Behind a dark peak
Of clavicle bone, my two
Faiths sunset afresh.
Of clavicle bone, my two
Faiths sunset afresh.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Friday, December 25, 2015
American Crow
So near a starved/sick American crow,
And spastic flaps of both her frosty wings—
Perhaps a sign of life-force in passing—
Beneath shade, of huddled slouching willows,
(that seemed concerned as if the young bird's folks),
I stood, my back against the gnarled barks.
Unread are rimes God Almighty's composed.
Awash in flurry here was I at once
In spry bodiless feathers, iced, rainbowed—
Perhaps those of a violet-green swallow—
Tender as tulip petals, dewed berry;
Or voiceless flame long sapped, and sewed long slow
Into the seam of dark, the graceful corpse;
by glacial gusts anatomized, unmourned.
And spastic flaps of both her frosty wings—
Perhaps a sign of life-force in passing—
Beneath shade, of huddled slouching willows,
(that seemed concerned as if the young bird's folks),
I stood, my back against the gnarled barks.
Unread are rimes God Almighty's composed.
Awash in flurry here was I at once
In spry bodiless feathers, iced, rainbowed—
Perhaps those of a violet-green swallow—
Tender as tulip petals, dewed berry;
Or voiceless flame long sapped, and sewed long slow
Into the seam of dark, the graceful corpse;
by glacial gusts anatomized, unmourned.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Sergeant's Wife's Orders
Mosquitoes dead so red against the glass.
In wok the frog legs jump and dance, sauté.
The keen scent of citrus and lemongrass
of cleaner won't allay my nerves, tonight.
Kangaroo paws and dogwoods, pinks and mums,
police the flagstone walkway. Sergeant's wife,
her boyfriend, with their standards, class, and such,
would they consider this bit strange, bit trite?
Bring the caviar, suckling's head, and change
out of your gray jumper. Recall they asked
for black pudding, sweetbread...I know the guests
will judge us people always judge you judge....
In wok the frog legs jump and dance, sauté.
The keen scent of citrus and lemongrass
of cleaner won't allay my nerves, tonight.
Kangaroo paws and dogwoods, pinks and mums,
police the flagstone walkway. Sergeant's wife,
her boyfriend, with their standards, class, and such,
would they consider this bit strange, bit trite?
Bring the caviar, suckling's head, and change
out of your gray jumper. Recall they asked
for black pudding, sweetbread...I know the guests
will judge us people always judge you judge....
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Rain
The rain must pour, the windows fogged;
The gurgling cyclone spits and gongs
inside the bone-spring of acid
where mucus seesaws up and down
The selfsame fountain feeds my eyes
Aboil as conscience of a saint;
or fish soup that prolongs the strain
of homeless underneath the rain.
The gurgling cyclone spits and gongs
inside the bone-spring of acid
where mucus seesaws up and down
The selfsame fountain feeds my eyes
Aboil as conscience of a saint;
or fish soup that prolongs the strain
of homeless underneath the rain.
Friday, December 11, 2015
You Said
You said
Wish you
Were dead
Your mouth had opened and the words fell out
Your tongue the launchpad of guided missiles
Your lips the gates of your inner prison
Each one feeding the same shy blossom
of suffering, reopening the same wound in me
with their alphabetical poison, sinking like ear drops.
It was much later, at five o'clock in the evening,
sitting on my fast rocker, pouring wine, enough
to wash the brain, immerse and suffocate it....
That I recalled you never said nothing to me
except with your eyes and left corner of your lips
that raised enough to let out a sigh full of dead words.
Wish you
Were dead
Your mouth had opened and the words fell out
Your tongue the launchpad of guided missiles
Your lips the gates of your inner prison
Each one feeding the same shy blossom
of suffering, reopening the same wound in me
with their alphabetical poison, sinking like ear drops.
It was much later, at five o'clock in the evening,
sitting on my fast rocker, pouring wine, enough
to wash the brain, immerse and suffocate it....
That I recalled you never said nothing to me
except with your eyes and left corner of your lips
that raised enough to let out a sigh full of dead words.
Thursday, December 10, 2015
Dirty Eyes
I woke up covered all
In fragments of a dream,
All sticky like the scent of skunks
That sprayed my storybook last night.
—Wash up! the voices shrieked
And pushed my head madly beneath
A pool of tears until I drowned
Again inside another dream.
So tell me whose tears were that soaked
The leaves I'd flipped through all last night
With every flutter of lashes so moist.
So speak but make it soft and clean
And hold my hands and smile and joke
And only then describe my nightly scene
The screens projected on my twitching lids
The ghastly films my dirty eyes have seen....
In fragments of a dream,
All sticky like the scent of skunks
That sprayed my storybook last night.
—Wash up! the voices shrieked
And pushed my head madly beneath
A pool of tears until I drowned
Again inside another dream.
So tell me whose tears were that soaked
The leaves I'd flipped through all last night
With every flutter of lashes so moist.
So speak but make it soft and clean
And hold my hands and smile and joke
And only then describe my nightly scene
The screens projected on my twitching lids
The ghastly films my dirty eyes have seen....
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Library at Night
A homeless man beside the library
His sleeping bones arranged to hungry dreams
Cracked lips that blow as if in ecstasy
And fingers holding fast the Bible dear
His starless head pushing against the wall
A pencil 'gainst a broken sharpener.
His sleeping bones arranged to hungry dreams
Cracked lips that blow as if in ecstasy
And fingers holding fast the Bible dear
His starless head pushing against the wall
A pencil 'gainst a broken sharpener.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Common uses of a poet
Here some common uses of the poet:
Mutate city into unreal city
thus make it poem-real.
Keep fire from melting ice
and rusting a red wheel barrow.
Reverse-translation into Ashbery.
Use words like iridescent, thicket, and
petrichor; never feel.
Prophet, politician, and philosopher; now
poets hidden in half a page
Of this week's New Yorker.
Impress other poets.
Mutate city into unreal city
thus make it poem-real.
Keep fire from melting ice
and rusting a red wheel barrow.
Reverse-translation into Ashbery.
Use words like iridescent, thicket, and
petrichor; never feel.
Prophet, politician, and philosopher; now
poets hidden in half a page
Of this week's New Yorker.
Impress other poets.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Bless Me
Oh bless me Father (muttered I)
for I have sinned, for I have sinned,
for I have roved against the wind,
and over lands that house the hands
that—blithe—unfold beneath my feet.
