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|Friday, March 24th, 2006|
(...a Fairy Tale for the Aftertime...)
If a secret is kept against her center
he can taste it now. Otherness includes the car
that will never start, pendulum rusting beneath
their second story window, the sighs condense
against the pane and let the sun try she says.
At once time she trusted the winter,
and with summer eyes, watched the headlines
burn across a land that writhes through scrutiny,
the new bell with a broken name, the dream still
burning from the pillage...and this was her country;
the scattered tents of the refugees of happiness
before that happiness became laced with fear and
content mediocrity. She was an addict turned flotsam
once the shifting began.
And before he lost his eyes he never
saw a thing. The monotone haze of the guilt he fled
far enough from to never call a home was a place of
fragments; droning voices, droning violence and the
after, his eyes were only masks, trained to avoid the
actual by staring through the stillness of the story,
before he lost his eyes his life was accented by the
bridge he never saw.
Once morning she found his dream
crumpled at her door step. So she lifted it into her
home and straightened its edges, showed it kindness,
and was thus led to his own front door on his own
morning saying i think i found something you lost.
Through the echo of the fable in that moment he
could almost see the summer in her eyes, could
almost watch her as they lifted into more and
In the snow she says you follow people
by the impact they leave; what couldn't support their
weight and was forced to change. Also the branches
and the breakings, where the one trying needed the
support to continue and left evidence that yes they
certainly were human. I found you by following the
heart that your dream still longed for.
...and how did I find you?
By believing in your dream enough to share your heart.
There were yes other lovers to explain, deaths
in the family to share, and her addiction to joy constantly
being injected or swallowed or recited into late night phone
calls, always a friend of a friend who knows a guy with a
truly lighthearted story. And she would listen and breath and
cry and laugh and be disappointed and she saved the best
for when he returned and they would lay for hours lost in the
paraphernalia of the purest they could find; the goodness that
can break you. She was an addict and he never watched her
The fear was unimaginable. Of being lost of being left,
of the heart, once morning, being found on another altar, having
dragged itself there during the night, starved and ravaged from
the long line of betrayals leading home. Or a note left in his ears
reading 'It was never mine. It was never yours.' But never the
fear of love having an ending. Now that it was what it was, even if
they abandoned this happening, even if they failed its light, it
would continue, from door to door, from this time to the next.
And once her eyes watched winter from a summer and
once he saw nothing, but believed. And once she did not return
from an evening walk, and he woke to 'It was never yours. It was
never mine.' And it seemed the seasons were changing, that there
would be a sightlessness that follows never seeing, and his dream
stood there, arms crossed beside a suitcase waiting for his blessing,
and he was tired of these bread crumbs he said.
Her habit drew through the door and every circle, the
places cities keep quiet, knowing what a cancer is, it seems that
the populace cannot decide what can be removed from the
body without killing it. And she watched. Knowing the rush will
be stronger, brighter, when found within this sober coldness. And
it was. She wept at street corner sermons; the madmen of belief
she called father, the change givers, the diamond nod, and the lost
soul helping the lost soul across the busy embarcadero. Her desire
overcame the want and the need surrounded its origin, until she
haunted the bowels of collective suffering, scattering a new laughter,
like apples, to the generation of the afterglow who were quickly
becoming dependent to the taste.
Once he never saw her summer watching all winter for
the whisper of blossoming and once she found his dream and
gave it kindness when what it needed was strength. She was lost
in the Pursuit of Happiness and he was frozen in the cold he knew
would never end...and in the center of this pulling we have the dream,
growing tired, beginning to forget that once it had heart enough to ask
a stranger to be, for a moment, an angel with eyes so human that
they might love what he could not see.
|Monday, January 16th, 2006|
Where does Rilke write-Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.
|Wednesday, December 7th, 2005|
The Eden Of the Second Guess
i can hear the upstairs breathing.
now without sound:
i can feel the upstairs waking,
the canyons hum, the heavens
i write with truth hidden in the distance,
attempting to make shape in the void:
a mouth, a polished voice.
something to hold up carefully
(the party will
never notice) and you see, look
at this! you see this. what i've
brought back (your hand warm against
me) (the canyons want) there must
be lyrics to the light. the way
this life has such a beneath.
(the guide, every year would steer
the boat around the falls and
say, every year, look! the back
of water! and, the thing is, i believed.)
