I'm on the long road to Canaan and I'm leaving today.
The doves are flying, and bats are hiding in the rafters.
I'm leaving anyways.
My jeans are packed my lakes are frozen
I've got ice skates and yellow hair.
My ice heart and pumpkin breath is like a pair of dice from Halloween
the black dots are his eyes, the white die are his skin
he's just a creepy ghost, nothing to be afraid of now.
I'm on the long road to Canaan and I'm leaving today.
Image source: Wikipedia, public domain.
Where the rubber meets the road for the modern Renaissance man is somewhere between arrogance and rust, somewhere in the mist of the dust of ancestors and geniuses lost. She said it while wiping out a glass lamenting the geniuses lost in south America to slavery the untold losses that are never counted. I really liked her way of looking at things I remember how she laughed wildly talking about Marx and I regretted I hadn't yet read him enough to weigh in. I think she was a survivalist. She's waiting for the world to end. Meanwhile a man I know seems like he's waiting for the world to fall at his feet.
Don't just have all the lines be the same
allow yourself to make one really long line which stretches into infinity's hair and fingers intertwine
Don't have all your lines be short
allow yourself to make two really long lines which move beyond the boundaries of the poem into the great unknown as you never know what you might find when you reach as you thought you were in some crazy dumpster dive freelance gutter punk dance show and you might find yourself at the beach.
Don't let all your lines be...
sometimes you got to...
reach.
the connection between my soul and heart is getting bigger in other words you make my arrows quiver
Separate is an illusion we are all together all the time
all things happening at once
a sun spot in the eye of the blind
a quiver in the leg of the lame
a mouth dry and parched
shaping the name
I guess I had heard "Santa Baby" enough times, through the speakers of every store, in between my ears, and out of the mouths of divas in sequins all December, and I just had it.
Was nothing sacred, what about Silent Night?
Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.
I just see the shoe prints in the snow of holiday shoppers.
I hear the roar of weather reports.
On a snowy night, I was called off from work.
I stood there motionless, like a child in the hay.
Somehow, despite my best intentions to stay holy
I ended up in a jazz bar,
on my night off with a glass of wine
talking to someone about Brazil.
I came home, my stomach rolling
wondering how I got so off track
especially when I have
gifts
to
wrap.
It's up to us ourselves to keep something holy and sacred
whatever it is, it has nothing to do with religion
it's about those moments
when the band starts
and you realize they are playing Ray Charles
and your heart lights up
and you get to hear
a soloist you've never heard before
as the winter sprinkles outside
and blurs the lines
you're inside
with candles
and it's a moment.
It's the moment of a lifetime.
The breathless mentor told the team that youth will keep you slim and serene, yet tickled everyone's nose with a feather if they thought they could get better than her genius wheel, spinning with bright colors and causing earthquakes in our souls.
We sat captivated on Zoom from 8am until noon at this webinar which was meant to save us from being broken hearted. I cooked some eggs and shaved my legs and now I am right back where I started.
With a busted lip and boxing gloves from falling in and out of love, listing all the names and places the nouns and the nebula, taking notes which look like designs I can't read any
meaning in the lines, yet I had to laugh because I practically thought she could save my life.
Love letters from a jail cell
are always signed, 'I wish you well'
where' they're from I'll never tell
I throw them all into the well
In the darkness and the wet
the ink runs and dissipates
it makes a murky fog
that even the bull frogs hate
I hear them chirping and burping
late at night
in the haze over the lake
meanwhile he's in his tiny cell
thinking over his mistakes
and here I am running free
but I am not a woman
I am just his
imagination.
It's all about intention, a rough sketch will not be a work of art, if that's the intention. As soon as the pen goes to paper, that's where the intention starts. In the mind and hands, that's where the intention lives.
James Brown went to Africa
and then there was Afrobeat.
In Afrobeat
you need to play one thing
for a very long time.
When I was in a painting class, the teacher said
to start the year on "the good foot"
and this was in reference to a James Brown song.
Considering
that he travelled the world
and is referenced even in "fine art" classes
shows the breadth
of his influence—
I'd have to say,
damn good job.
May wild birds fly into the night
and may your groove always be strong
and guide you
into the heart
of life.
This is how the bird comes home to roost.
I'm listening to Blues music on a Wednesday morning,
thinking about the past ten years.
There are addictions you can afford, and those you cannot.
There are drums where the hide is stretched in such a way as when it's hit it makes a sound.
There's a piano tuner out there somewhere.
Did you get his number?
The sound of water rushing in a stream
and the wheels of far away cars screeeeeeching on the sidewalk
as they knock over garbage cans
such was your entry into my life
such was it that planets collided.
My teeth now chatter in the cold
the oven is off and the bones are bleached
my hands are twisting and turning
to make the bathtub faucet
stop leaking
and I am sleeping on the dry earth.
Offer me a glass of water?
Cool to the touch, chilled with ice
the glass sweating.
Be careful who you think is handsome, take my advice.
Fame is a razor's edge and it doesn't cut twice.
The line of his jaw that you saw will burn like electricity through your mind for all time.
Pride and yearning go learning.
It's all old school.
