Thursday, April 28, 2016

Such a Good, Cloudy Day.






















As the sides tangle with one other
my eye twitches with the other one;
such a surprise,
they convulse together.
The followers don't always make up the cult.
The cell may oppose the body.
The opposite is true of course:
The lifer screaming to be free of a locked room.
Always the same dilemma,
you get better at the expanse
between your head and your feet
while your current optimism
of the current within
positively drives you to discomfort.
Continuing a compulsion
in order to discontinue progress
towards all those intrusions swarming
around your heart like bees.
Cheers.
Good thoughts are scarce.
They bear through with honey,
they carelessly dispel with sting.
All them fuckers that fight
with one another within your chest.
Oh well,
we are a billion different cells.
We are more space than matter.
Each room inside us
contains a singularity.
Yet the reverb from yelling
escapes to join the multitude of vibrations
to coalesce into something undivided.
In harmony, some days,
in others, dissonant.
It is nice to know it can be sunny
despite the joy of being overcast.

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Le Crackman Originale.

































Remember when you surprised yourself,
within the dawn of adulthood,
while the minutes barreled into decades.
You sat before the bloom of neon cigarettes
held within a faux gold kitsch from a previous era:
a pen to untie a knot of lines,
a crumpled piece of paper relaxing into a creature.
Drugs were floating around
and you wore sunglasses at night.
The barrel of the pen loaded with ink.
The white of the paper a blindfold.
Pulling the trigger, lines splashed out
and the blood organized itself.
It was a wonderful thing.
An awkward and extravagant gentleman
with obvious tension.
His bald beauty.
His odd lashes.
His temperamental gesture.
His creaturely vanity.
His reaching around your waist.
You were enamored, amazed,
taken by surprise.
He told you that your teeth wouldn't be ground down.
He told you that your eyes wouldn't be painted over.
Any number of things:
they were nice departures.
You followed him around for a decade.
An ink blot keeping that tint rosy.

Monday, November 16, 2015

Snake Skin Shed.






















Fear of death passing forth gives passing forth death of fear.
Walking to work with the dry space creeping in,
looking sideways with worry of strangers noticing
that my intentions are blurry
only because I hope they are good.
Two weeks ago I thought,
ninety one years old,
and not counting.
But of course we all keep track
of how many years the dead would have had.

I can get out of bed.
I just can't get out of my head.

Slow death just brings just death slow.
I write when I am desperate,
when body and mind are separate.
I am self involved to the point
where I'm flexing limbs without joints.
Bones cracking, the nerve.
Pain migration.
No way to know where the unease is coming from.
I am the snake skin shed with the tears drawn yet unable to evaporate.

I can get out of bed.
I just can't get out of my head.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Look Down, Look Drawn, Look Drowned.






















What a cop out to make an apology for your creativity.
End up a dropout mistaking mythology for activity.
You look down.
You look drawn.
Thin and tapered, you compromise,
just watch that water rise.
There, the grainy video on CNN of the bridge buckling
under the demand of a flood, just what luck brings.

Should you decide to continue deceiving yourself.
Should you ask of a residue conceiving a shelf
on which to place who you are.
So far you've sparred with nothing insofar as Mylar.
A thin transparent sheet of separation.
A fin on the horizon of the ocean.
Notice of vague danger,
silt moving pages, divine arranger. 
A shark's tooth as a souvenir for your love
hanging from leather thread strung above
a dog stuck and laid low by malnutrition.
Every cognition keeping it chained with a shun.
This sand moves slowly holding lengths taut.
The waters move fast eroding fenced plot.
The development does not matter, being man made.
It will all fall under persistent moisture, slow fade.
Though water may be strong,
just change your bearing headlong.
Raise your head just as the water drowns you.
Whatever was said, it matters less than the sounds do.


Thursday, August 20, 2015

Sense Memory #1.






















Please remember when you die to just drop it.
These slender senses do vie to trust no pocket.
Dad is gone and I look at his photograph,
had a long glance and took apart his laugh.
He finally found his glasses
and we just keep laughing.
He fought those final matches
and we must keep laughing.
Common place grief runs in to face relief.
Obsessed with death I caress this fret.

Put your hands up.  They are tied up in a knot. 
Eyes behind the arms know memory cannot rot.

Monday, June 8, 2015

Photocopy #5.






















I am tired of learning how to love.
I am under the weather, attempting the truth.
I'd love to be content.
Yet the stumbling block:
a self created version of myself
creating a microcosm
in which to wrap its tears up with mine.
My version is no where close to the duplicate.
A photocopier bleeding black ink
and copies of copies
making up for the disappearance of the original.
Anxiety stealing my presence.
I will quit myself.
I will put myself
in the presence
of a present
state of mind
where to transfer meaning
will not be
to take from a construct
of what really happened.
If there even is
something such as that.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Guiltless Age #4.






















Things were so much easier back then,
before sunshine promised grief.
I did not know then that sun would eventually
force itself on the planet and engulf the matter
just as the memory of dad's cold dead hand
would encircle all other memories.
And there;
the water moving without strategy to surround the island.
Presently, the world is ending all the time
but we were never sure when it started.
Convince yourself:
it will be okay to be nothing one of these days,
that the universe has no ethics,
that is does not matter
whether we prevail
or whether we destroy ourselves.
Or maybe just deny the insects and their hunger,
with their faces upside down in guiltless pleasure.
I enjoy the fact of weight;
the mass of ants
teeming below us,
dwarfing us.
We are all very silent
compared to all of the movement around us.
We keep making noise about it,
our tongues moving around
inside our mouths.
And I keep learning
again and again
the reasons for the circle
I've drawn around myself.
The approximation of a life wound up
with emotion and meaning
like an orbiting body
surrounded by orbital bodies
that never touch one another.