(you see, there is a choice here)
back in the garden now, there is
(we. the all of us calling in a mist.
enough to cause the whole to glitter.
and never a rain.)
if you are listening, your mind turned
to the rising and falling, some of us
love what the fruit left, an empty blossom,
a self. that you desired to know me,
before the I was I.
I. also an empty stomach, also a
|Saturday, November 19th, 2005|
Interstate Genesis 19:1-26
traffic closed around them as a calender;
the light was ignored, broken up and seeded
across the dash.
resembling the map, open in her lap,
the fold, the crease of road and shadow,
ignored. their circles are evident,
his jaw set against the day.
shes said they are lost, in his sureness
he hasnt heard, just around this next turn
he thinks, but she has said they are lost, and
it was waved away, thrown from his choices
with a hand. it's open and shut, the idea,
she recognizes that yes this is a road,
there are these choices,
she also remembers saying the word lost.
knowing that home is something breathing,
she's feeding it again.
the dry wind of fleeing, her tongue
bitten and counting down.
slightly behind her husband, in shape,
both daughters side by side.
the light: full of fear as heaven
what they are inching from.
and she is turning.
just the word.
with its painted face and dressed
in perception she forced it into context,
a castaway truth beneath the surface of this city.
he knows the way is coming,
he is sure.
she is as well.
staring at the moment,
staring through the window,
was it for the turning you being rained down
disobedience? but the knowing of what
that love if for, the things and places
one shapes with worry, what you have
kept so clean. ready and open for the everyday.
..what is gathering above your country,
unwelcomed. haunting where you have welcomed
the angels and sinners of these devoted times.
footsteps slowing. stopping.
tears falling on this the blueprint of direction,
patternless, impacting the grey with
what exists only it its summary
hes driving slightly faster now, concerned,
pulling the end that much closer,
asking what is wrong, almost, we are
and she has said lost
have you forgotten, she knows the lies have
gone underground to chose their own battles
and no their is no hatred,
no anger towards or from,
you know when something will never try again.
he says just a little longer.
she asks what are you talking about?
left heel, pivoting. her eyes on the backs of
her family. begging for understanding.
he gestures at the way.
shes covered her mouth with the compass.
scanning the open gate, the walls, now there
the window. she knows the coolness of evening
just settling down. the spires and market
becoming transparent. she has turned.
you see. i told you, we're here,
this is done.
yes she says.
please. where the heart is.
she has swallowed. it is over.
still. so still. still staring,
i cannot believe it was your eyes that damned you.
and the book doesn't even give your name.
|Friday, July 1st, 2005|
America, prayer and Questions
god, it seems your sculptures have forgotten
god. your voice, lost in static, might be
saying; this is not me.
turn around minds eye
and witness the quiet break of what have we
how could we
how could it be
millions of eyes staring past something.
prayer held, in need and
released in hope
the exhales of belief, free floating the
surface of what?
where two or more are gathered
in what name, is ours polarized
side from the all of now, (when) the
father. the orphans of their motherland
strain for the sounds of fire
for the pale hand of justice
to come, or become, and strike down
the doors now barred.
even this is not quite right,
even all of this, these words
offered for some higher truth,
cannot whisper low enough, for
who to hear? cannot prostrate definition
in exchange for tone.
for mercy, leave us be, mercy, die and die
as fingers interlock, to release
what will damn us
and what, by mere accident, will set us free
and to what end
but THE end the fossils sing,
the distant horizon in the breaking of bread,
the tunnel heart of up or down,
and our own fear of center warmth.
once the veil splits, one side, two sides,
and the childs eye through the tear;
neutral in its devotion,
patient in the eternal eighth day,
for some assurance that the sun
meant to shine here, now.
that the footfalls through the greatest
of these halls sound of purpose,
checking every darkened way with
can anything be known?
as the pews are swept clean,
let history feel in the blanks:
now, the new prayer, for you to be,
or cease to be.
|Monday, June 27th, 2005|
Noon at the Castle
I write with a fountain pen, an antique, in fact.
Found it on eBay a while back. I like it, but I feel
self-conscious sometimes when people
see me screwing the top off. Who do you think
you are? Oh, you must be a WRITER. Yeah, well try a Bic.
There doesn't seem to be an easy comeback for not doing the easiest thing.
With that pen I wrote today that
every tragedy has its half-life.
What does that mean, guy with the old pen?
A fresh kill merits tact, but you can always wait.
In a few weeks things will calm down.
And that's good, like for the guys down Central
eating burgers for pennies an ounce.
It won't be long before they're laughing
about how the cute young thing
down the street had it coming, what with
that sassy mouth and the way she dressed and all.
