I recalled today that my purpose here is to try different styles. So here goes...
The mirror has stripped me
of my superstition
which was rooted in my brain
and cloaked me in its protection
Every move I made used to be
lined up with distant stars
and now here I am unmasked
from that Geometry
Now I just bleed--
like everyone else.
Social media is an odd public diary
full of our successes and whims
our late night takeout
and early morning musings
Like a hamster in a wheel I spun for years
not asking myself why
Now I dream in peace
with a plain white coffee cup
my morning news
taken with silence
still drawing your face on my hand
with Sharpie
still running my hand across the water
still believing somewhere that
pain is real
and love is something
to live for
The story of North and South America
told on the knee of a woman
at a sugar plantation
is different then the story
told in the homes where they use the sugar
for cookies
The story told in the jungles of Brazil
and the deserts of New Mexico
on the reservation
is a different story
than the one told in the shiny halls
of an Ivy League School
It's different than the story at the socialist meeting
down on 9th avenue behind the bar
It's different than the factory workers
talking over coffee on lunch
It's different than
the mob boss
and the white collar stock exchange
it's different than that.
Sugar coated numb bunnies
Running rough on rum and tumbleweed fires
Grace cloud freedom
Political mud bath dip stick
checking oil on the Middle East Texas tanker
Foam Mint water
Gratitude longitude rude dude cowboy
Indian smothering ashes of
Hum Drum America
African lady patterns bright loud
accordion screeching car tires
New Orleans nightfall
I will never understand that part of myself
the bones in my hand that strummed the guitar of nonsense
the sound waves hitting my ears and rumbling
to my toes
I danced a menace in a Tokyo brothel
a seance meant to induce sleep
the rural men of the country held rulers to my legs
makeshift submarines to plunge into the total darkness
Menthol cigarettes and ruby drops of blood
on the cold tile floor of the art museum
it turns out the statue
was just a prop
and all that dances around here is flies
exquisite corpse? hardly
the Dia de las Muertos in Pilsen brings forth
every forgotten memory
stuck to the sides of my mind like salt in a cave
I crave every footstep
in the hallway in the stairs
in the bank vault
in the pressure
and the release
of control
My Dad gave me an osage orange
this is so refreshing to write about
because it really happened
I gave him a rug for the bathroom floor which my mom gave to me and I gave to him
sometimes I feel like we are all Indians and Pilgrims
making trades around Thanksgiving
My Dad has a maroon pickup truck
and he has cut down trees
My Mom has a lot of artificial plants, which we have a plastic tub to put them in.
Life is grand.
Facts are sarcastic that is the rapture
Imagine masters of laughter
sadness trapped in plaster
meander bland hand gestures
inventing inventors
bent on mentors mentioning
what I meant
I paid rent
then went on dancing.
I was fabulous once.
Caught in between the dreams of the jazz singer on a Tuesday night
longing for Saturday's noise
Caught between the leather shoes of the Bluesman
the necklace of the gangster
with its jewels and crosses
Caught in the Catholic crosshairs
the gun of Jesus
airplanes aimed for me
Blatant in his misery the war lord stopped at the edge of my river
looked at his reflection and drowned
my throat was once wrapped with the cool breath
of Ophelia's song
her tired hands now hold water
the flowers have floated downstream.
I once clung to the silver movie screen
both an actor and a bat
bathed in artificial light
looming like a ghost in the rafters
calling the shots and gleaming like a harp in the sun
my melodies ringing like bells into space
my nostrils thick with the perfume
of my rotting symphony.
The rainbow bonnet on her head
as she hears the sonnet
on stage of Shakespeare's Globe Theater
she is in the spotlight
we are all playing a part this stage, we are on it
He beckons to her
the phantom in the shadows
upstage he calls out!
"I will carry your robes without apology
let us go to New Orleans
the mask I wear has been for naught
as I merely wished to hide my dreams."
