Atomic Sister
In the final moments of a cacophonous world,
the sister spreads her billowing wings
and smothers the panicked rumbling,
until the only sound is a prerecorded calm,
that voice of safety and authority repeating
its steady mantra of vigilance.
Who couldn't see the sister stumble down
the rickety stairs, her fear hidden
beneath a mask of rubber and glass?
The world saw and melted beneath
the hem of her flowing, leaden dress,
and crumpled into little piles
of bones and dust, a serene ghost
still upon those abstract faces,
and the voice of safety rumbled on unheard.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Sunday #30: The Last Part
part 3: "A New Sunset" (rbannal)
part 4: "Crash on M-131" (fragondruit)
part 4: "Crash on M-131" (fragondruit)
part 5: "on being a raindrop" (rbannal)
part 6: "And We All Fall Down" (fragondruit)
a colder wind
winter surprise
and the cars
skitter and slide
like beetles
across hot sand,
every raindrop
that falls
meets the new
breath of frost
and turn
into frozen
copies,
the umbrellas
that scuttle
into the corner
watch the snow
boots walk
out the door
with their untested
rubber
which reflects
the ground
as it approaches.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Sunday #29
corruption, hip
say dance,
and they danced and swayed,
a permanent fixture
of the bar slime scene,
a hedgerow of faces
cut to animalistic features.
say dance,
and they danced and swayed,
wind exaggerated and the arms
swing, intoxication
on an acceptable scale,
a dance of hips
and arrow eyes, sharp points
with a sight for flesh,
a parade of possibilities,
circus of freak show rejects
playing the same game--
say dance,
and they'll dance and sway,
slip corruption until
the dance is a farce
and the whole show's exposed.
say dance,
and they danced and swayed,
a permanent fixture
of the bar slime scene,
a hedgerow of faces
cut to animalistic features.
say dance,
and they danced and swayed,
wind exaggerated and the arms
swing, intoxication
on an acceptable scale,
a dance of hips
and arrow eyes, sharp points
with a sight for flesh,
a parade of possibilities,
circus of freak show rejects
playing the same game--
say dance,
and they'll dance and sway,
slip corruption until
the dance is a farce
and the whole show's exposed.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Sunday #28
A quick one on a dreary Wednesday morning.
Mourning
the sky awakens
to a new death
and sobs,
the grey storm
briefly pulling back
the veil
covering the eyes
of a world
that does not realize
its loss.
Mourning
the sky awakens
to a new death
and sobs,
the grey storm
briefly pulling back
the veil
covering the eyes
of a world
that does not realize
its loss.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday #27
Euthanasia
death was born on a slab
of cold metal, swirled streaks
from years of hard scrubbing,
the angel of mercy with twig
fingers, bony and brown,
delicate upon the matted fur.
his assistants were gentle, too,
with practiced looks of pain
and commiseration. perhaps
it never got easier with time.
we spread the ashes in the woods,
adding to the ghosts that roamed
through the decaying leaves
and fragile trillium flowers,
past the spot where I built
my first fort out of sticks,
and the rusting cans left
after the farmer's target practice.
death was born on a slab
of cold metal, swirled streaks
from years of hard scrubbing,
the angel of mercy with twig
fingers, bony and brown,
delicate upon the matted fur.
his assistants were gentle, too,
with practiced looks of pain
and commiseration. perhaps
it never got easier with time.
we spread the ashes in the woods,
adding to the ghosts that roamed
through the decaying leaves
and fragile trillium flowers,
past the spot where I built
my first fort out of sticks,
and the rusting cans left
after the farmer's target practice.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday #26
a morning bus ride when the world was cold
morning breaks and reveals
that the great spider
had stolen into the night
only to leave
the waking world a delicate
web of ice and glass.
some kids left hand prints
on the frosty windows.
others wrote messages
to the passing commuters.
I wiped away the haze
to reveal my own view
of the fragile scene
and savored the moments
before the sun melted
away the last mysteries
of the world.
morning breaks and reveals
that the great spider
had stolen into the night
only to leave
the waking world a delicate
web of ice and glass.
some kids left hand prints
on the frosty windows.
others wrote messages
to the passing commuters.
I wiped away the haze
to reveal my own view
of the fragile scene
and savored the moments
before the sun melted
away the last mysteries
of the world.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sunday #25
Here's part 5 of the ongoing series of poems that me and fragondruit are doing. This time, I borrowed two lines from her most recent poem (which, in turn, borrowed two from my last poem). Those two lines are in italics.
on being a raindrop
some fall upon overpasses
deep into the autumn, when the winds
tell of the wintery future
and freeze before they all turn
to snow.
others are blessed with an embrace
at the end of their journey,
acceptance into the community--
a pool, lake, stream,
others like them, until they
no longer remember being
falling raindrops.
one raindrop protests--
gravity lurks in the darkness
of a never-ending elevator shaft,
and slips his firm grip
up from the depths and clutches
my jellied knees
and tugs until my eyes
spin, searching for focus
as the light pulses
into a steady dimness,
obscuring the line
between safety
and the rushing fall.
