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Cramped for space on this free account, here's a steadily-accruing compilation of poetry. |
A Brief Aesthetic Philosophy (2009) ART IS ARTIFICIAL. It is unnatural, for it is the product of a human soul, and not of the meaningless arrangement of atoms in nature. It is an attempt to order the particles of chaos in such a way as to imbue meaning into them. ART IS CATHARTIC. It is a genuine attempt to communicate the thoughts and emotions of one mind to another. If a piece has no message, whether explicit or intuitive, then it may be a beautiful phenomenon, like a particular arrangement of atoms in nature, but it is not art. ART IS ARTICULATE. If it fails to establish that link of communication between minds, then it is at best a beautiful and inspiring phenomenon, but it is not art. ART IS AN ARTICLE OF FAITH. One must believe in the existence of others, and believe that communication is possible, to believe in art. Art is incongruous with a solipsistic or skeptical paradigm. ART IS HEARTFELT. If the purpose of the piece is something other than artistic communication- i.e. to convince others to do what you want, or to entertain them for recognition and profit- then it is not art, for art is first and foremost a tool of communication. ART IS THE BARTERING of ideas between two minds, the artist and the audience, who enrich and challenge each other with foreign and novel perspectives. ART IS PART of a higher level of human development, beyond the self, transcending the limitations of one mind with one perspective. The Lady Melted (2009) The men all agreed she was perfect. Her face was constructed just so; Her eyes reflected the light splendidly But did not glow unnaturally. Her cheeks were smooth and warm But they never burned sanguine and gory. And her smile was an affirmation of Lovely God Who was never threatened by the sneers of rogue apostasy. But a candle lit her hair And she melted and ran all over. The colors were vivid, Her shrieks sharp and refreshing. She burned bright like phosphorus And they couldn't bear to look at her. The crowd dispersed. I remained, enraptured. The Wall is Bare (2009) The wall was blank. I beheld it, I held it, But it withheld its face. Feeling along the wall With fingers and memories and guesses, Still I did not find that window Through which birds might fly And pluck my eyes And carry them to cozy nests Woven in the shattered belfries Of antediluvian empires. Should I have found a mirror; Then a somber grey threnody Would bounce from the glass And douse my ears in formaldehyde. And my eyelids would shroud me decently So voyeuristic gravediggers would not peep Into my naked, lurid soul. But I never found a mirror. I stepped back and rubbed my eyes: Is it a photograph? Two children on a beach, Sand tyrants, A third hidden under the dock, Untouched by waves, Immortal But out of focus... But then the three children were seven clouds And I was confused (As I always am when I blink) And the printed memory was as insubstantial As the castles licked and battered by waves. The only purpose I have observed in this wall: It returns my inquiries With omnipresent echoes As if the wall itself is asking the same question. On the Mountainside (2009) I. High I danced at the summit for eleven weeks. I felt a million dimensions in every word I spoke, sang, wrote, heard, saw Texture, timbre, tone A titillating, tender, ticklish totality Mastered and dubbed over the Is. My eyes were ravished by ravishing landscapes Surrounding me, trapping me in an Edenic, blissful cage; By somber, majestic portraits of the princes and princesses Who preside over their cash registers and ticket booths, Who put a quarter in the box and steal seven newspapers for their friends, Who try on dresses and skirts they will never buy, Who pick up after their miniaturized poodles with plastic bags, Who climb out the window for a covert smoke, Who forget to take out the trash again, These bored Gods, these idle avatars of cosmic demonstration, Sleeping in their walking vessels; By a principle of frenetic motion; By an immovable exception; By a struggle to shove the unshovable; By feet rooted in will; By the pout of a violent universe, at last proved impotent; By the smirk of a man accomplished; By a rosy lens illuminating the skin And obfuscating the soul Of the Is. But I was oblivious to a stone that Was: So I stumbled over it And tumbled down the mountainside. Rocks tore at my clothes, Thorns eviscerated and exsanguinated my body, Bumps and dips in the mountainside Bludgeoned and battered me, Breaking all my bones, Dirt and bugs got in all the bloody bodily breaches, Infected, infested, ingested me, And when at last I lay dormant at the foot of the mountain, I was a mangled sack of rubble and filth. II. Low I decayed in the soil for eleven weeks. Worms ate my flesh (And weasels ripped it), Poisoning me with their sick gluttony. My shattered bones were chilled and frosted By a wind that filled my ears and nostrils, Stung my eyes, Blackened my toes, Echoed screaming in my head a cacophony of: Hate. With my bony claws I wanted