Crazed eyes of the homeless, crack and tipped back heads
Sleeping on the benches and playing cards
Hope has been wrecked
the strongest man in the world
can't swing an anchor around his head.
The clock on the wall is old school, not digital. It clacks in a click-clack way, every other click is slightly different than the previous one, and different than the one that follows. The bathtub also drips. It drips slightly faster, maybe about 2.7 drips per second. When these two sounds overlap, when I am laying down to sleep, I catch moments where they intersect.
We found second hand smoke in the SPAM
We found sycophants in the master plan
but we found joy in the jam
we found joy in the jam...
I think I'm getting jazzed out, from too much jazz coming in. I'm slim sleazed and jazz fizzed, jazzy tizzy ruck rhumba and a side of salt. I am rip roaring, free falling, tipping over, and it's all my fault. I took the job at the jazz club, thinking it'd be some extra cash and now all I hear is tipped over sea shells.
Yet the ocean, is so beautiful, all of its waves. Its underwater caves. Its caverns and its dancing froth.
How can I miss it, how can it be gone? You can never lose what belongs to you - paraphrasing a song by Abby Lincoln.
The memories of songs is all I have now. It's almost like the music is gone, even when it's happening right in front of you, jazz music seems to be the art of making music feel like a memory.
At least that is how it seems to me.
I am counting quarters, 6, 7, 8
unless I have $2 I will have to wait.
I do, I'm good and all is well
and all of them are shiny bright.
I have some that are colorful, dark and distressed,
from years so covered up you have to guess
I call these my "alchemy" quarters and I
am bummed when I need to use them for wash
as they are so beautiful
so much variety
so strange to think
of all that the quarters have been through
...to rub and leak against chemicals
and reactions to the air
where have these quarters been?
Gaseous fumes on other planets?
In the soil on Mars?
In the souls of the devils
underneath the counter at some
Country Western Bar
have they been on floorboards
or floating in raw sewage
in the pockets of politicians
or the grubby hands
of a homeless woman
counting stars
Where have they been?
I just hold on to them sometimes.
Admiring their dark purples, blacks and greens, sepias and rusted reds.
In the coatroom, sometimes the hangers make shadows and it looks quite artistic. Sometimes a vinyl raincoat hanging catches a light in a certain way that makes it look like rubber. And oh, the perfumes and the colognes, rich robust orange lemon cotton candy floral hearth. Oh the furs, oh the vintage numbers. I could just hug them all and fall into them, imagining what it's like to go out on the town. I stand and get the coats at the end of the night, and smile. I try to keep my mouth closed when I smile. I don't know why but I think that's more polite. I realized after awhile that the tips that go into my little brass cup aren't really about my value, they are a way of people showing that they value their coat. It's all very complex, yet so simple. Sometimes my hands run longingly on the soft fabrics as I hang them on the hangers. When the hangers are empty again, at the end of the night, that's when the hangers cast the shadows. It's not dull nor dreary actually, it's quite evocative and ready for a MOMA exhibit. Hangers, in the coatroom.
The griots and the girlish ghouls feigning stardust on the rule of law. Libel can't touch the smile. Inches, meters, cubic yards, measuring her beauty in scars. The characters inhabit souls, masks are just the outer shell. The length the storyteller will go, there's miles between our hearts, then the distance suddenly collapses. Cue the choir. Remove the mask! The dawn is coming and we must go about our business.
"This passive stuff is for the birds, Michael," he shook his head slowly like a pendulum.
The night was growing darker, and you could see your breath.
Sam's sense of doom wanted for nothing. His face was dry, his chest hollow.
The trees twisted up from the ground like Black licorice.
"Mary is not going to like this," is all Michael said.
The quiet hung in the air, like the wind between the blades of a chopper. It was only a matter of time before it came around again.
The guys went inside the bar, the smoke from their cigarettes hanging in the air like a magic carpet.
Then it was gone.
The jukebox and the shrieking nightlife inside the bar overtook them as they went back inside, the pool sharks tapping their way to a win, the pick-up lines at the bar stools, and the bartender's worn but expectant face.
"What'll it be, fellas?"
Sam put his fist on the table.
Clear a path through the chaos ever-tipping toward the rug
the coffeecup and wide-eyed cats the window as it shrugs
the stained glass plate the miserable fork
laughing sinks somehow retort
didn't you mean to do that, to your face?
Let the laughter shuffle through your mind like wild geese in a V
in formation yet mysteriously.
Let the mystery unfold like a paper origami swan
let the riverboat travel downstream like a Mark Twain movie
let the Vegas strip go quiet for one night.
That film noir man is lurking in the shadows
ready with a gaze that will stop the criminals
a daunting task for sure to be aware of the subliminal
like wild animals we are
in our furs, and our pearls.
Damn movies, always keep me up late at night
I found myself crying and wrapped up in a ball
when the credits rolled and I suddenly awoke
from a dream.
It was 2:00 AM and not early enough to wake.
I fell back asleep and dreamt of things tipping over
the chaos that would await me in the morning light.
But when it came, I felt serene
and merely thanked God for my fingers and toes
over coffee.
I don't feel like writing today.
My boss is up my nose, up my armpit.
I don't want to write, I want to walk.
I want to go to the Post Office to send
a letter to a friend.