The branching hands, with love imbued,
thus reaching out they've made me food.
Ungrateful yes, but blind I'm not,
for I have known the sun, the lands,
the trees that fruit, and blooming shoots,
the taste of figs (I've not forgot),
the peach has long perfumed my hands,
the grapes and dates, angelic fruits.
I've seen the moonbow over falls;
the snowfall gather over roofs;
about the coast, descent of gulls;
on grassy plains, the dance of manes,
I've heard the tune of trotting hooves.
Yet I have stepped on aging leaves,
and drank atop their withered roots,
I took and took but please believe
my heart is not so black as soot,
Now here tonight I'm sober, weak,
this conscious-guilted rueful thief
inhales the scent of grass with grief.
I beg you father now once more
to bless this worthless selfish soul:
For I can not—Oh I can not!
for I have sinned, for I have sinned,
for I have roved against the wind,
and over lands that house the hands
that—blithe—unfold beneath my feet.
The branching hands, with love imbued,
thus reaching out they've made me food.
Ungrateful yes, but blind I'm not,
for I have known the sun, the lands,
the trees that fruit, and blooming shoots,
the taste of figs (I've not forgot),
the peach has long perfumed my hands,
the grapes and dates, angelic fruits.
I've seen the moonbow over falls;
the snowfall gather over roofs;
about the coast, descent of gulls;
on grassy plains, the dance of manes,
I've heard the tune of trotting hooves.
Yet I have stepped on aging leaves,
and drank atop their withered roots,
I took and took but please believe
my heart is not so black as soot,
Now here tonight I'm sober, weak,
this conscious-guilted rueful thief
inhales the scent of grass with grief.
I beg you father now once more
to bless this worthless selfish soul:
For I can not—Oh I can not!
Feast of Today's Greeks
First we sat to feast on fatty pheasants
Stiff the frosted feet of us two peasants
Stuffed with softest fruits and finest foodstuffs
Fast we raised our staff to faces present.
Greek guy gobbling up a cooked egg Dagwood
Yakked with gangs of geeks in King the Burger
On coagulated globs of gunk gagged
Choking gave the litigation finger.
Stiff the frosted feet of us two peasants
Stuffed with softest fruits and finest foodstuffs
Fast we raised our staff to faces present.
Greek guy gobbling up a cooked egg Dagwood
Yakked with gangs of geeks in King the Burger
On coagulated globs of gunk gagged
Choking gave the litigation finger.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
The Ghosts of a Room
When the moon shines red
And the darks cascade
When the length of room
Has become light years
When the ghostly hush
In the silence yawns
Through a hollow tune
With the breeze for tongue
Now compassion swoops
Through the cloud of tears
Down on injured hearts
Filled with lonely fears
Filled with homeless rage
And a scalding shame
And strangled with guilt
Of venom-clawed blame
Then compassion flies
With the hearts in beak
Over ruby lakes
What is there to seek?
Soon the wordless room
Breathes the scented dawn
Everything the same
But the dew-kissed lawn
Shoulds and ifs and whys
Never here reside
Outside the window
Of the room inside
Only lady bugs
And where grass now parts
There the earthworms romp
Wee-little, their hearts.
And the darks cascade
When the length of room
Has become light years
When the ghostly hush
In the silence yawns
Through a hollow tune
With the breeze for tongue
Now compassion swoops
Through the cloud of tears
Down on injured hearts
Filled with lonely fears
Filled with homeless rage
And a scalding shame
And strangled with guilt
Of venom-clawed blame
Then compassion flies
With the hearts in beak
Over ruby lakes
What is there to seek?
Soon the wordless room
Breathes the scented dawn
Everything the same
But the dew-kissed lawn
Shoulds and ifs and whys
Never here reside
Outside the window
Of the room inside
Only lady bugs
And where grass now parts
There the earthworms romp
Wee-little, their hearts.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Play With Us It's Safe
What do you want
What would you like
It's up to you
The choice is yours
Whatever you might wish
Whatever you decide
But when the skies are foggy black I still recall the moon
that night its bruised red eye was peeping at us through the clouds
I said come out and play with us it's safe we're children too.
What would you like
It's up to you
The choice is yours
Whatever you might wish
Whatever you decide
But when the skies are foggy black I still recall the moon
that night its bruised red eye was peeping at us through the clouds
I said come out and play with us it's safe we're children too.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Chloe's Dramatic Exit
People sat, enchanted.
Stood, the old magician,
on the stage, then hovered
over Chloe reposing
in the smoke. His whiskers,
painted lilac purple,
and his face, a crimson
red, with garish azure
eyes projecting madness
packed inside enigma.
Chloe was gone (abruptly)!
Reappeared a moment
later, as the smoky
air on stage was clearing.
Chloe was nervous, laughing,
"Sorry had to tinkle."
Stood, the old magician,
on the stage, then hovered
over Chloe reposing
in the smoke. His whiskers,
painted lilac purple,
and his face, a crimson
red, with garish azure
eyes projecting madness
packed inside enigma.
Chloe was gone (abruptly)!
Reappeared a moment
later, as the smoky
air on stage was clearing.
Chloe was nervous, laughing,
"Sorry had to tinkle."
Sunday, September 20, 2015
An Old Man on a Swing
An old man on a swing?
I used to think
that's nothing much to write
a verse about.
Until I saw a mural, one
by Goya. Gazing at the man,
it seems as if
he's lurching forward, leaping off
the wall,
exploding through the shattered plane.
Or maybe just
detached
and dangling, hanging on for life.
He's out of breath.
The frenzied eyes, elated. Or
just maybe full
of horrors caged,
or Furies' rage,
The savaged sunken head atop the arms and legs belonging to a human twice his size,
cadavers or
a beast perhaps.
The mouth distends beyond all human bounds....I fear
that evil leer,
that spreads below the hollow holes, the ghosts inside, possessed....
Some say a self-portrait!
I hope some day, some poem I create
in black and white, below my name,
can haunt you just the same.
I used to think
that's nothing much to write
a verse about.
Until I saw a mural, one
by Goya. Gazing at the man,
it seems as if
he's lurching forward, leaping off
the wall,
exploding through the shattered plane.
Or maybe just
detached
and dangling, hanging on for life.
He's out of breath.
The frenzied eyes, elated. Or
just maybe full
of horrors caged,
or Furies' rage,
The savaged sunken head atop the arms and legs belonging to a human twice his size,
cadavers or
a beast perhaps.
