CARPAL TUNNEL

Careless carpal tunnel tips my hat to the hedonistic viewpoints of my feral 

cats, drawn like sticky tar spooled into spider webs

careening cars down the alley

don't slow down

for speed bumps.

Geese flying laps to the powerlines, drink the destitution like its wine on a spiral

day, sling your arm into a trumpet and play

rock, scissors paper at least twice

keep it going

until you win.

Typing into the computer, I felt flat.

The day had just started to wear on me.

I squinted at the sun and felt the birds singing.

Where was the crystal ball?

Persistent people pleasing will launch your lurching soul into haywire

radio static, muscles make a myraid of strong singing voices

airplanes flipping through the sky

like flapjacks

cooking on the air.

Inside of my wrists

was the secret to the universe.

I just had to pull the cord

on the parachute.

HORACE SILVER & THE T-SHIRT

Somehow Horace Silver is connected to this. I threw away the shirt I was wearing, as if I could throw away the mistakes I made while wearing it. Hopefully the hype will take your high heels and throw them over the hills. Hard work will be waiting for you in the valley of your visions.

I will not be the one

that freezes.

THE NEW NOMAD

(2) 

The orange fire raged inside the barrel

its heat competing with sunrise

(1)

The new nomad shook her feet

the dust settled into the metal scraps

the wild dogs sniffed her robes

the rags started falling off

as she ran

The old man shuffled the cards

the joker peeked out from behind the clubs

his hands were covered in rings

which started coming off

as he slept

The orange fire raged inside the barrel

the homeless warmed their gloves

the odd smell of factories covered the air

but the smog began to roll away

with sunrise

The blue guitar played a lonesome jig

in the small cafe next to the tourist trap

the passports and the wallets wailed

the money started at the fingertips

and fell into the tip jar

as they listened

The man at the casino grew intense

he had never met

anyone that made as much sense

the journalist kept explaining

that the rage was real

but like a dream 

all these stories

would never connect

the nomad, the man and the fire

I awoke with the sun in my eyelashes

thinking of factories

and a dirt path

and someone running

through the smoke

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.

TRIANGULAR JUGULAR

(2) The jugular falls in a triangular way,

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.

The Junk Truck

 The

junk 

    truck

    is coming

    I can HEar it

    it is 

      

     coming.

The side doors are beat up and

the bed of the truck is full and the gleaming metal in the 

avant garde stack looks like robot parts. The copper and the magnets

in the old refrigerators and washing machines will be traded...

perhaps the mattresses will be sold and the other things

melted or smelted--but for now they are a mountain

he is carrying. It is definitely epic. The frame of 

the truck is bent yet it towers proudly up

like the first skyscraper

this rolling testament

that trash is treasure

he looks in dumpsters

and is patrolling 

now he is not

just looking 

for 

wooden

pallets.

He keeps on.

I see

him time

and

      time

again

    usually

it is

             the same

stuff

in the truck

but

I 

hope he hits

 

  pay

   dirt.

He

is

go    

   ING

   by

    now

down

the

alley.

 

(2)

T

h

e

ju

nktru

ckiscoming

Ican hear it andnowI

canseeit, coveredfromheadtotoe

withmetal and piecesof parts

andparts ofpieces

itstartsto pull

away and

I wond

erwhere

he will

go

he 

is

g

o

i

n

g

.

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."

Shaman standing in the spin

 

Shaman standing in the spin, surrounded by the silent men.

Stiff and supple, dancers move

to the sound of ancient grooves.

Back muscle, ankle, leaning in,

basking in the butterfly,

tucking in the tiger.

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.

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.

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

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