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.