Monday, December 27, 2010

Mynd's Letter; draft #4

In mynd's eye there's a letter I mean to send
but since heaven forfeits whoever it forbids
and writing is not a sin,
this bloody letter
iron rich as the rise of society,
is mailed if in word alone is mailed.

Change the rules and dress up names
maim commonality or at least make lame
and after wringing capital paragraphs to thunderous applause
we all clap and jingle our change.

Down the lane
the dapper dressed walk in unison swinging their canes
dipping quills in pitch black ink wells.
Splendor's reckoning comes as a heart wind terrible to behold
and we cease to feel the wisps of wind that sometimes soft
dance across your face on a hot summer's day.

Mixing feelings with volcano thoughts; draft #3

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit crap before you get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt of Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights flash and blur in my mini rear-view
cars passing too close,
but my aluminum tubes, carbon reinforced fork, and steely resolve
keep my company close as I ride on,
wheels spinning some sixty rpms on this river side ride
empty miles
the moon casting reflections in the rain flecked street
and the forest hanging overhead to the right
while on the left
mixed among the damp thirsted hunger of foliage upon the riparian zone
and the wild
geese and goslings and goose shit piling high on and along the grass and pathway:
but I who choose the road avoid gutted
mutilated rotting geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Untitled; rough draft

Trouble seen but not believed
algae green water-tossed in the oceans
here at home the thermostat turns to 68
and the winter season begins.

Looks you – in the eye
of tiger black and orange lamé
better than warm showers polish morning is wax
and the winter season begins.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Mixing Feelings With Volcano Thoughts; draft #2

I can't stop mixing these feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit crap onto the paper before you get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt of Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights flash and blur in my mini rear-view
cars passing too close
but my aluminum reinforced tubes and steely resolve keep me riding on,
the wheels spinning by on this river side ride
of empty miles of moon reflected rain flecked
street forest hanging overhead to the right
while scattered trees mixed with non-native invasives upon the riparian zone
and the wild
geese and goslings and goose shit piling high on and along the grass and pathway:
but I who choose the road avoid gutted
mutilated rotting geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Season of Cow Smells; draft 1

I walk past buildings shuttered and dung covered
red paint a hundred years old painted a dozen times over,
nose stink filled, inhale 'cuz deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
This is Oley and you know you love it.
Pale flaking paint half-covers the barn,
red and blue stars of the hex sign reads the country side,
corn crib ripped-almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and seasons gone by.

Iron trusses ring against metal
and my mother calls us to dinner with the din of the great triangle.
Family, now called, comes from distant fields to dinner,
part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many that the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine, and having many years later drank that wine,
woooh! the blast comes first and then perhaps you reminiscence of the taste.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Season of Cow Smells; rough draft

Walking and I walk
past buildings shuttered and dung covered
nose stink filled, enhale deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
Paled red flaking paint half-covers the barn,
corn crib ripped almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and season gone by.

Iron trusses ring against a triangle of metal.
Family, now called, comes from distant fields to dinner,
part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many more
the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine, and having many years later drank that wine,
woooh! the blast comes first and then perhaps you reminiscence of the taste.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Tickle; draft #1

The more I am tickled the more it hurts
I can't explain my irrational gasps
or the sensation that runs across my skin like army ants on the march
soft blue electric lights seeking for fuel
or a wind that quickly whips across your face
I flush red and my body shakes.

My cat Bella has an uncontrollable purr.
Touch her and she purrs. Give her attention and she purrs.
Now, at least a little, I understand her automaton nature:
tickled I laugh a chaotic mess, not funny but an unthinkable
gagging breathless gasp of funnies left behind.

My wife enjoys my helplessness.
Touch me wrong and I tickle.
Smooth skin and I tickle.
Tickle me I'm the tickle monster's return for revenge.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Tickle; rough draft

The more I tickle the more it hurts
a sensation runs across my skin like army ants on the march
like a wind that quickly whips across your face
I flush red and my body shakes.

My cat Bella has an uncontrollable purr.
Touch her and she purrs. Give her attention and she purrs.
Now, at least a little, do I understand her automaton nature:
tickled I laugh a chaotic mess, not funny but I laugh nonetheless.

My wife enjoys my helplessness.
Touch me wrong and I tickle.
smooth skin and I tickle.
Tickle me I'm the tickle monster gets his revenge.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Tight Rope Walker; draft #3

I stand on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees three-sixty:
steady while I sway, approaching halfway.

The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await disaster,
that I should fall without a safety net:
I too was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
but nonetheless gleeful bystander to the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.

From on high among the rafters, the nosebleed,
a yawn settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls.

The platform nears
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to my pace, the subtle swish of legs.
Mind and eye are one
an audience of Baptists thinks I look like Jesus walking on air.

My right foot clears the cedar wood platform edge.
I hear first a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Newton's Only Law; Draft #1

For many the dance
quixotic spectacle of crystal meth chandeliers come crashing to earth,
Newton's only law,
became the only thing worth waiting for.
And so sweat boiling on brows and the tension in the air
and thoughts juggled as bites from apples appeal to the worm
while people stared,
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Newton's Only Law; rough draft (very rough draft!)

For many the dance
quixotic spectacle though it be
chandeliers crystal meth come crashing to earth
Newton's only law,
became the only thing worth waiting for.
And so the sweat boiling on my brow
the great heights that among I stood dizzying,
the tension in the air
thoughts juggled while people stared,
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Cherries Wet in the Sun; draft #4

As a youth I would climb high up in a thin-limbed tree,
bark scratching bare arms as I picked cherries,
droped them into a bucket
and relished the wind on my face and the sunshine that warmed my skin.
These memories are now confined to a photo that my mother gave me many years ago as part of a birthday gift: one piece in an album of photos.

But when summer downpours sucked my sister down a ditch
under and inside a thorn bush's craggy and cavernous insides
I learned not to expect worn out shoes
or tattered clothes to keep the rain out:
funky mold and fungal feet swollen like monkey paws
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste.
Tobacco smoke residue whitens teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats need water
arid eyeballs stare down periscopes with foggy lenses
down down down the drain
meter maids make money,
mountain gorillas run on four legs
their knuckles skipping against stones,
and instead of English they use sign language:
universal love signifies speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds see trees and buildings alike
and so they find the best real estate
and with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes,
rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls
till iron-cast blood runs from holes new made:
projectiles finding fingers crawling clawing the brain.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Mixing Feelings With Volcano Thoughts; draft #1 (from Random Pieces)

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit crap out onto the paper before you can get cuisine:
digestive system in reverse.

Late night ride down tree vaulted asphalt
Martin Luther King Jr Drive:
headlights running me down, cars passing by too close for most
but aluminum reinforce tubing and steal resolve keeps on riding.
Miles pass by on this river ride,
trees stand scattered across Fairmount Park
punctuated by pavement for parking
as non-native species creeping up and tearing down trees
wild
geese and goslings and goose shit piling high in and along the grass and pathway:
but I who choose the road avoid gutted
mutilated rotting geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Random Poetry Pieces; draft

Shitting Black Tar

For many my dance became the only thing worth waiting for
and all the week went by
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights I stood dizzying among,
the tension in the air, thoughts juggled while people stared,
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.


Untitled

Flipping dishes in the sink
watching bubbles upward blink
pop with poof and after time they're all gone.
Sudsy water left to scour hearts
delve deep the molecular structure of plates and cups and utensils.


I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and I want to write about all the things in the world
but sometimes you need to put crap down on paper before you get cuisine (kind of like the digestive system in reverse

and dark of night riding down asphalt roadways
nicknames River Road or Martin Luther King Jr Drive:
whistling (not) as I ride headlights running me down and passing me close
the ride keeps on riding,
miles pass river never distant
trees scatter Fairmount parkland punctuated by pavement for parking
non-native species creeping up and tearing down 2nd generation trees
wild
geese and goslings and goose shit piling high in the grass and pathway
but I who choose the road avoid gutted
mutilated rotting geese carcass tossed on the bike route.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Tight Rope Walker; draft #2

I stand on a tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees 360 degrees:
Is the wire swaying? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await
some say court my disaster
that I should fall and with no safety net:
for this walk too I was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
all while gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.

