Breathe, brother breathe.
Forget, friend forget,
Death the wretched mess.
Wind of heaven and earth
Caress mist in trail and palm,
Give Birth----
Give Death
A tailored song.
Mourn, mother mourn.
Shed, sister shed,
Even the rivers end in drought.
Loose pockets quickly fill
With lost breath,
Tears
Fall
Swift
Upon the floor,
Too smoothly to catch.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Whether Prediction
the rain outside has dropped off, floating,
releasing cold miniature castles that is the
crumble beneath my feet.
My sneakers are like boats.
If I knew I’d have to swim I would
have dove collarbone swoop,
shift-like in essence.
Would have flung stars into
the clouds to burst my existence
in this short time of knowing.
You stand, like the unknown soldier
that walks in place, expressionless,
feeling what has happened in the storm
that creates your desires…
and shatters them.
releasing cold miniature castles that is the
crumble beneath my feet.
My sneakers are like boats.
If I knew I’d have to swim I would
have dove collarbone swoop,
shift-like in essence.
Would have flung stars into
the clouds to burst my existence
in this short time of knowing.
You stand, like the unknown soldier
that walks in place, expressionless,
feeling what has happened in the storm
that creates your desires…
and shatters them.
Old Man River's Sunday Drive
I
There was a faded, restless note
On the rear of a handicap soccer mom van:
“Have you been saved from your sins?”
I thought I was saved by my sins.
It makes me climb from
The ladder, away from the smoke.
I could tell he was ‘saved.’
He saw more than evil.
Preaching of holy water instead of
Molasses.
I asked the gentleman how
He grows his grass so green?
He plants his fences without barbed
Wire and out of glass,
To be seen from
Battlefields.
“See my scars?” he asks.
“I see the Pearly Gates in your scars,” I say.
I wonder if he’s happy.
I wonder if there’s freedom in driving
With mouths…
You can say so much more.
II
Ten million gunshots ring out.
I can see the bullets and shells,
How he pierced my vest like digging
Through the earth to
Get to somewhere
Hopeful.
Honk your horn if you’ve ever
Been loved
By something bigger than
What you have been before.
Old Man Hoot Owl River Rat
Remembers swimming.
He remembers, but sheds
To oceans when he knows children
Can still do this now.
They kick when they laugh,
As if they were in dirty bathtubs.
He used to laugh when
He kicked as if he would break
Water molecules like
Eggshells because he knows
Humor only gets you so far,
Unless you flail like
A child again.
III
GOD DOES NOT EXIST.
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha—
If he does, it’s Hoot Owl,
River Rat,
Old Man River,
Stitched up soul reviver,
Bumper-sticker-holy-war-winner.
I’d pray to him,
Why not?
If he can run risks with minivans,
I can stretch my skin
Around thunderstorms and
Call them lightening bugs.
He’s lived most of his
Life barely living it,
I’d pray to him.
There was a faded, restless note
On the rear of a handicap soccer mom van:
“Have you been saved from your sins?”
I thought I was saved by my sins.
It makes me climb from
The ladder, away from the smoke.
I could tell he was ‘saved.’
He saw more than evil.
Preaching of holy water instead of
Molasses.
I asked the gentleman how
He grows his grass so green?
He plants his fences without barbed
Wire and out of glass,
To be seen from
Battlefields.
“See my scars?” he asks.
“I see the Pearly Gates in your scars,” I say.
I wonder if he’s happy.
I wonder if there’s freedom in driving
With mouths…
You can say so much more.
II
Ten million gunshots ring out.
I can see the bullets and shells,
How he pierced my vest like digging
Through the earth to
Get to somewhere
Hopeful.
Honk your horn if you’ve ever
Been loved
By something bigger than
What you have been before.
Old Man Hoot Owl River Rat
Remembers swimming.
He remembers, but sheds
To oceans when he knows children
Can still do this now.
They kick when they laugh,
As if they were in dirty bathtubs.
He used to laugh when
He kicked as if he would break
Water molecules like
Eggshells because he knows
Humor only gets you so far,
Unless you flail like
A child again.
III
GOD DOES NOT EXIST.
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha—
If he does, it’s Hoot Owl,
River Rat,
Old Man River,
Stitched up soul reviver,
Bumper-sticker-holy-war-winner.
I’d pray to him,
Why not?
If he can run risks with minivans,
I can stretch my skin
Around thunderstorms and
Call them lightening bugs.
He’s lived most of his
Life barely living it,
I’d pray to him.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Ache
Tonight the porcelain lovers of chirp stare from the ash and gossip
I do not hear them sing the soft hymn of my solitude. My weary eyes rest like
worked hands of labor. The dance of my cigarette asks for one more as I pace
between trance like Chinese fire drills The fan is always on and there are far
too many empty chairs in the kitchen.
I do not hear them sing the soft hymn of my solitude. My weary eyes rest like
worked hands of labor. The dance of my cigarette asks for one more as I pace
between trance like Chinese fire drills The fan is always on and there are far
too many empty chairs in the kitchen.