I want to dream, dance, drink juice.
I want to lay down for a moment.
I don't think I have anything to say.
This, this is the time when you absolutely must write.
On the roof the shingles lay one over the other
like playing cards.
The sandpaper spread out by the
magician
asking the sky
to pick a card.
This is 6 of 10 for word swirls I am writing based on words from other people: as in things people said or wrote to me, or which I overheard.
"It's good to have coffee, even if it's Instant."
Funny how, instant is supposed to be so great,
but we all know instant coffee tastes awful
much less than the coffee that takes some time
and the drip coffee that takes the longest
tastes the best.
Lots of tiny lines, paper cuts in the skin
doodles on the page where the ink sets in
Draining out my blood these tattered lines
like cannon balls they hit my gut
and drop grenades in my mind
How will I ever find my blood
running through my veins again
like a freight train
when all this dead weight
holds me down
and makes me slumber
far too deeply?
Like dead animals in the woods
from their bones
tiny flowers creep
It's a sign of spring
and the tiny threads of creeping Jenny
cover the dry earth, until it rains.
I pulled the tiny feather off my sweater, the feather was from my down jacket. The jacket was a gift. The feather was from a bird. The bird was from the sky. The sky was from the Universe. The Universe is from the sun, somehow. The sun is hot. It's a very roundabout relationship, me and the jacket and the sun--but it sure is keeping me warm, that jacket is.
"Let me know if this works for you" is 5 of 10 for word swirls I am writing based on words from other people: as in things people said or wrote to me, or which I overheard.
I left the letter on the shelf, let me know if this works for you.
I cracked open my sternum and left my heart on the plate, let me know if this works for you.
I shot myself in the foot and am using the tourniquet as a turban. I will walk slowly backwards, toward the river and dunk myself in, let me know if this works for you.
I will make the machines call us by name, cook us bread, and make reservations at the bed and breakfast, at half past noon. Spiders will walk across our hands as we get dressed, in long white gloves
to go dancing.
I will confuse the living shit out of you and call it art.
Image source: https://remixvintage.com/product/vintage-ladies-day-gloves-pink-daisy-lace-pearls/
David Goggins said he used to be a clown,
but sweet mother of Jesus, look at him now.
Anything is possible once you decide.
You just have to make up your mind.
The whispers of girls, lured into groups to discuss the fuss.
Coffee constantly being bathed across tongues
in the bathtub of the news. Silently staring at magazines,
silently staring back at me.
I feel I know more than I want to.
Image source: https://favpng.com/index
They say a poem is a little machine for remembering itself. These are more like nuts and bolts, in the bottom of a drawer. I might need them someday, that's what they say. I am not sure who 'they' are. I write poetry only to know who I am.
Subtle trips and falls my eyelids rattling like a tea kettle flirting with the fire
Steaming up my dreams like a hot shower leaving notes on the mirror
Rolling off the tongue like timeless lies while the truth is hidden
in a box under the bed.
Ice skating on the thin pages the paper money in the can at the coat check
Tatoos bloom on the tear drops prison cells and goofing off
peasant dresses and cowboy costumes belt loops and leather pants
red tennis shoes and the autumn leaves.
Image source: https://emilyronehome.com/?p=764
My fingers fell onto the Casio keyboard and a blurting sound came out. The walls shook, and the landlord started pounding, kick drum style. He yelled a roaring yell, and I spun around. I twisted the doorknob and almost broke my wrist. I listened to him make his case, and he wanted to staple the eviction warning to my forehead, I am sure. I put my hands up to cover my face, leaving my stomach exposed. He punched me in the gut and walked away. His steps echoed like snare drums disappearing and I went in and sat down. How am I to write my symphony. I will have to burn it with fire into my heart.
Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash
He folded the clothes on the bed. The white t-shirts were stacked on top of the dark blue jeans. Rummaging through the pile, his hands touched the soft wool. It was her sweater. Green as emeralds, fuzzy, and small. Smaller than he remembered. He held it up, thinking of her body.
Setting it down, absently, he ruminated about the era of telegrams. He imagined what he would write if limited by brevity.
I have your sweater. Shrunk it. Missing You. Meet at...
His mind trailed off. She would not want to meet to get the sweater. She would not even take his call. She wasn't talking to him at all. He would have to hold onto it. Could he bring himself to throw it away?
It seemed too valuable to toss into the trash. He put it in a drawer, underneath an old baseball uniform and on top of scattered matchbooks from restaurants across the U.S. that his Grandpa had collected.
He sighed as the drawer went clack.
Image source: https://www.vintage-retro.com/1950s-sweater/
The Carpenter who needs a saw is different than he that needs a plan, different than he that needs to straighten out a nail. The Fisherman who has a net too wide to catch the smallest fish is like the genie in the bottle counting out each wish. The Politician who has the vote is the Writer who has the last thing I wrote, sealed in an envelope. The mailman will take it to the house that the carpenter built and this today is my riddle which I've spilled.
What is promised and what is bought
what is a cheap laugh for a bit of rough dimes
what is tendered what is got
whooping an' hollering for the thinnest
of lines on your smile--as your cheeks rise
and a smile erupts across your landscape,
spraying ashes of laughter.