A yawn from the nosebleed settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls:
I am a juggler
all at once dealing with seven tossed balls of circus glory.

The platform now looms near
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to the pace of the swish between my legs.
Mind and eye become one
and baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

My right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge:
I first hear a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Opossum Belly; draft #3, finished poem more or less

Dead fur dries over and over peels skin
slowly lifting from muscle tissue:
somewhat of death an end to heartbeats love nerve twitch
severing iron from blood the life-giver oxygen reactor,
somewhat the passage of windy airs
somewhat also the rapidity of flies dropping egg bombs
their young pouring forth from fleshy orifices:
muscle becomes meal.

An opossum's belly turns and writhes under the hot summer sun
and it turns also my stomach
thankful I am empty of food late for dinner.
Gas expands turning animal into organic and bone toothed cavity,
byproduct of microorganism-evolutionary vagary:
the small rule the fate of the large
that feed and fuel and wait and crave
demanding more from passerby's lest they sit unsuspecting
and then too bare the rancid meat fruit of fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic entrails out onto the pathways of life.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Tight Rope Walker; draft 1 (formerly Tight Rope)

I stand here on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees
measuring my distance to the platform
simultaneously looking back:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts but they are for the most part waiting
(some say courting) disaster,
that I should fall this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
while also gleeful and participant in the glitz
the glimmer of this spectacle in a media driven life.

I can hear someone yawn from up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price.
My feet softly lift and glide forward
my eyes remain glued on the goal despite the catcalls:
my mind a juggler
looking at seven tossed balls of circus glory all at once
all while I wonder, are they tired of me or just worn out from work?
For many it seems my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all week,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights,
and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

The platform now looms near
and my mind turns to the philosophy of distance
how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
at the moment my right foot clears the cedar wood's platform edge
where I declare both my living pulse and the success of the venture.

Opossum Belly; draft #2

Dead fur dries over and over peeling skin
slowly lifts from fleshy muscle tissue:
somewhat of death an end of heartbeats love nerve twitch
severing iron from blood life-giver oxygen reactor,
somewhat the passage of open time and windy airs
somewhat also the rapidity of flies' dirty copulation
dropping egg bombs their young pouring from fleshy orifices
muscle becomes meal.

An opossum's belly turns and writhes under the hot summer sun,
idle by roadside
turns also my stomach:
thankful I am empty of food late for dinner.
Expanding gas turns animal into organic cavity,
byproduct of microorganisms and evolutionary vagaries:
the small rule the fate of the large
feeding and fueling and waiting and craving
demanding more from passerby's lest they sit unsuspecting
and then too bear the rancid meat fruit of fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic entrails out onto the pathways of life.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Opossum Belly; draft #1 (from Brainstorm 052610)

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and I want to write about all the things in the world
but where how when to begin?

Dead fur dries over peeling skin
slowly lifts flesh from muscle tissue:
somewhat of death end to heartbeat the love nerve twitch
severing iron from blood the life-giver oxygen in cells,
somewhat the passage of time or open and windy airs
somewhat also the rapidity of flies' dirty copulation,
drop egg bombs pour young from fleshy orifices
muscle becomes meal.

An opossum's belly turns and writhes under the hot summer sun,
idle by roadside turns also my stomach:
thankful to be empty of food only later for dinner.
Gas expands animal turned organic cavity:
of microorganisms and their evolutionary vagaries:
the small rule the fate of the large
feeding and fueling and waiting and craving
demanding more from passerby's as they sit unsuspecting
they too will bear the fruit of rancid meat and fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic entrails out onto the pathways of earthly life.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Brainstorm 052610

I can't stop mixing feelings and thoughts in the volcanoes caldera

I want to write about all the things in the world but I don't know where to begin
or how or when to begin.

Fur dries when dead and skin peels from flesh and muscle tissue:
somewhat the result of death the ending of beating heart nerve twitches
the severing of blood and iron the life giver breathing oxygen into cells,
somewhat also the passing of time and openness and windiness or air passing
through follicles far gone though live mistaken by the eye
somewhat also from rapid flies and their incessant needs of reproduction,
pouring forth eggs and young into the flesh for meal becomes the muscle flesh.

Watching an opossum's belly turn and writhe under the hot summer sun,
idle by the side of the road turns also my stomach, and thankful it is empty
of food later for dinner.
Gas expands the animal turned organic cavity: methane grows as byproduct
of microorganisms and their evolutionary needs for fuel for their own kind:
reproduction bears fruit and yet again rules the fates of others
feeding and fueling and waiting and craving
and demanding more from passersby's if they sit unsuspecting
they too will bear the fruit of rancid meat and fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic intrails out onto the pathways of earthly life.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

The Unfurled Sail; draft

The sun the morning
and the ship set to its moorings.
Many men, strong, smiling,
ragged, tanned beautiful blackened
men lifting the chain,
the blood red,
rust dead chain dripping
incandescent. Pulled
from the rock bottom of the bay,
a rock bottom worn smooth
and in a slushy
dizzying poof as a cloud the sand
expands, contracts, and sprays the sunlight,
then floats and distracts
the fish swimming, the fish who had,
until the anchor lifted up, top light, dragged across,
a ragged dance, been supping the blood red
chain, dead but until then to the fish.

These curious fish could not count the
nutrition facts of the great iron chain
but instead the taste, so unlike their regular diet
of scuttering crustaceans
and babes of the placid sea; so unlike
but the fish, unknowing even to themselves,
ignorant of the platypus,
suckled the dead, blood red rusted iron chain
and shackled anchor until its dance,
until the blackened tan smiling out of men,
ragged, pulled tugged
the chain, and set the ship adrift.

The sun, now rising,
raining down constant flash
of sunlight, sunshine
around and almost
through the precipitous clouds,
not the puffed
sandy underwater dance of clouds upon
the rock bottom but instead a
cloud built up from the dust
and love of lives past,
now desiccated and dried,
now mixed and slurried
into the earth’s great
salad bowl; of broccoli, of carrots,
sprouts, and togetherness of material things.

A call comes out across the bow,
anchor now on board,
great chain rust puddles dripping through
floor boards; the call a call to
now set sails to unfurl the
flourish of canvas to readjust ropes
to climb to the lookout and the
subsequent snapping of the sails.
The great boat, lurches and bobbles,
as a stout cork upon a
wine bottle ocean, the sails filling with wind
and yet empty they be, pale white,
as ghosts, but bright in the day’s sunshine.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Pedestals of Rose Petals

I stand on pedestals
of thorns and rose
petals, prick and the blood flows.

my ragged shoulder
sore at the socket
pops and I feel the pain
of separation:
the forever far off sound
of percussion, the suction
of ears as they make meaning of chaotic air
as the ground trembles,
the wind passes
through space and time
passes through our very fiber
but still accounting for the toothless decay
of humans thin,
or rotten in old age
against the supple nakedness of young skin,
ever met with ever.

The glory of sunrise matched only by
a night spent waiting for its rays to pierce my flesh
as arrows pierce armor as bullets shred for death.
And yet the sun rises this cool September morn.

Cherries Wet in the Sun (formerly Stream Consciousness); draft #3

As a youth I would climb high up on thin-limbed tree,
pick cherries, drop them in a bucket
and relish the wind on my face and the sunshine that warmed my skin.

But when summer downpours sucked my sister down a ditch
under and inside thorn bush's scratchy insides
I learned not to expect worn out shoes
or tattered clothes to keep the rain out:
funky mold and fungal feet swollen like monkey paws
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste.
Tobacco smoke residue whitens teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats in need of water
arid eyeballs stare into periscopes with foggy lenses
down down down the drain
meter maids make money,
mountain gorillas run on four legs
knuckles skip against stones,
they learn how to speak without American accents
and instead use sign language:
universal love signifies speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds see trees and buildings alike
and so they unintentionally find the best real estate
with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes to rescue her from herpes.
Rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls
till iron-cast blood runs from holes new made:
projectiles finding fingers crawling clawing the brain.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Stream Consciousness; draft #2

Pick cherries from the tree and eat them fresh.
Worn shoes and tattered clothes won't keep the rain out:
funky mold and fungal feet swollen monkey paws,
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste
tobacco smoke residue whitens the teeth
whiten the teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats in need of water
arid eyeballs stare into periscopes with foggy lenses
down down down the drain
meter maids make money
mountain gorillas run on four legs
knuckles skipping against stones:
they learn how to speak without American accents
and instead use sign language
universal love that signifies speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds see trees and buildings alike,
their eggs prove not only that the early bird gets the worm
but that she also finds the best real estate,
and with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes to rescue her from herpes.
Rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls till
iron-cast blood runs from holes new made in the back of our necks:
projectiles finding fingers crawling clawing the brain.

