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.