The guns are in the closet locked with the safety on
the politics are raging on television
and deep in the heart
of man
the lion growls
Running a race through the red poppies
damaging them with every step
time wears away the instances
the photo fades and we are left with a broken channel
stop the vase from filling
up with water from the mineral earth
the flowers are still in the field
and we have not yet separated the stem
from itself
Packed in her bags was he loose-leaf tobacco and the loose-leaf tea
she would need to settle her nerves
Slapped in the face like the coldest wind atop Mount Kilimanjaro
is the sense she will need to make a fist
Trapped in her mind are the tiny birds and butterflies
full of life and love and childhood
The package from the prince, covered in slime
being broadcast on primetime, such as case as it were
of shame and injustice, Virginia is well aware
of what all the fuss is.
She's still with us, waving that flag as we march on
towards a day where hearts are free
and money doesn't clean his hands
nor his character
and no palace in Dubai will ever bring him peace
when his soul is troubled
as it is
and as it should be.
Somewhere in the tea bag is the tea leaf that she picked
from the bush under the tree which cast shade in the sun
and her tiny hands pulled it from the plant
and now it's in hot water
brimming on the cup the edge of which
is almost about to steam
I am going to sand the edges of the board
They are so full of splinters
sharp and like a rose's stem
I am going to touch the smooth parts of a stone
taken from the beach the way a bird picks up seeds
hurled into the water
SPLASH
I am going to note the melody of the Thaikovsky violin
let it soar through my ears
like a clothes line
or a kite string
cleaning out all the wax
I am going to go to the wax museum
look at who I used to be
painted and in costume
push over the statue
and
RUN
I am going to catch my breath like a baseball
in a mitt
slamming into the ivy wall
then twisting myself into a ball of paper
thrown into a trash can
at the library
I am going to read the smooth pages
drink the coffee
ride the wave
of silence
ask propaganda to spill the beans
grow a beanstalk and meet the giant
and when he roars I will fade
like smoke
I will slip under the door like water
flooding in a mood
steaming up when I boil water
and then absorbing into the food
digested and removed
then sailing
around the world
to return like Magellan
all these character traits
I tried to strip of their color
removing the dye
that had been cast
and scrubbing it clean
the spots from the leopard
the stripes from my shirt
I ended up passing out instead
of changing the world.
The subsequent pain left over from the rain has found me in a bubble of blame
languishing in classical music grinning at the moon, drooling like a dog
humming a tune, ravishing a radish, masterfully minding my own business.
Take this $20 bill and start a new life.
You are standing in the dark doorway
of the storefront in the shadows
sheltered for a second from the rain
looking at me with wild eyes
fiercely
like you are held in chains
Who are you and what are you about to do?
You stand still like the ground is holding your shoes
You are captured by the rain
in a cage
staying dry
So I say to you
Take this $20 bill and start a new life
don't do wrong, make sure you do right
start fresh
not in a mess
Take this $20 bill and start a new life,
do make sure you do right.
I'm not just giving you money,
I'm giving you advice.
The excellent egg sat on the table unable to move
for it was the solstice and it was in a planetary groove
It sat still just for a moment, it couldn't dare to fall
Oh, if I could be that egg, when I'm challenged to stand tall
If I could find inside myself a true north compass trail
A magnet to guide me toward Heaven
a road where I can't fail
I would crow like a rooster
and shake it like a Hen
just to read that special map
again
I would go to Italy I would go to Rome
I would go so far that I'd never come home
Dipped in star dust wrapped in galaxy
moon dust in my shoes.
I am interested in self-development, not self-promotion.
The walls with the magazine images cut outs of me
plastered in my mind my Facebook celebrity
they can all be painted over with a giant roller
The small seance altar made to me, with fake flowers
and charcoal graffiti, dripping where it rains,
the buckets of notes from the misguided fan clubs
even the resentment for not being seen as a pyramid
by the Sheiks--
it can all be thrown out.
