Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Poems in Notebook form 1/5-1/8, 2015

He says in a cool southern manner: be careful on boardwalks
with bikes. They are dangerous and people have been sent 
to hospitals and i ruminate obsessively over this. Did they fall 
from boardwalk into seething dried palmetto festooned snake pits? 

"Are you a meditation master? She asks and I reply, as if
in when asked 'do you play tennis? it's best to respond,
'yeah, I can hit'. "We will do some sitting". ('Yeah I sit.')

I walk exposed and aware of the covert danger 
                                                 so much beauty.

My narcissism slithers out in workshop. I become childishly greedy 
        wanting all eyes needing all ears for my words alone -- 
and spaces between them, flickering's of everything, unrequited in me

The giant rotary
ceiling fan as if 
with pasty covered 
appendage descending.
O my descendants. 
I would not subject a
to the likes of me again. 

Wells of Resistance--
is this extraction
or dissolution you
have pandered to
all these years?

The bedding has been chosen
so carefully. We create a cocoon
of simulated womb space with 
sensoral omission a constant
supply of swaddle our arms
around doll sized girths. Then
                   the milk. 
When one mouth is not flesh groping,
it takes only the best BPA free, sterile                

Black and white
Ghost of Lowell 
Nesbit, room 17, 
visited me in multi
colored orgasm, no
image attached to 
                            the string.

Are those contrails
       or chem trails
       up there? 
Hard difference to tell.

The swamp of lime green gatorade smells insidious.

Hello people, that's The Yoga Teacher 
out there on the open road, mid - run
with a six pack of hard cider hanging
from left arm and one diet coke, the other.

That rattler had been dubbed
"the devil" he told me
          7 rattles 
          7 years
beaded not unlike, in shape and number
a human cervical spine, more commonly called 'neck'.
Head hacked off                                          via machete.

And when the coasts were thought clear
its superior severed nervous system 
                                                             ----------------------------------------------------------     spat:
three       last       gasps       of        venom.

The flimsy cellular connected voice barely comes through: "Hi mommy"
like Poltergeist's "Where 
                                                    Mommy?             I can't see you mommy."
He sounds sleepy. I love him so. Yet let him be. And this           scares me.

What is the tiny groping, remnants of love no longer but desperate clinging, barely audible-
more than a whisper and less than a hissing? It is the wrath of our time gone awry, possibly unintended, or even (then) anticipated. And not unlike vomit or lava, a protest from depths:
                                                            the only sound
                                                            fragments left
                                                            March now
                                                            to the dirge of
                                                            dial tone drones

There is an eternal cornerstone of vulnerability, human frailty's unrelenting landmarks-
as clear as the scars I wear on the surface of my own flesh. It may be witnessed in the
scab colored lunch between ones teeth, the piss a small child lingers in -- denies and is
consumed by simultaneously, the spittle that may accumulate around a young mothers
mouth post-electric shock, the shit that stains an orange jumpsuit clad man in some
unknown endless desert just before a blunt knife sears his throat and a barely severed
head drops to the grainy Earth with remnants of his now defunct nervous system dangling
like tendrils only partially attached. Yes that is me and if you are still reading, it is you too.

No comments:

Post a Comment