Archive for the ‘ Poetry ’ Category
was hounding me
on that cold
I was locked
and I was locked
I turned around
a fire started
I turned around
a gun went off
I turned around
my baby wanted to
give me a book.
Crow kept telling Mr. Bones
that he wanted to fly to the sun.
Mr. Bones tilted his hat back and looked at Crow and yawned.
“It’s been done,” said Mr. Bones, “Icarus, for one…and––you––too,
remember? You’ve done it before––look how that turned out.”
“Not all that bad,” said Crow, “I’m still here, aren’t I? Besides,
this look of burnt to a crisp charred black is rather fashionable in the long run, eh?
So, what’s the harm?”
“Do what you want,” said Mr. Bones. “No way I want to talk you out of it.
But, I’m curious. . . . what’s the big motivation to fly to the sun all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know,” said Crow, “I mean, you gotta do something, right?
You gotta do something. . . . I’m down here–– the sun is up there––
I think it’s time to tango.” And then Crow flew, straight up, to the top
of the sky.
invisible matters as
smoke swirls up into the light
of another nightclub dream.
no clear destination
only fantasy of something like happiness
or bliss or maybe just victory.
fire is as easy as the lighter in your jacket pocket
but then the conversation is a maze of clever
double entendres and innuendos.
eventually it all becomes blurry and magical––
things go the way they will go, no one can predict it exactly,
and then it is morning again.
what does any of it have to do with me
I live in the house of ashes
it is so cold I can see my breath when I snore
the air barely moves and all that changes is the dust
I live among the memories and echos
invisible but as solid as bricks
I remember love and the fire and the embers
I remember blazes and sound waves and confusion
I remember a sweet soft settling like flowers on the floor
the curtains were drawn and the light became translucent
my thoughts became like wires tangling themselves under the desk
I’m not sure it matters but every now and then I open a window
and throw a piece of paper down to the street.
snow dropped down my back sliding down warm skin sending shock wave and
laughter a little or a lot and
wasn’t expecting that. but. yes. was expecting that.
quite obvious really. the mischief and predictability of the order of things.
I was dreaming.
I was dreaming I was alone in a snowy desert on top of a hill, with a sled
in my hands and about to slide down, fully focused on the ride when,
the sensation of the snow on my skin down my spine woke me up.
And where was I then. I was alone in a snowy desert on top of a hill, with
empty hands, empty arms. Spinning around and around. Hearing something.
Another voice. It was laughing or crying, or both at the same time.
second call lightning bolt
cut by cocktail
Ice caps at the airport bar
waiting to taxi the pain–
stolen moments in front of
another television snowstorm
after the channel
goes off air
weather like a device to
make him break open and confess.
desire like the drop of water
that splits the boulder in half.
watching the kaleidoscope of his
personalities fly by––
how could they all be so different,
inside the same mind.
soon we be gettin’ the fishin’ gear and goin’ down to that river and set a spell.
soon we remember them days that had time inside of them when hours were spheres instead of discs.
soon we’ll shed clothes like dropping the rest of the chores for the day and dive into that cool water.
soon we’ll go grumbling up the gravel hill road in the old rumbly cadillac leaking gas fumes and exhaust and chug-a-lug up to the dixie highway to go out to the north edge of town to get an a&w rootbeer float brought
to us in the car set down on a tray hanging on the side of the window by a perky high school cheerleader earning some money for college with a disposition and optimism as bright as the shiny sun.
soon we’ll light cigars out in the woods behind the trees and turn green with the smoke and choke and cough and laugh and think adults are crazy and then we’ll try to drink the whiskey from the bottle we stole and choke and cough and laugh again and know they must be crazy and shake our heads and say we ain’t never gonna be like that in a million years we’ll always be best friends and catch fireflies and ride our bikes everywhere, until we can get a GTO or RoadRunner and then we’ll drive non-stop to California and dive into the ocean and swim out as far as we can before going back to the car and becoming famous millionaires.