to pluck out the eyes That watered with pity. I wanted to strangle the necks Wherefrom comforting words would come, Desperately try to console me. I wanted to bite the hands That stroked, that soothed, that offered succor. I wanted to snap the arms That wrapt around me, that attempted to lift me out of my mire. And a rain fell, and drenched my would-be rescuers, And they retreated into warm houses farther up the side of the mountain. I summoned that rain. I drove them away. It was: Misery. It made everything wet and cold and weak. It cast its shadow on everything; There were no colors, no shades, no glow. It clacked and beat against the ground, Drowned out the song of the sunny day, Silenced birds, silenced men, silenced women, Silenced even children Who are not silenced by death. It was all the energy- All being was in the falling of those billions and trillions of drops All else was inert, sucked dry of kinetic potential. It was a heavy blanket Of wallowing, of despair, of melodrama, Muffling, dulling, asphyxiating the Is. Then a bolt of lightning left the clouds and struck me. My bones glowed electron blue, The ice melted and exploded, The worms were fried (and weasels, too), Their corpses returned me my blood and flesh, And I ran up the mountain as the clouds parted and the sun shone And the rainbow was just a little corny. III. Epilogue It does not always last for eleven weeks. But it always lasts long enough to feel like a lifetime And it never lasts forever. Eternally commuting between the peak of Mania And the pit of Despair, My life is lived most on the Mountainside, The mean average of violent mood swings. I live a dithyramb to bipolarity. Dragonflies (2007) A red-brick monster saw me yesterday As I was floating 'twixt some derelict bones Of steel leviathans that could not say Why they were sentenced thus to die alone. It knew my misery by my tortured mien, Observed my haggard face, drawn sore and long, And queried, "Sir, you look as if you've seen A ghost in your own mirror," -not far wrong! "Astute goliath, how grew thou so wise," I asked, "to know the living from the dead?" The beast replied, "I felt a west-wind rise; It carried you before goliath said." I wondered at this strange thing he had spoke, When, blown again, I drifted then like smoke. But shaken for a moment to inquire, I felt my feet grow heavier than lead. I dragged myself against the cold respire And crawled inside the brute's cavernous head. Persistent in my quest to know its mood, I then addressed my kindly shelter-thing; "What is this place of grey decrepitude, With crumbling phantoms such as yourself being?" He said, "This was a place; now it is not. I once was called a home, but now no longer. My people left their legacies to rot." At this, my curiosity grew stronger. "Then, Homestead, tell me more of your sad tale, While loneliness escapes us in this gale." That building cleared the throat it didn't have, Reflected for a moment, and began: "Not long ago..." (a rumbling voice of gravel Shook me as he spoke) "There was a man Who sat before his writing desk, and looked Out yonder window-" there 'twas by the door- "He saw a sunny day he had forsook, Then saw a thing he'd never seen before: She laughed at leaves, and sang to soothe the sun, She snatched a dragonfly from out the air. They shined alike; the other resembled the one, The sapphire tail and eyes, gold wings and hair. She held it up to gift it with her kiss; But it took wing, and left the girl amiss. "Shrugged she, the maiden, then went on her way, The man, still quite bewitched, could only stare: He couldn't shrug away that nymphly fay- No man can shrug the sight of beauty bare! Sat he in quiet repose for all the morrow, Watched he for five whole minutes, the girl pass by; Anonymous, his love seemed much like sorrow, And with each smile, he let out a sigh. A week or two he spent in contemplation Upon the maiden's every lovely feature," -My hackles rose in some vague irritation- "Until he set himself to greet the creature. Out swung the window, out stuck Lovestruck's head, While watching for the girl who flushed him red. "From twixt the trees his fantasy thus sprang Today, adorned in feathers- some young fancy She twirled about, beheld the sky, and sang, Her pretty trill then quailed him- he grew antsy. Checking his trepidation, he spoke thus: 'You know me not, but I love you, sweet angel! For weeks I've watched you; now I feel I must Win your approval- leave me not to dangle!' The maiden laughed- but so delightfully For by this tender plea, she was quite touched, 'My dear,' she sang, 'you've earned quite rightfully My admiration- if not my love, as such. Perhaps we'll meet again.' At that, away She went to tell the birds of her strange day." Before the house went on, I interjected, "I liketh not the tone of your ballád; For something grows within me quite dejected I mourn for something else that I once had." "This is the tale," the floor said with a frown, "Of how a thing is lost forevermore. That is the story of this old ghost town: A sad thing after longs for days before." "Alright," I said, "the tale is universal. By chance I recognized it in my heart. Tell me, will this young lad see a reversal Of his poor fortunes?" "No," he said, "the start Of his own ruin is now set in motion. But can this curse be lifted with devotion? "So this young fellow swooned there for awhile, So stupefied he could not think nor speak He bolted up then like a projectile, And stumbled into bed for nigh a week. Not sorrowful nor angry was he, though, Nay, he was still excited by the thought Of his liason with his beloved doe, By whom he'd been into a fever wrought. 