Monday, July 28, 2008

paper trail (getting another degree in the arts & (humanities))


a leading inclination where meadows split diverge and bulge outside compass crosses

the threaded links bare-- simply put
they are not there
the fit is not tight security is not tight our coupling is not tight

cradled in the shaft of a large machine
i cannot see my face
(fate) is a mystery beyond

intellect is without a weapon in this world where prayer becomes--
(a new stirring of self(hope) though god has no grip on her cliffs

trusting to difficult directions she dances across the stage towards a pole planted firm--
it is hers to hold slide glide around
loose structure and the study of women
the study of american history which is part of world history and now earth history

behind her sky paper patterns collide--
remnant of the undefined
the finite torture of signature

Saturday, July 26, 2008

a small restaurant unlike memphis (a bad andy warhol film)

inhale pink oxygen
where drinks like fire run down curtains ---- throat ---- lungs

where dismal hope exists ever-always reaching
beyond shaking means ---- torpid steps ---- tepid conversation

the couch is covered in faux fur ---- the floors creek ---- groaning-
ages spent lying in the best of moods glass in hand
the peopled rooms speak of hideous efforts (masks in place greeting fake face)

affront to quiet nature
affront to Warhol
affront to the very circle of familiarity

we languish in removed connect

quiet months pass where nothing curtains our view
yet still ---- we are unable to move

Monday, July 21, 2008

building history a nest (or an explaination) part 1

building a nest out of found parts

of a sort shunned by most while this nest

t e e t e r s on withered storm drains
where even the most violent
screams of nature are funneled

antediluvian promises curving away from sky

angry black night hard light billows prophecy
the gutteral scream of receding oxygen
fleeting memory and savage wings

still this loose grip holds—thin as sleet and venerable pages

nest building 1

soul crawling backwards
finds a nest
doesn't care which fits best


was it puerile to think love would work
insensate forces fester barring teeth and breaking sound

the burden is too great for our solution mingled in dissolution and solace
found in boxes taped with age hidden in the attic
where this withering mind resides
lofty in past crimes

how do we get out of here
this place of prices paid
yearning rage (not wage) earned

by stretching muscles lengthwise (she said

peering peering peering into past reprise (no amount of make up can hide

how come you never told me this meant so much
to young sick hearts living in icing suffocating sense

we didn’t have enough scars or wrinkles for our souls--
they found us before we were ready

without defense shedding tightening skin wrapping around taunt lungs looking looking looking
for ---absolution

swayed back by thin air memory and hot fortunes

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

a quick sketch

crack me open
i'll never be 
the sultry poet 
that i want to be--

the distant figure 
in the tunnel will never be the muse--
my muse--

oh but their sound is wonderful
full of strings long
and thick

though it be i swore 
never to send another short lined letter to missing muse--


eyes tight and closed  double-over

time folds velvet over itself
pretending to be female male then female again
the perfect sex forms
made inner connects--

the ocean is in the air our tears hot summer setting

when light has left and feeling is gone

     the past will spread out 
like sheets on a line
reflecting sun tarnish

reflecting memorybirds
and touch

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

am i talking to mySelf

no comment

reflection or infliction

in a dream
i am walking
and I cannot see my face

even though
i am outside of my self
not really my self
but something constructed
inward pushing out
in a car
on the other side of the road
i am watching myself

looking at my self walking

though i cannot see my face

note to self

write a poem
about how
nothing is refined

fretting about arguing about the future

clattering spindle

tearing thread s
the article unravels bit by bit

once there

now removed

aching bloody head

constantly this essence is released with each passing beat
the wound is too large

and the mob is knocking with demands

Friday, July 4, 2008

this poem goes to ideas hidden underneath clutching fingernails

this poem is dedicated to all the knocked down knock arounds
to anybody and everybody who’s been called a minority
root word minor meaning lesser in size, extent and importance
this poem is dedicated to all pained peopled driven by circumstance
and all those boats that came across surface waters
when underneath swam glowing creatures unchanged by religion
or war and all burning skin peeling horrors humans like to claim
as their own as their own they laid waste to centuries of thought
of culture ritual tradition keeping the bearing straight out of mind
out of sight and focusing on the ‘others’ plight from lands claimed
as their own trying desperately to tame, maim and cage
no one even thought about where it all came this rage out of left
fields clear cut cause things like world series and hotdogs became
the new


passing tongues
foreign touch

young hips and a lit match


the night ward passes his urgent message
to doves stuck in the night
they beat wild wings in his wake

delivered on swift winds whispering the end
one by one

white doves drop
turning to creamy
milky water

the message lost in the ripples

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

an angry sort of thing

running down out cover abound
filing down the dirty nails of past scrapings
foundling shadow creatures eating ice and air
flaring footsteps
wide open mouth--

this is not your sentiment

nor mine

lucid clacking bones twisting shoulders spitgritfire
how far horrid reflections lost
liquid glass broken teeth filaments chipped porcelain skin

this is not my current device

nor yours

pouring over aggravated rocks
propping yourself up on others then lean lean lean
they lean for you
but only smooth air is left and hard edged shapes undefined
believing in small particles of dust
their repose
silent against absence