Fists a Flying; draft #4

I step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes
splotch covered canvas
smashed mouth and I'm shaken all my body through
falling backward and then bouncing off the ropes
back g-forces whipping sweat off my face
like a dog shaking off water after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

I turn and face a battle royale where everyone's against me.
Eyes lean forward as my mind leans backward:
remembering that once I saw the finish line
as a mirage rising murky on the highway,
and drank deep from a dreamworks spigot
fading in and out
coming round about
circles in swirls
hot tub thermostat shoots to the moon
120 degrees
so hot it burns.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Fists a Flying; draft #3

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes
splotch covered canvas
smashed mouth shakes all the way through my body as I fall backward,
ropes bouncing me back
g-forces whipping the sweat off my face
like a dog shaking after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

Rotund Rasputin snickers mouth full
chicken feed dribbles onto the carpet,
tied tight locks
down right pad locks and dirty knots
and a dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn to face a battle royale where everyone's against me.
Eyes lean forward as my mind leans backward:
remembering that once I saw the finish line
as a mirage rising murky on the highway,
and drank deep from a dreamworks spigot
of hallucinations and out of body experiences,
one or the other or both at once confused my senses,
and what is real fades in and out
comes round about
circles in swirls hot tub thermostat shoots to the moon
and Alice it's at 110 degrees
so hot it burns.

Summer Ice; draft #2

For the sake of summer pleasure
ice once was harvested from waterways of the North.
The Great Lakes, Hudson Bay, the Baffin Sea
and all across the Land Of The Midnight Sun
hulls tought from port to starboard
longitudinally crossed the Atlantic
bound for ports along the St. Lawrence Seaway or the New England coast,
water choppy as unpredictable storms lashed with wind,
raining death on the unwary.

Upon arrival, men stacked the ice in barns
in shady places always the coolest part of town.
It perspired and evaporated but slowly
and as a refrigerator left open wide
emanated cold air:
a respite for resting workers
this ice that stuck out like a sore thumb in the humid sun.

But those were days when miracles became mechanical wonders
days and years before the rudiments of electronic inventions:
cool and cold now manufactured
man made abundance
like winter plucked from the sky
imbuing our favorite tv dinners prepackaged heaven's on earth.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Summer Ice; draft #1

For the sake of summer pleasure
ice once was harvested from waterways of the North:
The Great Lakes, Hudson Bay, and all across the land of the midnight sun.
Hulls were filled tight with the cold wonder
and longitudinally crossed the Atlantic
bound for ports along the St. Lawrence Seaway and the New England coast,
water choppy as unpredictable storms lashed wind,
raining death to the unweary.

Upon arrival, the ice was stacked in barns in shady places
always the coolest part of town.
It perspired and evaporated but slowly
and as a refrigerator open wide, emanated cold air,
a respite for the workers resting nearby,
this ice that stuck out like a sore thumb in the warm and humid airs.

But those were days when miracles became mechanical wonders
years before the most rudimentary of electronic inventions,
a century even before the digital age:
cool and cold now manufactured man made in abundance
like winter plucked from out the sky,
imbued in our favorite tv dinners and prepacked heaven's on earth.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Summer Ice; rough draft

For the sake of summer pleasure,
ice once was harvested from lakes of the North:
The Great Lakes, Hudson Bay, and across the land of the midnight sun.
Hulls filled tight with the cold wonder
crossed the great Atlantic,
then men placed the ice in barns in shady places
always the coolest part of town.
It would perspire and evaporate,
and as a refrigerator open wide emanated cold air,
a respite for the workers resting nearby,
this ice that lasted into the warmer months.

But those were days when miracles became mechanical wonders
years before the most rudimentary of electronic inventions,
a century even before the digital age:
cool and cold now manufactured man made in abundance
like winter plucked from out the sky,
and imbued in our favorite tv dinners and prepacked heaven's on earth.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Lightning Strikes the Tip of the Empire State Building (reflections on photo by Acme Photo Service July 9, 1945); finished poem

It was a time ago, when
I first opened a window to watch a storm rolling
past the city that never sleeps. Rolling
past the concrete monoliths and the over sized Tonka trucks.
The storm blew a hole, it cracked the sky;
a gaping fissure the size of a city.
The air shook, rattling closed windows and dark deserted alleyways.

It rained down heat and light in spite of the night
and despite the darkness, for a moment you could see men.
You could see men in their buildings,
men in the lights from their buildings,
you could see men in the street lights and the car lights and the black asphalt roadways.

When the sky split the crack ran the center of the sky
as if god was displeased with our ways
of building up instead of in,
of wasting instead of weaning.
But the men turned their backs from the light
and continued building with cold concrete,
continued lighting the world with dim, artificial lights
in spite of the night.

Unstill Earth; draft #1 (revisions to Part 1 only)

Part I

Unstill the earth calm the air
farmers rise in early hour
before anyone can bask in the sunlight.
Farmers till soil
unearth the past and mother is proud
yet we may feed off her thinning belly).

The earth spins and the horizon nears
appears as storm clouds hung low
lights crackling
dancing across the sky
against mist as rain falls.
Heard is a crash of thunder
from cliff to cliff
as reality yet will be torn asunder.

But farmers and townsfolk alike pay no heed
and ignorant of the cookie cutter clouds coming closer
with strength no more than an echo,
but that still may shake foundations of house and tree:
this storm not come solely with wind and rain,
this storm comes to plunder
vengeance rides upon her shoulders.

Like many days before and many days after
hammer blows are heard across the valley,
the din of metal ringing against metal slides
past woods and rivers
and in some distant glen
combines with the slow murmur of life,
becomes hidden in the early day’s darkness.
Though the work of the day needs done
these men and women are fit to do it.

No one endures for a moment to think about that sound in the distance,
a low rumbling
some say of earth some say of heaven
and some say the sound of hell gurgle-screaming
across the doorsteps of homes we know.
Work with no thought
as workers slam hammer against anvil,
impatient to the demands of soft metal.

Now rain clouds gather together
and prophecy long predicted comes true
the rain pelts holes and welts in exposed backs
makes right original sins:
wanton lust and selfish greed stirred into the meal of the day.


Part II

Maybe an umbrella opens and maybe a window closes,
but rain, its rank mud flow like a river,
wind blowing through bedrooms,
water rising, flooding over windowsills
water spilling out and pouring our personal secrets across the ruin;
the secret kisses or unwelcome advances of girls and boys.

And crack, the hammer is heard!
Through no one though hearing
except that of the crack of
concrete breaking;
wind scattering dust
water and rock.
And the low din,
the sounds of the smithy dimmed:
a long human sigh.

Looted media and
unexpected sources;
evacuated refugees
the living dead and who among us?
the hearts and minds and souls on television,
The bloated lies stripped bare and torn apart
as rabid, feral animals.
Accountant strikes gavel;
day dusk then darkness.



Part III

Shadow grows up under increasing light,
The sun pushes through, workers lament
mass migration and loss of work.
The cycle returns renders progress mute
dead stones sink swimmers.
Sludge of creation ferments deep inside
name this experiment.
Humans still crawl to some light
less the absence of dark and we wonder at
perspire at swirling sweat, collected in buckets:
recycled remains of yesterday’s fears.

In time the worker’s return and to what,
future sits uncertain before us
Though tragedy of the commons
choices being poor
and the repetition of the worst
the worst halves win and seeks larger families,
but new buildings spring summer buds
Though frighten the familiar
dead boast complete confidence,
architects rise early
horses breathe deep gallop forth,
blood streams behind the memories of old remembered,
Not learn future but repeat past;
In this past is prologue, but so too is present.