Why the City Library Sleeps
The Industrial colossal canyon
Creeps within wires,
And the kids whisper without lips.
Words bleed ink-driven souls
Between lightning bolts.
Books are stolen while the lights
Go out;
This is why the city library sleeps.
It does not know of dreams or
Nightmares, but shakes dust from
Hourglass houses.
The candles have all burned their
Welcome with rushing cold wind;
Computers tear light from throats,
The way we breathe around corners,
Like ripping roadmap shortcuts
From veins of fingers on keyboards;
This is why the city library sleeps.
The clouds wrinkle rain to exude
Upon windows of laptops,
Like pebbling teardrops gathering
On eyes of people who have
Forgotten to forgive, or
Condensation of memories collected
On rearview mirrors because young
Lovers have forgotten to remember
To look back; or like eyes of spiders.
This is why the city library sleeps.
The city library does not speak.
It listens to tomorrow but has
The past written in stone.
The library knows not of
Wishes, but preaches values
From rooftop churches, bells
Ringing for hopes of people
Who listen without judgment.
Telephone towers trace languor
Children and shake couch pillows;
T h is C it y S
Is w hy Li b L
T h e Rar y E
E
P
S .
Creeps within wires,
And the kids whisper without lips.
Words bleed ink-driven souls
Between lightning bolts.
Books are stolen while the lights
Go out;
This is why the city library sleeps.
It does not know of dreams or
Nightmares, but shakes dust from
Hourglass houses.
The candles have all burned their
Welcome with rushing cold wind;
Computers tear light from throats,
The way we breathe around corners,
Like ripping roadmap shortcuts
From veins of fingers on keyboards;
This is why the city library sleeps.
The clouds wrinkle rain to exude
Upon windows of laptops,
Like pebbling teardrops gathering
On eyes of people who have
Forgotten to forgive, or
Condensation of memories collected
On rearview mirrors because young
Lovers have forgotten to remember
To look back; or like eyes of spiders.
This is why the city library sleeps.
The city library does not speak.
It listens to tomorrow but has
The past written in stone.
The library knows not of
Wishes, but preaches values
From rooftop churches, bells
Ringing for hopes of people
Who listen without judgment.
Telephone towers trace languor
Children and shake couch pillows;
T h is C it y S
Is w hy Li b L
T h e Rar y E
E
P
S .
The Tired Sea
The depth weeps rippled riddles,
Laughing 'neath midnight skies;
She entangles beating hearts
And wraps them in blue.
She dreams of breathing shivers,
Exhaling lonely 'goodbyes';
She unravels vibrations of kisses,
Jai vu zem bocu. (I love you very much)
Gusts of wind to the depth she whispers,
Flowing through rolling tides;
She absorbs dreams of sails
And leaves them askew.
The depth is silent as bellows whither,
And simmers to the world's demise;
She inhales the sky as her keepsake,
All is none but true.
Laughing 'neath midnight skies;
She entangles beating hearts
And wraps them in blue.
She dreams of breathing shivers,
Exhaling lonely 'goodbyes';
She unravels vibrations of kisses,
Jai vu zem bocu. (I love you very much)
Gusts of wind to the depth she whispers,
Flowing through rolling tides;
She absorbs dreams of sails
And leaves them askew.
The depth is silent as bellows whither,
And simmers to the world's demise;
She inhales the sky as her keepsake,
All is none but true.
The Unbalanced Palace, for Lewis Carrol
"Wear yourselves ragged!!" the King of Kings shouts,
Curls himself in satin while others simply pout.
"We have no food nor water nor taste,"
cries the young, old and stout,
The King yells, "Care do I not, you must make haste,
scurry to your quarters before I put you out!!!!"
And so the peasants ran, buried under the shadow of the castle,
they eat what they can, something for their hunger battle.
Sick of wrath and furry, the next day they plan,
for the they shall be the jury,
when the King's head lay in their hand!
Curls himself in satin while others simply pout.
"We have no food nor water nor taste,"
cries the young, old and stout,
The King yells, "Care do I not, you must make haste,
scurry to your quarters before I put you out!!!!"
And so the peasants ran, buried under the shadow of the castle,
they eat what they can, something for their hunger battle.
Sick of wrath and furry, the next day they plan,
for the they shall be the jury,
when the King's head lay in their hand!
1 Day, 2 Gowns & 3 Reasons
The High-heeled bride as heroes:
a child in backyards chasing the wind
of her veil, on two left feet.
Some girls play with fire, light matches
under pressed skirts, eloquently bound
in lace. But she undermines gravity on
pogo sticks in bathing suits.
Anticipating the flood of her dress to
hush the race of barking throats.
She stands, under cloth and cross,
becoming the mirror that stands before her.
Silent, like the quiet city with little
to no flickering lights in the distance.
She has never belonged to that city,
so timely and old-fashioned. But this day,
it comes with tears from both sides of acceptance and truth,
and they are smiling.
a child in backyards chasing the wind
of her veil, on two left feet.