I don't doubt he means well.
But laughter isn't a topical ointment
it's not icing on the cake,
it's the plate tectonics of your mind
as what is unseen collides
with what's possible
where the absurd runs rampant
and chaos is out of its cage
there for us to look at
in all its peacock glory
this life
this vain attempt
at understanding
one
another.
No matter your age
there's still the same
number of hours in the day
The rural pearl that unfurled and curled was hurled
over the hill where my freewill
turned to clover
and I rolled
and rolled.
Watches tick, watches watch me. Watches watch me wash my hands of all of this.
Clock tick, clocks clock me in the chest, my heart beats, each one like the timpani
of a thousand turtles, tromping across the sands.
Hourglass, where are your hands that turn you,
when they shift back and forth like a steering wheel
isn't time what we make of it, forwards, backwards,
left and right, that's merely politics
I was speaking of time.
Each breath is wasted, each sigh is moot
yet breath is the wind that connects us
to the sea, the shore and
the sand
again the sand.
I was out by Lake Michigan and it was a full moon
the tide was low
and the moon was shining down like a spotlight
on the stage of the water
cooing and rustling
as gently as possible
like bubble bath foam overlapping
each bedsheet as it was folded
again and again
in the washing machine
of love, of awe
and wonder.
The new dawn spilled over the land, the dark trees grew light.
The air became alive with fire and small birds started to chirp.
Animals rustled in the underbrush, rooting for berries and fallen pears.
Meanwhile I was floating, levitating, just waiting for the dream to end.
The guru will put you in control of the oil well of your inner potential.
All her clients have shared testimonials about how they've scaled their business
and caught the big fish, destroyed the competition and built a pyramid.
The large fish are in nets made of impermeable plastic that will never rot.
No fear, all your challenges can be overcome.
Thankfully, you can avoid magic panic
as you shift from urgency to a new mindset
letting go of old ways
there's a new thing you've just got
to try
to shift to
from drift to shift...to
shift from drift
to shift
perspective lift
shift from drift to shift...
click to buy.
Image source: https://medium.com/bapssatsang/need-for-a-guru-94156cf7c51d
Take each avalanche
of advice with a grain
of salt
but don't get salt
into the soil
that's where plants need to grow
so they can
hold back
the erosion.
Photo by Noah Buscher on Unsplash
Diffused lighting backdrops and props, the young playwright arrives arms full of thrift store costumes.
The actor is moody, brooding and nervous preparing for his monologue.
Who will make the cut?
Page 17 of the script went missing and no one knows how to end Scene 1.
Let's keep rehearsing.
Opening night.
Footsteps of the prop master as he places the fishes in the bowl.
Koppa the actor will take one by the hand when the curtain goes up.
The audience has no idea that the script has been crumpled up in balls, heaved against the wall,
sobbed into, and flicked loudly when it was crisp.
When it was a gleam in the director's eye
when he was walking along, thinking
the shadows and sun between the trees looked
like an untold story.
Photo source: https://www.thestar.co.uk/news/retro-sheffield-actors-first-on-stage-with-iconic-play-459002
Photo caption: The ground-breaking Sheffield amateur version of Waiting for Godot with John Furniss, second right, as the slave Lucky
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Heave up a brick and slap on the mortar
I am building a life.
Covered in mud the first brick layers
used clay and sticks.
A sloppy undertaking
but the results came anyways.
The Egyptian pyramids weren't built in a day
and the road to Rome is paved with good intentions.
Never the mind.
I have long eyelashes and old galoshes
I will wade through the ponds.
Sending a baby in the reeds
for good measure.
Image source: https://www.bl.uk/learning/cult/inside/goldhaggadahstories/mosesstory/moses.html
(what a way to interpret drawing water)
The supreme intelligence is out there, the mastermind behind
The pristine happenstance is hanging in the balance
between my eyes and my mind
trapeze
blow wind blow
a puff of smoke
and all is the same
again.
Image source: https://pixels.com/featured/the-trapeze-acrobats-vintage-pix.html
The grapes around my waist make a belt of wine
shaded in the summer by the vines
Lo and behold come hold me
child in the dust beaten by the sun until
your mind rusts
never your heart!
Your heart is covered
highlighted
swallowed by the halo
your grace takes over
and makes all graves full
and never hollow
Allow me to recognize this bounty
this fruitful handful count me in
to the harvest moon so full
and hanging
guiding the ships at night
across the waters
Did you ransom off your stolen daughters?
Pawn the wallets of your sons?
I had pride, once, a long time ago
but the cowboys
made me run.
Indian.
Sun.
Photo by demi huang on Unsplash
There is a glass of water
there is water in a glass
there is a river full of water
there is water in a river
one flows
one stands still
There is a cloud full of rain
there is rain in a cloud
There is a hose full of water
there is water in a hose
one is full of potential
one is going going gone.
How we choose to be
the glass or the stream.
There is no right or wrong
it's just knowing which is which
so you can be strong
flowing like the essence
of joy lost and found
only in
dreams.
Photo by Nicolas Ruiz on Unsplash
The sun rises in the East.
My windows face West.
In the morning at 8:05,
the sun hits the windows
on the building across from me.