In the desert, on a camel, smoking grass, talking to the Pope on the phone,
he roams, my other half, sweeter than the deepest honey
and taller than the greenest tree--
I will hang out in this desert,
improve,
and wait for thee.
I am not so sure that poetry is anywhere close to self-development.
It's not the same as picking up new shiny pennies off of the street
or even whole dollars, crumpled and stepped-on
and giving them to the homeless, although I would argue
that that isn't mercy but merely an attempt
to wash one's own karma in a non-threatening way.
It's not the same as pausing to think of those with less
opportunity, and being grateful.
It's a rabbit hole wherein to bury the thread of ego
follow it into the depths of soil and soul
plant it there and see what giant flower grows.
Poetry is much closer to gardening, for that reason.
Grow a poem.
On the whisper night, that dark cloak
stuck to my back wet with rain, there
I hear the damaged raven gamble
to talk to the sky again
To his mumbles up in trees
I hum along a melody
not knowing of course
that what he sings
is a strange ode to me--
he calls like a parrot
to the ghost of my past
like a dirty white sheet
thrown over the clothesline of sorrow
to dry in a Camus sun
doesn't he know
as he mocks me
that time has already made me
come undone?
The beads of rain on the screen above the air conditioner are spaced out like dots on dice.
The rain stopped but now it continues to fall.
I cheer it on like a losing football team I don't know why.
I just don't want the weather to be perfect today.
I want it to rain.
A single car honks, like an afterthought.
I hear birds, where in the hell are they in all this water?
The thunder carries on, somewhat in the distance now.
A woman walked towards me
I was jealous of her curls
I looked away
rather snobbishly
with a straight face
Oh, her curls!
Another woman walked towards me
with a cool hat
large pants that flowed around her
she was a stylist with a sense of humor
and her hat was super cool striped light tan with a dark green felt brim
I looked at her with a grin and smile
she smiled back
she knew she was cool.
See how different this all is?
Thunder sweet sky, thunder on and on.
Thunder and carry me away.
Rain pour down.
Scare away all I hide from.
Wash away fear.
Water the plants of mercy.
Take all that I fake, all that I've undone.
Take all whom I've mattered to.
Take all whom have mattered to me.
Spin it all into one giant rain drop.
Land on my heart.
Break up your shapes
Use three colors
Take no prisoners
Don't think about the thing
Think about the shadow it creates
Match the thing to the shadow
Get to the shape
Remove the personality
Talk to the bone
Light the flame
Why not paint?
Rather than be in pain, when I light a fire on my own bone?
Get lost in looking
Take your hammer
Smash the standard
Lift the spirit
Free the mind
Simplify the simple
Complexity the complex
Do all the details
and get your idea across, or just do one detail.
Photograph the half.
Freeze the frame
Walk the tundra
Wrap the cloak
Kill the horse
Sleep in its belly
when the cold wind blows. Or save the horse, for Pete's sake, get a rabbit skin cloak, freeze a bit on that one cold night, then you'd have the horse to ride another day, and be the Pony Express, traveling fast to deliver the message.
Adrenaline
Peppermint
Red Scare 1950s now my windows tint
take a hint
take a free sample
take a boisterous holiday
you've earned it.
Sitting quiet in the cafe
next to a mini-vase of flowers, purple-green-and-orange
overheard:
Yeah like I don't think that like coffee really gets its due
Like how do you mean
I don't know like tea is great but coffee you know it's got this kind of pick me up
I am famished, not for food but for fame. I eat glitter and swing madly on chandeliers, hoping for some attention.
My brain has been botched by forgotten fantasies, I lived the dream up in the streetlights.
Now mercy comes to me like a black cat, sleek and mysterious, angry from clamoring in the alley for food.
His eyes dart up at me, as if to say, do you think you know what famished is?
I light a smoke and walk across the Main Street.
The power lines here cast shadows.
Mercy and Hope are playing cards, I watch them through the shop window.
Meanwhile I am out here playing checkers with my mind, waiting for the man.