I leave my vocal chords along
the side of the road. I am naked.
thunder announced my descent,
but I am diminished and impure,
unworthy of a booming legacy,
destined only to seep beneath
the oily pavement, the gravel
strewn upon the lingering grass.
with time, I may rise again,
only to fall, but the earth
chains me beneath its skin,
and I am lost, no longer
a raindrop.
part 1: "Love Song for the End of Summer" (rbannal)
part 2: "Morning in Late September" (fragondruit)
part 3: "A New Sunset" (rbannal)
part 4: "Crash on M-131" (fragondruit)
part 4: "Crash on M-131" (fragondruit)
on being a raindrop
some fall upon overpasses
deep into the autumn, when the winds
tell of the wintery future
and freeze before they all turn
to snow.
others are blessed with an embrace
at the end of their journey,
acceptance into the community--
a pool, lake, stream,
others like them, until they
no longer remember being
falling raindrops.
one raindrop protests--
gravity lurks in the darkness
of a never-ending elevator shaft,
and slips his firm grip
up from the depths and clutches
my jellied knees
and tugs until my eyes
spin, searching for focus
as the light pulses
into a steady dimness,
obscuring the line
between safety
and the rushing fall.
I leave my vocal chords along
the side of the road. I am naked.
thunder announced my descent,
but I am diminished and impure,
unworthy of a booming legacy,
destined only to seep beneath
the oily pavement, the gravel
strewn upon the lingering grass.
with time, I may rise again,
only to fall, but the earth
chains me beneath its skin,
and I am lost, no longer
a raindrop.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Sunday #24
This is my first (well, second?) contribution to a current experiment with my ol' friend fragondruit over at idontremembermyurl. It's an exercise in stealing lines, in a way, so the line I stole from her recent poem "Morning in Late September" is italicized below. Links to the first two poems in the experiment are below:
Part 1: "Love Song for the End of Summer"
Part 2: "Morning in Late September"
And here's part three--
A New Sunset
three years spent watching the same horizon--
each sunset was beautiful, with colors
one could swear only existed before in dreams,
or the soft life of an impressionist, fine
feather strokes until all the edges
eroded, and the coating of dust was an experiment
in shading. but repeated wonders grow mundane,
so, like a jaded museum docent drenched in Monet,
I turned away from each evening unimpressed.
to deny such beauty is another tiny death--
but a new horizon, obscured by buildings,
presents a different perspective as the late
sky erupts in fiery reds, volcanic and heavenly,
and the grey-scale patina choking the air fades.
the right angle of light cast upon a familiar
scene can breathe a shuddering wind through
the formless grass, shake what has not moved
since the artist placed his final touches,
and engulf the ends of the world in a new
warmth that spreads, dancing along each nerve,
until once-closed eyes again acknowledge
the perfection of the spiraling colors
surrounding the daily departure of the Sun.
Part 1: "Love Song for the End of Summer"
Part 2: "Morning in Late September"
And here's part three--
A New Sunset
three years spent watching the same horizon--
each sunset was beautiful, with colors
one could swear only existed before in dreams,
or the soft life of an impressionist, fine
feather strokes until all the edges
eroded, and the coating of dust was an experiment
in shading. but repeated wonders grow mundane,
so, like a jaded museum docent drenched in Monet,
I turned away from each evening unimpressed.
to deny such beauty is another tiny death--
but a new horizon, obscured by buildings,
presents a different perspective as the late
sky erupts in fiery reds, volcanic and heavenly,
and the grey-scale patina choking the air fades.
the right angle of light cast upon a familiar
scene can breathe a shuddering wind through
the formless grass, shake what has not moved
since the artist placed his final touches,
and engulf the ends of the world in a new
warmth that spreads, dancing along each nerve,
until once-closed eyes again acknowledge
the perfection of the spiraling colors
surrounding the daily departure of the Sun.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Sunday #23
I don't usually post revisions here, but this is almost a week late, so here we go.
Love Song for the End of Summer
green-gold canopies catch the last
remaining light and shrivel, brown
and red, in time. not yet,
not until the storms have had
their say, and the air shrinks
and breathes a final sigh of warmth.
summer's death is a welcome
one. when the heat drains
from the child of a warm spring,
and the crisp fall husk descends,
the festering green will give way
to the calm embrace of earth colors
until the white blanket spreads
and we start our journey again.