The building which does face East,
and windows which do face the sun.
The reflection is so strong
it's almost like I'm facing East.
The sun is glaring at me.
That's the power of a mirror,
it can turn the whole world
around.
Dew on the side of a can of Coca Cola
Looking at the babies in the strollers
holes in the jeans of the holy rollers
on their knees from where they're praying
petting sleeping dogs as they are laying
just don't wake the dragon
keep the drinkers on the wagon
I've got my head in the middle
of a magazine
reading about all the scenes
the silver screens and hills of dreams
paid in beans and what it means
is that if life don't break you
then your mind will
shooting fish in a barrel
this time
cock the gun
and open
the holy grail
Huck Finn
you win
you got your pail
I'm the blue gill
Blurp
Blurp
Blurp.
Might as well skin me get me on the grill and eat your fill
the hook in my mouth won't make me shout
I just have to rethink
the whole problem
of
worms
and freewill.
Image source: https://gfp.sd.gov/bluegill/
When the coffee in the cup grows cold
it sits on the counter at the diner
in its porcelain vessel
growing colder by the moment
losing its "coffeeness"
Then, the waitress comes by
like a thief in the night
and pours a sloppy yet deft
layer
to it
And it doesn't happen like icing on a cake
nor like sediment from the times of dinosaurs
each one on the next
all lined up
in a colorful display in a canyon
no, it's something more like a Venn Diagram
what happens
when the cold coffee
mixes with the hot
and then it is
all warm.
Image: Pinterest MangoStreet.com
The potential spillage of cigarettes rolled with shaking fingers
the ashes on the carpet are just messy, there's no Phoenix in site
She is in the bottom of the canyon praying to different gods
than the ones you know
high from a peace pipe and lower than she's ever been
What of the devil makes you shed your skin?
Snake dance into the night
let the river pound your bones
with its rushing waters
you are the canoe.
I am your paddle.
Let's get somewhere.
Image source: https://depositphotos.com/vector-images/phoenix-rising.html
Greased for gumshoe detectives
riding high on metamorphosis
slipping over the canyon into the abyss
Was not the question in the coffee
when the clouds of cream stirred
your worried mind to think?
Mondays are always stuck in the mud
my tires spinning
into infinity
whipping the dirt
into frenzied backpacks of schooling
which I never learned my lessons
lined notebook paper
holding me hostage
with a sharpened pencil
and the teacher's biting tongue
sour apples
the ballet dancer's career is not dance--
it's grace.
Look into the mirror, it's so flat that you could place your hand on it.
The world is round, ask a shipbuilder.
No use staring at the mirror
no use staring at your navel
Tie up the ballet shoes
and make a butterfly
hang a wing in shame
to your colors
your being
and your bang, bang, bang.
What is at the door?
Oh nothing, just a delusion of grandeur.
Tip him and he'll bring the car around.
Carry my luggage
swirl this mess into dice games
and crap shoots.
I'm just throwing sawdust at the moon now.
Image source:
Ballerinas on Window Sill in Rehearsal Room at George Balanchine's School of American Balletby Alfred Eisenstaedt https://www.allposters.com/-sp/Ballerinas-on-Window-Sill-in-Rehearsal-Room-at-George-Balanchine-s-School-of-American-Ballet-Posters_i3781711_.htm?PODConfigID=4990704&sOrigID=53680&upi=P43K8J0
The last time this happened I fell off the ledge
dove into the waters
and felt the coolness
Now I have no place to go
just a glass of water
to drink.
The sun is rising from the center of my guitar
the light is coming up there
the strings cast shadows
like tall trees in the forest
stretching on the ground of my fingertips
moving up my arms in vibrations
of acrobatic readiness
my fingertips are tight rope walkers
I think we have to believe what is possible.
It's not impossible, it's possible.
Time isn't something to manage, it's something to leverage,
it has the ability to multiply and contract.
We've all experience moments dragging on,
and hours passing in a flash,
what then, is time?
When you are done pondering the fluidity of time,
turn your gaze to hope. Let your heart burn
with an ember of desire.
Isn't hope and desire dependent on our sense of mastery?
Isn't mastery just a leap of faith?
Belief is the last frontier.
Take a leap over time.
Take a look in a moment.
It's not day to day activities that take you where you are going
but the moment to moment habits
the access you give
the boundaries you draw
but most importantly
the dreams
you create.
Image source: Avalanche Creative list of Infomercials
Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring in the midst of a water storm, how I wished it was summer again. Matching silver rings and glances over coffee, army jackets and annual cigarettes, looking at the stonework on the buildings forever, necks craning to see the falcons carved like gargoyles, high enough, on their third story ledges, to amaze us but not so close as to pose any real threat. Under the willow tree, I will always be, with his hands on my shoulders.
Heavy headdresses made of lead are best when paired with a bag of burdens.
Walking through mud can give your feet and legs a rather dashing shade of grey.
Holding your head high is always recommended, you never know what you'll see.
Stabbing your heart with a metaphorical blade, make sure its silver and not obsidian.
Your eyelashes are your biggest curtain, drop them with great gravitas.
This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered. It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined.
"I'm getting lost in the leaves today."
