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.