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.

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.

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 is the earth and calm is the air
as farmers rise in the early hour
before anyone can even see the sun.
Farmers till the soil,
unearth the past and yet mother is proud
(and yet we may feed off her thinning belly).

But still the earth spins, the horizon nears
and there appears
as storm clouds hanging low,
lights crackling
dancing across the sky
against a mist as rain too falls.
All heard the crash of thunder,
sounding from cliff to cliff
as if reality yet may be torn asunder.

But farmers and townsfolk alike pay no heed
and ignorant of the cookie cutter clouds coming closer
and with strength no more than an echo,
but that still may shake the foundations of houses and of tree.
This storm comes not solely with wind and rain:
it is plunder for that she hungers,
and 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 echoes
among wood and river
until, in some distant glen, it dies as it combines with
the slow murmur of life,
becomes hidden in the early day’s darkness.
Though the work of the day indeed needs done
and these men and women are fit to do it.

No one endures for a moment to think about that sound in the distance,
the low rumbling
some say of earth some say of heaven
and some say the sound of hell gurgle-screaming
across the doorsteps of our homes,
and so work with no thought,
workers slamming hammers against anvils,
patient to the demands of the 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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

whimper (final draft more or less)

passed down through generations
tangled fur, twisted teeth
the ragged glare of teeth bared
against the solitude of a witch-black forest.
Pine needles soften the sound
footsteps and sound of a dog dying,
so soon heard in echoes
as flesh from bone begins
the vagaries of rot

only to be recycled and found renewed in
the lives of other things,
as leaves of trees
or the moss between our toes.

But death sounds still long for tender days
not of misfortune made,
or truth that so too fades
into darkness turned soft blue
against the coming of the sun.

belly of the beast

Our bodies grow
of and from
nature impregnable;
though wind tunnels travel through
sandblast hard metal caps
and building’s tumbled rock

and dagger glass red cut carpets
beaten hanged and rotten
left to be eaten,
left to be left inside the heart ache
mind of quashed dreams
(shaken
sound rattles on
long
licked out
dried dead drums
of fine furs).

I recall the rhythm
of pebbles thrown,
concentric circles lapping the edges
of memory
of pumpernickel lives;
hindsight condemning misdeeds
of condoms seen
and memories that no longer lift
the lighter weight of spirit
kismet my dream,
the bowels of the belly echoes;
for today the coming of a breathless shaking tomorrow.

But do not forget breakfast:
tofu scrambler green pepper onion tomato

home fries black pepper and onion oregano,
digest while I rage
digest while I ride
digest while I read;

digest
in the belly of the beast.

Ramshack Trashcans

There- Among the tottering
ramshackle four-story brick row homes
built from misery and missed opportunities,

There- Trashcans overflow
amid downpours and indifference:
gutterjunk needles thick with disease
don't get caught out in the street!
wet walls of dry pastels
as poisoned blood
now collects in puddles.

In the dark and busted though thick glass
ground to clay choked like bone dry mud,
cleft knives a harbinger of centuries-long neglect
played out in front of your eyes.
A mural: cube men hungering for labor
swinging thick hammers one hundred pounds hard,
but dirt-caked the color of iron-red
cramped with living flesh amid the confusing and violent,
like a theater stage for all mankind.

And the children carry upon their shoulders
our dust wept sherry-caramel apple filling flavored lives.

A Soon Shattered Day

Across meads thick brown with tussocks
field-gray soldiers march,
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescent moons do.

Ahead distant smoke curls up and is caught in the light wind
in wisps it drifts away from homes
dug deep into warm hillsides.
But they soon follow paths
that tread through snow and past frozen ponds.
Cold white breath exhales across the calm meadow.
And as rough-hewn glass before it cracks
the still ice reflects the fading light
of this soon shattered day.

From my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk of death.
No one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits,
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...

And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats:
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantically whisper,
rugs made sure
closets and chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
casts into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in and the door collapses
dust scatters and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.

My hand in time

My hand in time
motive-spread like jackals
seen scattered cross the savanna:
a backdrop of boom-clouds
puke pale white-dry their tongues,
wag and await the photographic memories
of rain bursts and shadows wrought
not in pigment.

human thin

a silhouette, still
standing, reminds us of a wall,
its concrete at times carrying
a weight far heavier than the stone:
humans carry along what they drag behind.

a road revealed soon becomes more traveled and
when the earth rotates on an axis defined by science
and not by touch it soon too exhibits
an orbital wobble.

a circle, perfect but
the quick path is not always straight,
the sun shines between cirrus clouds
and in humble mumbles we utilize
the cracks and corners of small places.

and lonesome, an absent
empty frame,
never to be full.

through time and the inevitable way that objects change;
and in seeing erase the past
in listening write the present
in thinking foretell the future.
only from hope breeds fear.

living lasts only so long
dying is short,
forever without pain,
absence of thought, only still the constituent parts
of protons and neutrons and electrons,
at the heart of the matter.

two ends pull
until one end resigns;
until the shorter end
tires, two ends pull.

fabric is not as strong after washing.
a strong root dies if it rains too much
laying down is dying
though gravity always wins.
the end of it
most times human thin.

Relative as humidity

Water droplets
begin relative as humidity,
form shape and softness
then roll down leaves
of skeletal and firm constitution.
Tears collect at tips as crystals
and for a moment they cling, then
a quiet phud
as they fall through gravity:
moving magnifying glasses
shattered upon the grass.

Rarely warm days

Cold winter nights
rarely warm days
shortened
by science
lengthened
by man.