The clock is blinking. It says 9:35.
But it's not 9:35.
The entire Earth spins in space at a set of degrees unknown to me,
its axis falling back and sinking into the blank slate of the infinite black sky.
Who am I?
My eyes are blinking, machine like regularity
along with my heartbeat.
There was a whisper on the wind
a quiet sound hardly begun
a leaf resting on the overlap
of the waters of the bubbling brook
Was it I who mistook love for rage?
Hate for happenstance?
Breath for beauty?
The robin flies away
I am left holding this empty blue egg.
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| image source: istock |
Some hands are meant for hammers, some hands are meant for tea
Some hands are rough to drive the nail, some are gentle, delicately
Now I see
I have these hands myself, both capabilities.
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| image source: internet |
The entrepreneur sits in traffic
holding the steering wheel hard, like it's a dream of a better life.
The light above turns from red to green.
In a moment,
a whole thought was halved,
like an orange in the morning
and put on a plate.
The cars and trucks push forward
like a rowing team.
My passive income has drained all the water from the sea
I wanted him, he wanted me, I flipped the switch on the silver screen
the moment he held his hand in mine, I went crazy, I went blind
lost to the world now I sit
Baby Jane
taking a hit.
The weed is harsh it burns my throat
I used to sing like a bird
now I just gloat
to the bare rose bushes as I walk
in the morning
with a small dog
and a purse full of worries
I once had a giant castle
high in the clouds
hovering there
don't speak
out loud.
The colorful tulip lost its petals, but it became somehow more beautiful in the
wreckage of time.
The statues standing in the courtyard surrounded by the bees of spring
have not thought once of renegade soldiers
laughing on the soot of angel's wings
singed by fires of impunity the hellish heat has made me mad
strapped into boots and on a horse to ride headfirst into the love I
once had.
Driving in traffic and waiting in line
mastering my emotions
managing my time
longing for love
and pining for hate
lastly my fear
of showing up late
to the champagne breakfast
tripping on flowers
giving away money
owning my power
falling into a pit
of real estate
and maintaining the tall cedar trees
I planted for privacy
on the property line of my soul
I am trimming back the rose bushes
and spreading the chips
standing on the shoulders
of giants like this.
I will walk the line of Imperialism in my mind
I will not conquer only coerce
I will not tread onto anyone's soul
only put footsteps on the sands of time
dragging a stick behind me
only concerned with where I've been
and never knowing where I am going
My Lake will be my ocean
my river, my blood
my heartbeat will be the sun
shining on the land of my thoughts
as I walk each word
a step.
I was walking back from work several miles in the cold
and was probably making a grumbly face as I walked
a friend texted me later and said, "I saw you walking!"
and I thought how embarrassing for someone to see me
in my grumpiest moments when I thought I was all alone
lemon-faced against the wind
with no color in my heart
at all
so now I look around with a face of wonder
because why not
relax the skin on my face
look at the flowers
look at each thing like a miracle
the wavering ripple on a leaf
the fascinating rust on an old grey door
the way power lines lean against the pole
the movement of a jogger
the reflection in the window
the thread on the ground
the trees against the sky
a wonder all of it
all of it a wonder
and put the color back in my heart
and the relaxation back into my face
someone might see me
I might see me
I might see me
Pasture me into a cowland glory digestive tract seance of goop
Genes are riding free on bodies into DNA sperm
and I am here trying to make sense of God
Pleasure me into the stench of plastic pansies bent at funeral parlors
for forgotten Gods
Mean and scathing like dog breath growling
in my heart's junk
yard
Make me a martyr bake me a cake
make me a mixed media rake
come on top of me with all your dead leaves
it's Spring time and the butterfly kneels
in front of the altar of renewal
and my heart lifts up in song
all these broken pipes
and psalms of rust
Hear me, O God!
