Looking out at the lake where the waves whip the shore
the sand churned up in its belly
while I stare with steel eyes
It's raining and my shoes are wet but I don't mind
I'm walking by the lake
thinking of Putin, NATO and the war
I have a cup of coffee
which I am lucky to have
considering all things in the world
chaos could have welcomed me this morning
just as easily as the water
I sip it slowly
in the rain
pacing by the lake
I did not come up with a solution
but I fkn tried.
Vases of vinegar make the flowers wilt and moan
meanwhile the honey makes the bees not roam
Best to catch the train before the sun goes down
I'll be on the line, riding out of town
Shake your structure, fuss and falter
lay the wilted flowers down at the altar
Incense meant that the smoke was rising
underwater where the fish aren't biting
Westward expansion and colonization
decimated the beautiful Indian nations
stirrup that boot firmly and pull the halter
pull that wild horse next to the altar
Laying with the stones and twigs hands folded
heartbeat like butterfly wings with bullets loaded
Sit up straight and paste the collage down
spin the globe with one finger, around and around
drinking wine with the dining satyr
you best move your party off the altar
Bittersweet & Busted
yellow crocodiles
shipyard funk
swimming in the ministry
of preaching deaf dogs
shipwrecked junk
Kierkegaard and Kant
walk into a bar...
Yellowstone National Park.
Meowing cats and superficial magazines
Yesmen and yo-yo's
Branches of religions
torn off and scattered
while the tree is unseen
what mattered
when you were mean
tomatoes fell
grimace and fruit flies
loud laughter red fists
pounding Gutenberg type
just
like
this
.
It has occurred to me that for a long time I haven't said exactly what I am thinking about anything. My lyrics became some postmodern poetry slam, where I am against the wall, breathing rhymes into the window, making the glass fog up while cigarette smoke curls around me like Medusa's hair, and I can only wish my words would turn people to stone, but when their mouths are open, all they are doing is yawning. Where did my mojo beans go?
By skirting the issue I may have thought I was being clever, better yet a running back, dodging the oncoming team, jumping over defensive linemen and landing on my feet, ducking, and swaying back and forth to fake them out, but I wasn't moving the ball down the field. If I was, it all would have made sense. No, I was shadowboxing, and all I was dodging was the truth.
Where did my mojo beans go?
Definitely keep the faith I said to him and him to me
Definitely don't let the deal go down and leave you on the stone cold sea
Definitely, definitely definitely
Definitely lift your spirit and hear the birds out the window
Definitely close your eyes and feel the wind blow
Definitely, definitely, definitely
Dear Doctor,
I wish I had some wisdom to report, since I had seen you last. I wish I had some maturity to show you evidence of, but the truth is, I am exactly the same. I have been eating candy when I am not hungry, and drawing in the mud, hoping that the face of Rembrandt, the portrait he did of himself when he was older, would ooze out of it, and rise, like a serpent out of the deep. Not the serpent of Eve, but the inevitable serpent of Darwin, the one with feet, not quite the Lochness monster but still in that vein of mystery and worry we have when we realize there is so much we do not know. Supernatural, it is called.
That portrait, it has nothing to do with style. His face, his age, his countenance, is rising up out of the raw umber and burnt Sienna not like a God, but a man, a humble man, made in his own image.
Until next time,
Desdemona
Havanna, Cuba 1906
I will go where there are singing bowls, high up in the mountains
step by step I will take my leather shoes up the rocks
at the peak there will be nothing but fog and in the fog I will hear
singing bowls, reverberating through time and space to my ears
I'm really hoping it's the guru
about to lay something heavy on me
and not just tinnitus
from watching rock gods on stage blast their solos like grenades into my ear drums
as I sit chained to the work gang of their superego.
The. stars.
are. sc. a
t
t e r
e
d
i n
the
sky these days,
and I am down here
looking up. I remember doing this sitting by the silo and the barn
watching a large cloud move across the sky, it was really more of a smudge,
but it was moving, slowly. How foolish to measure time with a craned neck
and not busy hands. Are the constellations correct?
I thought that to be unjust was better than to be untrue
but now I am not so sure.
The sun is hitting the roofs
and they are glaring at me, at an angle
as the shadows are bound to disappear
as the morning continues.
It pleases me to no end that the silence on the front is appeasing the gods of destruction who wait quietly with baited breath to swoop in like vultures, the question is, whose bodies will they take? The dictator sat squarely, his back against the wall, avoiding bullets from top advisors. It seems the grim face is not out in the battlefield, but there, on the large white wall.
I had been trying to write every day and then I stopped.
I realized I didn't want to keep writing only to have it be an exercise in writing badly.
A horrible poem each day. How undevine.
No, I had started the mission because I want my words to have power.
Power must be yielded wisely.
Now what?
Praise the truth hold it up like Simba but keep in mind it might be deep in your heart unable to be touched by human hands