'She smiled! She laughed!' He cried aloud with glee. 'She noticed me!' The fancy then had changed. No longer was his love a fantasy- But true hope brewed, romantically deranged. The spark had struck the tinder, thus was lit A gentle candle? Nay, a mad fire-pit! "The man sat at his writing desk once more Took up his pen, and eagerly wrote of That nameless beauty; letters by the score (Though never mailed, of course) witnessed his love. And when she'd pass by, he'd shout 'hi' and wave- Her woodland friends would often scatter, scared- At his desk-window, there he stood- so brave! While from this house his love he oft declared." I fancied, then, I heard the wood-beams chuckle; I almost felt the house was mocking me. I knew not why I thought so, thus I stifled The suspicion and said deliberately, "So coward was he, that much is quite plain. Tell me more of his romance set in vain." "The maiden grew more genial day by day Despite herself, she reveled in his praise And longer would she tarry from her way To salve the charming sycophant's malaise. As weeks grew fortnights, still they daily met And every moonlit hour, he was dreaming Of her; and every day until sunset His eyes glazed, as he spied her phantom seeming. The two grew closer; strangely they drew near- The madman's dreams were almost manifest! The only barrier was his awkward fear Of this comfortably-kept prison to divest. Would his passion e'er outweigh his cowardice? Oh courage, grant this good man his due bliss! "One day, a blackened sky saw him and her In conversation; rain began to fall. The girl, quite quickly drenched, begged to enter He, happy to oblige, relieved her pall. The hearth was warm; most jolly were those two They laughed and chatted by the fireside. For pleasant company relieves ague More surely than a host of pharmicides And he and she were in a perfect bliss She sat quite close (intentions closer lay!) But just as she leaned in to plant a kiss, Up bolted that damned fool, who backed away. 'The rain's let up; you now can safe go home.' 'My dear, I'd rather not go out alone.'" I quivered, seething, loathing that buffoon For now I knew why I'd flown by this home. I knew why I wore such a face of gloom, Remembering what force set me to roam. "I hesitated then," said I in dread, "The very thought of setting out the door Brought terror to my heart; and riveted, I stood there, firmly fixed into the floor. I could have left with her that day!" I cried, "I could've escaped this mediocrity! The world offered a life- I chose to die, I spurned the heavens' generosity..." I fell to weeping in that sad old house. "Behold my wretched state: a timid mouse! "And here I am- my dragonfly has flown! I've wandered, dead, through graveyards bleak as me. By flagstone corpses, charnel winds have blown My empty soul full circle back to thee. And now, inspired by the same remorse, What am I driven to enjoy in life? My happiness has fully run its course There's nothing left for me but pain and strife." "Just so," the window whispered, "one by one The men who built this village met despair. For when their hopes and fancies had all gone, Then nothing held them fast; they took to air. And as they wallow in their petty pity, This waste is what remains of their great city." So struck was I by such a poignant story And puzzled at the grim frivolity I looked about my walled memento mori And saw an unfamiliar quality; I could not put my finger on its nature But something had upset the ambiance My feeling had no definite nomenclature But cut short was my bitter nonchalance It seemed a glow had filtered through the air A golden light was dancing on the walls; Turned to the window, I could only stare As a dazzling dragonfly softly set fall. The light cast through its angel wings shone bright; The burning jewel before me was quite a sight! It droned as it set wing into the room And circling 'bout my head, lit on my shoulder. Six gentle legs then cast away my gloom And, dragon by my side, I grew much bolder. I slowly marched before the ruined door Breathed deeply, and plunged headlong into life My spirits and the dragonfly set soar And cut the bitter winds just like a knife. Brighter than I remembered was the sun And greener I'd not thought the grass to be I soon desired to sing, to dance, to run And nature sang and danced and ran with me. But suddenly, a haunting song I heard More precious than the chirping of a bird. I whirled about to face her; there she stood! Her azure eyes poured honey in my soul. We stood transfixed beside the lush, green wood. I begged, "Forgive me for that evil hole In which I