They can finish their rings a little more
content with the thought that the universe hasn't
completely forgotten about the old guard at lunchtime,
and how some people just plain, by God, have it coming.
My fountain pen leaks sometimes. This makes writing with it
even more absurd. What sort of guy
writes with an old, leaky fountain pen?
Bics don't leak much, and they're cheap.
Jess in the third booth, again.
"Can't stand that crack dealer in my buildin' no more."
Jess has one dress, but she changes her hair every day
thinking it will make it look different.
Jess looks like every angry woman in your neighborhood your mother
tolerated when when you were little.
"s'matter, Jess, chargin' ya too much?"
A cough and a laugh.
Crossfire should be this good.
Suddenly, Tucker Carlson's in my head with his nose to the glass,
sucking in a long line of white. It'd probably do that
little git a lot of good.
I look down at my paper. Blue smears into some words
looking like a verbal Rohrschak. I see a bunny. I
see a scared young man with no idea what to do,
and a bunny. The bunny is getting friendly with
a line break. There's a title, too.
What am I doing?
These people don't want to read poetry.
How many people want to read poetry?
There's another one of those anomalies.
Everyone likes the idea of it being around,
and many even like playing with it,
but few the number who actually read it.
One one-hundredth of that group would actually
pay for it. Yes, Michael, spend all your free time
on that. Smart move. Poetry, the harmless pup no one feeds.
Who wouldn't rather watch someone get paid a couple hundred bucks
to eat a bowl of worms. Its easier than diving into
a bunch of images held together with spit and romantic philosophy.
I've actually seen that on TV, the part about the worms.
The journal, then my eyes, close.
Open. A fat man is standing over me with a tray
full of little empty boxes that smell like dead onions.
"My granddad used to write with one just like that.
Heh, his used to leak, too."
He bobbed his head for a second agreeing with himself
then limped his stinky load to the trash. Without looking
back he hobbled on out into the glaring street.
Poetry, life's leaky fountain pen.
I order some fries and open it up again.
Nothing that can't be fixed.
I wipe it down, grab the salt, and
begin putting the finishing touches on my bunny.
|Thursday, June 23rd, 2005|
you never looked so uncomfortable
as you did
in your canary cage
your ice age
floating down stream
I read the words
danced the dance
made haikus out of
when I was a girl
I dreamt of fields
marigolds and woven dreams
and all the while
I combed your hair
made you feel safe and perfect
and in some night
I fought myself
while filling up
on your tenderness
I took to the fields
and married my friend,
|Wednesday, May 25th, 2005|
Since I am already in hell the only thing left for me to do is work hard enough to earn my own room.
|Tuesday, April 19th, 2005|
|Friday, December 17th, 2004|
winter phone calls
autumn of the afterlove.
light without shadow;
the air is a ghost.
the attic of lungs,
every window sealed
time capsule, home.
for just the right thing to
say my love my love.
the meanwhile, all while
the torment of which
word which word
will touch the heart,
which line exposes
i the page.
as flesh, alone and only.
does the poem shift?
the all of
the all of it
still? till stillness?
the song, the same
a transient kiss,
without spine. only art.
buckle. tide to
measure of where
been and retreat.
|Monday, August 2nd, 2004|
For You: A Still Life
To write about the writing of the writing of the thing.
My journals are becoming an interlocking puzzle for the insane.
The titanic whimsical pop-up book for the gods.
But my confused genius (I'm sure I just need to fix a few broken wires)
can only imagine to make pieces of time, not the words. At some point
it becomes too much about the medium, and that is inexcusable.
No life should be so linear, even through the spasm of unexpecteds.
It is on paper, as it is in blood --
a collectanea of moments to be gathered up like kindling in the arms, then
tossed hard into an empty room to fall, break, leave shards of frozen
time on top of one another.
This scene is to exist on its own (the unread poem does not exist,
or does not become?) or to be happened upon like a nest
fallen to the forest floor?
Like an installation at the Walker Art Center:
"Still Life of the Poet's Mind"
(better than 92% of what resides there).
Sometimes, when I imagine myself as an old man,
this scene is what I picture. An entire German
hillside of books, pages. The scrawl staining the white
paper is the morning dew, and I am an abandoned castle
(mentioned briefly in books on the region)
sitting with my knees drawn to my chest. I am smiling
in the center of it all, assured of my place in the local
history and topology of a people.
e p i l o g u e
And plopped in the middle of this diorama
God himself shall tell me to freeze.