The mouth distends beyond all human bounds....I fear
that evil leer,
that spreads below the hollow holes, the ghosts inside, possessed....
Some say a self-portrait!
I hope some day, some poem I create
in black and white, below my name,
can haunt you just the same.
Report of an Arrest
The state police report:
At one o'clock last night,
a liquid gold sedan—
"a Mazda 3," they write,
"an import," driven by
a man of black-and-white
complexion, suit and tie—
had come to park beside
a purple Firebird, right
behind the fire temple,
on Ash across from Crown.
And not that far from stairs,
and couple hydrants there.
Police became alarmed
at once because they saw
a sickly bandaged arm
emerging from the car,
and wave—as if a star.
"Do not report," upset,
he said, "my life, oh please,
as though the world at large
considers me a threat!"
Arrested by police
right there and then, his charge:
Disturbing of the peace!
At one o'clock last night,
a liquid gold sedan—
"a Mazda 3," they write,
"an import," driven by
a man of black-and-white
complexion, suit and tie—
had come to park beside
a purple Firebird, right
behind the fire temple,
on Ash across from Crown.
And not that far from stairs,
and couple hydrants there.
Police became alarmed
at once because they saw
a sickly bandaged arm
emerging from the car,
and wave—as if a star.
"Do not report," upset,
he said, "my life, oh please,
as though the world at large
considers me a threat!"
Arrested by police
right there and then, his charge:
Disturbing of the peace!
Love: Do You Dare?
We lapped the icy water—Truth,
some bulldog barking at the sun
had blocked the pathway to our homes.
We passed the leaky hose around.
Of loveless pets, the alley reeked.
"Love," I then heard some mother bark,
"Come home, it's late, oh can't you see!?"
To Truth I pointed, thinking: Love,
but do you dare?
some bulldog barking at the sun
had blocked the pathway to our homes.
We passed the leaky hose around.
Of loveless pets, the alley reeked.
"Love," I then heard some mother bark,
"Come home, it's late, oh can't you see!?"
To Truth I pointed, thinking: Love,
but do you dare?
Love
In a vase
Love arose.
Love, the dirt.
Love, the rose.
Love in space.
Love in time.
Love in "not."
Love in "I'm."
Love, the name.
Love, the bounds.
Love, the taste.
Love, the sounds.
Love, inside.
Love, out there.
Love, to be.
Love, as care.
Love is safe.
Love is hushed.
Love is dared.
Love is rushed.
Love, to get.
Love, to give.
Love is long.
Love is live.
Love is old.
Love is teens
Love is ends.
Love is means.
Love in flesh.
Love in soul.
Love that lacks.
Love is whole.
----------
Love of eyes.
Love of lips.
Love of curves.
Love of hips.
Love the scents
Love the chests.
Love the beards.
Love the breasts.
Love that lures.
Love confessed.
Love that woos.
Love undressed.
Love, you need.
Love, I must.
Love, you crave.
Love, I lust.
Lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
love p u l s a t e s
lovesunite
l
o
v
e
i
t
p
o
u
r
s
love red white
Love, in bed.
Love, each breath.
Love, in sky.
Love, till death.
Love is pledged.
Love, with dread.
Love, engaged.
Love is wed.
Love is mine.
Love is yours.
Love, kisses.
Love, the chores.
Love, the spell.
Love, achieved.
Love, labor.
Love, conceived.
Love, revealed:
Love, from womb.
Love, that lives.
Love, to tomb.
Love of babes.
Love wiggles.
Love that coos.
Love giggles.
Love of play.
Love, explores.
Love of toys.
Love, all fours.
Love, their dolls.
Love, car toys.
Love, our girls.
Love, our boys.
----------
Love we fake.
Love we lie.
Love we sell.
Love we buy.
Love we use.
Love we waste.
Love we wound.
Love we base.
Love you faced.
Love you fought.
Love you failed.
Love you, not.
Love you held.
Love you veiled.
Love you walled.
Love you jailed.
Love you left.
Love you forced.
Love we took.
Love, divorced.
----------
I
Ache for love.
Bawl for love.
Pray for love.
All‒for love.
Love I feel.
Love I do
Love I be.
Love I you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I asked love:
What am I
now to do?
Whispered Love:
"Like your love.
Love your love.
Live your love.
Lavish love.
Once is love.
One is love.
Oath is love.
Old is love.
Visit love.
Vouch for love.
Voice your love.
Vote for love.
Every love.
Earthly love.
Earnest love.
Easy love.
Look for love.
Opt for love.
Value love.
End with love."
Love I love.
Love your love.
Love for love.
Love with love.
Love loves love.
Love loves love.
Love loves
Love.
Love loves
Love.
Love. Love. Love.
Love,
love
Love arose.
Love, the dirt.
Love, the rose.
Love in space.
Love in time.
Love in "not."
Love in "I'm."
Love, the name.
Love, the bounds.
Love, the taste.
Love, the sounds.
Love, inside.
Love, out there.
Love, to be.
Love, as care.
Love is safe.
Love is hushed.
Love is dared.
Love is rushed.
Love, to get.
Love, to give.
Love is long.
Love is live.
Love is old.
Love is teens
Love is ends.
Love is means.
Love in flesh.
Love in soul.
Love that lacks.
Love is whole.
----------
Love of eyes.
Love of lips.
Love of curves.
Love of hips.
Love the scents
Love the chests.
Love the beards.
Love the breasts.
Love that lures.
Love confessed.
Love that woos.
Love undressed.
Love, you need.
Love, I must.
Love, you crave.
Love, I lust.
Lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
love p u l s a t e s
lovesunite
l
o
v
e
i
t
p
o
u
r
s
love red white
Love, in bed.
Love, each breath.
Love, in sky.
Love, till death.
Love is pledged.
Love, with dread.
Love, engaged.
Love is wed.
Love is mine.
Love is yours.
Love, kisses.
Love, the chores.
Love, the spell.
Love, achieved.
Love, labor.
Love, conceived.
Love, revealed:
Love, from womb.
Love, that lives.
Love, to tomb.
Love of babes.
Love wiggles.
Love that coos.
Love giggles.
Love of play.
Love, explores.
Love of toys.
Love, all fours.
Love, their dolls.
Love, car toys.
Love, our girls.
Love, our boys.
----------
Love we fake.
Love we lie.
Love we sell.
Love we buy.
Love we use.
Love we waste.
Love we wound.
Love we base.