hid- from life, from love, from you!" We locked each other in a fierce embrace For deep inside, my dear and I, we knew Our hearts could finally give up their chase. And when she drew me in to taste her lips, A thousand fanfare trumpets blared their cheer The like that launch a newly-finished ship Onto its maiden voyage- we to steer. A crash brought us to look back to my friend: The red-brick monster had finally met its end. Body (2010) In the purring murmur of an roaring hairdryer Breathe sensual whispers no one else hears From a lovely, a nymphly, a sexy angel- Through the bathroom mirror she winks and leers. In a throaty coo that dips and peaks, My angel, my damsel, my lover, Me, speaks: “To be me, a free me, What ecstasy sweet! A she me Needs no 'we' To feel complete.” So sing thee, so dream thee; Why weep thee? Why scream thee? What keeps thee, what brings thee To shivering knees? Seize the means to epiphany, Wait not for meager destiny. Strip clean And dig deep, Breathe, then shriek and boldly leap; Weed away the weakness Of meekness, Antiqueness- Keep ye your birthright: dreary bleakness? Nay! Seek ye genuine uniqueness! And sweat... And bleed... And wheeze... And find! Deify, Me-ify Body sublime! Oh, glisten, gleam, You streaming, teeming Spring of magic, dazzling being! Fling your beam 'Cross sky and sea and Pierce the sheathes Of paltry seeming! And then, see Just how heavenly Could being be If seeming things Like 'he' and 'she' Were history- Bad dreams, Old themes, Extincted memes; And all that we Could feel and see Was Me and Thee... and guileless Glee! Fight (2010) I'm itching for a rumble slander, spit, a dirty smirk I'll feed your teeth to my hog (I don't have a hog) Martha (2010) Found a cracked picture frame at a resale shop On the back is scribbled, "Martha-1979" Lunch (2010) He opens his lunchbox- a tin of tuna, some broccoli I'm eating tapioca pudding Phonecalls (2010) she's calling all our friends to let them know i'm the Bad Guy Book Report (2010) Pick up a crumpled piece of paper off the sidewalk it's a book report on Tom Sawyer A+ Run (2010) I open the gate the hoodlum can't run fast enough My dog eats him I (2010) I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I /i/ won't be defeated by autocorrect! this poem is untitled (2010) no its not Flavorless (2010) The prime minister's face turns blue. There are 400cc's of revolution in the soup. Budget (2010) Don't leave the fork in the bowl; we can't afford a new microwave. Miracle (2010) The statue of the Virgin Mary is crying tears of blood. The priest has tended this temple for thirty-three years. He is crying tears of salt. Experiment in Internal Rhyme and Stumbling Rhythm (2010) Lonely, stoned a silent phone thick makeup, grabbed her coat, and left for a Rough night clubbing Rubbed against a sick fuck Tough luck; Duped and now she's doped Bound up in nylon rope Cigar smoke bites her eyes, she's crying Spiders in her veins She flickers in and out of trying, lying Gasping, sighing Dead, undying Grasping cast-iron bed frame, breaks her nails She screams into a sock Electrodes on her nipples Nasty shock Her windpipe's blocked And she is slipping, slipping, slipping Rainbow Vomit #1 (2010) Loliput Loliput gave it away Loliput only put three on the tray Loliput Loliput Loliput lay where Loliput's brains laid a stain on the day Rainbow Vomit #2 (2010) Jingodash fed him a raw crocodile; Old Jingodash Gogol was awfully guileful! Think o'that Jingodash smacking up radish n' Jingodash Gogol, he always was smileful. Rainbow Vomit #3 (2010) Bruble never says katchoo 'cause Bruble hasn't got the blues, for Wouldn't you concede it's true that Bruble's two bulls shine agew? Rainbow Vomit #4 (2010) Havenibashi der sorbelgliwachter dest Gleiben ich schleipen tu maquanabocht! Mokole, Mokole, Milikone- Pokeke- Teche na filo gon pigew na brok. For Evan (2010) It is the ghost of a dead artist that paints in blood. The blood stirs and swirls on the floor, it drips up and down the walls, it haunts the ceiling and tints the bulbs. It paints a glade, an exploding star, a portrait of Che Guevarra, a den of bears, a swarm of spiders, an erotic scene of nude Romans, a still life of bowls of luscious fruit mixed in with rotten fruit, a medieval battle, the Virgin Mary, Marilyn Monroe, a guitar leaning against the wall, a crying Indian: the artist is desperately trying to communicate something, something unresolved, his anchor to a world that is no longer his. But the mind untethered to a brain is a weak and withering thing, and when he reaches for an image to paint a concept, he grabs the one right next to it. His work is beautiful, more beautiful than it ever was in life, but it makes no sense, and he is frustrated, more frustrated than he ever was in life. So he paints more frantically, more urgently, more voluminously. He paints the whole loft, every surface, then moves out the windows and doors, paints the bricks, the tin roof, the sidewalk; it spreads down the block, and soon the whole neighborhood is covering in swirling, dancing images. Everything is a rich, un-coagulated red, and wet and sticky to the