I smirked, as if nature's paint brush was scrubbing my cheeks.
I walked in a blue jacket, in the sun and took in the red and gold
the yellow the brown
the mint.
"Oh!" There's a dead rat in the grass
his eye is open,
I don't know if he's breathing or not.
I know someone will have to pick him up
with a shovel.
I walk on.
I can't shed a tear now.
I'm romanticizing
the colors of life.
Empathy is useless right now.
It's pragmatic, and comforting, more like a towel
to wrap around my head
after a shower.
I'm not here to judge,
I am here to dance.
Lost in the leaves
smelling the wonder
of Fall.
Hunched over a typewriter
fifty zebras swatting flies
laughing at the sawdust
wiping his eyes
It's how I picture
Charles Bukowski
violins playing and each time the
typewriter
dings
it's an epiphany
again
and
again
silent like a church
bells ringing in his mind
far away
from the gaze
of critics
and fools
wading in a river
of his own creation
fish biting his toes
splashing
in the morning
rain
as the sun rises
burning up the forest
with each passing glance
The muses running through the trees
dressed in white
flowing dresses
as they scatter
and hide behind
the letters spread across the page like grain
and the idea is eaten.
a new page
goes in.
"Well...that was dramatic."
I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere
and the moths in her hair like barrettes
as she sat in the corner
unable to move
Your journals they are all empty
Your mind it is now full.
Image source: https://www.saatchiart.com/print/Painting-Girl-with-Moths/392678/2591166/view?sku=P210-U392678-A2781376-T2
"People will complain about anything," she said, and she's right.
The current issue is potholes, on the city streets and alleys
wreaking havoc on people getting to and from work
resulting in car repairs and expenses
unforeseen even though
they tried to swerve.
She talks about how she never wanted to be a Nordstrom woman
and how despite herself
she notices
mauve and grey in her wardrobe
and we laugh
and I agree there's stereotypes out there
and listen to the shrill reminder that there are
unheard voices, unmet needs:
it's time to start blowing the whistle.
We discuss artists and grants.
She encourages me to call my local Alderman or Alderwoman.
I agree the community needs to speak out,
and it needs to at least be on their
list.
They can swerve all they want.
Tax dollars are their vehicle
and there's no bumps on the road
for that.
This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered. It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined.
"It's just so fucking fake out there now. No souls on the row."
His transparent onion skin was clear for now.
His messages floated down the telephone wires like a letter wet in the grass, ink running
Covered from head to toe in tinsel with
dirty cowboy boots and a shiny gold record
moving like moths to light
toward Christmas lights and Miller Lite
in the bar downtown, the Bluebird where all the songwriters
go.
The spark and fire of busking is now just enough
to get from the couch to the stove in the kitchen
I am him, he is me,
my Nashville connection
he has no idea
what that town has meant to me.
The difference is he actually went, he actually followed the muse there
all the way down Highway 51 and made it safe and sound
but now his guitar is quiet and his long hair is dirty
who knows
maybe he cut it off
I remember doing that
I remember cutting my losses
How strange it is to realize
that songwriting isn't buried treasure
it's lightning in a bottle.
You need to look up.
he said his mental health is better
now that he's not trying
to be
a
musician.
I know though
he will keep writing and his muse will tap him on the shoulder
even though getting older
is a scary, strange thing.
Maybe an old leather hat, can tip to him at the brim
for never having to say, "what if?"
Every sunny part of the kaleidoscope is blinking and moving! Keep on keeping on, tomorrow is a bright day full of life and swimming.
They say a man will blink thirty seconds after being
decapitated.
They say a snake will slither until sundown.
At least I am not at risk
of being beheaded,
I think to myself on this sunny day.
I am not royal enough for that,
when the peasants revolt
I will be among them.
I was reading a book about Mona Lisa
and in the list of ancestors
sometimes it would just be written
"decapitato"
for cause of death.
Dark stuff,
from the time
of "enlightenment."
How soon we get old, how late we get wise,
my grandma would say with laughing eyes.
I am an archer
Shooting for the moon
so I realize I must outsmart myself sometimes
and aim for many stars.
Image source: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/L3YnJR
The days slip by like eels as we age,
when I was young
they opened up like decades.
The sun shining, the purple Iris.
It's 80 degrees I remember hearing.
I remember how it was so hot.
The blacktop.
It seemed infinite
this moment of heat
of knowing how hot it was.
I remember being on the swing
at recess and thinking how I was 75 pounds.
I don't know who told me I was 75 pounds,
or how I found out,
but I thought of that
as I was swinging
perhaps I was realizing I was
getting
bigger.
I remember hanging on the rings
playing "chicken fights" with the boys
after I had beaten all the girls.
The guy that beat me
I remember when he wrapped his legs around my waist
this was way before puberty
and I remember that moment of defeat
knowing that I had to let go.
In a way though,
it was still a victory
because I was second place to the boy
that would go on to make touchdowns in high school.
I remember another competition
on the rings
I had to be swinging, forward and back
and my friend was pushing me from behind
and I would let go and see how far I could go
another girl was trying the same thing
with a friend pushing her
and we were competing
kind of like the long jump
but flying through the air from the rings
and the mark on the wood chips
where I broke my wrist
was farther than hers.
