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.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Taught to Throw; draft #4

It was you who threw the first stone
and encouraged me to follow your lead.
You taught me the best stones to find: smooth flat and round.
You taught me how to dangle my arm and lean over just so,
bent at the knees head cocked
stone spun and thrown near parallel
whipped fast flicked wrist.
My memory of you plays out against a backdrop of centuries old glaciers
feeding waterfalls in a montane paradise of steep cliffs glittering snow,
bursts of life deep green cling to walls of stone.

You taught me how a slim stone skipping through infinity sounds.
But though we did not share these cirques, mountains, or 11:00pm sunsets,
your memory to me is as azure and deep as these alpine lakes,
wind whipped adventure struck on the way to the gold rush.

Song of the Cicada (draft #4)

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

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

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 carcasses remain an ironic but muted reminder of the cycle of life.

This Autumn Month; draft #2, finished poem

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

This autumn month
eyes gaze through a cracked window pane
unable to stop the loud sight and sound
of other people's matters late into the night
of drunken madness and irrational argument,
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 schedule of the number ten.

This autumn month
eyes gaze through the thin veil of a 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 finding its way into
blood choked scream screened streets
that are rivers in our lives.

Mynd Letter (draft #3)

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

Changing rules and dressed up names
everything's still the same
commonality maimed or made lame
and after wringing capital paragraphs to thunderous applause
we all clap and jingle our change.

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

Belmont & City Mid-day; Draft #3

Snow lingers longer 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.

Breath takes form in 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
put holds on street-side parking,
these spaces carved out not for passersby
in this city of brotherly love.

I am bundled against cold on an otherwise clear day,
navigating labyrinthine and icy paths.
Passing three young men
quietly I turn down Belmont Avenue.
Head down, my 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 appears now in view
the three young men huddled together,
against the cold?
and 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 only spend minutes passing
between work and the Forty
at the corner of Belmont and City.
Resuming my motion still I wondered: 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
and is followed by another gruff yell.
But if someone wants my attention,
could they address me more directly?

And worrying whether I left 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, thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, perhaps slightly afraid.
It is now I know they do not come with aid,
but could they really think I mean to pull out a gun?
Pulling out a bus token
I extinguish their fears
so 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 am unwilling to forsake sixteen quarters
tucked deep in my bag,
emergency funds for emergency rides.)

I sling my backpack back on and turn with quickened pace.
They follow even quicker.
Soon amidst ice and snow in craggy mounds,
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.”
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
Already two slink behind their brace faced leader,
not off into some shadow mid-day
but slink as if shamed
or avoiding the blame.

eyes to the left now they turn,
and damn the 40 rounds the corner.
Get on the bus! Get out of here and onto that bus!
Dropping the chair I sprint down the lane,
hands waving in frantic motion,
adrenaline compelling unthinking action.
But memories minutes mere moments
as seconds of time,
and damn the feet fly by!

But then it slows down for an elderly lady
half hidden from view behind a telephone pole.
Running 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.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Belmont and City Mid-day; Draft #2

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

Breath takes form against the cold
its heart beats mere moments
until it shivers and dissipates into the lower atmosphere.

Snow and ice packed mounds line streets,
plastic and fake wood cheap chairs
put holds on street-side parking,
explaining the value of hard work,
that though shovel and cold hand can undo
chemistry dropped from cloud and sky,
these spaces carved out not for passersby,
in this city of brotherly love.

I leave work early, the price I pay for working with students on a cold December day.
Bundled against cold on an otherwise clear day,
I navigate icy paths that mark haphazard sidewalks,
turn the corner onto Belmont Avenue and quietly I pass three young men;
mere teenagers in this fast-tick life.
Head down, I make toward a bus stop marked for the 40,
head down, I look forward to the evening of my birthday.

A yell fills the air between my ears,
I turn to look, the three young men stand huddled together:
against the cold?
Not another word, so I guess who would want to talk to me,
who would even know me, here 2 miles from home,
here in this city of strangers,
here where it takes me only moments to pass between bus stop and the HLC.
I turn back to walking, and yet I wonder, did I drop something,
is some gentle spirit trying to help this wayward traveler?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet,
and another gruff yell, but I think if someone wants my attention,
better to address me than general utterances in this open air.
But still, I wonder, did I leave something drop?
Swinging my backpack onto one shoulder
I rummage, checking its contents.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

I am now halfway down the block, halfway to the bus stop.
I turn again, these three men now following me,
now halfway again between me and City Line Avenue.
“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, perhaps slightly afraid.
It is now I know they do not come with aid,
but could they really think I mean to pull a gun on them?
I pull out a bus token.
Their fears extinguished, they stride toward me,
thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”

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

I sling my backpack back on, and turn with quickened pace,
but 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.”
Chemicals inside my body inside my brain explode,
they close in around me, one young thug comes in close to my right,
thin leader to my left, another, perhaps a tag along, is somewhat hidden behind.