Some girls play with fire, light matches
under pressed skirts, eloquently bound
in lace. But she undermines gravity on
pogo sticks in bathing suits.
Anticipating the flood of her dress to
hush the race of barking throats.
She stands, under cloth and cross,
becoming the mirror that stands before her.
Silent, like the quiet city with little
to no flickering lights in the distance.
She has never belonged to that city,
so timely and old-fashioned. But this day,
it comes with tears from both sides of acceptance and truth,
and they are smiling.
My Body As Objects
I am cannonball fuse
Lightning rod scratch
Outstretched from the heart
Veins like forks ripple motion sickness
inthe dark
The stars are ghosts we've lost
inthe sky
My feet, the quiet camel
through hourglass dreams
I dream of my arms; like redwood
towering the lonely existence
that is dirt and ocean
to hug
the ones lost
My fingers, the tides
waving goodnight to the sun and the
faint roar of piano keys
The man in the moon welcomes
the alleycats, the dreamcatchers,
the empty pocket dancers and the
midnight quiet cake batchers
My body is the storm on the horizonThe crash of windowpanes breakingoutward openly toward all that is youWe only breathe because everythingaround us exists right now
Lightning rod scratch
Outstretched from the heart
Veins like forks ripple motion sickness
inthe dark
The stars are ghosts we've lost
inthe sky
My feet, the quiet camel
through hourglass dreams
I dream of my arms; like redwood
towering the lonely existence
that is dirt and ocean
to hug
the ones lost
My fingers, the tides
waving goodnight to the sun and the
faint roar of piano keys
The man in the moon welcomes
the alleycats, the dreamcatchers,
the empty pocket dancers and the
midnight quiet cake batchers
My body is the storm on the horizonThe crash of windowpanes breakingoutward openly toward all that is youWe only breathe because everythingaround us exists right now
Untitled
When you showed me the wind
in your chest, I smiled and woke up.
The air from that chimney filled that red balloon,
until it popped.
We let go of some strings over time.
But when is time just a matter of letting go,
I feel it that the simple things we were waiting for
were the little things we missed until they were gone.
We were wrong in thinking the road ahead was better
than what had.
Your power to elude is captivating,
but I never noticed.
When I fell into clasping wrists
like trees during rainstorm you
Weren’t around. So I’d like you to
know that lightening has passed over
and
the stars are smiling bright with their
teeth clenched down on my muddy heart.
I have been there, released and pulled back,
fought distance and spare change
like you wanted me to.
So forgive me.
in your chest, I smiled and woke up.
The air from that chimney filled that red balloon,
until it popped.
We let go of some strings over time.
But when is time just a matter of letting go,
I feel it that the simple things we were waiting for
were the little things we missed until they were gone.
We were wrong in thinking the road ahead was better
than what had.
Your power to elude is captivating,
but I never noticed.
When I fell into clasping wrists
like trees during rainstorm you
Weren’t around. So I’d like you to
know that lightening has passed over
and
the stars are smiling bright with their
teeth clenched down on my muddy heart.
I have been there, released and pulled back,
fought distance and spare change
like you wanted me to.
So forgive me.
Sleepy Deity
Lying on your side, belly
Tucked under a wire cage
confined
with the toes of a dancer.
Like the tap tap tap
Was not that of our broken
faucet.
But you’re tough.
Like Swiss army knives
and the poems you write
for me,
your neck perched on
matchbooks
will singe the eyelashes
off of someone’s
god.
Tucked under a wire cage
confined
with the toes of a dancer.
Like the tap tap tap
Was not that of our broken
faucet.
But you’re tough.
Like Swiss army knives
and the poems you write
for me,
your neck perched on
matchbooks
will singe the eyelashes
off of someone’s
god.
Resume
My name is not important
I have done this kind of work before
Although, I’m not entirely comfortable
in my own skin sometimes
It’s wrapped around wool in
a gas chamber
where my bones have the history
of forest fires inscribed in them
Can you tie my shoelaces?
When do I start?
I have done this kind of work before
Although, I’m not entirely comfortable
in my own skin sometimes
It’s wrapped around wool in
a gas chamber
where my bones have the history
of forest fires inscribed in them
Can you tie my shoelaces?
When do I start?
Workshop of Horrors
I live in a workshop of horrors.
Playful at times—
faces sweep the streets
with war paint.
They’ve been painting houses,
or homes,
I’m not drunk enough to tell
which
I see the dancing of the guns.
A myriad of plays—
they say Hey I’m here for
your money.
My workshop contains brushes
and knives,
hardly containing brushstrokes.
Playful at times—
faces sweep the streets
with war paint.
They’ve been painting houses,
or homes,
I’m not drunk enough to tell
which
I see the dancing of the guns.
A myriad of plays—
they say Hey I’m here for
your money.
My workshop contains brushes
and knives,
hardly containing brushstrokes.
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