Part IV

Months crawl to years and years pass
sand through glass
our species reborn as the same people moved on
though still earthly the color of the people be
They kneel down elbow deep
streets full of the excess of bloated sewers
and rainfall from the hurricane,
exception the accepted prior planning passed aside.
Attention span deficit clinics
a buck to the nearest stranger
hope dwindles proportional
To rising privatization as time changes records show
recess our own perception of how we exist in the great emptiness and openness
this air we breathe.
Convex is the shape of our minds
unchanged potential left yet unrewarded.

Literal meaning of the
kamikaze daydream
of the incessant squawk from a parrot dying
breathing
no indulgence unfettered
leaking deep white and dull gray putty-like matter.
Table top pollution,
scraped and tossed lobster cooked bright red
then lost in the riddles and ripples running up
against mountain sides and hill sides and our eternal nature to react with vigor but to
prepare with dismal failure.

Fists a Flying; draft #2

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes
splotch covered canvas
smashed mouth shakes all the way through my body as I fall backward,
ropes bouncing me back
g-forces whipping sweat off me
like a dog shaking after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

Rotund Rasputin
snickers mouth full
feed dribbles onto the carpet,
tied tight locks
down right pad locks and dirty knots
and a dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn to face
a battle royale but everyone's against me.
I once saw the finish line
a mirage rising murky on the highway
and drank deep of hallucinations from a dreamworks spigot:
one or the other or both at once confused my senses,
and what is real fades in and out
comes round about
circles in swirls
in a hot tub thermostat shooting to the moon
110 degrees and now full of broth:
so hot it burns.

Tight Rope; rough draft

I stand here on the tight rope
not walking just standing
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees,
measuring the distance to the further platform
simultaneously looking back on the pitter-patter of my feet:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts, but mostly they are waiting
some say courting
disaster, that I should fall and this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare, put on me by passersby
both too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
and also gleefully participatory in the glitz and glimmer
of this spectacle and media driven life.

I can hear someone up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price,
yawn.
My feet softly lift and glide forward and my eyes are glued
but my mind is a juggler
looking between tossed balls of circus glory
and the wonder, are they tired of me or worn out from work
where my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all the week long,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights, and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Nearer now the platform looms,
my mind philosophizes on the meaning of distance
and how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body glides,
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
as my right foot clears the cedar of the platforms edge
declaring both my living pulse and the success of the venture.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Unstill the Earth; draft

Part I

Unstill the earth calm the air
farmers rise in early hour
before anyone basks in the coming light.
Farmers till soil
and in so doing knowledge unearthed from the past:
our mother proud (yet we may feed off her thinning belly).

The earth spins and the horizon nears
as a brooding presence of storm clouds hung low,
lights crackle and
dance through
across the sky
and
against mist
rain falls:
a crash of thunder heard from cliff to cliff
and reality yet will be torn asunder.

But townsfolk and farmers pay little heed to the clamor
and ignorant of the cookie cutter clouds rolling closer
their strength still no more than a distant echo
even though it now shakes the foundations of house and tree,
this storm did not come to lash solely with wind and rain
this storm comes to plunder.

Like many days before and many days after,
hammer blows heard across valleys,
the ring sliding past
woods and rivers and
combining with the sound of life
becomes hidden in the early day’s darkness
and though the work of the day needs done
these men and women are fit to work it.

Not one endures thoughts of that
sound in the distance, the low rumbling of
some say earth some say heaven
and many say sound of hell rumbling
across our hometowns. All work but no thought
ringing hammer against anvil,
impatient to the demands of soft metal.

Now rain clouds gather together; the prophecy
long predicted comes true to the eyes of the true believer
in them the rain pelts and makes right our original sins:
wanton lust and selfish greed stirred into the meals of day.


Part II

Maybe an umbrella opens and maybe a window closes,
but rain, its rank mud flow like a river,
wind blowing through bedrooms,
water rising, flooding over windowsills
water spilling out and pouring our personal secrets across the ruin;
the secret kisses or unwelcome advances of girls and boys.

And crack, the hammer is heard!
Through no one though hearing
except that of the crack of
concrete breaking;
wind scattering dust
water and rock.
And the low din,
the sounds of the smithy dimmed:
a long human sigh.

Looted media and
unexpected sources;
evacuated refugees
the living dead and who among us?
the hearts and minds and souls on television,
The bloated lies stripped bare and torn apart
as rabid, feral animals.
Accountant strikes gavel;
day dusk then darkness.



Part III

Shadow grows up under increasing light,
The sun pushes through, workers lament
mass migration and loss of work.
The cycle returns renders progress mute
dead stones sink swimmers.
Sludge of creation ferments deep inside
name this experiment.
Humans still crawl to some light
less the absence of dark and we wonder at
perspire at swirling sweat, collected in buckets:
recycled remains of yesterday’s fears.

In time the worker’s return and to what,
future sits uncertain before us
Though tragedy of the commons
choices being poor
and the repetition of the worst
the worst halves win and seeks larger families,
but new buildings spring summer buds
Though frighten the familiar
dead boast complete confidence,
architects rise early
horses breathe deep gallop forth,
blood streams behind the memories of old remembered,
Not learn future but repeat past;
In this past is prologue, but so too is present.

Part IV

Months crawl to years and years pass
sand through glass
our species reborn as the same people moved on
though still earthly the color of the people be
They kneel down elbow deep
streets full of the excess of bloated sewers
and rainfall from the hurricane,
exception the accepted prior planning passed aside.
Attention span deficit clinics
a buck to the nearest stranger
hope dwindles proportional
To rising privitization as time changes records show
recess our own perception of how we exist in the great emptiness and openness
this air we breathe.
Convex is the shape of our minds
unchanged potential left yet unrewarded.

Literal meaning of the
kamikaze daydream
of the incessant squawk from a parrot dying
breathing
no indulgence unfettered
leaking deep white and dull gray putty-like matter.
Table top pollution,
scraped and tossed lobster cooked bright red
then lost in the riddles and ripples running up
against mountain sides and hill sides and our eternal nature to react with vigor but to
prepare with dismal failure.

Stream Consciousness; draft #1

Pick cherries from the tree and eat them fresh,
but worn shoes and tattered clothes won't keep the rain out
funky moldy fungal feet swollen monkey paws:
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste
tobacco smoke residue whitens the teeth
whiten the teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats in need of water
arid eyeballs stare into periscopes with foggy lenses
down down down the drain
meter maids make money
mountain gorillas running on four legs knuckles skipping against the ground
learn how to speak without American accents:
sign language universal love
only we know our own encoders
signify speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds see trees and buildings alike
eggs proving not only that the early bird gets the worm
but she also finds the best real estate,
and with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes to rescue her from herpes.
Rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls till
iron-cast blood runs from holes new made in the back of our necks:
projectiles finding fingers crawling clawing the brain.

Friday, April 30, 2010

A Stream of Consciousness: Rough draft

Cherries picked straight from the tree
can be eaten fresh.
Worn shoes tattered jackets won't keep the rain out:
funky moldy fungal feet swollen like monkey paws
clutching pacifiers licking lips rinsing toothpaste
tobacco smoke residue whitens the teeth
whiten the teeth as history too before us.

Parched throats in need of water
Arid eyeballs look into periscopes with foggy lenses
out onto the fog of war.
Down down down the drain
meter maids make money
monkeys running on four legs knuckles to the ground stone
learn how to speak without American accents:
sign language the universal language
of love only we know our own encoders
signifying speech like bitches signify heat.

Birds don't understand the city,
they see trees and buildings alike
eggs proving not only that the early bird gets the worm
but she also finds the best real estate,
and with interest accrued on profits made
deathless the pale rider comes to rescue us all from herpes.
Rare is the prize fighter punching holes in walls,
thumping charcoal skulls till
iron-cast blood runs from orifices
holes new made in the back of our necks:
projectiles find fingers crawling clawing intercepting the brain.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Fists a Flying; draft #1

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes splotches covering the canvas
smashed mouth shakes through my body and I fall backward
ropes bounce me back g-forces whipping sweat off my body
like a dog shaking off after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

Rotund Rasputin
snickers mouth full feed dribbles out onto the carpet,
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn to face a battle royal where everyone's my enemy.
Did I once see the finish line as a mirage
rising murky on the highway
or drinking hallucinations from a dream works spigot:
one or the other or both at once confuse my senses,
and what is real what is surreal what is fake
comes round about circling in swirls
in a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Fists A Flying; brainstorm

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood covered canvas sweat stained ropes
smacked then smashed in the mouth
ropes bounce me back with terrific g-force
My mind rings what am I fighting for?
Where is the exit door?