I look to my right
and a sudden jab marks a spot beneath my left ear where juts my neck and jaw.
Adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing,
Is this really happening? Are these puppy dog teens really trying to pull this off?
I quickly scramble over a snow mound, step out into a parking space,
create distance where none was before.
Picking up a chair, all I can think to defend myself.

Thin leader insists, “If you hit me with that I'm gonna kick your ass.”
As if I was the aggressor, as if I came for plunder, as if I was the one to trouble a stranger with intimidation and violence.
Seeing traffic coming from my right, I step out into it, to force the cars to stop, force someone to look around.
Already two have slunk back behind brace faced leader,
slunk away not into shadow (as this is mid-day)
but slunk as if now shamed by their failed venture.

A sight I must have been! Rickety chair upheld, standing in the street!
But turning to my left, I see the 40 round the corner.
Get on the bus! Get out of here and onto the bus!
I drop the chair and sprint down the middle of the lane,
sprinting waving hands in frantic motion, but the driver doesn't see me.
And then it slows to pick up an elderly lady,
a woman I had missed half hidden behind a telephone pole.
I run the final thirty feet, pull the token from my pocket, board the bus.

Heart beating a thousand times a minute, mind racing.
And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Belmont and City Line Mid-day; Rough Draft

Snow lingers longest in the shadows
the cold clinging fingers of winter scrape and shape
sidewalks and front yards: crumbling concrete
bricks turned to dust in the tumult of shovels
and plows and beaten down lives.

Breath takes form against the cold
its beating heart alive only moments
as it shivers and dissipates into the lower atmosphere.

Snow and ice packed mounds line streets,
plastic and fake wood cheap chairs
put holds on street-side parking,
explaining to the value of hard work,
that though shovel and cold hand can undo
chemistry dropped from cloud and sky,
these spaces carved out not for passersby,
not for the weak of mind or frail of body:
in this city of brotherly love.

I leave work early, the price I pay for working with students on a cold December day.
Bundled against cold on otherwise clear day,
I navigate icy paths that mark haphazard sidewalks,
I turn the corner and quietly I pass three young men;
mere teenagers in the fast tick lives of African Americans.
Down Belmont toward a bus stop marked for the 40,
head down, looking forward to the evening of my birthday.

A yell fills the air between my ears,
I turn to look, three men huddled together:
against the cold?
Not another word, so I guess who would want to talk to me,
who would even know me, here where I work, here where
I pass only moments between bus stop and HLC.
I turn, and yet I wonder, did I drop something,
is some gentle spirit trying to help this wayward traveler?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet,
and another gruff yell, but I think if someone wants my attention,
better to address me than general utterances to the open air.
But still, I wonder, did I leave something drop?
Swinging my backpack onto one shoulder
I rummage, checking its contents.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

I am now halfway down the block, halfway to the bus.
I turn again, these three men now following me,
now halfway again between me and the street corner.
“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, perhaps slightly afraid.
It is now I know they do not come to return something I might have dropped,
but could they really think I mean to pull a gun on them?
I pull out a bus token.
Their fears extinguished, they stride towards me,
thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”
Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” as they walk closer.
“I don't have any.” I am lying,
but I'm yet unwilling to forsake the sixteen quarters I keep tucked deep in my bag,
emergency funds for emergency rides.

I sling my backpack back on, and turn, pace is quickened.
But 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, thin leader demanding my money.
“I don't have any.”
They close in around me, one young thug comes in close in to my right,
thin leader to my left, another, perhaps a tag along, somewhat hides behind thin leader.