touch. His masterpieces are never still, they coalesce tentatively for mere seconds before decomposing and recomposing in new ways. He is completely unintelligible now. The walls of his unconscious have decayed and crumbled, and his memories and imagination and old mortal desires tumble out over everything. The blood bursts and runs from the old skins of the neighbors. Now hundreds have been thoroughly exsanguinated to feed his thirsty brush. Police rush in. SWAT. National Guard. FEMA. It is a crisis. As the spirit squeezes the blood out of them like paint from tubes, the painting grows. Soon, the city is the largest work of art in human history. It is also the greatest natural catastrophe in the nation's history. They call it a natural catastrophe because they do not understand it. If they did, they would still not call it man-made, because the artist is no longer any kind of man. Too Many Garage Poets (2010) It's essentially empty. But let's put a nice box around it. Here's a metaphor thick with roses roses roses. Here's repetition to mean more than it means and as much as it says. Here's a witticism that you'll remember. There goes the fourth wall. It's all very easy to make. The rhythm just takes a little more work. Rhyme too much, and you've written a song. That's the difference these days. They're going to invent a drum machine for poetry, And then kids will be able to produce their own at home. Garage poets. Coin a phrase and make it the name of your poem just so you're sure you'll be famous. Marketing is the tough part. There's a surplus of goods. There's a deficit of distributors. It's a limiting factor. Think about it. Or abandon reason if you don't care about other people. The poets are done until the publicists pick up the slack on their end. Want to write stuff no one will ever read? Become a poet. Want to advance the craft of poetry? Sales. Congealing (2010) "I COULD PUNCH A HOLE THROUGH A WALL if i could punch a hole through a wall i feel like an animal trapped in my eyes no; it's like a cage trapped by the animals its inanimacy is threatened by their relentless exuberance." -notes I typed while losing my mind to two cups of Guatemalan coffee It's so relentlessly white but try as you might you can't Paint this canvas with knickknacks and homey effects. The bare pale surfaces reflect frustration until the little room is like a Psychic oven And the stillness goes off like firecrackers But all the phantom noises And frenetic images Don't have the courtesy to ring your eardrums or Spear your eyes And you know that it's all a private display. You've hardly seen anyone for a week And sometimes it feels like the whole world is A private display. Wood grains and coffee stains scream for attention, Pubic hairs stuck in the paint on the bathroom walls, The varying textures of three towels, Hands sliding on wet tile, Teeth like the jagged edges of broken bones Running hard against your damp fingers, Sweatless slickness of skin and Twitching fingers and Legs Dancing in the Air All twisted up in a Body Maze Dazed by motion, stupefied by stillness, Vibrating world in the mind Reflecting a WHITE world so relentlessly STILL Tasting sterile and blemished; A meatless meat. I'm crawling naked into the shower Awkwardly yogic The warm soft constant tearing my thoughts apart Into collage bits on a white white-- I'm becoming a curtain A water hair curtain Flirting with vertical streams Manipulating the bizarre architecture of Falling Water Twisting this wet world into Sensations that bleed between sensations So I don't know what's seeing and What's feeling and What's tasting and It all collapses in the white cold vessel. Shuddering miles beneath the faucet Trying frantically to concentrate, I keep Pumping hard to squeeze something out Turning pink and aching all over in a wounded effort to Perform something familiar and pathetic and human But all the energies are scattered in the tiles and the Towels and the Hairs and in Half-a-dozen different thoughts per second and My essence is scattered on every surface of this blank slick world And I can't reach in and pull up such a strong feeling And my arms collapse sore and useless as I Sink like a body deeper in my white casket And the hot plumbing tubes keep raining on Gleefully Like the oblivious laugh that-- Every object is an oblivious laugh that-- Every anthropomorphized object is an anonymous biting remark Resembling some human feature but Painless and relentless and Unflinchingly stiff, Cradling the flaccid puddle of water of my spent but unserved self. All those energies that pulled together the universe have dispersed. The falling apart is less of a Big Bang and more of a whimper. The wet thing on the ground feels much like an unswimming fish That flopped out of its habitat With barely the presence of mind to twist off the faucet. Rising up like a thousand evolving generations of ancestors, It (this is you or me) clambers up the steep-feeling slope across the living room to the-- Well, there's only one room, isn't there? To the other part of the living and dying room. The last hiccups of energy pop out in violent