Wednesday, June 30, 2021
CARPAL TUNNEL
Friday, June 25, 2021
HORACE SILVER & THE T-SHIRT
I will not be the one
that freezes.
Thursday, June 24, 2021
THE NEW NOMAD
Tuesday, June 22, 2021
Dark Poetry
I thought I'd write dark poetry
to take all my darkness and put it into line
but I didn't want my actual self to be dark, just the words.
I thought I'd take my cynicism and lay it out bare
but I didn't want to actually be cynical
I didn't want to actually not care.
Yet here I am brooding like a fool.
I thought I'd tell a white lie
to take all my darkness and cover it with a sheet
but I didn't want it to be the undertaker of my word, just a shield.
I thought I'd take my honesty and stir it in a pot
but I didn't want to cook it completely,
I would not be able to eat it.
So here I sit and nibble on the truth.
I thought I'd get a blue mood
to take all my rhythms and groove them into the dawn
but I didn't want to get a hangover, just to hang out.
I thought I'd sit by the window with my hand in my chin
but not let myself go completely.
I thought I'd let my imagination run
but I wasn't going for Olympic gold.
Monday, June 14, 2021
TRIANGULAR JUGULAR
on that window sill
where my elbows sit
and they make
a triangle
hands on my chin.
An A flipped upsidedown.
A V waiting to be redrawn.
Lines are boundaries, lullabies
Lure me to my dreamstate
sleepwalking foggy down the hallway.
Perspective merges then radiates
the doorways and the staircase
windows are now stained with color
they used to be clear
we could see each other.
(1)
The jugular falls in a triangular way
the plans we made when the stars were bright
flipped upsidedown
Lines were drawn boundaries
Crossed eyes and lullabies
lured me to my dreamstate
sleepwalking foggy down the hallway
messed up with guns and the occult
felt squares and grandma's quilts
lit cigarettes on the edges of the ledge
that window sill
it's such a small thing
it's no big deal
it's just chipped paint
that window sill
where my elbows sit
and they make
a triangle
hands on my chin.
Friday, June 11, 2021
The Junk Truck
Thursday, June 10, 2021
The Cigarette
(3) cigarette rolled by hand, match struck on a windy day. Do you know my fate? (2) cigarette rolled by hand, match with a box of bees, there is a rolled up dollar too, like a paper hat, maybe I put it there for luck. (1) I know I should not smoke, cancer and all. The hand rolled tobacco is just a splurge I have when I am painting. So I can think for a moment and step away. I had two matches left. It was a windy day. On the second match, I thought, "I better take this seriously."
Wednesday, June 9, 2021
Shaman standing in the spin
Tuesday, June 8, 2021
A Peach
(2) He almost stole a peach, sitting there, he nearly took it from the stack, escaping and not looking back. Yet something held him back. So he backed up, and went down the street, toward the sound of music, where people danced and gave him food to eat. He had stumbled upon a block party. Pounds of food, much heavier than a single piece of fruit.
(1)
You said you almost stole a peach?
Yeah I had it all figured out, my escape route.
Your escape route?
Yes I saw it sitting there.
So what happened?
I didn't take it.
You didn't take it?
No.
Then what?
I walked down the street.
You walked down the street.
I heard music.
---
I got there and it was this block party.
Tons of food and people, dancing.
Dancing people?
Yes.
They fed you.
Yes, more than I could eat for days.
---
Good thing you didn't take that peach.
Yes.
You never know what life has in store for you.
Background: This is a story told to me by my friend S.M., embellished only slightly.
Monday, June 7, 2021
LUCIDITY
Lucidity
what is it?
And who the heeccck needs it?
Dream bath
electric neuron mirror
string of water
running across a mirror
turn it sideways
it's the silk of a spider's web
in your hands like cat's cradle
cover your eyes
make a mask
see through the lace
breathe.
That's lucidity.
Saturday, June 5, 2021
Allowances
Allow me to elaborate
to confiscate the shadows
and the self doubt dancing
underneath the bridges
Allow me to make clear
the dingy fabric of your curtains
the windows of your
mind
your stained glass
church.
Allow me to wear white
not black like last Tuesday
and to play the blues
with tapshoes
on your anger's
salty grave.
Allow me to stop--lest
I get too dark and
dreary
I've buried all the
garbage and the
junk cars
and rented a small bar
in Philadelphia.
Poem and photos by Hannah Frank
Friday, June 4, 2021
All of This Fury
The taxis and the saxophones are loose
if beauty waits a week then I could sleep
the smoke break of the suicidal man
the galleries display the desperate skin
gorillas eating rubies by the fist
The modern man, he takes in all of this
The sheepish and the meek will dance in arms
the strong and fierce will fight and bruise
The peddlers and the popes both ask for change
politicans bite you like vampires
The firehydrants foaming at the lips
the modern man, he takes in all of this
Bikinis leaning on the lambs while lions spit
Believe the preacher the pews are made of oak
It is desperately hot without a fan
Our electricity is half dead yet zipping, crunch!
Dip the ink pens in
swimming pools of supersonic myth
the modern man, he takes in all of this
Dressed in rags, the fiddler hides his eyes
Yet his music blends in with the motors
The dreary cypress tress of New Orleans
they poke out of my skin like bayonets
The darkest nights shed skin and hold no bliss
the modern man, he takes in all of this
Plumbing and paperwork, cloaks soaked in acid
Ceiling fans decapitated pigeons, it was a hawk
The snow is tattered yet pure white from the sky
The four horsemen read the for rent signs
belive me, it doesn't do any good
when they show up, there goes the neighborhood
Optimism missed the evening train
Yet the sun will rise with fury while neon blinks
To the passerby, by chance, need a lift?
The modern man, he takes in all of this
Poem and photos by Hannah Frank