Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Dream beetle; draft #3

And I sit on dry turf
sinking into the hillside's fair chalky meadow
dry summer day clouds
mixed crimson magenta and for months ash masked sunsets the world over.
My minds eye sees beetles burrowing through the dung of my dreams
metallic rose and black carapace
mandibles grind rock to dust
palpi feel for food and digest
stone-dust their waste back-filling tunnels
like analid these anthropods mix like no sex does.

I now know as no sense can tell:
sun enriches skin vitamin D
eyeballs turn back toward brain
eyelids flutter as the butterfly
and like Chuang-Tzu before me
beauty amazes confounds confuses amuses,
but leaves ever after an awe of the unknown.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Dream beetle; draft #2

I sit on the dry turf
sink into hillside's fair chalky meadow
dry summer day clouds mixed crimson magenta
and for months ash masked sunsets the world over.
My minds eye sees beetles burrowing through the dung of my dreams
crimson and black carapace
mandibles grind even rock to dust
palpi feel for food and digest
stone-dust their waste back-filling tunnels
like analid these anthropods mix like no sex does.

I now know as no sense can tell:
sun enriches my skin with vitamin D
eyeballs turn back toward my brain
eyelids flutter as the butterfly
and like Chuang-Tzu before me
beauty amazes confounds confuses amuses,
but leaves ever after an awe of the unknown.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Dream beetle

To relax I sit on the dry turf
sink into hillside's fair chalky meadow
dry summer day clouds mixed crimson magenta
an ash tinted sunset for months the world over.
My minds eye sees beetles burrowing in the dung of my dreams
and their mandibles even rock grinds to dust
their palpi feel for food and digest
stone-dust their waste back-filling tunnels
like analid these athropods mix like no sex does.

I now know like no sense can tell:
and as the sun enriches my skin with vitamin D
my eyeballs turn back toward my brain
eyelids flutter as the butterfly
and like Chuang-Tzu before me
beauty amazes confounds confuses amuses,
but leaves ever after an awe of the unknown.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

A letter I need to send (from rhyming exercise)

I pretend to have a letter I need to send
and though writing is not a sin
heaven forfeits what it does not let in;
letter written in blood if I was anemic I'd been dead long since.

Everything's still the same
even when we change the rules or dress up the name:
society maimed made lame
no one and everyone is to blame
even though he never came.

In unison they swing their canes
dapper dressed they walk along
one way while our lives wind
not as a literal time-piece
but as wisps of wind that catch your face
and bring relief on a hot day.

In this autumn month (from Brainstorm #1)

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through thin window pane
down leaf strewn street
and scattered about rags plastic bags butts discarded wrappers
black gum-tar stuck everlasting a polka dot distraction
faded beer cans smashed flat like aluminum paper.

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through cracked window pane
unable to stop the loud sound
of other people's matters late into the night
lost at sea must be seen to believe but invisible to most:
like the late night moan of the trolley
letting the whole house know the weekend schedule of the number ten.

In this autumn month
eyes gaze through the thin veil of window pane
farsighted I bare witness to the long and slow groan
of earth's internal clock tearing a hole through space and time
seeping into living matter and finding its way into
blood choked scream screened streets
that are rivers in our lives.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Cicada's Song; Draft #3

Cicadas sing the clack and click of timbals,
a cacophony for hot summer days
when sticky sweat runs down slippery backs.

timbals buckle out bend back in,
dispersing a shaking sound as of rattles
the noise rising and falling like
deep and repeated knife stabs,
unending even deep past dim light into night
descending out from trees off into humid and misty airs over fields
of sword grass grown fat off flood plain waters.

And thus the male hearkens to its mate,
and screaming at me through ossicle and cochlea
he becomes proof positive:
time plays out moment by moment,
burdens are rewards all their own,
and the cicada's empty rust-colored shells shed
symbolic carcass an ironic but muted reminder of the cycle of life.

Brainstorm #1

Eyes gaze through window pane and down
street strewn with leaves in this autumn month
street littered with discarded wrappers and wasted human lives.

Eyes gaze through window pane and across
homes sittings on low hills slanted doorways
witness to the hard crunch of modern lives
for people that do not breathe the clean air
for people that do not breathe the free air
for others that do not share a sense of home,
lost in a sea that I see but is invisible to most.