spurts-- This body rushes to the couch, up the bed, opens-closes the window, Breaks bread and fast curled up on a place mat of six tiles. White bread. White butter. White tiles. All the confused wonder and alarm has turned sour and All the tongue tastes is a bitter rage. The bad currency is unspendable And it keeps inflating and taxing you sitting In a vault in your stomach. Every memory and Every sensation is Fermenting like a bad draught And the humming pounding quietude is not a pleasant buzz. The fuzz has left, The haze erased, With haste the corners all re-pasted-- But the episode is wasted. So much is missing. Questions without answers like Wounds without scabs. The subjective is defined by struggle but Objects feel no pain. Objects feel no pain... Drooling dripping cool the dark fissure under the sofa Black grandness oozing out and gross essence oozing in. All painful things are cast into the abstract abyss. This body surrenders to a familial bond. Atom calls to atom Being is being Mass and extension define the object And the self defines itself out of being. Thoughts ooze out into the crevasse Leaving a vast interior cavity. The room is inside the cavity. The cage is inside the animal. They Trace Winston Churchill in the Sand (2011) Editor's Note: The Euio teach the counting numbers to their children with the creation myth of Gamshi, the External. They learn to relate the five even numbers to the five senses, in the order they acquire them, over the course of their five years of infancy: 2-Touch, 4-Taste, 6-Smell, 8-Sound, 0-Sight. They then append the five odd numbers before the even numbers according to their five-fold causal ontology: 1-Cloth, 3-Grain, 5-Clouds, 7-Slugs, 9-Mirrors. It is curious that they relate the causes to the things they sense, as ostensibly they have never directly sensed the "true" attributes of the causes: even if what they imagine the "cloth" to look like is exactly how it appears, or even if they correctly guess the true texture of the "slugs", it is only a coincidence. The Euio literally cannot understand their own creation myth, though they can hold thoughts in their heads that resemble "understanding". 1 First Gamshi garbed them in shifting cloth which stroked and scraped and chilled them and held them fast; 2 This was touch 3 Then Gamshi slipped grains of flavor in their mouths that tumbled around as bitterness, sourness, sweetness, savor, 4 And this was taste 5 Then Gamshi stuffed clouds in their noses that would sometimes entice and sometimes offend, and sometimes they cried 6 When they smelled musty old memories 7 Gamshi opened a jar and out poured slugs that wriggled inside their ears, that would now and then vibrate low or high 8 And this they heard 9 Last Gamshi created a dazzling maze of mirrors and lit a match 0 And all the beautiful things they saw were the manipulated reflections of that single match These were the five causes of the five effects, and altogether they were the ten things that happened outside the self. What Festered, Sublimated (2011) The fire started in the basement. It grew like fungus in the dark. The smoke choked out the roaches, And they skittered up from little crevices And slept in walls and cabinets. Well-placed poison bombs curbed The ugly bugly nuisance. The fire ate a lot of air. Pipes and cracks became furious bellows. Heavy smoke kept wafting out Between floorboards, under the door, Piling soot everywhere, Blanketing a white house black. The fire began to pull down the house. Sweaty paint wept down the walls, Wood warped and beams buckled, Bricks cracked and windows shattered. The whole house baked and quaked. The dog died howling, Curled up in the oven. The fire erupted to a warm welcome. The weary residents were gathered In the living room, calm, waiting, Covered in soot and dead bugs, Scabbed and red and roasted, Long-suffering, terrorized, Confused, but calmly awaiting The climax of their plagues. The fire erupted with a wretched crack. It tore through the walls, the floors, The people, scouring bones, Emptying closets and throwing Pieces of rooms and lives everywhere. It swallowed up a great deal of fresh air. It multiplied and magnified and Ate the neighbors in a hoarse gulp. The fire made the local news. Red trucks zoomed in to the rescue Futile, pouring water on the blaze That boiled and sizzled and Seared the skin off the firemen. Paramedics couldn't approach their bodies. They parked and stared and cried. The fire was growing below, too. It hit the gas line going to the stove, And traveled from house to house, Bursting into kitchens, Lighting up dozens, hundreds of houses That glowed like candles On a cake you could see from a satellite. The fire made the earth shine like a star. It had spread all over the continent, It had turned oil spills into floating infernos, Hurricanes carried terrible red siroccos Wild and free across the planet, They tried to put it out, Threw oil and booze on it, blew on it, Then threw themselves into the drunken fire. The fire made the earth shine like a star. It shined for centuries, Burning up everything for fuel Then burning itself like the