Time is slipping by like eels now
with each cup of coffee
my days are less competitive now.
The coffee is slippery
on my tongue
as I remember youth
my youth seems
so tasty now
the thrill of victory
the thrill of defeat
I can almost taste it.
Fall is a time to look at what is dying
and what needs to start anew.
Winter is a time for sleeping
underneath the snow
like a wolf.
Spring is the time to be a bear cub
playing in the water.
Summer then is the time
to walk
and look at the lake.
Far from the sounds of the city,
and dive in.
How to connect these three parts of my heart
the answer is groove
the synapse and the lightning rod
the fall of the hammer
the pump of the blood
the foot on the floor
the dance
the drawer
The dresser of the moon
with its light spilling out
It could be fascinating to study PSYCHOLOGY. I don't have to just study MUSIC and ART. What is WRITING if not the study of COMMUNICATION and PSYCHOLOGY? Isn't the whole point of writing to change someone's state of BEING?
A poem to create Peace
Same.
A poem to incite War
Different.
This ghost reaping waters fortitude and fame
Grim fire lackluster saddled with shame
Freeze dry the sin, we're all coming in
hogtied and looking for food.
Limp lamely and read Shakespeare aloud
pirouette in saddle shoes and laugh
get shut down like a phone booth
where I don't take no dimes.
I'd cry if I wasn't so hurt, I'd laugh if I wasn't so proud
You killed the mood like a poison arrow
a piano megabus heaving air
the receptacles for following clouds
are all amiss
it's just cigarette smoke
from the banker and the shrew
making deals behind closed doors
while we sleep.
I'm conscious now if you want to talk, I am feeling better now, after resting.
I had my face on the pillow, spent time crying into the night sky,
staring at a star or two,
and now I'm fine.
I'm elated that you'd like to dive in, to the story of my youth
and the days of gin and thorns. I'd be happy to explain it all
line by line, thought by thought
and unwind it like a spool of thread.
I'm jumping for joy at the thought of it.
I rang your bell three times to see if you would awake.
I'm on your doorstep and I'm happy to be here
I arrived
by walking under the shade of the old oak trees
through the cemetery where
my grandmother is buried.
I have no ill will, I'm feeling like a cat
in a tree
enjoying the view.
A coffee headache comes on slow
drops like a velvet hammer
pounding just a little
a little passive-aggressive, the way he used to ask me questions
and just WAIT for the answer.
I refuse to be his cherry bomb pop tart punk ruby gumshoe apocalypse prevention cream.
I want to scream, "Go find another brass statue!"
I get so angry sometimes
I could just
wait.
Another cup.
Light shines into my mind
calmly
sometimes my room
is like the inner workings
of a clock
quiet, with its colorful floor
and white ceiling
dancing in the sunlight
spinning like a dervish
wait.
Another cup.
This time the coffee came out thin
watery like an Americano. The radio is blaring
and the witch hunt is on
for another President
to lead the masses to the cliff
everyone is rushing
to the edge
wait.
The edge of the cup is overflowing.
In the tiny windows, tiny televisions glowed
hot blue light flickering then dimming
Electricity in the night beckons us
to reassess our reliance
and hypnotize us in our defiance
of the sun's schedule.
Why don't we just stay awake
in a dream state,
sleepwalking as we run,
gazing at tiny
televisions.
The plants grew
up the South wall
of the building
from the ground
the red brick chipping off
the vines holding it together
their waxy green hands
overlapping one another
I had been admiring the vines
for about an hour and a half
which had climbed
up the wall
for about a year
when a stout woman came
and unceremoniously
cut them with a garden shear.
Pangs of duty
rivers of sadness
streaming down her face
the dark shadows hung around
like a sweater in a closet
Harboring criminals in her heart
Basking in the tender refuge
she provides
The slow drawn
horseless carriage
the fountain pen
the fountain
The vampire and the cobra
The drummer and the damned
The dancer
spinning
kissing danger
just to flirt
with
hope.
There was something genius that I thought,
it was heavy I am sure,
full of pondering and humor plus wit for good measure.
But somehow, it has slipped my mind
and now I can't locate
that thought which I was quite convinced
was going to be great.
Poems are not architecture
they do not require blueprints
Poems are a structure nonetheless
like a teepee on the prairie
with the wind blowing through
part of nature part of the self
with all of its bones and sinews
buffalo hide over sticks
drawn tightly
before looking at the sky
for the weather.
Dance is not sport
there are no competitions
nor prizes
Dance is athletic and the body moves
but it moves for the gods
the muses
and the choreographer
guiding the movement
like a conductor guides an orchestra
each piece moving
in tandem.
Love is not coffee
Although it can be dark and bitter
it's not something that you have every day
it's not something to kick you into gear
or awaken the senses artificially
although when you close your eyes
it can have the same dreamlike
effect.
Books are not boots
although you can wear them
and go places
Grab the stiff leather and
shove a foot
and drudge up some weary trail
only to discover it is a mountaintop.
Pride is not a drug
although you can laugh
and boast with the best of them
you're just a speck of dust
on an eight ball
rolling on a pool table
somewhere in another universe
where all of your earthly gains
mean nothing
unless they change the angle
as you go
into
the pocket.
