March 31, 2010

I tasted transition

of the moment, to the next one

left/right, back/forth

look back, crouch down, head up

whistle to yourself to blend the sounds of lies together

smell the weather

all the pieces are blown away so many times

catch me everyday gasping for breath

every new light will burn out

if I shout loud enough and scream

and smile and walk and fall and limp

and cry and blank it out

January 1, 2010

New year:  Clear,

insatiable lack of reality;

catastrophically numb;

changing for god’s sake;

Bent down, bowed by the wind storm;

uncontainable; vexed.

I want to wander farther: the year

my dreams came

true stung like hell.

Mother maya I see through you,

lover hollow like a glass bell.

Laughter taken to task, unwrapped,

empty flask, thin air, magic mirror,

concave star, reckless eyes:

seven layers of deception.

Let’s roll this one out with a moan.

December 21, 2009

Rally ’round the flag, ya’ll

December 6, 2009

Allowing for anything outside,

I loved you too much for too long.

Less than color, make me prove it;

self is wrong.  (what do I mean, now?)

Nothing to it, but the sound of noble rising

white heat is all I am now;

numb anger, cold to drown in.

I’ve been outside, turned down, locked out, shut in,

taking it

until my self is gone in shreds like pillows

butchered by mad lovers; feathers shed

like the dew, spread out in clouds;

a thousand shrouds,  a million sprites

flying out over the windswept bay.

Thank you, for that.

October 7, 2009

Life cannot contain us,

we are forces of nature.

I am earth and wind

and you are water and fire.

The earth becoming wind is fire;

the water becoming fire is wind.

We wind in transmutation

and find our derailed elements unfolded

and discontent.

Speak in chemical reactions,

find a new channel to trace;

there is a far off stream marking off

rest for the uncontained.

December 30, 2008

Held in fire

choked on embers and soot

with floating memories of grass beds

and wild clouds in sunlit warmth.

Now I am still here, waiting for something;

to emerge as new life, I destroy myself.

Here and now I live across the edge;

I choke on flaming embers;

I  war with anger and force it backward;

I digest bitterness down to thin soup.

Living beneath myself, robotic

is something I have learned,

is something that I hate,

hate I assimilate to survive.

 

Wild beauties and memory dreams of the now,

beautiful chaos, living wonderment

and transcendent love and faithful worship

of a goddess in the flesh;

these are kept in a glass box, and I

walked my path daily, the only way I knew.

When you tell me I have nothing to say,

I wonder if you remember who I am.

We are just people in the world.

We walk on rock, sharp sand, and clay,

in fire and water, breathing ice;

we lay ourselves down in grass fields and drink light.

We chew the soil, and cogitate dreams.

In darkness we spew out visions and color; we whisper to ourselves.

I could bury myself down under the cold earth, entombed,

and tunnel under cthonic roots and stone

to find your cold hand warm in death and living;

we would rise sinking below the ceiling into light,

dissolve at the center, and reemerge

material flesh that breathes the wind and animates with fire from our lips

in words.

We are people and the world is around and beneath us.

There is everything and nothing more;

If words can bridge the chasm, we need to learn to speak

and listen.

September 27, 2008

What should I do

when I hate all my choices?

When I am sucked dry by the power of suppression;

when self-projected maya turns

and looks me in the eye;

when patience trickles thin;

when chaos looms just beneath the surface?

If I scratch at it, I will fall through.

When lies grow stale it is tricky

to live inside them.

Ask me why, and I will spout memory echoes

and crumpled pages of mundane life.

Where the road ends one direction must be 

as good as another,

but if I stand here forever I will rot.

Yellow mind

I sit here without thought of anything

but floating pictures slipping in and out of focus.

Where do my days go when the tall gate opens 

and time slips through like a flood of ideas?

On days when I am still young, my life stretches out

across the landscape;

When I am old and tired I turn away inside myself and hide in cold data.

Is the fountain in me, or in the world?

write or wrong

Whether or not this is fruitful, I am here.

Waiting.