Eyes gaze through window pane and far off
men strong and brave and men weak and timid
stand along side each other and and share in the contempt
that has been building in the sum of living matter in the sum of human thought
in the the blood choked scream screened streets that are rivers
in our lives.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Rhyming Exercise #1; Draft #3

I pretend to have mail I need to send
and though this is not a sin
heaven forfeits what it does not let in.

Everything's still the same
even when we change the rules or dress up the name:
societies maimed made lame
no one and everyone is to blame
even though he never came.

Together and at once swinging their canes
dapper dressed walking one way:
our lives wind away not as literal time-pieces
but as wisps of wind that catch your face
and bring relief on a hot day.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Rhyming Exercise #1; Draft #2

I pretend to have mail I need to send
heaven forfeits what it does not let in,
but this is not a sin.
Why do I have to start this over again?
Everything stays the same and even when we change the rules
the game is still the same but with a different name:
no one and everyone is to blame
societies maimed made lame
and he never returned let alone came.

Together and at once they swung their canes
dapper dressed walking down Main
a one-way route bargain:
your life winds away not as a literal time-piece
but as the wisps of wind that catch your face
and bring cool and dry relief on an otherwise hot day
Can we dance can we play, can we laugh our pain away?

Saturday, October 24, 2009

whimper (final draft more or less)

passed down through generations
tangled fur, twisted teeth
the ragged glare of teeth bared
against the solitude of a witch-black forest.
Pine needles soften the sound
footsteps and sound of a dog dying,
so soon heard in echoes
as flesh from bone begins
the vagaries of rot

only to be recycled and found renewed in
the lives of other things,
as leaves of trees
or the moss between our toes.

But death sounds still long for tender days
not of misfortune made,
or truth that so too fades
into darkness turned soft blue
against the coming of the sun.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Cicada's Song; Draft #2

Cicadas sing and the clack and click of timbals,
not music but a cacophony for hot summer days
and sticky sweat running down slippery backs.

The timbals buckle out and then bend back in,
dispersing a shaking sound as of rattles
the noise rising and falling like
deep and repeated knife stabs,
unending even deep past dim light into night
descending out from trees
and off into the humid and misty airs over forest and field.

I imagine grasses thick with rattlesnakes,
or man made automatons set at times
to scream at me through ossicles and cochlea.

And thus males hearken to their mates
proof positive that time plays out moment by moment,
burdens are rewards all their own,
and the cicada's empty rust-colored shells symbolic
carcasses an ironic muted reminder of the cycle of life.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Cicada's Song: Draft #1

Cicadas sing with clack and click of timbals,
music an unknown care too slowly evolves:
timbals buckle out and then bend back in,
shaking sound of rattles
rising and falling like a gentle knife stab,
unending in the evening's dim light
ascending up into trees
and off into the humid and misty airs over forest and field.

I imagine grasses thick with rattlesnakes,
or man made automatons set at times
to scream at me through ossicles and cochlea.

And thus males hearken to their mates
proof positive that time plays out moment by moment,
their empty rust-colored shells symbolic
carcasses an ironic muted reminder of the cycle of life.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 2, Draft #2