Laughter is not medicine
although it can make you burst
and cause your heart to sing
to soar just for an instant
and you forget all your troubles.
Method is not madness
although I write each day
I am no closer
to the poem I want to write
than when I started.
Put me in the straight jacket then
and let me draw crooked lines
with the pen
held
in my teeth.
I woke up on a distant planet surrounded by the rain and snow
cleansed by nature's madness I started to row
my boat ashore
because I was in the ocean
surrounded by dolphins
flipping their fins
in rhythms splashing
I slept in a faraway cave
wrapped up in blankets
cooing
speaking to Plato in hushed tones
by firelight
as we watched it dance upon the walls
The bison and the handprints
from ancient days
A new writing experiment is writing to music--for this poem I used this video. It's kind of funny that "this is is the sound of inner peace"--is it? I'm clicking.
Mesmerizing resonance framed in simplicity
Hurry get the crumbling parts of your mind
and hold the sand in your hand
fling them to the wind
I took a hand drum
went down to the beach
slammed my palms on the skins
and talked to God.
I sure as F don't need a priest,
I live outloud.
Small pieces of pride and shame scattered all around
how about you pick them up
and put them in a hat?
There's a guy in the subway playing a million notes a second
totally oblivious to everyone
somewhere there's a concert hall
where they're hanging on every word
Not really sure who is talking to who.
I have a few dimes to spare.
The cabinets are not so bare.
Yet here I am busking
because meditating with the muses
is far too rare.
Well the rivers were running downstream and the hill was bending toward the sunset
then the night was coming and crickets were chirping
the earth was going around the sun like a slingshot
and then the morning arrived
its eerie stillness hung like the edge of a feather.
Then the fog was lifting and the heat of the day was settling in
I was leaning on a leaf gleaming in the sun,
being a water drop not quite set yet,
about to fall, for, due to gravity, suspended I could not remain
I was ready to tip topple over like a drop of rain
Due to the drought
the cracks in the dirt were wide open, like the mouths of those who blame.
Water I am, and fall I may. I am not rain.
Yet I know
although I'm made of dew-- to the scorched earth I am all the same.
close my eyes and stare out at the Atlantic Ocean
once again.
I have watched the British
and the cavalry,
the slavery,
huh
and the parades.
This year, I sighed.
Gun shots rang out
but it wasn't minutemen.
A bird flew by
its right wing straight
its left wing bent
and it went back into
its cage, after flying free for fifty years.
I tug at my dress, this old thing—
a French robe
made when the world smiled
and Romantic ideals of democracy
were the rage.
Now, I just sigh and hope
for better days
for everyone.
Irony is in my backbone
yet in my stern face
I still try.
Him and I were in a practice space. There were no windows, just guitar amps, bass amps, drums and cables covering the floor (and about five people crammed in). Meeting the band that I was going to sing with, I was looking at each member of the group, then I saw him. He had on a blue suit coat and smiled. I felt at ease immediately. He introduced himself and joked about not being able to turn around. We laughed a little and I said, "I feel like I've seen you before somewhere."
It could have been at a music club, because I was a sound engineer at a venue in town and worked with many bands each weekend. It was possible he was one of the dozens of musicians I had seen performing...among all the blaring music and clinking beer mugs. It was reasonable to presume I had seen him, and now just recalled his face.
He paused. He stood straighter. "You know, I get that a lot." He leaned in closer as he picked up his guitar, and shook his head with aplomb. "People say they think they know me, like all the time."
I laughed again, this time like a nervous piccolo.
"How odd," I said, "maybe you have one of those faces, like a mutt," thinking his features could be a collage, copied, pasted and rearranged with the rubric's cube of genetics until his nose looks like a friend's nose, his eyebrows like an uncle's eyebrows, his cheek bones like a teacher's cheekbones. Perhaps his face was a mix of all faces.
Plus, he was bald, which made his face stand out even more. A unique face, I could insist I'd seen before, yet could not say exactly where or when. He noticed my pause.
"Well, I don't know if my mind is deceiving me, or just failing me," I said.
"Those are two different things," he laughed.
The rehearsal continued and I stole a sideways glance.
It got me thinking, thinking about him. What about a man who everywhere he goes, people think they know him? They say, 'who are you? I've seen your face before.' Wouldn't it seem strange, even if he traveled to a place he'd never been, people would recognize him, and he could essentially never be anonymous? Everyone would think they already know him, yet know nothing about him. He would be known yet unknown, recognized but never confirmed. He would never have a clean slate, yet the chalk marks would be impossible to read, he would be an identity in orbit, hanging on a thread of a memory. His face was never new, just forgotten. Yet he could always take heart in causing a burst of familiarity, bringing forth a smile, then a question. What bubbled up was the difference between recognition and knowledge, curiosity and familiarity, what would it be like to walk those lines?
Music filled the room, and we rehearsed the song I had come to sing, each lyric took my full attention. The electric guitars were ringing in my ears on the way out.
As we parted ways, I waved goodbye. "I'll see you around," I said.
I racked my brain but could not remember where I had seen him before.
Or, I suppose, if I had seen him before at all.