soon we’ll build that raft and sneak out of our houses at mid-night and take it down the the river that feeds into the mississippi and ride the big muddy river all the way down to new orleans and start a band and live on the street and earn our money singing and tap dancing and playing our blues songs that will break everyones hearts when they walk by and make them want to give us twenty and even hundred dollar bills for realeasing the spirits from them and realeasing their demons and giving them a lightness like they got wings and can float a while with no worries and just see the miracle of how the light shines on everything under the sun.
soon we’ll remember what it was like before we got here and see our faces before we were born and understand where we are going next and what we are doing here and all the fear will vanish like the people evaporate from the football stadium when the big game is over and the season has passed and the snow falls and covers everything in white powdery silence with no footprints anywhere and you can barely even see the ghost of the memories of all the things that were happening out there.
soon we will be us again and I will be me and you will be you and you will be me and I will be you and we will be us and us will be everyting and everything will be everything and nothing and always and never and it seems so plain and simple and clear and sure and I have no idea why I think that or know it or why I hear the same thing from so many other people or whether we learned it or were told it or just know it but when we saw that diorama in the museum in the city that day of the neanderthal man buried with flowers all around him and a knife and some food I knew right away we used to be stars burning in the sky and some day soon we will be again and it all goes around and around like the merry go round at the fair and we get so sleepy and dream.
eyes reach down. eyes reach out. eyes like search lights. like high beams.
eyes so hungry, devouring images, devouring landscape, devouring words
thoughts emotions meanings, reading cues from faces and body language,
but not everyone can see, we say they are blind. . . although they see in
so many other ways, and use their other senses as eyes.
I can’t imagine not having eyes to look through and see the world with.
My eyes are so hungry. I live through my eyes. I live inside my eyes.
I live behind my eyes. If I went blind . . . I’d learn to see in new ways . . .
and I have memories . . . but I can not imagine, not even a little, there is
no use trying to imagine something so unknown to me.
And there are so many ways to see. So many lenses, and filters, and ways
to interpret any information, all information… so many levels to see things
from, and the view from the top of the mountain, through eyes or no eyes,
is so different from the view at the bottom of the mountain. What am I trying
to say? And saying so clumsily? It is so rare for people to look, really look,
down into the depths of each others eyes. Such a miracle that there is so much
information there, so much we reveal without knowing it, so much
we keep hidden that we don’t even know we have. The evolution of the eyeball.
The very 1st creature who saw shadows moving underwater and seeing where things
were and what they looked like. From all life being blind to slowly being able to see.
And now, we are still blind, and maybe just beginning to see, with inner eyes, and
that may take another long time, but will change everything again just as much.
(weird first thought of the day before coffee).
Miss Understanding lives in a mansion high up on the hill
and sends chaos waves rolling down all over the whole wide world.
She is so lonely up there, and she can’t talk to anyone because
her words all come out backwards and freeze in mid-air and
shatter on the marble floor or her palace. She isn’t mean or cruel,
and she doesn’t even know she is sending chaos waves that short-
circuit peoples ability to love each other. She just doesn’t understand.
Someday, when the singularity happens, she’ll be singing a different tune.
But, we aren’t sure what that song might sound like. It could be a harmomious
glorious sound creaitng epiphany and compassion and putting an instant stop
to all war and emtional cruelty and pain. Or, it could sound like a dull
tromping dirge, like an army of robots walking through the swamp of
cluelessness. together, understanding everything so completely,
but on a very low level that misses the point of all evolution,
like 20 colors of paint mixed together to make the color of mud.
But, that is for another day.
Today, Miss Understanding relaxes on the chaise lounge by the pool and
sips her martinis and chain smokes her Virginia Slims. She wants to believe
she’s come a long way, baby, but, she’s been there since the beginning of time,
since the first communication, and if anything, she’s only gotten more complex.
Say a prayer for the gal, like Nora Desmond, ready for her close up, she knows
nothing of what she speaks, but there is no doubt in her mind she knows exactly
what she means.