I fold my arms, I fold the origami
I make myself a star
I cringe each time I hear my name
spoken in that sharp tone
the edges of my origami are soft
patterned by the rain
the edge of a flower
dropping and drooping
laid across the lawn
with tiny sparkling water circles
strewn about like galaxies
across the canvas of muted color
I walk on the sidewalks of Rogers Park
each path a new destination
each garden a new world
In my right hand I held a small glass bottle with no top on it. I carried it carefully as I walked so as to not spill as it was filled halfway with homemade coffee. In my arms, I carried a brown paper bag with a canvas wrapped in plastic inside of it. It was awkward as the wind blew, threatening to lift the items out of my hands.
Moving off the sidewalk, like a small boat leaving the shore, I accelerated across the open asphalt where the busses go, the wind whipped through, making everything hard to carry. The wind also made a tone as it blew across the top of a bottle like a flute.
I lifted the bottle to my lips and blew, but I could not make the same sound.
She came out of the air, a rosebud trampled into the dust of the sky
the bird flew like it walked along an invisible ribbon
Pigeons used to be doves, long ago
I see them sitting on the roof of the steeple
sunning themselves
when they land
The red rouge on her cheeks
was christened like the Spring
running wild this toddler
so fresh faced
her tiny legs like twigs
moving madly she
was giddy to be running
in front of Daddy
she ran toward me like a dream
unafraid
of anything in front of her
just going as fast as she could
as she approached I saw
her jet black hair laying on her head
as smooth as her face
pure innocence
not even kindness could touch her
because she did not know even
what it was to not be kind
this was time to play in the mud
Spring is here
it is time to run!
I think of my own life
compared
in my thick grey jacket
trudging in old blue jeans
my only motivation is coffee
and here is this child
shining like the sun.
The clock has ticked and tocked
on my face
small wrinkles might appear
where smiles have been
where angry faces were drawn in silence
where tears were wept
where fists were pumped
where exasperated sighs once filled my lungs
now there is silence
and the sound of birds singing.
Leaves are glistening
gleaming in the bright white sunlight
blink twice you need to.
It is time for movement.
What would be the difference, if I took a one foot by one foot square and roped it off
and filled it with flowers brim to brim
or if I filled it with fire and then ashes
and we danced shin to shin?
The opposite of marriage is not divorce
it's space
and I could take my mouth and fill it with stars
and never say another word again.
Coltrane has super=powers
of this I am acutely aware
the bare face of God has returned
and my idiotic rampage of notes
has turned sour on the cacophony of greatness
My attempts to secede from the Union
have been met with Lincoln's hat
overturned and asking for change
on a Sunday my tithes are no good here
I will have to put leaves on the water
of the small rushing brook
and think of Walt Whitman
Everything is completely flat
the earth is now a bed sheet
the Plains Indians the Native true Americans, are standing like lampposts
waiting to set my prairie on fire
the gun slingers out West have become
Silicon Valley
I might have to go to Vegas
not to be a gambler
but to be that stone faced pilgrim
standing on the corner
asking people
if they have found Jesus.
Stevie Wonder and cigarillos
Willow windows and rooms of Jello
Scoops of ice cream
James Dean side lean
Hello
Jaundiced candy
dice and laundry in January
Handyman gangster
Plaid rug
Happenstance Dancer
Laced with fancy hamsters
Framed in damaged tantric
Yams on the Titanic
Frantic and handsome
he's coming back besides
bugs are stacked in back
cow hide
horses rancid
Rapt attention, queens
hacking jackets
with plastic acid axes
don't mention the mentor
the mesmerizing tin dragon unhinged
a tinge of the shadows
pristine
Green
Gold
Heat
Who owns the history of the world
Its dodged bullets and its fireflies in jars
Its mad dog who-dunnits and the skyscrapers caked in concrete
breaking apart and me on my knees at a small desk typing
The angels are breaking apart her seance like an orange
The onion is peeled back
and I am a stark reptile
a baby bird yet to grow feathers disgusting as I craw for food