Sometimes it comes up in conversation so I tell people that I grew up on a farm. Along with that declarative statement, I usually add that it was only for 5 years. I say this to make two points: 2) I didn't spend my entire childhood on a farm; and 2) It was a significant amount of time for me because up to that point in my few and tenders years, I hadn't lived anywhere more than a couple years. This leads to more conversation: you see, my dad built and rebuilt power plants, and you don't keep building power plants in the same town for too long. The work moves on, and so my family did. That all changed when we moved to the farm in Pike township on Lobachsville Road. From that point on, my dad would do the moving and we would stay put. Stay tuned later for how that worked out.
Our driveway made a large loop around the corn crib: on the southeast side sat our stone farmhouse, and on the west side sat our barn: I was always proud to say it was circa-Revolutionary War because I've always had a fascination with history and how buildings and artifacts connect us with the past and how age old these out of the way places could be, along rural routes, fields, and feed mills. To get to the bus stop, we would round the loop, passing the north side of the barn. South of the barn was the barnyard, where we kept our small herd of sheep. Although the barn yard was a shorter distance, we were supposed to keep to the driveway because the yard was always so dusty and musty.
I once went to school with sheep shit on my clothes; there I was sitting in class, and I guess the kids sitting next to me started to smell something. And then I guess I started to smell something. But you know, I didn't really think it was me, just sort of smelled a bad shit smell; and I was in fifth grade so how cognizant could I have been about all these events? In the moment I must have been, but too worried about catching the intricacies of elementary school than anything else.
What could I have done to get sheep shit on my clothes? I did cut through the barnyard to save time walking to the bus stop. I did climb the fence to get into and out of the barnyard. And though I didn't realize it was me until after I sat alone in the nurses suite in a back room near the washer and dryer, somehow, surely I must have wiped my body up against some sheep shit.
Lucky for me the school had an extra set of gray sweat clothes. I didn't look very cool, but it was better than smelling like poop, and really I never looked very cool. Looking back, I am glad this happened when I was only in 5th grade; not yet old enough to care or to feel the sting of estrangement.

Baked Dreams, part 2 (formerly This Ancient Thread; Strand 4, Part 2)

Our footfalls led us west and we walked until in peculiar fashion
we stumbled upon a symmetric yet soft rock
who lost its origins to the sands of time,
but that we named The Mushroom.

It sat in a courtyard dug into the earth
ten feet below shrub-lined North Burrowes;
well hidden enough: people walked by
and didn't notice us unless they stopped and stooped and said hello.
But they never did.

The Mushroom sat cornered in shadow
between Hosler and Dieke,
and we admired it as some odd testament to nature:
this rock on a pillar that we took turns climbing on,
that we took turns speaking on
words belching forth
as if The Mushroom itself gained voice,
as if words themselves were diamonds
whose many rainbow sprayed facets
had caught our eyes for the first time.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

belly of the beast

Our bodies grow
of and from
nature impregnable;
though wind tunnels travel through
sandblast hard metal caps
and building’s tumbled rock

and dagger glass red cut carpets
beaten hanged and rotten
left to be eaten,
left to be left inside the heart ache
mind of quashed dreams
(shaken
sound rattles on
long
licked out
dried dead drums
of fine furs).

I recall the rhythm
of pebbles thrown,
concentric circles lapping the edges
of memory
of pumpernickel lives;
hindsight condemning misdeeds
of condoms seen
and memories that no longer lift
the lighter weight of spirit
kismet my dream,
the bowels of the belly echoes;
for today the coming of a breathless shaking tomorrow.

But do not forget breakfast:
tofu scrambler green pepper onion tomato

home fries black pepper and onion oregano,
digest while I rage
digest while I ride
digest while I read;

digest
in the belly of the beast.

Rhyming exercise #1

This is a simple rhyming exercise. Here are the rules and how you can vary from them:
1. Last word in each line must rhyme (or first word, second word, etc.)
2. Every 5-10 lines you must use slant rhyme to switch the rhyming sound. (or you could give more exact requirements).
3. Repeat steps 1-2 as long as desired

Mail I need to send
pretend
heaven forfend
can you let me in?
May I begin
to look through your many bins
this is not a sin
must start this over again
everything that can will remain
because everything stays the same
changing the rules but playing the same old game
the same game under different names
no one and everyone is to blame
societies maimed
and made lame
even if we never came
all at once we swung our canes
dapper dressed we walked down the lane
between buildings, the two busy streets, main
thoroughfares one-way routes bargain
your life away with what little that remains
can we stay?
Can we play?
Can we dance this day
Can we laugh our pain away?

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Prescience of Serve (Draft #4)

When the ball is held under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the need for calm reason:
with mere moments to decide the course of events
I must steady my hand and somehow stop my sweat soaked bandanna from running into my eyes.
One serve means one chance to get it right:
indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your face hard enough to leave a mark.

I walk to the table to face my opponent,
ball in hand I bend over and breath on it:
to clean it of dust
to lend it my spirit wind.
Palm up, hand drops
rests near the table's edge,
ball playing solitaire in the leveled center of my hand.
Body tenses as it comes to rest
my breath exhales as a single soft stroke to settle the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
and as it descends racket smacks and sends it flying
a low drive down the line dead ball flat steady but still soft as she goes.