Rotund Rasputin snickers behind me
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn and face them
a battle royal but everyone's against me.
A battle royal that I'll never win.
Did I once see the finish line?
The mirage rising on a hazy day on the highway
or hallucinations drinking from the spigot,
one then the other confuses the senses.
What is real what is surreal and what is fake
comes rounds about in swirls in circles
of a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Wanting a Bonfire Blaze; draft #1

My fingers linger on her soft skinned belly
pale red glass of a tummy ring for as long as I've been looking.
The skin stretches thinner after each exhale
lungs vacuum mucous membranes
ribs barely hidden behind flesh
ribs almost pushing against the smooth flesh.
But I want
lips lick tongue kiss up belly button hard hips
hope for internal combustion, a lighter lit flame igniting body
such that our skins touch and
THE WHOLE THING GOES UP!

But she lays still
eyes soft glazed breath
dizzy pain of long workdays:
unable to release as talons of sharp-eyed gold feathered eagle
clutching chinook between claws.

I wish she'd spot me a thousand miles away
grip me bloody tight between her fingers,
take me to her nest and eat my flesh warm and raw.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

City With A Slow Heartbeat; draft #3

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Knife scratch phone numbers etched in dull stainless steel
seats covered in seventies style thin and stained carpet
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
Ink stain directions smudged in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north
get off at Allegheny
and you're at the Diamond street projects.


Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

From Erie-Torresdale going West
here on elevated tracks high above Kensington Avenue
ride quiet quite like the glance of a bull
in the kicked up dust just before the charge:
just the squeal of breaks
the breathless mechanical whistle of metal against metal
and a mechanized voice announcing the next station on deck
letting us know whether the doors are open or closed.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

To my left across the aisle two men sit facing each other,
I see them out of the corner of my eye,
each sprawled across two seats,
one sitting back twisted
arms gray anguish folded across the back of the seat
speaking gravel too fast
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool
he won't get fooled again
he ain't no fool and he won't get fooled again.

He speaks and chants and sings
and God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs that stretch out
endless in the dusk and we only pass by with vacant stares
burrowing holes into windows seatbacks and floor,
or chins notched in books
avoiding cigarette burn holes in my jeans,
even as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

Friday, April 23, 2010

City With A Slow Hearbeat; draft #2

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Knife scratches are phone numbers etched in dull stainless steel,
seats covered in seventies style yet thin and stained carpeting
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
Ink stains are directions painted in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north
get off at Allegheny
and you're at the Diamond street projects.


Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

From Erie-Torresdale heading West though actually South
this ride quite like the stern glance of a bull before the charge:
just the squeal of breaks
the breathless mechanical hum of metal against metal
and a mechanized voice announcing the next station on deck
here on elevated tracks high above Kensington Avenue,
“Next stop Somerset...Next stop York-Dauphin...Next stop Huntington...
Next stop Berks...

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

To my left across the aisle, two men sit facing each other,
each sprawled across two seats,
one sitting back twisted,
arms of gray anguish folded across the back of the seat
speaking gravel too fast
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool,
he won't get fooled again,
he ain't no fool and he won't get fooled again.

He speaks and chants and sings
and God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs sretching out endless
and we only pass by,
some solemn with heads held high
vacant stares that would burrow through your brain if you let them,
or chins notched in books to avoid the piercing eye of the Public
that burns hole trough us like cigarettes burn holes through jeans
even as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

But I still feel a heartbeat.
No don't leave this one to die on the streetside
this city with a slow almost silent heartbeat.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

City With a Slow Heartbeat; rough draft

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Phone numbers knife scratched in dull stainless steel
seats thin covered in cold stained carpeting seventies style
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
And directions painted in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north and get off at Allegheny
and welcome to the Diamond street projects.


Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Heading South through West out of Erie-Torresdale
not expecting this ride's quiet ride:
just the squeal of breaks in rhythm
the breathless mechanical hum of air against metal
and the prerecorded voice that announces each station's arrival
here high above Kensington on elevated tracks,
“Next stop Somerset...York-Dauphin...Huntington...Berks...

To my left across the aisle, two men sit facing each the other,
each taking up two seats to himself,
one speaks gravel too fast for me to follow
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool,
he won't get fooled again,
he ain't no fool that won't get fooled again.

God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs we pass by,
solemn held heads high
vacant stares burrow through your brain
or breathful and intentful slumber of chins notched in books
burn as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

But doc,
I can still feel a heartbeat,
don't leave this one to die on the streetside:
this city of two rivers, this city with a slow somber almost silent heartbeat.

Myth of Meritcracy (draft #2)

Lightning flashes across the maddened sky
cuts molecules in half and you can count the seconds
1...2...3 then crack and boom!
Peering down at that moment you see the slow shuffle of yesterday's work,
the careworn and withered movements of dying-eyed
shadow characters best known from a distance
best known as abstract in a less than ideal world
while working-class stiffs think concretely,
lest our own thin skin be ripped
sinews and veins born against an x-ray sky.

Storm moving fast as clouds churned up by a whirlwind
dark masses floating in ethereal airs:
turned hot on its heals an evolution
of stomaching stuffs and growing the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous
its consumptive powers render supposed evidence of our own will to fight
mano y mano
even though guilty till the last man standing
oink and you slobber over dinner
hwoink and your tongue pale pink lolls out
once more to suck on mother's tit
as anecdotal evidence insulates fallacious theory
in this myth of meritocracy.

That's When She Swallows (finished poem)

I love her curves that lift and cut
through the still air,

and now I’m smiling because I know
what she’s hiding and she’s smiling because
she knows that no one can stop her.
And now,
no one can stop
her head cocked to the sky,
body pushed in and forward. Tight
limbs swaying, saying graceful swans,
long, thin and tan. She’s thinking;
only she knows.

And she’s rolling,
rolled up and relaxed,
walking her way down the street,
and when she walks
everyone wants to talk;
but her top is locked
and she has the key
held close between her lips,
waiting for the day
when someone spreads them wide
and kisses her long.
Waiting for the day
when someone searches with their red-tongue flesh
and finds the key she’s holding
tight between her lips;
and that’s when she swallows.

Outlast the Winter (Draft #3)

In the springy depths of tumbled turves green spiky leaves-full
I lay fetus balled
white tight knuckled fists grasping veiny knees
where maybe I might outlast the winter.

Light shine from the sun crescendos as an arc that too suits the star fruit
carambola eaten at intervals
even though it goes almost unknown among the gringos of the north
and maybe I might outlast the winter.

Reality ice skating scratching patterns
upon an azure deep sky where planes
seen from our shores as what they send
slowly expanding across the atmosphere
streams of thin clouds like long futon pillows
castaway in the basement or second bedroom:
only up there can comtrails become chemtrails draggling behind
or spikes of light become like dagger backstabs at the moment of death:
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Letters written
house or cell phone
communication satellite Skype-like
tech bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Adrenaline filled by septic sub-pump
too embarrassed to speak I nevertheless breathe each breath:
exhaling I leave entrails behind;
inhaling, me, the contaminated air;
and then proceeding to pestilent pock marks upon my soul
who want to know who makes me hot as fire on a cold winter night.
Want to tell me what but what
who tell them what?

Monday, April 19, 2010

Outlast the Winter: Draft #2

In the springy depths of tumbled turves full of green spiky leaves
guarded from the stiff breeze
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Shining light crescendos an arc that suits as the star fruit
eaten still at intervals non known among the gringos of the north
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Reality waiting in patterns upon the deep azure sky
planes fly by chem-trails draggle behind
spikes of light like dagger strikes at the moment of death
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Letters written house phone cell phone communication satellite
Skype-like techno bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Pumped full of adrenaline in the cold air and too embarrassed to speak
we nevertheless shit out each breath,
leave entrails behind
inhale contaminated air:
white powder waits in hair for the next drug test
heroine courses through veins until the next death...
Pharmaceutical stereotype of human degenerative disorders
pestilent pock marks on our souls
a marriage of cares
stop care about other care's care:
Want to know who makes me hot as fire on a cold winter night.
Want to tell me what but what
who tell them what?

