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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

Random Poetry Pieces; draft

Shitting Black Tar

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


Untitled

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


I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts

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

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

Tight Rope Walker; draft #2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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