His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy
my muscles remember how his racket's rubber imparts its own spin
unique as fingerprints.
My second shot: racket swings low to the ground on my forehand side,
my body crouches then motion
springs praxis: hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
Racket and ball connect, a SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach:
at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Prescience of Serve: Draft #3

When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the need for calm reason:
with mere moments to decide the course of events
I must steady my hand and stop the sweat
that has long since soaked my bandanna, from running down my face.
One serve means one chance to get it right:
indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.

I walk to the table to face my opponent,
and with ball in hand I impart my breath
to clean it of dust to lend it my spirit wind.
Palm up, my hand drops and rests near the tables edge,
ball playing solitaire in the bowl of my hand.
Body tenses as it comes to rest, and my breath exhales as a single soft stroke to settle the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low drive down the line dead ball flat steady and soft as she goes.

His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy as my muscles remember how his racket's rubber imparts its own special stamp, its own special spin.
I swing my racket low to the ground on my forehand side,
my body crouches and motion springs praxis:
hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
Racket connects with ball, sends it SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
And at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Prescience of Serve: Draft #2

When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
and your sweat abated.
You have mere moments to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right: indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.

I walk to the table to face my opponent,
and bringing the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath
to clean it of any dust and lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops palm up
ball playing solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs to calm the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line dead ball flat.

His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
My racket brought low
my body crouches and motion springs praxis:
hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
And at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.

Prescience of Serve: Draft #1

When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
your sweat must be abated.
You have mere moments to think
to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right because indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.
I walk to the table to face my opponent
I bring the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath:
to clean it of any dust I lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops, and bumping the table
it settles just above and behind the line,
palm up ball resting solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, my exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs that calms the nerves.
I gently, quickly toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line
my anti delivering it dead ball flat.
Ball rebounds this time a baby faced blooper
to my forehand, and confidence now weighing heavy:
to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
I bring my racket low
my body crouches as I spring into motion.
My hand arcs up through the ball
as body turns with left arm's new come flight.
This ball driven hard a smash to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
At a points end, he reflects now on the the essential nature of foot work.

Ramshack Trashcans

There- Among the tottering
ramshackle four-story brick row homes
built from misery and missed opportunities,

There- Trashcans overflow
amid downpours and indifference:
gutterjunk needles thick with disease
don't get caught out in the street!
wet walls of dry pastels
as poisoned blood
now collects in puddles.

In the dark and busted though thick glass
ground to clay choked like bone dry mud,
cleft knives a harbinger of centuries-long neglect
played out in front of your eyes.
A mural: cube men hungering for labor
swinging thick hammers one hundred pounds hard,
but dirt-caked the color of iron-red
cramped with living flesh amid the confusing and violent,
like a theater stage for all mankind.

And the children carry upon their shoulders
our dust wept sherry-caramel apple filling flavored lives.

A Soon Shattered Day

Across meads thick brown with tussocks
field-gray soldiers march,
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescent moons do.

Ahead distant smoke curls up and is caught in the light wind
in wisps it drifts away from homes
dug deep into warm hillsides.
But they soon follow paths
that tread through snow and past frozen ponds.
Cold white breath exhales across the calm meadow.
And as rough-hewn glass before it cracks
the still ice reflects the fading light
of this soon shattered day.

From my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk of death.
No one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits,
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...

And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats:
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantically whisper,
rugs made sure
closets and chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
casts into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in and the door collapses
dust scatters and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

A Soon Shattered Day

Across meads of thick brown tussocks
field-gray-clothed soldiers march
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescents do.

Ahead distant smoke curl in wisps away from
homes dug deep into warm hillsides.
Soon, they followed paths
that tread through snow and pass by half frozen ponds.
And as rough hewn glass before it cracks,
the still ice reflected the fading light of
the soon shattered day.


But from my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk-death,
no one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long:
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits lands on my groin
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...

