"Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait" -Longfellow

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Short Time = Short Work

Our bus is a photo.
A moment brimming with love.
We sleep and we go.

The bus moves through town;
A gentle animal awake
With destination.

Temper is a ploy
For arresting the sane.
The river is wide.

At night the rains come.
Drops of confusion and wish,
Wild and magic and sad.

Darwin's savage spring-
From the living muck of chance
Feet, fur and fins bloom.

The orchid has no
Thoughts. But the new it seeks makes
Empires from ether.

Old ladies chat on
The bench. Death sits too, but can't
Swallow simple joy.

6 Words on Books
Just in case you wanna build.

6 Words on Bars
Fuzzy equality: the bedrock of compassion.

6 Words on Relationships
Everything is big. Everything is small.

6 Words on The Election
The soul needs sky, not earth.

6 Words on The Bus
Going places together is truly human.

6 Words on Truth
Don't splash after the beach ball.

6 Words on Death
Patience only struggles when tomorrow promises.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Five Poems

Pink Angels - Willem de Kooning, 1945.

I like to cry at hypothetical situations
and freeze up on abject life - object life,
the final commodity, a kind of veil
over the eternal flames.

I wanted to give you a father full of day
but my dusky memories keep me
searching for a glowing grail

in the cavernous darkness of our ancestors.

Other Than
Other than another man
I'm no one else but this.
Other than this other hand
I've only this one fist.
Other than this sleeping day
I wake unto another.
Other than her here now her
there's another her above her.
Other than confusing fruits
we're joyless as machines.
Other than these dusty boots
we wear our trustless leans.
Other than escapist pudding
let's eat forever gone pie.
Other than our honorable death
we've other deaths to die.
Other than falling falling
and refusing the scale of the rise.
Other than keeps wasting me
while the other me never dies.

Your Farther Eyes
Your farther eyes of tomorrow
wake triple in waking fully once.
Anonymity in the highest
sings down faith,
anonymity in the lowest
sings down one death and
readies the billions.

I see you already falling in love with your torturers
efficient hands
and the long loneliness in their manliest stare.

Like Foucault in a tutu
bleeding from his cosmic ass
and dying taut as human passion, as a rock,
shut and shut upon itself - aching in 50 days of sun.

You're not in hate with life
just drawn to the sweaty-lipped exasperation
of unpacking your pain

until there's none left.
Then, freedom.

Backfacing Gaze
No memory save shallow flames' symmetry unburdened and unfolded sailing through smalls installed as holy cows handshaking glasses and calculators earthquaking pouring over tepid time in measured rhyme and false sublime.

When stands one stands others and still others further frustrations in flour casing lacing domes into carpooled cathedrals capsizing.

Brown sugar knows where the sap of Jazz goes when on eagle wings of condensed singing and bells of daily din ring just for ringing.

I hope offense is like defense like cleaning more like chewing than really seeing more like believing than taking or like faking for awakening.

Slow slow now manufactured from fast still bleating charms for darkness to enflesh needing immense clowns to move kings from altars drowning at funerals appointmented in offices ornamented with orifices shining in emptiness and for emptiness - like stars pretending to dance even after dying.

Halting Thought Doodles
It's a live neon wire shaving as a man plastered on the morning glass
and alas, I guess, alas.
But our numbers are a matter of little courtesy, 
dangling between death,
and the bright plastic boot ain't gonna lick the bullshit off itself.
Gotta weigh
gotta gotta Christ and hoax other-self saucers
gotta weep enough to wipe out weeping and sway,
tough as braille,
for the ubiquitous fingers to read forward
approaching zero.
Gotta get to have the you to give away
to the you you've suffered the others, 
sisters and brothers,
to become.

And against that aghast glass the camera glare of our next face
devours the mystical meat of vapor-selves
as bonafide as a Spring day is wide.
Sharp breaths and mantras of forgiveness,
Spoken from nowhen and everyone.

Gotta impale
gotta gotta pay price
gotta pay price = loving self through item,
to demise within item/not mattering
like you've meant to matter,
faceless in orgy heat, mere matter.
Gotta talk-sing and walk-run
fall for to become.
Gotta stay from insane
draping this humble
miracle over hope
found between void and void
between animal and God-dead

between the universe considering being the universe
all the time.