I look to my right, and a sudden jab marks a spot beneath my left ear where juts my neck and jaw.
Adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing,
Is this really happening? Are these puppy dog teens really trying to pull this off?
I quickly scramble over a snow mound, step out into a parking space,
create distance where none was before.
Pick up a chair, something to defend myself.
Thin leader insists, “If you hit me with that I'm gonna kick your ass.”
As if I was the aggressor, as if I came for plunder, as if I was the one to trouble a stranger with violence and intimidation.
I see traffic coming, so I step out into it, force the cars to stop, force someone to look around,
But already two have slunk back behind brace faced leader, slunk away not into shadow as this is mid-day, but slunk as if to create distance from themselves and their failed venture.
A sight I must have been! Rickety chair upheld, standing in the street!
But I turn to my left, and see my bus round the corner.
Get on the bus! Get out of here and onto my bus!
I drop the chair and sprint down the middle of the lane,
sprinting waving hands in frantic motion, but the driver doesn't see me.
And then, it slows to pick up an elderly lady, half hidden behind a telephone pole.
I run the final thirty feet, pull the token from my pocket, board the bus,
and am off.
Heart beating a thousand times a minute, mind racing.
And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

So it goes.

Introduction.
Seas flush with life and beingity crawling
through filth, through intestinal rot, through blood and brains,
kneecaps and legs of remembrance, filth scrubbed off
on to welcome mats in showers and on street corners everywhere.

Conscience rises carbon monoxide mountains carbon dioxide deserts,
millennia approach and vanish at a rate too zoom-zoom fast for our minds.
Consequence, the black twisted liver disease,
but no cause of concern (no domino fall beginning but intermediary or ending)
new species rise
after old species fall
and the ruby red visceral meat that really matters continues, unabated by human standards.

Empty hunger and severed limbs,
supposed awful question but about face awful truth no man no news at infinity
awful truth.
Conscience grows knowledge like trees of life
and the eyes of the masses (take a deep breathing plunge)
gambling spree
economic growth
murders at eleven
ethnocentrism,
feed unappealing the feeding frenzy where blood of
friend or feast or
either or
fills the water and is traced to its source,
soon joining the soft, salty innards of laissez faire consequences. Shark belly.

Rising Action.
Buildings rise, their very creation birthing verbs; to build, not
to forget lessons but instead to shackle them deep with wine
in deep tunnels,
brick of dank and wet
rock the humid hot; walled up behind under,
not forgotten,
but instead set aside
the “first world” becomes the “third world”
burned votes and a confetti media mockery,
confessions of serial death penalty rapist murderers,
supreme courts bought and paid for:
let’s not name names
do deeds or mark these recent tragedies;
let’s get on with our lives.
Questions brought up, swept under carpet
take a bow though curtain closed.

Trumpets blare, perpetual personal privatized loud and clear: losers
talking hundreds of thousands women and men flip flop,
under toe mandate rising morning sunbeam. Information not made up though truth
the arbiter becomes a point of view, the cultural equivalent of the spiritual insurrection of subjectivity, birthing socioeconomic relativity.

Enter the dragon.
Spires of plumes,
fire, smoke and sand dunes.
Remember: sudden.
Great roach motel toilet flushing,
swirling of shit; certainly no one with our naivety fathomed that day.
plumes of smoke rising.
.




.




.
Rest and relax over at last.
Blood baths roll on,
ambitions attempted,
dicks whipped out and measurements taken;
though I don’t disclose names, never,
brainwash brandy wine brainchild
I am.
Champions crowned, oral sex follows; the usual gig for a usual Saturday night.
Crown prince of Hades and a fairy godmother from Texas to match
versus all.
Pragmatism and turkey dinner traditionalism; dull the quiet dog, moans unheard though decisions be made.
Bomb; verb, noun and adjective.
(Constitutional amendments seen, appendices please).

Admitting fault impossible
plausible deniability without accountability
the gleaming sword heir apparent
of the socioeconomic-political machine tearing through nuts and bolts;
verb: rebuilding (foundations dug up and rendered mute),
disseminating Anglo English Americana, though language
the dynamic beast of burden it be,
changes of its own accord and to wit, languages spread, diseases spread,
empires tumble, yada yada yada; the condemnation of repetition.

Still, terror and its stepsons fallibility and retribution must not be
gainsaid,
opportunism the potted meat product,
who eats this stuff but some do.
Breadbasket wooden specters of phallus. Alphabetical timber.