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Myth of Meritcracy: Draft #1

Lightning flashes across the maddened sky
cuts molecules in half and you can count the seconds
1...2...3 and crack and boom!
Storm moving fast as clouds churned up by a whirlwind
dark masses floating in ethereal airs:
turned hot on its heals an evolution
of stomaching stuffs and growing the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous
its consumptive powers render supposed evidence of our own will to fight
mano y mano
guilty till the last man standing
in this myth of meritocracy.

Outlast the Winter: Draft #1

In the springy depths of these
tumbled turves of green spiky leaves
masses sitting still
but maybe I might outlast the winter.

Shining light crescendos an arc that suits as the star fruit
eaten at intervals but unknown to the white man:
we enjoy Chiquita not understanding that 600 million live on bananas
but maybe I might outlast the winter.

Virtual reality waiting patterns in the deep azure sky
planes fly by chem-trails draggle behind and my oh my they fly by
light like dagger strikes death to my heart
but maybe I might outlast the winter.

Letter's written by house phone call cell phone satellite phone
and Skyped to tears
like techno bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me but never speak to me.

Pumped full of adrenaline in the cold air, too embarrassed to speak
we shit out each breath leave entrails behind,
inhale contaminated oxygen
there are worse things...
white powder waits in hair for the next drug test
heroine courses through veins until the next death...
Pharmaceutical stereotype of human
degenerative disorders pestilent pock marks on our souls
if its true
marriage of who cares stop,
care about other people's care:
Want to know who I fuck? Want to know
who warms with me the cold winter air?
Want to tell me what to do when damn them! Who tell them what?

Friday, April 9, 2010

Outlast the Winter (brainstorm/rough draft)

In these depths of green spiky leaves and tumbled turves
masses sitting still
my mind tangled in webs of conceit
bound over for sale signs on the foreclosure of my dreams
for servitude to another man's time
another time's times.

Shining light crescendos an arc that suits as the star fruit
eaten at intervals but unknown to the North American white man:
the ignorance of European descent enjoy a Chiquita
while not understanding that 600 million humans live by principle on bananas.

Return to virtual reality waiting patterns in the deep azure sky
planes fly by chem-trails draggle behind and my oh my they fly by
light like dagger strikes death to my heart.

Maybe I can be heard, maybe I can ask this question but would it be answered
letter's written house phone call cell phone satellite phone
Skype me to tears that incessant bouncing ringing sound
like techno bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me but never talk to me.

Pumped full of adrenaline in the cold air, too embarrassed to speak
we shit as we breathe leaving entrails behind,
inhale the oxygen and then contaminate our bodies beer wine marijuana
there are worse things...
crack cocaine waits in my hair for the next drug test
heroine courses through my veins until the next death..
I we become a generic pharmaceutical stereotype of human degeneration
disorders infecting our souls if souls its true we have
a bigger debate than I can answer in one sitting,
God upper or god lower he she it mono poly
marriage of gays of straights who cares stop.
care about other people's care:
and the same people that cry for government to mind its own business
want to know who I fuck, want to know
who caresses my cold airs on a winters night
want to tell me what to do when damn them who tell them what to do.

Silent air is stirred by the barren call of a lost dog
who hopes without knowledge of a kennel come calling:
adoption or euthanization
better more than the meager food pods of shit scattered among leaves
sewers draining periphanalia could ever offer this human discard dreg
not fed
but up to its legs in a spreading hardening cold
whimper cry still air sounds pass through weak windows
cold weak windows but somehow I still last the winter.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Myth of the Meritocracy (rough draft)

Lightning in a flash switches back and forth
across the maddened sky:
bright golds and pale silvers
cutting molecules in half and you can count the seconds.
1...2...3 crack! boom!
Storm moving fast in a whirlwind of churned up clouds
dark masses floating in the glow of an ethereal airs:
not by native supply but by the haphazard human rebellion,
that we must stuff our stomachs grow the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous consumption
renders supposed evidence of our own superior ways
our own will to fight
in this myth of meritocracy.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Coolness on Cobblestone Streets (brainstorm/ very rough draft)

I stride along a cobblestone street
where three centuries of soft red bricks lean in on me,
where I look left right up down forward and backward
here where history
knowledge like flower scarped mounds
tipping their feather caps to lives that came before,
where trees grow old bearing witness
and to them these mere moments:
a nor'easter's breeze, a blizzard snow squall,
street fights just brawls.

Pants tight, pants black,
sunglasses that scream style from a mile a away.
Deliberate coolness with mean intent:
but my thoughts proceed my actions
my style begets my character,
and least of all that I fit in these jeans
skinny tight all the way from ankle to hip.
Belt bleeds irony set firm against bod.
Coolness drinks cup of chai,
or tea for the masses,
a strong espresso latte cappuccino,
or just liking it black as deep water mud.

The body politic roles and rambles in and out
cafe's full to the brim coffee or tea misunderstands
communication's key role played out across generations:
people speak of oil giant of global commerce.
But I see hipsters and drag queens and low truckers
driving the dirty red knives of the third world:
coffee and tea high in the world's mind.

Future begins with questions
where will these streets lead?
who will beg and who will rule from high above
brick layered canopies and roof top gardens world class views?
Will we learn from lessons of the past?
Will we be blind by the time we can see?

Friday, March 26, 2010

40th and Market; draft #4

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
I criss cross
the dwarf I am against this skyline of man made sequoias
brick stone glass and glowing lights
cutting gashes through the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's the taxi?


The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on
walking man leads the way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze steps and my eyes like a beeline keep my pace in line
to keep from stumbling here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance
run the pass push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
fill gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
or the sometimes reasoned sometimes outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but I missed it
I who keep my face buried in books
while language also is written on walls.

Baby I Scar; draft #5 (final draft more or less)

those hoodwinking evangelists
are not abuse burn victim enough
and I
am driven into thick mud under foot
days after rain
black tongues burned black talk

and who pays for this windmill whirling
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when it is my people
keep shitting in the shallow end
cannibals eating the hearts of others?

Maybe accident prone are we
mix of colors and chemicals in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings sprinkle cast shadow off cabin's far corner
funneled by leaky weather rainvomit onto woods green turned to brown:
rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs as they rush through your veins
as I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

this machine steals thoughts and body functions,
has an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses,
sees in 3-d,
and though my skin may not burn
I scar baby I scar.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

A Mid-Spring Morning

Green blades,
sun-flecks
on display.

A wind
without resistance
rears
and rolls the field.

A sparrow
flutters in mid-air
and pauses;
as if in doing so
she would last in the moment
forever.

Ode to Reading; Notes from the Newspaper (original title: Reading, Pennsylvania)

Late last Tuesday evening
a fire burned on Rose Street.
Two died:
the black and charcoal gray remains
of a mother and her daughter
(the latter still clutching a melted pacifier
as they zipped shut the three foot long
black plastic bag).

The night before,
a man was beaten on Buttonwood
with the ivory butt of a pistol.
He then patiently waited for his killer
to walk two blocks home for bullets,
return
and shoot him.
Unconscious, he could not feel his heart stop beating.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

40th and Market; draft #3

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
and leaves behind a shadow of a spectacle
somber notes at the end of a cold day in the city.

Fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
through the dwarf that is me against a skyline of man made sequoias
tall brick stone buildings shining glass and glowing lights
cutting gashes through the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's the taxi?


The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze these steps and my eyes like a beeline keep my pace in line
to keep from stumbling here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip off into my left hand
my right now reaches into my raincoat's breast pocket:
running the pass I push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books
while language also is written on walls.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

40th and Market; draft #2

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant leg's inseam
leaves behind a shadow or ghost of a spectacle
that enshrouded this somber city.

Fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slips and slides the soles beneath my feet
hinders my walking me dwarfed by these man made sequoias
tall brick and stone buildings and taller sky-
scrapers cutting gashes in the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's his taxi?
the El runs under these streets so you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
Bo-sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend
watching my feet lest I lose my step
or stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or eight or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip off then into the left hand
the right now reaching into breast pocket:
Running the pass I push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform half full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of an hip hop amplified iPod,
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books
while the language is written on walls.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

40th and Market; rough draft

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up the inseam of my pants
leaves behind a shadow of a
ghost of a spectacle enshrouded in this somber city.

Fresh spit of snow and crusty coats chunks of ice
slips and slides the soles beneath my feet
hinders my walking me dwarfed by these man made sequoias
tall brick and stone buildings and taller sky-
scrapers cutting gashes in the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

I walk hands tight against my body
soft brown cloth hat, ensign of muted pastel
triangles arranged lengthwise round the head every color of the rainbow,
rain coat and dark thermals layered against the cold
insulated against the wind.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

The El runs under the streets so there is always someone going on
trinkets and cheap bling incense body oils,
catcalls, lo-key jabs, never scene a fight
but I have seen two man yell each other down
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on, walking man leads my way.

Sliding my gloved hand on the rail I descend
watching my feet lest I lose my step
or stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or eight or ten minutes
depending on the time of day.
I cross the platform entrance, gloves slip into left hand
right side reaches into breast pocket,
and runs the pass pushes through turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congests the air
platform half full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right
try to be first in line
filling gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass the portal to a land mostly of blank stares
vacant aural landscapes,
but for the tinny sound of an hip hop amplified iPod,
or the reasoned or outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but you missed it
you who keep your face buried in books,
buried in the written language:
but it is written all over the walls
of this subterranean urban jungle,
as much underwater as it is underland.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

language loves desire; draft #4 (near final?)

Language loves desire and demands communication
but in words, more than just with body.
Love without language
lusts for body as animals without language.

Language comes from life, a dream to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen.
To make known
to relate in metaphors without body.

Language also is light piercing molecules of air.
Connects without touch. Communicates without
body. Moves without move.

Baby I Scar; draft #4

those hoodwinking evangelists
are not abused burned victim enough
and I have been driven into the thick mud under foot
days after the rain
black tongues with burned black talk.

and who pays for this whirlpool windmill
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when it is my people
keep shitting in the shallow end
or cannibals eating the hearts of others?

we are one and maybe accident prone are we,
a mix of colors and chemicals in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings sprinkle cast shadow off cabin's far corner
and funneled by leaky weather rain vomit on woods green turned to brown:
rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs as they rush through your veins
as I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

I will fail long before or after celebrity's made famous
for dodging questions land jawbone first onto razor sharp exit ramps
or a country made famous for lack of luck
lands dismal fate laid low
(sometimes in mind by us and everyone).

this machine stealing thoughts and body functions
has an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses.
It sees in 3-d,
and though my skin may not burn
I scar baby I scar.

Shattered Glass; Draft #5 (near final?)

I piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup
like Superman I fly fast as infinity
reverse the earth's rotation
change the course of history
breathe a cone of cold on any who stand in my way.

A slow motion shot of levitating glass fragments
up from the kitchen floor,
gasps of shock turn back to smiles or blank stares:
my slippery grip fades back to a firm handshake.


Sticky liquid slops up the side of my cupboard
like Einstein turning gravity upside down
settles back in the cup just prior to implosion.

At this moment I realize density, mass and time:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping shit from the stables.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Shattered Glass; draft #4

If I could I would
piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup:
like Superman I'd fly fast as infinity
reverse the earth's rotation
change the course of history
breathe a cone of cold on any who stand in my way.

A slow motion shot of fragments levitating off kitchen floor,
gasps of shock turning back to smiles or frowns
my slippery grip sliding back into a firm handshake.


Sticky liquid slops its way back up the side of my cupboard,
and as when Einstein turned gravity upside down,
it meets the cup a moment before implosion
and just after the moment when my hand slipped.

At this moment I realize that counter tops have mass and strength:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping shit out of the stables.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Baby I Scar; draft #3

this one goes out to all the
hoodwinking evangelists who think
that I am not abused assaulted burned victimized
sexy or smart enough
that I haven't been driven into the thick mud under my foot
a day after the rain
black tongues with burned black talk

do I not pay taxes to this great whirlpool windmill
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when my people keep shitting in the shallow
end or on the news, cannibals eating the hearts out of others.

we are one and one are we, being that the verb goes singular to plural;
that's just how grammar works, maybe accident prone does fate
mix of chemicals and colors in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings cast sprinkled shadows off the cabin's far corner
and funneled by leaky weather rain vomiting on forest green turned to brown:
rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs before they rush through your veins
before I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

not dead I still have an opinion on what it must be like to die
I will fail long before or after celebrity's made famous
for dodging questions land jawbone first onto razor sharp exit ramps
or a country made famous for lack of luck
lands dismal fate laid low
(sometimes in mind by us and everyone).

And aren't I complicit in this machine
stealing thoughts and body functions
takes and doesn't give back leaves only lacking:
they have an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses.
they see in 3-d.

My skin may not burn but I scar baby I scar.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Belmont and City; Final Draft (+/- some grammar revision)

Snow lingers long in shadow
cold clinging fingers of winter scrape
shape sidewalks and front yards:
crumbling concrete bricks beaten by shovel and plow turn to dust.

Ice packed mounds line streets,
aging plastic or fake wood chairs reserve streetside parking,
spaces carved out not for passersby
in the City of Brotherly Love.

Breath takes form in the frigid air
its heart beats mere moments
until it shivers and dissipates in the lower atmosphere.

I am layered against the cold on an otherwise clear day.
Navigating labyrinthine and icy paths
and passing three young men I quietly turn down Belmont Avenue.
Head down, I mark the steps in front of my toes.
Head down, I slow march toward the bus stop marked 40.

From behind comes a low grumbled yell.
Turning my head the three young men again appear in view
but who would want to talk to me?
Who would even know me 2 miles from home,
here in this city of strangers,
here where I spend only minutes walking between work and the Forty
at the corner of Belmont and City.
I continue walking but still wonder: had something slipped from my pack
were these boys
black teens all neat and clean
here to help me?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet
followed by another gruff yell.
But if someone wants my attention they could address me more directly.
Still worrying that I'd left something behind,
swinging from shoulder my backpack gently unwinds.
I check its contents for peace of mind.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

Now halfway down the block halfway to the bus stop,
I turn again to see these three boys now halfway again between me and the City.
“Can I help you guys with something?” I ask impatient.
Still huddled, their thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, slightly afraid.
Does he think I mean to pull out a gun?

I pull out a bus token.
Fears extinguished thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”
Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” he commands.
“I don't have any.”

I am lying but yet unwilling to forsake the sixteen quarters
tucked deep in my bag
(emergency funds for emergency rides).

I sling pack back on back turn and quicken my pace
but they follow even faster.
And soon amidst craggy mounds of ice and snow,
three boys, their thin leader's teeth bound with braces,
surround me, and again thin leader demands money.
“I don't have any," is all my mind can muster:
chemicals explode inside my brain inside my body.

They close in around me, one on my right,
thin leader on the left, and a tag along somewhat behind.

My glance scans to the right,
a sudden jab smacks my neck where the left edge of my jaw juts out,
but adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing.
I scramble over a snow mound
step out into the streetside parking
create distance where none was before.

I pick up a chair in defense
to this thin leader insists,
“I'm gonna kick your ass if you hit me with that."
as if I was the one come for plunder
as if I was the one to trouble a stranger.
I step out into slow moving oncoming traffic
cars slow now that I'm out in the open.
Already the other two slink behind their brace faced leader,
as if avoiding blame.

My eyes turn to the left
and the 40 comes round the corner of Belmont and Ford.
Dropping the chair I sprint
hands waving in frantic motion,
chemicals compelling unthinking action.
But memory's minutes mere moments
as seconds of time,
and damn the feet fly by!

But then it slows down for an elderly woman half hidden behind a telephone pole.
I run the final thirty feet, pull the token from pocket, board the bus.
My heart beats a thousand times a minute.

And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed
on this my birthday.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Shattered Glass; Draft #3

If I could I would
piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup:
with powers like Superman I'd fly fast as infinity
reverse the rotation of the earth
change the course of historical events,
and perhaps breathe freezing cold on all my opponents.
A slow motion shot of fragments levitating off kitchen floor,
gasps of shock turning back to smiles or frowns
my slippery grip sliding back into a firm handshake.