He will place a sign at my feet written in some ethereal ink
(secretly I will know its components, but I will hold my tongue)
and what it will say, though He will not know I know,
|Friday, July 30th, 2004|
The Pom Pom Tree
Shish boom bah
when I found her
big blue eyes looking for the everything -
compliments, jewelry, big blockbuster love,
words of poetry in fragile whispers.
I was a quiet, artsy guy.
A harmless nobody, really,
but I did read poetry.
And I didn't want much,
just a cheerleader,
So I got to know her when no one was around.
On park swings she was honest, and I was clever.
We each learned to laugh outside our own little worlds
watching the sun set on the summer of 1985.
One Friday night over ice cream
I convinced her to grab her uniform and meet me on the football field.
Right there on the 50 yard line
I told her to grab her shakers, arms outstretched
and strike her favorite pose.
She giggled, as I lifted her sporty skirt.
She stopped as I got closer, even closed her eyes.
"Shish, boom, bah", I whispered.
"The moon is watching us be free.
O how we shake the pom pom tree!"
And it did shake.
She giggled again, and then she came.
And a local urban legend was born.
We never spoke after that.
Happens that way sometimes.
I graduated and moved away
but heard rumors of that clear August night
from dreams and old friends who never left.
Rumor says she did it with Rick Thompson,
the star quarterback.
We both know better,
but I understand.
Did her lie weaken the roots?
Are its leaves boxed in the attic, or do they
hang on the wall of the nursery like proud,
Sometimes I worry about the pom pom tree.
I hear they got married right after graduation
and still live right there in the town.
Now and again, I'm sure she takes him to the old field.
And I'm sure he shakes it, thinking he's lucky
to have such a kinky wife, an ex-cheerleader, no less.
Just as I'm sure she wishes,
he'd put down the beer
and read some poetry.
|Wednesday, July 14th, 2004|
there have been miles passed without
something unnoticed is forgotten.
(who can shrug off passion misplaced as though
it were limitless?)
i breath as though growth
i grow without the wingspan.
(the silence between the fracture?)
(an eye turned from light.)
( a lapse)
(the feeling in a name.)
thirst holds the grudge
and drains the kiss.
(twenty one years and no familiar moments.)
(does your life forget to whisper?)
(can you miss an idea?)
memory so thick
it is weeping;
and every neglected
moment of courage
sketches a blind
the heart of a city
in my throat.
|Friday, April 23rd, 2004|
Awake, lost souls carried over nights beloved child
Black and white portraits, divine lust of forgotten faces
Eyes burnt in film, memoirs of a distant time
Ravaged, rapped, thoughts shook with fear
A sleep that never came
Left waiting with the other unknown victims
So exhausted from passion, there's none left to burn
swallow mans made enemy, deep into coma
With confidence brought strong
Reality so fake
Sip the gold from pleasures cup
melt your heart into a steal puddle
All is worth that of divine green beauty
Buy your soul, replenished with greed
Red saturn dressed ruby earrings bare naked
owned from such wealth
Buy their faith, buy her heart
But all in good will
You left so tired never to return
To an unstable mind, taste of senile truth
We forgot ourselves, forgot this past
When was the mist so bare, our conscience so free
A dream, a dream
Selling life to a casket
It seems none but ourselves can free our minds
Hands red and sore, so cold from treatment
Awake, blunt death and confusion
Awake, saved but deprived of the past we sold
Awake, reincarnate into a world of questions
Awake, bleed nothing from what we always had
~Thank-you for letting me join
I am up for any advice, so please leave some if possible
(a lot of it may not make sense, it just felt right at the time) Current Mood: sick
|Thursday, March 11th, 2004|
i've found this ritual that seems to fit. first it was more stretched out, and over a longer time-- but now it comes and goes in a minute. i smile so large that you can see all 28 of my teeth! then with a fleeting thought, not much more than the fact that he exists somewhere other than here, salty water pours from the space in my eyes. i want to call him back here, and summon all that his voice, and smile, and scent disturb inside me. he grew me, but with words stomped me shorter. in 31 days he spread fertilizers, and sprinkled water, and dug his fingers back into the earth and pulled me by the neck to make me tall. i want him to see my height, and length, want him to hear my inflection, and sound out my growth. he says he drops his words, instead of bloodying fists. but i've felt nothing.
|Saturday, January 24th, 2004|
A Look Through the Window
I am posting this out of respect for the nature of this journal. If you like what you are about to read, take a look at my journal, Prodigal Sun, Reflections of a Reckless Light.