Climax.
Think consequences and at least think;
opinion poll world looking outside from the inside
no tears though dead,
onto the rubbish pile of history we tread.
Petroleum pestilence. National security machinations robber baron ideology.
Come back think long term; we don’t do things because of what we have done before
but from the infested promise of tomorrow,
the unabated conquest of paradise, of twisting and cutting off tongues, we do.
Highway environmental degradation
the denial of
lust of
togetherness, that closer we might have been brought,
communal the breath of being;
togetherness and earth children.

Here on oil truck, the gas
tank of perpetual impossibility be damned,
personal privatized tran-sploit-ation.
Human in car and ignorance is bliss and oh, this contemporary era.
Highways bridge gaps and scars in single bounds; unfettered access becomes the minstrel of wretchedness the misery of concept, to bludgeon those around him,
sweeping down the mountain,
carrion for bait,
automobiles of death
headlights running down headlines for
oil;
thirst for, burst for,
blood vessels of the mongrel race,
any god be damned, flipping a burger part-time paradise. Never reversed
never revealed and never embraced
that knowledge like
trees of life
spring bud flower suckle bee and the cycle requited.
Have a breath.

Denouement.
Community and lessons learned. Damns rebuilt torn down
and iron shackles hacked, burned and melted into nuggets of veritable hatred
then lost; buried forever,
even though we fuel fear to fuel cars. Lesson infinity,
moral ambiguity and personal ambition. Power makes noise,
sniffles and garbage and last nights dinner,
the blood of our children, the ironic return of the communal shower and birth tradition.
Truth of a personal nature strikes a blow but for how long?
Ambivalence has led to disgust but at what cost?
Healthy forest initiative, clear-cut removal of fuel
(return trip camping unsustainability)
inevitable engines spinning,
black top death on top
pistons piston head down head toward
empty hearts replaced,
refilled and revolved.
And will this be heard,
this restatement of ethical demand?

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Mynd's Letter (formerly Imagination Letter) draft #2

In mynd's eye there's this letter I mean to send:
heaven forfeits whoever it forbids
but writing's not a sin
and this blood letter written
iron rich as the rise of society
and with the strength of metal and the strength of death.

We change the rules and dress up the name
but everything's still the same
and society when maimed or made lame
wrings capital paragraphs to thunderous applause
if we all clap then no one is to blame

In unison they swing their canes
dapper dressed they walk down one ways
while all this time our lives wind up not as a time-piece
reckoned with a heart wind terrible to behold,
but as the wisps of wind that soft
dance across your face on a hot day.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

What living is worth

Not one heard
the hammer click back.
Not one could see that
with the barrel pointed,
it ran the length of her hairline;
barrel rammed hard into the soft spot just behind her ear.

Maybe she closed her eyes
and prayed with imaginary hands
(hers were bound behind her back).
Maybe she prayed to her God.
Maybe she thought of home
and said, “Mother, I love you,”
eyes closed to the pull of the trigger.


A sack arrived two days earlier
as iron plumes rose from black rivers
and burned out buildings.
She was told, “This is the best we can do, please eat.”
Rancid meat. Maggots and worms.
This is the best we can do, please eat.
But without firewood a fire could not burn
and without food she could not eat.

The sack that arrived two days earlier
was stamped USDA approved
and delivered.
This is the best we can do, please eat.
Except in her country
deliveries come too late.

Almost Sunset

I don’t suppose
if I asked you would go;
wanted only to watch
the sun set.

The purple hue,
the parade of clouds
and you
so clear, crisp and clean;
an apple
and as delicious.

Imagination Letter (from Letters rhyming exercise) draft #1

In my imagination there's a letter I have reason to send
writing is not a sin
heaven forfeits what it does not let in;
letter written in blood if I were anemic I'd been dead long since.

When we change the rules or dress up the name
everything's still the same:
society when maimed or made lame
no one and everyone is to blame

In unison they swing their canes
dapper dressed they walk down one ways
all the while our lives wind up
not as literal time-pieces reckoned by a heart wind terrible to behold,
but as the wisps of wind that soft-dance across your face on a hot day.

Dream Beetle (draft #4)

I sit and sink into the dry turf of a hillside's fair chalky meadow
clouds mixed crimson magenta
months of ash masked sunsets the world over.
My mind sees beetles burrowing through the dung of my dreams
metallic rose black its carapace,
mandibles grinding rock to dust
palpi feeling for food,
digesting stone-dust their waste back-filling tunnels
like analid these anthropods mix like no sex does.

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