already (not now)
I am not doing this work, instead I'm
mouldering back into separate particles,
disseminating out into the world because
one day I knew what to do and began.
what I would have
you
without
the shakes
without
the snakes
without
the wine
no thing is ever in a poem what
it is
its shape dictates
otherwise. See these words are
colorful
athletic
wrought
in their endeavor, not trapped
which is how I would
have said it in
any
other
form
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Let Freedom Ting
You hear all the time that "freedom isn't free". I'm not looking for anyone to explain what is meant by these words. I think I understand that what they mean to say, but don't have the time nor inclination to elucidate, is that our lifestyle that we (don't really) enjoy is supported by our military's ability to forestall anyone else coming to insert themselves in our place. My experience of being able to walk to work and sit in a chair and in front of a glowing screen and walk back to my warm, safe home full of food and many, many wonderful amenities and set my wide ass down on a cushy couch and safely watch tragedies unfold (in living color) to other people in other places goes on without bombs and gunfire and militias disappearing my neighbors in the middle of the night. For this I am sometimes grateful, if I am not currently caught up in my own dramas.
But back to the mantra, "freedom isn't free" (nearly always introduced by the word "because")...how is it that we accept this phrase and assign it such pendulous weight and gravity, so much so that to even argue anything about it, as I am attempting to do here, brands me as some sort of anti-American? I just want to put down here that this is an idiot's phrase, vapid and meaningless. If freedom is not free, then it cannot be freedom. How much did anyone pay to exist again? Right. We are thrust into life from what we cannot know. (Perhaps we pay on the other side of life, but actual intel on this subject is suspiciously lacking.)
Freedom is free. Our right to unsustainable use resources that most of the rest of the world wants isn't free and requires the blood of our brothers and sisters to sustain.
May the god of your insecurities hold and coddle you, may he make up a face for you and encourage you to worship it, and may he make up solid reasons for you to use to continue not to evolve and realize that you are your own god and more, for that thought is troubling to you.
But back to the mantra, "freedom isn't free" (nearly always introduced by the word "because")...how is it that we accept this phrase and assign it such pendulous weight and gravity, so much so that to even argue anything about it, as I am attempting to do here, brands me as some sort of anti-American? I just want to put down here that this is an idiot's phrase, vapid and meaningless. If freedom is not free, then it cannot be freedom. How much did anyone pay to exist again? Right. We are thrust into life from what we cannot know. (Perhaps we pay on the other side of life, but actual intel on this subject is suspiciously lacking.)
Freedom is free. Our right to unsustainable use resources that most of the rest of the world wants isn't free and requires the blood of our brothers and sisters to sustain.
May the god of your insecurities hold and coddle you, may he make up a face for you and encourage you to worship it, and may he make up solid reasons for you to use to continue not to evolve and realize that you are your own god and more, for that thought is troubling to you.
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