sun. The moon was drawn in To the irresistible medley of fusion. The fire consumed the moon. The moon bloomed like a flower Millions of years in the making. untied (2011) nestle up in an angle in a place like brushed into a painting impressions of shades in red floor, in blue curtains, yellow sheets green skin frozen being dripping pitcher still cat watching from ledge sunlight purple sheen makes a purple stain satin stain (istan, sitan, nasti,) soften skin purple green skin living in brushstrokes local silence framed in fame infame inflamed in rigid rainbow blowing on hot soup never poops never cools hot soup everblowing neverknowing showingstill ness framed freezed painted into the walls the couch everything brushed into everything brushed of too latent waking cchake shaken place unshaken place held cautious growin stiff flowstiff crystalline is themselves the scene crystalline is rigid meaning brushed into background found here place contra thereplace table on clumsy legs cat watching fluffy watching purple stains blue floor yellow curtains red sheets yellow floor red curtains blue sheets red floor blue curtains yellow sheets green seeing, --being appertaining holding catting from a standing waiting green being brushed into cat curtains yellow placeage nascent stasis hanging today in a new way brushed into a pastel ponder bedsit cooling everhot livid soupshiveringquiveringwhithering blowblow open wind over the pitcher drips cauotoh perched upon a clumsy legel aboutaboutaboutthe samesquare crystalliquid beingsquare thisplace painted herein hanging languid stiff hold, hold hereinis lucid keep lucid lucid closedeyes contemplating in twodi--mensions waiting for the passage of time. grace and wildness (2011): Apollonian and Dionysian are overused. Nietzsche was a poet more than a philosopher, and these were beautiful words that sang to him that he earnestly wanted to share. But when they become Terminology they lose their song. Here are two other words: grace and wildness. They are not capitalized because they are not absolute, mutually exclusive, all-encompassing Categories. They are two qualities found in some things, in some cases in the same thing at different times, and at some times in the same thing all at once. They are like two lovers that sometimes play off of each other, sometimes complement each other, sometimes merge in complete accord, and sometimes bicker violently, but they are deeply and utterly connected even as they are as wholly distinct as night and day. grace: there is holy grace for the lovers of a god or goddess, but there is a private, secular grace in the delicate hands of a prince or princess. Grace is a pristine, fluid order, sheer and crystalline but not brittle. Grace the song wraps back into the beginning playing itself, grace the perfectly documented, perfectly executed experiment establishing perfect certainty of perfect truth, grace the epithet of the dancer and the pianist and the mother and the well-oiled machine. A pyramid in a sphere in a cube in a dodecahedron. Falling from the clouds into a pair of slippers. wildness: nothing merely destructive or dismal like chaos or discord or anarchy, not base and savage, but sublimely inscrutable. The wildness of love and nature and pathos and drenched dreams and muddy inebriation, that is the surrender to the whims of every possible future. Wild the windy whirl of leaves, melodic gibberish of the baby, dogs barking at walls. Voluntary blindness, bargaining with invisible currents, wild wild wild tirades passionate about their own passion, directed in every direction, testing the patience of heaven and earth. Worms ravishing peaches, peaches swallowing worms. grace: palindrome, poem that is all one moment, the nine-minute song you know so well you hear the end in the opening chords and sixteen verses pass in a long instant. Rousseau said music is not like a painting because a painting happens all-at-once while a song happens in-time. He decried harmony because it is an attempt to layer sounds and create music-in-a-moment. He praised melody as an evolution in time. Here, then, let harmony be gracious. The classical painting is graceful because it is perfectly synchronized, chromatized in all its parts, one whole indelible mark on the mind. Harmony, then, is the attempt to bring grace into song, unity, cooperation between instruments, notes' compassion for notes. The first movement and the final movement, the recurring theme, the key and the transformations of the key and the Grand Plan tying the subtle mutations of key, the fifth and the third in an immaculate threesome with the root and the seventh ringing as we wait with bated breath to fall back into ecstatic climax with the root; there is a sexual quality in grace, a coupling, a pairing, not wild but harmonious and unified. wildness: melody, then, be wildness. Melody changing mood in time, expression, cavorting, exploring, sincerest journey continuous, linked not in the harmony of the parts but in a traceable history of change. If Rousseau finds harmony naturally in painting and a gross introduction to music, then likewise Melody, province