Love you faced.
Love you fought.
Love you failed.
Love you, not.
Love you held.
Love you veiled.
Love you walled.
Love you jailed.
Love you left.
Love you forced.
Love we took.
Love, divorced.
----------
I
Ache for love.
Bawl for love.
Pray for love.
All‒for love.
Love I feel.
Love I do
Love I be.
Love I you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I asked love:
What am I
now to do?
Whispered Love:
"Like your love.
Love your love.
Live your love.
Lavish love.
Once is love.
One is love.
Oath is love.
Old is love.
Visit love.
Vouch for love.
Voice your love.
Vote for love.
Every love.
Earthly love.
Earnest love.
Easy love.
Look for love.
Opt for love.
Value love.
End with love."
Love I love.
Love your love.
Love for love.
Love with love.
Love loves love.
Love loves love.
Love loves
Love.
Love loves
Love.
Love. Love. Love.
Love,
love
From High Up Here
From high up here, it's crystal clear:
His graded garden down the street—
its charcoal soil, the ancient bed
of colored life, the humid home
of carrots, pumpkins, yams, and corn;
tomatoes, radish, luscious beets;
cilantro, okra, tasty peas;
and melons (huge and juicy, near
the orchid flowers); planted, grown,
and toiled upon for many hours
by swarthy hands that hurt, in gloves;
with grace and zeal, unsullied love—
resembles any other dirt.
His graded garden down the street—
its charcoal soil, the ancient bed
of colored life, the humid home
of carrots, pumpkins, yams, and corn;
tomatoes, radish, luscious beets;
cilantro, okra, tasty peas;
and melons (huge and juicy, near
the orchid flowers); planted, grown,
and toiled upon for many hours
by swarthy hands that hurt, in gloves;
with grace and zeal, unsullied love—
resembles any other dirt.
Resistance is Fruitless
Apricots, pregnant, hanging low,
the golden drops of blessed sweet.
Be careful! Some have fallen, split
against the concrete. And as though
they're lips and tongues prepared to kiss,
have flowered open 'round the pits.
They're silky mines below your feet—
It's too late: You are part of it.
Oh now it's fruitless, why resist?
the golden drops of blessed sweet.
Be careful! Some have fallen, split
against the concrete. And as though
they're lips and tongues prepared to kiss,
have flowered open 'round the pits.
They're silky mines below your feet—
It's too late: You are part of it.
Oh now it's fruitless, why resist?
400mm, Jun 1st , Across from McDonalds on Main
On the dash of a
spring-green garbage truck a well
used baby mitten.
spring-green garbage truck a well
used baby mitten.
Short Poems #5-6
This Vine
I rain, I shine.
This vein, this vine,
I feed, I wine,
in vain, in vain.
************************************
Water
Water for the lady,
flavored for gourmands. To
freedom for the slaves, their
sodium graves.
I rain, I shine.
This vein, this vine,
I feed, I wine,
in vain, in vain.
************************************
Water
Water for the lady,
flavored for gourmands. To
freedom for the slaves, their
sodium graves.
The Little Mermaid
The dripping black descends her back.
The blue lips (painted onyx black)
against her battered knees they rub—
But who is babbling in the tub?
I don't recall the drowning but
the ocean raging flaming red.
I hovered high above the flesh.
The sirens; flash; then silence 'gain.
That scent of skin, dissected fresh.
The little mermaid...living dead.
The blue lips (painted onyx black)
against her battered knees they rub—
But who is babbling in the tub?
I don't recall the drowning but
the ocean raging flaming red.
I hovered high above the flesh.
The sirens; flash; then silence 'gain.
That scent of skin, dissected fresh.
The little mermaid...living dead.
Short Poems #3-4
His Love was Thrashing 'Gainst her Heart
His love was thrashing 'gainst her heart,
then pulling back, releasing shards
of colored glass—erect like guards.
His love and hate displayed; like art.
************************************
Perfumed Sunspot
The alley boys had asked if I
had tasted June's perfumed sunspot.
I've gauged devotion only by
the nightly pecks of moonless sky.
His love was thrashing 'gainst her heart,
then pulling back, releasing shards
of colored glass—erect like guards.
His love and hate displayed; like art.
************************************
Perfumed Sunspot
The alley boys had asked if I
had tasted June's perfumed sunspot.
I've gauged devotion only by
the nightly pecks of moonless sky.
Short Poems #1-2
I live inside a box I've formed of sounds
of letters—meaning-making music, bounds
of human-living—written (voiced), to rhyme
and rhythm.
************************************
Existence: Side effect of death, decay.
So many never birthed; but birthed, all die.
Thus life is fall from death; but death is whole.
Death is the soul; and life, entombed remains.
of letters—meaning-making music, bounds
of human-living—written (voiced), to rhyme
and rhythm.
************************************
Existence: Side effect of death, decay.
So many never birthed; but birthed, all die.
Thus life is fall from death; but death is whole.
Death is the soul; and life, entombed remains.
Knight*
NO HEAVY SUIT OF ARMOR...silver shields, for me no swords;
no piercing flesh of villains...beasts, collecting of rewards;
no sweeping gestures, long incisive glances, wisdom words;
no grit, no faith unshakable, no gentlemen’s accords;
no gallant crossing of the perilous and icy fjords;
no solitary rides to distant hills—no joining them (the hordes);
no fending of the sick and weak, obeying of the lords;
no entrances so grand—dramatic exits non towards
bold adventures and novel romances no heart affords.
Hear me now, and hear me well: This "I" can't heal (nor can save).
I’m only knight in name. I'm mortal—just like you! I'm slave
to whim of time and space, to every nameless shallow grave.
It's only when this "I" can be, that it does—like a wave
I wash you over when we meet. But wave does not behave
as does a weathered shoreline, bearing clouds, or sun. Can't brave
the storms at night, give sight to blind, or tame the crimson light.
Escape this body, ask you, Oust the soul? Can not. Can't fight
the human life in you, erase what I had never write.
Listen: Within life (the real and the true), I do alright
(even great), by being myself—naked, cracked, and finite.
Sometimes that is all I need to be, it’s enough, despite
what you may believe, have thought, or felt; and in fact it's quite
counter to what we’re told, that one must shine, as color white—
perfect, pure. But could it be, that mud is all that you need,
To paint the soldiers' footsteps (men whose hearts are torn and bleed),
to paint the shores drenched in rain, and that gasping flower seed—
downing mud and drinking with unadulterated greed?