Liquid and sticky mess slops its way back up my cupboard,
and as if gravity turned Einstein upside down,
meets the cup at the moment of implosion
at the very moment that my hand slipped.

At this moment I realize that counter tops have mass and strength:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping shit out of the stables.

Baby I Scar; Draft #2

this one goes out to all the
hoodwinking evangelists who think
that I am not poor enough
abused rich crazy popular
assaulted burned victimized
whipped condemned sexy or smart enough
that I haven't been driven into the thick mud under my foot
a day after the rains
black tongues with burned black talk

do I not pay taxes to this great whirlpool windmill
feeding the rich blaming the poor
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when my people my color
my culture keep shitting in the shallow end
on the daily news acting like cannibals eating the hearts out of others

we are one and one are we, being that the verb goes singular to plural;
that's just how grammar works, maybe accident prone is fate's
mix of chemicals and colors in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings cast sprinkled shadows in the cabin's far corner:
and funneled by leaky weather rain vomiting on forest green turned to brown
and rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs before they rush through your veins
before I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

not dead I still have an opinion on what it must be like to die
I will fail long before and long after some celebrity is made famous
for dodging a question or a country is made famous for its lack of luck
dismal fate laid low sometimes in mind by us and everyone

And aren't I complicit in this machine as it
steals thoughts and body functions
takes or doesn't give back
leaves only lacking:
they have an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses.
they see in 3-d.

My skin may not burn but I scar baby I scar.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Baby I Scar; Draft #1 (from Brainstorm #2)

This one goes out to all the people
who think that I have nothing meaningful to say:
that I am not poor enough
abused rich crazy popular enough
assaulted burned victimized enough
whipped condemned smart enough
or that I haven't been stepped on enough or
that I've done too little or none at all of my own stepping

do I not pay taxes to this great whirlpool windmill of hate and death and hypocrisy
and feed the rich blame the poor
and how can my hands wash clean when daily it is my people my color my culture shitting in the shallow end
acting like cannibals eating each others hearts on the daily news?

I can think and love and ache as much as anyone else who has felt the wounds of long recovery or the woes of quick stricken fear,

we are one and one are we, being the verb goes singular to plural
but that's just how grammar works, maybe accident prone is fate's
mix of chemicals and colors in a Meth lab.

needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs before they rush through your veins
before I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk.

My head never stops thinking
I lay awake in bed
best memories and past nightmares
never let go heart racing for the lives not going up to the top of the cup
these diminished hopes and lost expectations.

Not dead I still have an opinion on what it must be like to die
Not killing but still have an opinion on murder
the spiral of deprecation it leads us on
and I will fail long before and long after a celebrity is made famous
for dodging a question or a country is made famous for its lack of luck
dismal fate laid low sometimes in mind by us and everyone.

And don't I too help pay aren't I complicit in this machine that keeps my brothers and sisters down that steals and takes that doesn't look back,
having some sort of inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses.
They see in 3-d.

My skin may not burn but I scar baby I scar.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Shattered Glass; Draft #2

If I could I would
piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup:
with powers like Superman I'd fly fast as infinity
reverse the rotation of the earth
change the course of historical events,
and perhaps breathe freezing cold on all my opponents.
A slow motion shot of fragments levitating from kitchen's hidden corners,
gasps of shock turning back to unknowing looks
my slippery grip sliding back into a firm handshake.


The fruit juice's sticky mess
slops its way back up my cupboard,
creeps up as if gravity turned Einstein upside down
glops up to meet the cup at the moment of implosion
at the moment when the hand slipped,
allowing the cup to burst against the rigid counter top.

At this moment I realize that counter tops have weight and strength:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping the shit out of the stables.
But do you, in watching the glass slip,
instead lament my shadowy and unreliable first person narrative?

Language Love (draft #3 of Freewrite B)

Language
like love desires, demands communication
but in words: more than just with 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 relate in metaphors
without body.

Language
also as light piercing molecules of air.
Connects without touching. Communicates without
body. Moves without moving.

Shattered Glass; rough draft

If I could I would try to piece together the shattered glass of a cup half empty:
powers like Superman I'd fly fast as infinity to reverse the rotation of the earth
and the course of historical events.
A slow motion shot of fragments levitating from kitchen's hidden corners,
gasps of shock turning back into unknowing looks
slippery grip sliding back into a firm handshake?

The sticky mess of grape juice or wine or coffee or beer
gently slops its way up my cupboard doors,
creeping up in as if in backward gravity
glopping and rising up to meet the cup
just at the moment of implosion
just at the moment when the hand had slipped
cup then falling at a right angle only to burst against the rigid counter top:
at this the moment I realize that counter tops have a weight and strength
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping the shit out of the stables.
But do you, in watching the glass slip,
instead lament my shadowy and unreliable first person narration?

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Belmont & City: Midday; Draft #4

Snow lingers longest in shadow
and the cold clinging fingers of winter scrape
shape sidewalks and front yards:
crumbling concrete bricks turned to dust beaten down by shovel and plow.

My breath takes form in the frigid air
its heart beating mere moments
until it shivers and dissipates in the lower atmosphere.

Ice packed snow mounds line streets,
plastic and fake wood cheap chairs
reserve street-side parking,
these spaces carved out not for passersby
in this city of brotherly love.

I am bundled against the cold on an otherwise clear day,
navigating labyrinthine and icy paths.
Passing three young men
I quietly turn down Belmont Avenue.
Head down, I mark the steps in front of my toes.
Head down, I slow march toward the bus stop marked 40.

From behind comes a low grumbled yell.
Turning my head the three young men again appear in view
but who would want to talk to me?
Who would even know me 2 miles from home,
here in this city of strangers,
here where I spend only minutes passing between work and the Forty
at the corner of Belmont and City.
I continue walking but still I wonder: had something slipped from my pack
were these boys
black teens all neat and clean
here to help me?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet
is followed by another gruff yell.
But if someone wants my attention could they address me more directly?
And worrying did I leave something behind,
swinging from one shoulder my backpack gently unwinds,
checking its contents for some peace of mind.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

I am now halfway down the block halfway to the bus stop,
turning again to see these three men now halfway again between me
and the City.

“Can I help you guys with something?” I ask, obviously impatient.
Still huddled, their thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, slightly afraid.
I now realize they do not come with aid,
but could they really think I mean to pull out a gun?
Instead, I pull out a bus token.
His fears extinguished, thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”

Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” he commands.
“I don't have any.”
I am lying but am yet unwilling to forsake the sixteen quarters
tucked deep in my bag,
emergency funds for emergency rides.

I sling my backpack back onto my back and turn with quickened pace.
They follow even quicker.
Soon amidst craggy mounds of ice and snow,
three boys, mere teens, their thin leader's teeth bound with braces,
surround me, and again thin leader demands money.
“I don't have any," is all I my mind can muster:
chemicals explode inside my brain inside my body.

They close in around me, one comes in close to my right,
thin leader to my left, and another, a tag along, lays somewhat hidden behind.

My glance moves to my right,
and a sudden jab smacks my neck where juts the left edge of my jaw.
Adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing.
I scramble over a snow mound
step out into the street-side parking
create distance where none was before.

I pick up a chair in defense
and to this thin leader insists,
“I'm gonna kick your ass if you hit me with that."
As if I was the aggressor
as if I came for plunder
as if I was the one to trouble a stranger.
I step out into the slow moving oncoming traffic,
force at least one car to stop, force at least one person to call up the cops
and already the other two slink behind their brace faced leader,
not off into some mid-day shadow
but slinking off as if shamed
or else avoiding the blame.

Eyes now turn to the left
and damn the 40 rounds the corner of Belmont and Ford.
Dropping the chair I sprint down the lane,
hands waving in frantic motion,
adrenaline compelling unthinking action.
But memory's minutes mere moments
as seconds of time,
and damn the feet fly by!

But then it slows down for an elderly woman
half hidden behind a telephone pole.
Running the final thirty feet, pulling token from pocket, boarding the bus.
Heart beating a thousand times a minute.

And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed
on this my birthday.