of ancient song, finds its way into painting in the works of Kandinsky, de Kooning, flowing journeys of color crisscrossing in a canvas, a perpetually changing experience, seeing-in-time, multiplying the moment of instant apprehension into a million moments of astounded discovery, born again squealing in delight every time. An artist seized in a dream covers a canvas with oil to make it blank, to make an open dance floor for the eye, and with an audience of searching patrons the painting becomes a noisy ballroom. And the dancers find accord in the sense of the dance, if not the sensations, and the piece is hung on a wall, like holding hands singing many songs instead of Kumbayah. Here then as harmony found sex in grace, so melody finds compassion (or parallel passion) in wildness. Spinning with Vague Nostalgia (2011) I don't remember very well The merry-go-round I used to love. I know it stood at Northwest Mall; I know it had a lot of lights. I've got a picture in my mind, But how should I know if it's real? We Went to Chick-fil-A and ate those Golden sandwiches with waffle Fries and soda but we never Went to Cinnabon or slurped on Ice cream cones but rarely; Dad was Loathe to splurge on sweets, and so in- Stead we went to ride the merry-go- Round-and-round I hardly could get Up the horse's back my dad would Pick me up like so many peaches, Plop me on the plastic saddle, Mount his own fantastic steed, and Then the music played and then the Carousel would grind and whir and Up and down and round we'd go; Stately, graceful, swooping slow, a- Bout the carousel we'd go, as Mirrors placed around us showed our Smiling faces flash among the Ponies and the griffons and the Stallions and the dragons and the Merry-go-round would slow to a halt as the Music petered out and I would Want to ride again and sometimes Dad and I would ride around a Thousand times or so it felt-- I Loved the carousel I loved the Mall I loved to go to Chick-fil-A I Loved adventures I loved life I Loved my dad. My attention is turned south. (2011) I. What Was and What Remains There's so much dust in my old room My eyes get all red and swollen And I sneeze all the time When I'm in Houston. I've still got a working VCR by my bed, I can watch Reservoir Dogs and Taxi Driver, I can even watch recordings of Garfield and Poirot My parents taped before I could reach the controls. My old friends are still my best friends. My heart never left Houston, But my brain's growing and my body's honing And I'm sucking up nutrients in Chicago. My old friends are still my best friends, But even when my guts fall back in the good old groove, My mind struggles to keep up. I'm out of the habit of closing gaps and spilling warm words. We sold my car before I left, The car I loved like a silent sister, The car I slept in and ate in, The car I never broke in, Where I swallowed so much fear and pain, The dog that followed me everywhere, The smelly locker, the saferoom; I had to clean it out and it felt Like pumping formaldehyde In my first child. I left in a hurry Like a rocket clawing out of the atmosphere Like a child crawling out of warm water. Falling back is as easy as Jumping off a plank. II. So Untrue The food was always what I wanted. The roads were longer but the ride was shorter. I had so many places, Everything was cheap and friendly. Going out meant something. The sticky warm air embraced me, Houston pressed my head against her heart And we rocked in silence. You don't need love in warm weather. You don't need love in a place where everything loves you. Hunger bit better there, Exhaustion weighed pleasantly there, The pain was softer there, Either my skin was thicker Or everyone pulled their punches. III. And My heart is safe in Houston. Needle in a Duck in a Bunny in a Box under the Woods. I keep the best things far away So I can love them scarcely and feverishly And I never abuse them anymore. Mugged by an Angel (2011) That perfume is a heady memory. Whenever I'm embraced by that wild ghost, I'm paralyzed in wistful reverie. It seized me in the Modern gallery; Like a dog I chased invisible trails by nose, Sucked up the perfume's heady memory. It swept by once, when I worked groceries; Stunned and sick I tottered at my post, My spirit paralyzed in reverie. There are no bounds to perfume's savagery; That luscious panther, fierce and bellicose, Would eat my heart with heady memories. It parries jaded, scornful mummery, And deftly gores my guts with its riposte; I, bleeding, sink in wistful reverie. When that old scent exhumes a younger me, The fool fills up his helpless, loveless host. Her perfume triggers heady memories, and paralyzing, wistful reveries. The or then (response to Wallace Stevens' "Of Mere Being") (2011) The palm is not the end of feeling. The song shines beyond Reason. The thought moves us in a foreign meaning. A mind-fangled human, the bird without unhappy feathers, stands with an open palm. A bronze-feathered fire rises in its palm, sings of gold wind in space at last, Sings slowly of that happy decor. You know it branches then at the bird-human edge: being merely dangles without making. |