What is this?
These words are only a reflection of what is happening
a conversation at midnight after a seamless day of bad decisions
The chronicle of yes
in that affirmation something pure
In turn it will give back to the night
a breathable pitch that will keep corner alleys
open systems, even come sun
No closure shall be found, leading to entropy
that which is kept open stays alive, fresh air incites living
True in cold touch physics as in tear filled hospital
rooms of dying.
Take them out
Take their husks to hilltop country and let the wind lift their untying skins, frighten them into a last glimpse of the humor in our frailty. The wind will not let them die. They have kept leaves aloft, dead for days on the fallen and buried ground.
This one, who still breathes, houses much hope to another day. He may still have wise musings, laughter for children and piercing looks that will goad us to charges
Before having had his fill
of even spring breezes,
Let life weather me down to such aging, while the gales of looming adventure keep pulling me high. Together they will battle inside all of us while I dance only forward
seeking friends' laughing
stumbling happy to the drink
I find the moments many don't
A Stern Introduction
The last post in this journal was back in October? Come on all you starving hearts, you ravaged youth straining in cobweb alleys, get up...GET UP.
If you were born to write the holy burn
into page and ether, then you are being lazy.
Shock your soul back into the game.
Write in every spare moment
Read twice that
Be voracious in passion and purpose
It is up to you to change the universe
with unthinkable poetry and damnable prose
These are the tools, so get back to work.
See everything, always.
The journal is named after Rimbaud.
Don't shame him.
|Friday, October 17th, 2003|
sleep of the chaste
Should the box be opened, where reeking shadows slobber
for the chance to be thrown at butterflies?
Or…should we forget? Yes,
( AS WE HAVE BEEN FORGOTTEN )
the determined snares: appearing, vanishing
eyelashes drumming the beat
while the shy monstrosity-colonized!-danced.
Good, but not nimble, not good enough, the intern Monarch graded.
Should we step out to say aloud:
Honesty blinds! Honesty castrates!
Honesty blinds! Honesty annihilates!
and rescue the dismembered torso
tuned stumps singing of those
who would make us ashamed
of our skein of normal earth?
Closer! Let’s listen:
“Who is the true flagellant, the real charred devil? I,
or you who beat me with your sticks
‘til I denounced a way of being
in the style of ancients
as old as extinct beasts
sawed my body from my spirit
made a caste in your own timid image?”
You there! Drawing back!
Innoculating yourself with amnesia!
Remember when you were just a hopeful grub?
From now on you’ll drink water from tedious blossoms
balance on broken stalks
-this, judgment of a tossed shadow.
Having been washed in the body’s heat, the soul’s light
the sky cannot tame or sully it.
But these are old and sad songs.
A need to unearth relics is ruinous
-we choke on delirious delicacies.
Now, we’ll shake the bones!
Roll them, crack them open…
“Feed me flesh, soul, in balanced mystique,” it said.
I thought I was the only one here.
Was it you, nothingness,
in your dark, unpainted room?
Yes. I believe so.
The open-throated euphoria of your tongue
loosens my hair too early in the day…
Silence! Distance! Take my hand! Hide me!
“Vigil, moving more like a compass than starlight, when?”
Out of the light they come, half-insect, half-priestess
to lap up the jumping blood of nightmares.
|Friday, April 4th, 2003|
what lays in each one?
the heart of a lover
the mind of a genius
the body of a goddess
choose your fate, before someone else does. Current Mood: cold
|Friday, February 7th, 2003|
it's been a while.
full circle and gaining fast-
your flame is folding like a bow-
the seeds you sew-
will never seem to last.
taming words you never learned-
and killing time you always kept-
pain falls deserved-
when you become inept.
'tender this flesh as payment'
for your time here
you spend it, you earn it
and certainly you spend
well i've given myself,
watched the grill with teeth clenched tight
and your pillsbury grin as you chew.
with one last breath
and with one last pull of the muscle
my brain sparks into wisdom
a realized man, at the end
i use my strength and my anger
to take back my self and my gore
"you'll have no more,
you rotten stinking hag
my flesh is my own, and my wish...
my wish is that you,
in your depth of disgusting
would leave me to die by myself.
my time has been wasted
in making you healthy
while losing myself all the while.
so get out, i don't need
that insufferable satisfaction
of giving and being taken advantage of."
the life stretched the floor
staining everything crimson
and finally rest caught my soul. Current Mood: creative