And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats,
garments too soft for this day of cold steel hands.
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantic whispers, some will surrender,
some will become martyrs,
some elders wise but wait panic in their chests shallow breath,
rugs made sure or closets or chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
cast into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in as the door collapses,
dust scatters, and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.

Reflections on Driving East: A Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon (Draft #3)

The Pacific Northwest falls away behind me.
A haze of dust masks distance
mountains turn to shadow in my driver side mirror.
Every twist or curve of the road
bares the fruit of glimpses,
my past glides slides to my left
slides to my right:
Three Sisters all too soon fade from view
but remain white-capped cindered cones
splashed across my memory.

Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads wind betwixt
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes as far as the eye can see.
And even in this high scrub-land out of way place,
runs blistered and cracked two lanes of blacktop.

The need for repair evident in
the presence of work crews and work trucks.
I smell tar and crushed stone
as it mixes with the fumes of air I breathe.
And I wonder as I drive
fast as thunder shoved coast to coast
across a storm stricken sky
piercing this mighty body in two.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Baked Dreams; part 1 (formerly This Ancient Thread; Strand 4, Part 1)

Evening was our oyster, the Juggling Suns
jamming square pegs in our circular holes:
at least that's how it felt, our heads compressed,
cracked and crushed.
Laughter, big thoughts, levitation,
and smooth anticipation driving nails: music
that drifts to eardrum and plays like harp strings gently tugged.

Open field tucked into trees and Old Main,
crisscross of pathways:
soft gray splotches of people
students sitting in circles casting soft shadows in the dark of night.

The World Turtle led the way:
beak pointed north, the universe at her beck and call.
Thus she led us into day turned gray then night,
but not lies led on high
enjoying our destinies as if fate itself could be contained in this uncontrollable world.

The World Turtle and us her disciples,
following as dogs wag tongues,
and the saliva they drip
evaporated but slowly in the humid State College air.

Monday, September 7, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 4, Part 1, Draft #1

Tactile rainbows night of new feelings
symptoms of social order-system shock
too hard to ignore too soft to grasp
white knuckled in late evening's failing light.

Evening was our oyster, Juggling Suns
jamming square pegs in our circular holes:
at least that's how it felt, heads compressed,
our little brains crushed too full to cracking with laughter, big thoughts,
levitation and smooth anticipation driven nails: music
that drifts to eardrum and plays like harpstrings gently tugged
melody pure.


The World Turtle led the way:
beak pointed north, the universe at her beck and call.
Thus she led us into day turned gray then night,
but not lies led on high
brownies prepped the week before in a kitchen off campus,
enjoying our destinies as if fate itself could be contained in this uncontrollable world.

The World Turtle led the way, dark splotched in the rarefied starlight,
and us her disciples, followed as dogs wag tongues and drip saliva,
evaporating but slowly in the humid State College air.

Clammy Hands and Homemade Looks

Clammy hands and quiet looks at girls
sweaty ass crack on a split plastic seat.
I shift in my seat, back sliding down then up, awkward in my cramped chair.

Shorts too short
the price you pay for homemade looks
shorts too short,
Daisy Dukes, says a friend.
Bad enough that here I am, young man spinning clay
into forms bestial and ugly, one of only three guys
in a class run by a hippie in new-aged rags,
dark purples and rainbow sparkles shifting and swaying
with every move of her hips or hands.

My stomach turns and I feel pale pink puke
spattering my throat like magma splashing the rim of a caldera,
and all I recall is the feeling of fear:
of being being called out,
being singled out as someone other than them.
Daisy Dukes, they would say over and over, not all at once, but still
from time to time, Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes.
The General Lee was parked out front at my high school
so how was I supposed to feel?

We grow out of this, so some say, we grow older,
but memory yet keeps the past alive
as embers snug in cow dung,
carried from camp to camp.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Of Remembering Kittens (formerly This Ancient Thread; Strand 3)

There always were a lot of cats on the farm,
and kittens birthed so often that imagined
irrational fears of mothers like Black Mama, a dark mottled calico,
stuck fast in mind and memory.
Suckling her litter out of the way in one of the pig sties,
our lookout posted so she could not catch us unawares
should she come round the corner.