Yes at times romantic, hero, Arash, at times the knight,
this "I" could ride the horse of wisdom, up some thrilling height,
to mark the bounds—with arrow flying swiftly out of sight—
of Persia-Tūrān**, of the dream and truth, of day and night.
But knight can only be a knight by Poet's august might;
and when the faithful poet, He withdraws, it sinks (in fright)
my lifeless hands; and writhe these drunk heroic words—they flag,
like the tamest souls of the wildest preys thus trapped,
or last words of poem, pickled, silence-tickled.
* The poem was inspired in part by legend of Arash Kamangir or Arash-e-Kamangir (read: Āraŝ e Kamāngir; translate: Arash-the-Archer), an archer from Persian mythology, specifically, Ferdowsi's Shahnameh.
** In Shahnameh, Turan was at war with Iran/Persia. Arash's bowshot decided the boundary between the two sides.
no piercing flesh of villains...beasts, collecting of rewards;
no sweeping gestures, long incisive glances, wisdom words;
no grit, no faith unshakable, no gentlemen’s accords;
no gallant crossing of the perilous and icy fjords;
no solitary rides to distant hills—no joining them (the hordes);
no fending of the sick and weak, obeying of the lords;
no entrances so grand—dramatic exits non towards
bold adventures and novel romances no heart affords.
Hear me now, and hear me well: This "I" can't heal (nor can save).
I’m only knight in name. I'm mortal—just like you! I'm slave
to whim of time and space, to every nameless shallow grave.
It's only when this "I" can be, that it does—like a wave
I wash you over when we meet. But wave does not behave
as does a weathered shoreline, bearing clouds, or sun. Can't brave
the storms at night, give sight to blind, or tame the crimson light.
Escape this body, ask you, Oust the soul? Can not. Can't fight
the human life in you, erase what I had never write.
Listen: Within life (the real and the true), I do alright
(even great), by being myself—naked, cracked, and finite.
Sometimes that is all I need to be, it’s enough, despite
what you may believe, have thought, or felt; and in fact it's quite
counter to what we’re told, that one must shine, as color white—
perfect, pure. But could it be, that mud is all that you need,
To paint the soldiers' footsteps (men whose hearts are torn and bleed),
to paint the shores drenched in rain, and that gasping flower seed—
downing mud and drinking with unadulterated greed?
Yes at times romantic, hero, Arash, at times the knight,
this "I" could ride the horse of wisdom, up some thrilling height,
to mark the bounds—with arrow flying swiftly out of sight—
of Persia-Tūrān**, of the dream and truth, of day and night.
But knight can only be a knight by Poet's august might;
and when the faithful poet, He withdraws, it sinks (in fright)
my lifeless hands; and writhe these drunk heroic words—they flag,
like the tamest souls of the wildest preys thus trapped,
or last words of poem, pickled, silence-tickled.
* The poem was inspired in part by legend of Arash Kamangir or Arash-e-Kamangir (read: Āraŝ e Kamāngir; translate: Arash-the-Archer), an archer from Persian mythology, specifically, Ferdowsi's Shahnameh.
** In Shahnameh, Turan was at war with Iran/Persia. Arash's bowshot decided the boundary between the two sides.
Inkblots—The Opposite
We are butterfly
Here on edge.
There
Inside the
Exhaust pipe,
Of blackest '41 Imperial,
We flutter, waxy, inside
The thick carbon
Monoxide.
Xerces Blue,
The scientific
Name of smoked
And fully shriveled
Chitin—blue
With richest splotches of ebon—flush
Against the pavement. Under tires, we're under
Feet:
We're
Ink-
Blots—
The
Opposite.
At last we've become
Poetry.
Here on edge.
There
Inside the
Exhaust pipe,
Of blackest '41 Imperial,
We flutter, waxy, inside
The thick carbon
Monoxide.
Xerces Blue,
The scientific
Name of smoked
And fully shriveled
Chitin—blue
With richest splotches of ebon—flush
Against the pavement. Under tires, we're under
Feet:
We're
Ink-
Blots—
The
Opposite.
At last we've become
Poetry.
Ode to the Randomized Placebo-Controlled Double Blind Trial
Ached my soul. I'd dug through PubMed for days,
Looking for evidence best in every place,
With palpitating heart (typing fingers ablaze),
When I saw at last in the "advanced search", your face:
O the most costly and protracted of trials known!
O the golden standard of medical research's best!
O the method most likely to prove causation!
Show me results favoring my thesis alone,
Be thy form free of all conflicts of interest,
Be thee the research that grants me publication.
Looking for evidence best in every place,
With palpitating heart (typing fingers ablaze),
When I saw at last in the "advanced search", your face:
O the most costly and protracted of trials known!
O the golden standard of medical research's best!
O the method most likely to prove causation!
Show me results favoring my thesis alone,
Be thy form free of all conflicts of interest,
Be thee the research that grants me publication.
Friday, September 18, 2015
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Forget Your Woes
A Birman licks her paws—deformed and pale—
and wails, inside the doorway, where the footprints fade.
A belly rises, quivers, falls.
A head is hanging down—the eyes are open wide.
A sign implores, in letters painted scarlet-red,
"My fellows, have a drink, forget your woes."
Fluorescents buzz and flicker, overheard.
and wails, inside the doorway, where the footprints fade.
A belly rises, quivers, falls.
A head is hanging down—the eyes are open wide.
A sign implores, in letters painted scarlet-red,
"My fellows, have a drink, forget your woes."
Fluorescents buzz and flicker, overheard.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
The Emergency Waiting Room
The walls contained a rainbow of brochures, rife
with photos—peaceful faces, gladly sick.
And sadder, breathing though, the waiting room
contained: abused and injured, worried-wells,
the homesick, lovesick—handful very sick.
We formed a true ensemble (though bit off),
our moans and coughs, concocting many tunes.
As arctic poppies turn to sun and light,
our eyes pursued the coats of lustrous white.
Our ears, like arid soil before the rain,
attuned to rhythms—every uttered name.
Our tongues so keen to free the muted pains
that ravage us (like mildew spread on bloom).
The doctors, nurses, come and go, as though
we're just a senseless garden, sleeping, rows
of drooping tulips, shriveled aloes, scorched
forget-me-nots (below fluorescent lights).
Or weeping willows, bleeding hearts, instead:
a "bleeding man", and not a "man" who's "bled."
And then, as phones of ivory snored and bounced,
and starvers tango-danced the Coke machines,
while drunkards raised the standards of obscene,
I heard my name—misread but still—pronounced.
And after hours of wait: So sweet to hear!
My savior stood—a gardener—scanning fast,
horizons of our field of yellowed grass.
A prophet—he—my rock; my healer; hope;
he threw across and down my well a rope,
to plant me in a vase, my own, at last,
to make me human newly—healed and whole.
My leaves uncoiled, my petals straightened out,
I turned to him, towards his light, his sound—
a myth (though other foot was on the ground).
He signed towards the circus, yes, the clown:
No longer was there doubt, I'd seen his eyes
alight on me: All hail the chosen one!
with photos—peaceful faces, gladly sick.
And sadder, breathing though, the waiting room
contained: abused and injured, worried-wells,
the homesick, lovesick—handful very sick.
We formed a true ensemble (though bit off),
our moans and coughs, concocting many tunes.
As arctic poppies turn to sun and light,
our eyes pursued the coats of lustrous white.
Our ears, like arid soil before the rain,
attuned to rhythms—every uttered name.
Our tongues so keen to free the muted pains
that ravage us (like mildew spread on bloom).
The doctors, nurses, come and go, as though
we're just a senseless garden, sleeping, rows
of drooping tulips, shriveled aloes, scorched
forget-me-nots (below fluorescent lights).
Or weeping willows, bleeding hearts, instead:
a "bleeding man", and not a "man" who's "bled."
And then, as phones of ivory snored and bounced,
and starvers tango-danced the Coke machines,
while drunkards raised the standards of obscene,
I heard my name—misread but still—pronounced.
And after hours of wait: So sweet to hear!
My savior stood—a gardener—scanning fast,
horizons of our field of yellowed grass.
A prophet—he—my rock; my healer; hope;
he threw across and down my well a rope,
to plant me in a vase, my own, at last,
to make me human newly—healed and whole.
My leaves uncoiled, my petals straightened out,
I turned to him, towards his light, his sound—
a myth (though other foot was on the ground).
He signed towards the circus, yes, the clown:
No longer was there doubt, I'd seen his eyes
alight on me: All hail the chosen one!
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve
The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve....
eleven hundred weeks—before me—flashed:
the doctors, nurses, students, staff, the rooms,
and soon, the judge and jury, lawyers—theirs
and ours—harangues on mercy, blame; intent
and chance, revenge and justice....Time we spent
rewording and remaking life: I'm numb
with dolor, fury, horror, guilt, and shame;
the runes of woe, my daily torture, now
tattooed inside my wasting folds of flesh.
Emotions cling, unsaid, unnamed—preserved
inside my jaw and limbs, my blood and bones,
the meanings lost, just piles of words and words.
The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve—
and for a moment going o'er the curb—
now swerved about the purple traffic cones
(thus marking borders of my tortured nerves).
eleven hundred weeks—before me—flashed:
the doctors, nurses, students, staff, the rooms,
and soon, the judge and jury, lawyers—theirs
and ours—harangues on mercy, blame; intent
and chance, revenge and justice....Time we spent
rewording and remaking life: I'm numb
with dolor, fury, horror, guilt, and shame;
the runes of woe, my daily torture, now
tattooed inside my wasting folds of flesh.
Emotions cling, unsaid, unnamed—preserved
inside my jaw and limbs, my blood and bones,
the meanings lost, just piles of words and words.
The eighteen-wheeler speeding 'round the curve—
and for a moment going o'er the curb—
now swerved about the purple traffic cones
(thus marking borders of my tortured nerves).
Thursday, July 23, 2015
News of an accident
The father is alive, alert.
The mother—doctors say—is too.
But not the Skylark: it is wrecked.
A nameless something else was killed.
"The children," we regret, "are dead."
And grandpa? Grandma? "Too," they said.
But flowers, pastries, hats...intact.
The onyx colored dress, untorn.
The causes here remain unknown.
Although the bones are red,
and smoke has spread,
beyond the dark I see
that serrated skyline,
with same array of peaks—
but now to me they seem
exact and bleak.
But life ignores our pleas.
So sway, the willow trees;
go on, the roads, as laid;
the Earth, as cold and gray.
While it spins and revolves,
creatures evolve and learn,
and skies around it burn
and spit, the Earth's no more
a pit. But still portend,
spoken words, and express;
observed are facts, they're named
and claimed; machines are made;
money produced and paid;
memories form then fade;
poems are measured and penned;
Yet life‒my own‒can't be,
ever again the same.
The mother—doctors say—is too.
But not the Skylark: it is wrecked.
A nameless something else was killed.
"The children," we regret, "are dead."
And grandpa? Grandma? "Too," they said.
But flowers, pastries, hats...intact.
The onyx colored dress, untorn.
The causes here remain unknown.
Although the bones are red,
and smoke has spread,
beyond the dark I see
that serrated skyline,
with same array of peaks—
but now to me they seem
exact and bleak.
But life ignores our pleas.
So sway, the willow trees;
go on, the roads, as laid;
the Earth, as cold and gray.
While it spins and revolves,
creatures evolve and learn,
and skies around it burn
and spit, the Earth's no more
a pit. But still portend,
spoken words, and express;
observed are facts, they're named
and claimed; machines are made;
money produced and paid;
memories form then fade;
poems are measured and penned;
Yet life‒my own‒can't be,
ever again the same.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Feel the Solitude
Whimper, holler, weep; and let burn
your eyes and turn blood-red. You sob
at night alone inside your room....
There's no moon. It's long departed
to watch the lovers nuzzle, kiss,
by sonorous curves of Fraser.
Breeze on their skin: a glacier soon
melting, like their whispers—lover
to lover, lips to ticklish ears.
You must feel the solitude's weight:
The haughty air, the empty chair...
Listen! The walls are crumbling, hushed,
akin to bones that bound the heart.
Rotting bones inside the concrete,
marrows of room within a room.
Sound of your labored panting breath,
the only sign that here resides,
a living corpse inside this tomb.
Let your shoulders shake and quiver.
Holding your breath you shiver—There
you hope to keep the throbbing walled
(Oh the illusion of control!)
Loneliness aches; and aching's so
lonely. Ache that keeps you closely
dead-awake, and clings to your soul;
ache and journeys through your body‒
but you it never ever leaves.