Another mama had one tell-tale eye
puss green pale filament stabbing me a ray of evil light in the dark of middle night,
one leg curled up useless by her side,
mangled tan fur rooted with burs.
She reliably had kittens two or three times a year.
Some one thought she was sexy. Someone thought she was too good to resist.

Most of our kittens survived barely long enough to remember,
and far too short for names.

I remember kittens:
crushed under the right rear wheel of our shit brown Suburban;
eaten by wild animals, left to rot as hollow shells of ribs,
headless empty of innards;
shocked fried stuck stinking caught up in the electrical underbelly
of the freezer that sat squat and cold on our porch,
but the death I remember most deserves a story all its own.

To keep kittens away
my dad built a wooden plank across our porch top step.

One day,
a friend of my second older brother must have been in a hurry leaving our house.
He rounded the corner of our porch enclosed by age-old stone wall
quickened pace stepping right through said wooden plank,
plank kicked far ajar, now dislodged
scraped stone, but could not hide the sound of kitten crushed
and killed faster than it ever knew what hit it.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 3, Draft #2

There were always a lot of cats on the farm,
to the extent that we even had irrational fears of some of the mothers,
like Black Mama;
her a dark mottled calico,
suckling her litter out of the way
in one of the pig sties,
lookout posted in case she might come around the corner.

Another mama had one tell-tale eye glazed over,
pussy green
and one leg curled up useless by her side;
mangled and uncared for fur tan colored rooted with burs.
And she, in spite of her hard-road ways,
reliability had kittens two or three times a year.
Some one thought she was sexy. Someone thought she was too good to resist.

In fact, most of our kittens survived barely long enough to remember,
and far too short for names.

I remember kittens crushed under the right rear wheel of our shit brown Suburban;
kittens stalked and eaten by wild animals, left to rot as hollow shells of ribs, headless,
empty of innards;
kittens shocked fried stuck stinking
caught up in the electrical underbelly
of the freezer that stood on our porch;
but the death I remember most deserves a short story all its own.

To keep kittens off the front porch,
my dad built a wooden plank across the top step.
This was done in response to the electrocution incident
and because cats were always getting hit by one of the two doors on the porch.

One day a friend of my brother must have been in a hurry leaving our house.
He rounded the corner, as our porch was enclosed by an age-old stone wall,
and stepped right through the wooden plank, kicking it far ajar.
The wooden plank, now dislodged, scraped stone,
but could not hide the sound of kitten crushed
and killed probably faster than it ever knew what hit it.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Smell Like Poop (formerly This Ancient Thread; Strand 2)

When I say I grew up on a farm, I always add that it was only for 5 years. I say this just to clarify that I didn't spend my entire childhood on a farm. However, it was a significant time because up to that point of my life I hadn't lived anywhere more than a couple years; my dad built and rebuilt power plants, and you don't keep building power plants in the same town for too long. The work moves on, and so my family did. That all changed when we moved to the farm in Pike township. From that point on, my dad would do the moving and we would stay put. How would that work out?
Our driveway made a large loop around the corn crib: on the southeast side sat our stone farmhouse, and on the west side sat the great barn from the 1780's. To get to our bus stop, you would have to round the loop and then pass the north side of the barn. South of the barn was the barnyard, and dusty and musty though a shorter distance, we were instructed to instead keep to the driveway.
I once went to school with sheep shit on my clothes; there I was sitting in class, and I guess the kids sitting next to me starting to smell something. I started to smell something. But you know, I didn't really think it was me, just sort of smelled a bad shit smell. What could I have done to get sheep shit on my clothes? I did cut through the barnyard to save time walking to the bus stop. I did climb the fences to get into and out of the barnyard. And though I didn't realize it was me until after I sat alone in the nurses suite in a back room near the washer and dryer, somehow, surely I must have wiped my body up against some sheep shit.
Lucky for me the school had an extra set of gray sweat clothes. It didn't look very cool, but it was better than smelling like poop. Looking back, I am glad I was only in 5th grade; not yet old enough to care or to feel the sting of estrangement.

Friday, August 21, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 1, Draft #2

This memory could be of any day, so let us say _____.
Clammy hands, quiet looks at girls,
my ass on cracked plastic, lower half of a warped wooden desk.
Shifting in my seat I slide my back down then up
awkward in my cramped chair.

Shorts too short, the price you pay for homemade looks,
shorts too short, Daisy Dukes, says a friend.
Bad enough that here I am, young man spinning clay
into forms bestial and ugly, one of only three guys
in a class run by a middle-aged hippie in new-aged rags.
The price of adolescents, attempting to stand out by not standing out.

My stomach turns over and I feel the pale pink puke
splashing my throat like magma spattering the rim of a caldera,
Accompanied by the fear of being called out,
being singled out as someone other than them.
Daisy Dukes, they would say over and over, not all at once, but still
from time to time, Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes.
The General Lee was parked out front at my high school,
so how was I supposed to feel?

We grow out of this, so some say, we grow older,
but memory yet keeps the past alive
as embers snug in cow dung,
carried from camp to camp.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 1, Draft #1

A sample of austere efficiency,
copper brown but mixed with black.
Memory of any day, so let us say _____.
Clammy hands, quiet looks at girls,
In need of something, of what? Of what was I certain?

Shorts too short, the price you pay for homemade looks,
shorts too short, Daisy Dukes, says a friend.
Bad enough that here I am, young man spinning clay
into forms bestial and ugly to look upon.
The price of adolescents, the eternal search for cool.

Black is a pit in my stomach, a constant ache
or fear of being called out, being singled out as someone other than them.
Daisy Dukes, they say over and over, not all at once, but still
from time to time, Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes.

We grow out of this, so some say,
we grow older but memory
imperfect though it may be,
keeps thoughts and feelings alive
as embers snug in cow dung.

A Thousand Threads In One (formerly Thread Prologue); finished poem

I bend to look at a thread:
it runs ahead too far to see
and the beginning of it, far off behind,
a dot in the endless distance.
This thread worn but not frayed,
copper brown through the long passage of time.
And as if peering down a microscope
I see that it splits into a thousand smaller strands,
some thin but well worn burs whose itch tell a tale;
others robust, full and smooth to the touch, lightly used and ready for any task;
some long, pulled thin but still clinging with what little it might pull;
some stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life;
pale gold and silver reflections of starlight.
One thread in a thousand. A thousand threads in one.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Reflections on Driving East: Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon: Draft #2

The Pacific Northwest falls away behind me.
A haze of dust masks distant mountains
turn to shadow in my driver side mirror.
With every slight bend or curve of the road,
glimpses from my past glide slide to my left
slide to my right:
Three Sister's all too soon fade from view,
but remain white-capped cindered cones
splashed across my memory.

Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads wind betwixt
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes as far as the eye can see.
And even in this high scrub-land out of way place,
runs blistered and cracked two lanes of blacktop.

The need for repair evident in
work crews and work trucks:
I smell the tar and crushed stone
as it mixes with the fumes of air I breathe.
and I wonder as I drive
fast as thunder shoved across a storm stricken sky,
or as a lightning strike knife stab
thrust from coast to coast,
piercing this mighty body in two.

This Ancient Thread; Prologue, Draft #2

I bend to look at a thread I see before me;
it runs ahead too far for me to see,
and the beginning of it runs far off behind me,
a dot in the endless distance.
This thread is worn but not too well worn,
copper brown after the long passage of time.
And as if peering downward through a microscope
I see that it frays into a thousand smaller more intimate strands,
some thin but well-worn, burs whose itch tell the tale;
others robust and strong, full and smooth to the touch, unused but nevertheless ready for their task;
some long, pulled thinner still but clinging with what little might pull;
some stained with blood, stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood from iron wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life of the sun; pale gold and silver glittering reflections of starlight.
One thread is a thousand. A thousand threads is one.

This Ancient Thread; Prologue, Draft #1

I pull on this ancient thread
copper brown with the slow passage of time,
and it frays into a thousand smaller more intimate strands:
some thin but well-worn, burs that itch but help tell the tale;
others robust and strong, full and smooth to the touch, unused but nevertheless ready for their task;
some long, pulled thinner still but clinging with what little might pull;
some stained with blood, stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood from iron wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life of the sun; pale gold and silver glittering reflections of starlight.
One thread is a thousand. A thousand threads is one.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Reflections on Driving East: Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon; Draft #1

The West falls away behind me
as dust clouds mask distant mountains
turned to shadows in the rear-view.
Glimpses of the past slide to my left
and to my right with every curve of the road.
Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads winding
and winding between
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes
as far as the eye can see.
And even in this out of the way place,
only highway and scrub highland,
I ride fast as lightning, a thunder strike
knife stab, thrust from coast to coast
piercing the body in two.