Release your breath, forgive your sin,
ease the form, undress the ego,
clear the walls without and within—
to and from your heart. Let tears
cleanse you of old and vicious pains,
polish your senses‒scent of bread,
taste of coffee, comfort of bed‒
Let cry, this self, I softly pled:
I'm drowning in your tears—unshed.
your eyes and turn blood-red. You sob
at night alone inside your room....
There's no moon. It's long departed
to watch the lovers nuzzle, kiss,
by sonorous curves of Fraser.
Breeze on their skin: a glacier soon
melting, like their whispers—lover
to lover, lips to ticklish ears.
You must feel the solitude's weight:
The haughty air, the empty chair...
Listen! The walls are crumbling, hushed,
akin to bones that bound the heart.
Rotting bones inside the concrete,
marrows of room within a room.
Sound of your labored panting breath,
the only sign that here resides,
a living corpse inside this tomb.
Let your shoulders shake and quiver.
Holding your breath you shiver—There
you hope to keep the throbbing walled
(Oh the illusion of control!)
Loneliness aches; and aching's so
lonely. Ache that keeps you closely
dead-awake, and clings to your soul;
ache and journeys through your body‒
but you it never ever leaves.
Release your breath, forgive your sin,
ease the form, undress the ego,
clear the walls without and within—
to and from your heart. Let tears
cleanse you of old and vicious pains,
polish your senses‒scent of bread,
taste of coffee, comfort of bed‒
Let cry, this self, I softly pled:
I'm drowning in your tears—unshed.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Successful Evasion
Simply this: Successfully! This,
the word they wrote—from news we heard—
of how we dodged the damned police.
But we too evaded sadness,
regret (for who we'd now become),
dread, disgust at weakness within,
and fury at a world unfair—
those, they never printed or said,
but were torments still that we fled;
and past and future too (enough,
to only think of cash and cops):
No homespun Spider-Man pillows,
Batman blankets, Zorro flipflops....
shopping for hoodies, gloves, and hats
(for winter), with our moms and dads,
under the summer's hottest star,
for second-hands in old bazaar.
Evading who we were, could be,
we fixed our eyes on dazzling rocks—
sleek fragmented mirrors, tokens
of commitment, happiness, love—
that could for us on black market,
bring in (fingers crossed) crazy bucks.
the word they wrote—from news we heard—
of how we dodged the damned police.
But we too evaded sadness,
regret (for who we'd now become),
dread, disgust at weakness within,
and fury at a world unfair—
those, they never printed or said,
but were torments still that we fled;
and past and future too (enough,
to only think of cash and cops):
No homespun Spider-Man pillows,
Batman blankets, Zorro flipflops....
shopping for hoodies, gloves, and hats
(for winter), with our moms and dads,
under the summer's hottest star,
for second-hands in old bazaar.
Evading who we were, could be,
we fixed our eyes on dazzling rocks—
sleek fragmented mirrors, tokens
of commitment, happiness, love—
that could for us on black market,
bring in (fingers crossed) crazy bucks.
This Time
Sometimes I am angry.
And unaware I leave,
but reenter later,
come closer, take a look,
at the tormented me.
This time I see.
That's when I cry.
And unaware I leave,
but reenter later,
come closer, take a look,
at the tormented me.
This time I see.
That's when I cry.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Voice
I crammed the words in tight iambic feet.
"Speak in feet or hold your peace," so addressed
me then, a voice like mine‒but one distressed.
I speak in pain, of loss and rage that eat
my bones, at night; each day, fatigue my heart,
they twist my soul...and drain my love‒"Silence!"
said the raising voice relentlessly, roared,
"I guard your heart and soul. This pain you'll not
contain without my aid, your rage impairs
all your sense, so fear emotions unchecked...."
Silently out the words I let, freely roam,
atop my pain galloped we past meadows in rain,
the air had bled seventeen quarts of cherry tart,
the cawing ink (heaven-spilled, erased by time),
directed me, my face (tear-soaked), home.
"Speak in feet or hold your peace," so addressed
me then, a voice like mine‒but one distressed.
I speak in pain, of loss and rage that eat
my bones, at night; each day, fatigue my heart,
they twist my soul...and drain my love‒"Silence!"
said the raising voice relentlessly, roared,
"I guard your heart and soul. This pain you'll not
contain without my aid, your rage impairs
all your sense, so fear emotions unchecked...."
Silently out the words I let, freely roam,
atop my pain galloped we past meadows in rain,
the air had bled seventeen quarts of cherry tart,
the cawing ink (heaven-spilled, erased by time),
directed me, my face (tear-soaked), home.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
The Gray Lion
The gray lion lingers.
Luring him a gazelle
grazing on open plains.
You devour the flesh.
You taste the golden grass.
Pacing behind the bars.
Luring him a gazelle
grazing on open plains.
You devour the flesh.
You taste the golden grass.
Pacing behind the bars.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Craft of Living (and Scarf Making)
Human living's a craft
few will ever master,
yet many will survive—
but no one forever.
Human living's a craft
like knitting: Most can knit
a wool scarf in the end,
and keep warm in winter.
But few will twist and knot
along with vibrant yarn,
excite the silken fleece
to dance in loops and weaves.
Life is a ball of yarn,
of chance color and size.
I've dreamed of God knitting
a rainbow scarf for sky.
few will ever master,
yet many will survive—
but no one forever.
Human living's a craft
like knitting: Most can knit
a wool scarf in the end,
and keep warm in winter.
But few will twist and knot
along with vibrant yarn,
excite the silken fleece
to dance in loops and weaves.
Life is a ball of yarn,
of chance color and size.
I've dreamed of God knitting
a rainbow scarf for sky.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Bury the Ruby
Ruby array of dry dismembered bones,
rounding a pair of sodden coral boots;
her frame concealed by cherries hanging low,
that's what she drew—the artist saw it so.
What the artist saw now hangs on the wall.
She stands beside it, perfect—Such a doll!
Bodiless feet been buried deep below.
rounding a pair of sodden coral boots;
her frame concealed by cherries hanging low,
that's what she drew—the artist saw it so.
What the artist saw now hangs on the wall.
She stands beside it, perfect—Such a doll!
Bodiless feet been buried deep below.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
But What Does It Matter?
What does it matter? Asking I, at first
on sunny days (my body shivers, aches).
Life's a dream, in death it's enveloped firm—
though over pocket myriad gashes felt.
This letter now I'm living—or am I
more the letter written, rewritten, signed?—
tell me to whom it may concern, and why?
Is life a curse? Or from the lord, a boon?
If my life's the letter, sung it's my tune;
under glasses, moments noted are runes;
and moments not, are endless landscapes strewn
with blurry ink—a soft inert cocoon
(dark enough to dream of butterflies soon,
common dream of hopeless humans unhealed).
Who's the receiver, postal system, dank
tongue that licks with care the envelopes sealed,
unknown unknowns in heaps, and myths unpeeled.
Who am I, the poet, poem, rhythms
and rhymes that hoist the feelings, senses, thoughts?
If received, then tell me: What has mattered?
on sunny days (my body shivers, aches).
Life's a dream, in death it's enveloped firm—
though over pocket myriad gashes felt.
This letter now I'm living—or am I
more the letter written, rewritten, signed?—
tell me to whom it may concern, and why?
Is life a curse? Or from the lord, a boon?
If my life's the letter, sung it's my tune;
under glasses, moments noted are runes;
and moments not, are endless landscapes strewn
with blurry ink—a soft inert cocoon
(dark enough to dream of butterflies soon,
common dream of hopeless humans unhealed).
Who's the receiver, postal system, dank
tongue that licks with care the envelopes sealed,
unknown unknowns in heaps, and myths unpeeled.
Who am I, the poet, poem, rhythms
and rhymes that hoist the feelings, senses, thoughts?
If received, then tell me: What has mattered?
Monday, April 27, 2015
But Looking Back Tonight…
As I look tonight I see a clock that is cracked.
My muffins tucked in bed, so we’re alone perhaps,
the tree aglow in red, and all the presents wrapped,
a Lego set for Kat—But face it, facts are facts!
You smashed the clock (recall: my gift the day we met),
and broke the twenty-year-old glass. Your bags been packed
for years inside your head. And yet I’d grown attached
to whispers in the dark, addicted to your scent….
Though you left, it was your orchid pillow I kept,
and for years and years I hugged the pillow and wept.
You recall the nights I kissed the curve of your back?
Hurts me you never truly loved me, loved me back.
Now I know the thing was just a lie, was an act...
But tonight I’ve you, my happy family, back.
And looking back tonight I see the clock…intact.
My muffins tucked in bed, so we’re alone perhaps,
the tree aglow in red, and all the presents wrapped,
a Lego set for Kat—But face it, facts are facts!
You smashed the clock (recall: my gift the day we met),
and broke the twenty-year-old glass. Your bags been packed
for years inside your head. And yet I’d grown attached
to whispers in the dark, addicted to your scent….
Though you left, it was your orchid pillow I kept,
and for years and years I hugged the pillow and wept.
You recall the nights I kissed the curve of your back?
Hurts me you never truly loved me, loved me back.
Now I know the thing was just a lie, was an act...
But tonight I’ve you, my happy family, back.
And looking back tonight I see the clock…intact.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Moments
Moments are butterflies.
They die, kept in a jar.
Moments are kunik* kisses from the stars.
They're breezes, cooled by moon and warmed by sun.
Moments are wombs. So too a lifeboat fleet,
with all the boats deflating, one by one.
Moments are lonely flower buds.
Caress them each and watch them bloom.
Moments are sweet receding rooms,
with crooning walls and scented floors.
Moments: this verse, this word.
See it, feel it...it’s gone.
*Kunik: a way of kissing or showing affection, associated with an Inuit practice of breathing in the skin of cheek or forehead.
They die, kept in a jar.
Moments are kunik* kisses from the stars.
They're breezes, cooled by moon and warmed by sun.
Moments are wombs. So too a lifeboat fleet,
with all the boats deflating, one by one.
Moments are lonely flower buds.
Caress them each and watch them bloom.
Moments are sweet receding rooms,
with crooning walls and scented floors.
Moments: this verse, this word.
See it, feel it...it’s gone.
*Kunik: a way of kissing or showing affection, associated with an Inuit practice of breathing in the skin of cheek or forehead.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Love, the Things We Labeled Love
We rained above our
melting skin and labeled taste
of salty flesh, love.
melting skin and labeled taste
of salty flesh, love.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Paradise
Eagles encircle my paradise.
Icicles drop from the evergreen,
pomegranates bounce on the trampoline....
Witness the poets: They're paralyzed.
Icicles drop from the evergreen,
pomegranates bounce on the trampoline....
Witness the poets: They're paralyzed.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Thursday, April 9, 2015
But Not to Boss
Work is a funny word.
But not to boss.
To work off debt,
it's said, you have to go to work;
where working as a clerk,
you work your way up, reach the top.
You work around the snags you come across,
and working in the office never stop
to work away at them with all your heart,
till your report's a flawless work of art:
Intense and smart.
But not to boss.
You work out quickly, getting set
to soon depart for work, and yet
you end up working up a sweat.
It's funny how that works...
But not to boss.
Then there's the "work it in" to write,
which now I'm working into this outright.
By "this" I mean my poem, song,
which, by the way, I've long
been fond of working on.
But does that count as work?
It's never work, it's said,
but only if you do
sincerely love the work.
But not to boss.
But not to boss.
To work off debt,
it's said, you have to go to work;
where working as a clerk,
you work your way up, reach the top.
You work around the snags you come across,
and working in the office never stop
to work away at them with all your heart,
till your report's a flawless work of art:
Intense and smart.
But not to boss.
You work out quickly, getting set
to soon depart for work, and yet
you end up working up a sweat.
It's funny how that works...
But not to boss.
Then there's the "work it in" to write,
which now I'm working into this outright.
By "this" I mean my poem, song,
which, by the way, I've long
been fond of working on.
But does that count as work?
It's never work, it's said,
but only if you do
sincerely love the work.
But not to boss.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Devouring Silence
The suitcase of silence
is veiled in black, in white;
it tails behind on wheels
that dance to earthy tunes,
spinning at whim....
My carry-on contains
displaced letters only.
Homeless in frozen air—
How they blubber!
In the flying coffin,
relics of past, hollow.
Meaning: I call poem
my home.
I escaped with letters hostage,
so I can be. At last.
Alone. I
fear devouring
silence.
is veiled in black, in white;
it tails behind on wheels
that dance to earthy tunes,
spinning at whim....
My carry-on contains
displaced letters only.
Homeless in frozen air—
How they blubber!
In the flying coffin,
relics of past, hollow.
Meaning: I call poem
my home.
I escaped with letters hostage,
so I can be. At last.
Alone. I
fear devouring
silence.
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