Free Write B: Draft 2

Language
like love desires, demands to communicate,
but words
more than just body.
Love without language
lusts for body,
as animals without language.
Language
comes from life, or a dream to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen.
To make known, and to connect
without body.
Language
also as light, piercing molecules of air.
Connects without touching. Communicates without
body. Moves without moving.

Friday, August 7, 2009

My hand in time

My hand in time
motive-spread like jackals
seen scattered cross the savanna:
a backdrop of boom-clouds
puke pale white-dry their tongues,
wag and await the photographic memories
of rain bursts and shadows wrought
not in pigment.

Free Write B: Draft 1

language is likened to love, a need to communicate
but more than just the body. Love without
language, lusting for the body like
animals without language.
Language comes from life, a desire to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen. To
tell, to make known, and to connect
without body.
Language also as light, piercing
molecules of air, passing by
tiny pieces of matter. Connects
without touching. Communicates without
body. Moves without moving.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

taught to throw (Free Write A: Draft 3)

It was you who threw the first stone
who encouraged everyone to follow your lead.
You taught us the best stones to find: smooth flat and round.
You taught us the way to hold our hand to dangle our arm to lean over just so: bent at the knees head cocked, stone thrown near parallel whipped with a fast flick of your wrist.
You taught us what it sounds like when done right: kerplisch kerplisch kerplisch.

Monday, July 27, 2009

human thin

a silhouette, still
standing, reminds us of a wall,
its concrete at times carrying
a weight far heavier than the stone:
humans carry along what they drag behind.

a road revealed soon becomes more traveled and
when the earth rotates on an axis defined by science
and not by touch it soon too exhibits
an orbital wobble.

a circle, perfect but
the quick path is not always straight,
the sun shines between cirrus clouds
and in humble mumbles we utilize
the cracks and corners of small places.

and lonesome, an absent
empty frame,
never to be full.

through time and the inevitable way that objects change;
and in seeing erase the past
in listening write the present
in thinking foretell the future.
only from hope breeds fear.

living lasts only so long
dying is short,
forever without pain,
absence of thought, only still the constituent parts
of protons and neutrons and electrons,
at the heart of the matter.

two ends pull
until one end resigns;
until the shorter end
tires, two ends pull.

fabric is not as strong after washing.
a strong root dies if it rains too much
laying down is dying
though gravity always wins.
the end of it
most times human thin.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Relative as humidity

Water droplets
begin relative as humidity,
form shape and softness
then roll down leaves
of skeletal and firm constitution.
Tears collect at tips as crystals
and for a moment they cling, then
a quiet phud
as they fall through gravity:
moving magnifying glasses
shattered upon the grass.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Rarely warm days

Cold winter nights
rarely warm days
shortened
by science
lengthened
by man.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Walk through.

Walking, hands in motion
agitates the cool layer of air
beneath the zippered underarms of a rain jacket.

Feet, ragtag holes through worn soles
damp clings to feet
yet still my pace brings me nearer,
yet still I'm left wet bare on the rock:
limestone dissolves
into sinkholes and sunshine blinds my sins.

Walk, step left step right and on and on...

Exhale into soft spread fabric covered in cool condensation
until it's life warmth fades and sublimes into this air we share.

Walk up await
the coming morning
and from dawn's perspective see
people
between the lines
people
the prickly sensation of red weather-raw flesh
and goose bumps too loose
people:
some stand their cheek skin stretched
thin, pale lips groping for life as barely
as a five-cent return on a beer can;
some apt to hone skills,
the genius of stale tobacco turned into streetwise cigarettes;
while others, stumbling foot in front of foot
walk in suspended time,
broken and half-human but for some inexorable craving
for beer for meth for crack for crazy
for tears mixed crimson
in the world's grim grochan.