Love Song for the End of Summer
green-gold canopies catch the last
remaining light and shrivel, brown
and red, in time. not yet,
not until the storms have had
their say, and the air shrinks
and breathes a final sigh of warmth.
summer's death is a welcome
one. when the heat drains
from the child of a warm spring,
and the crisp fall husk descends,
the festering green will give way
to the calm embrace of earth colors
until the white blanket spreads
and we start our journey again.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Sunday #22
Consume
Feed those eyes on multicolored delicacies
arrayed like parade floats stuck in a box
of cold and glass.
Feed the fingers, too,
that, grease-covered, rip through skin
and flesh to pluck the prize from dry bones--
And a smile will feed the ego, attentive
greetings and waiting hands to swirl
and serve, to nod and make the whims
of stomach acid alive and sealed in paper
or plastic--
And those above-all-else egos
will feed the waste bin when carelessness
claims yet another ladleful of soup, or,
unwanted, a small container of grilled chicken
waits near the salad dressing until paid
arms can sacrifice it to the waiting trash.
Consumption fills the air, drives all motion,
plays both gravity and God, even until the end
when the dishwasher gets the last pick
of congealed cheese pizza.
Feed those eyes on multicolored delicacies
arrayed like parade floats stuck in a box
of cold and glass.
Feed the fingers, too,
that, grease-covered, rip through skin
and flesh to pluck the prize from dry bones--
And a smile will feed the ego, attentive
greetings and waiting hands to swirl
and serve, to nod and make the whims
of stomach acid alive and sealed in paper
or plastic--
And those above-all-else egos
will feed the waste bin when carelessness
claims yet another ladleful of soup, or,
unwanted, a small container of grilled chicken
waits near the salad dressing until paid
arms can sacrifice it to the waiting trash.
Consumption fills the air, drives all motion,
plays both gravity and God, even until the end
when the dishwasher gets the last pick
of congealed cheese pizza.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Sunday #21
The Silence of Space
I'd promise not to hear the echoes,
but these walls are unyielding
and bounce the sounds erupted
from lungs long past.
One day the world will yawn,
the walls will crumble,
the whispers, free to fly beyond
the scope of human hearing,
drifting endless in a cold void,
and asteroids will bear
our secrets to the end of time,
where petty lips and cutting
teeth are quenched
by the gap-tooth smile
of the idea of nothingness,
the tug of distant gravity
losing its tendril grip,
and the sparkling end
of a thousand galaxies
like distant neighbors
flipping off their lights
before going to sleep.
Wink away, comet tail--
carry the burden with fire
at your back.
I'd promise not to hear the echoes,
but these walls are unyielding
and bounce the sounds erupted
from lungs long past.
One day the world will yawn,
the walls will crumble,
the whispers, free to fly beyond
the scope of human hearing,
drifting endless in a cold void,
and asteroids will bear
our secrets to the end of time,
where petty lips and cutting
teeth are quenched
by the gap-tooth smile
of the idea of nothingness,
the tug of distant gravity
losing its tendril grip,
and the sparkling end
of a thousand galaxies
like distant neighbors
flipping off their lights
before going to sleep.
Wink away, comet tail--
carry the burden with fire
at your back.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Sunday #20
Secretary of State
Surrounded by
impatience-painted faces, scowls,
blank eyes,
expanding broods, expanded bellies,
the destruction of the idea of waiting.
Fidget.
A hint, subtle, of a shoulder blade.
Everyone's a critic,
pundit,
satirist.
Rattle-pop numbers game,
too fast for old legs.
The blue chair plastic corral.
Lovely, a new smell in the mix,
popping gum, mint sparks,
the scent of stale baby waste,
changed out half an hour ago.
Grizzled grandpa and his disheveled progeny,
dumb looks, words immediate
on shaggy face, displeasure,
his head wrapped in an American flag bandana.
A pregnant mother tells her son
that the long wait is what taxes pay for
as he complains just as noisily,
the father sits without a thought
upon his lips.
Surrounded by
impatience-painted faces, scowls,
blank eyes,
expanding broods, expanded bellies,
the destruction of the idea of waiting.
Fidget.
A hint, subtle, of a shoulder blade.
Everyone's a critic,
pundit,
satirist.
Rattle-pop numbers game,
too fast for old legs.
The blue chair plastic corral.
Lovely, a new smell in the mix,
popping gum, mint sparks,
the scent of stale baby waste,
changed out half an hour ago.
Grizzled grandpa and his disheveled progeny,
dumb looks, words immediate
on shaggy face, displeasure,
his head wrapped in an American flag bandana.
A pregnant mother tells her son
that the long wait is what taxes pay for
as he complains just as noisily,
the father sits without a thought
upon his lips.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Sunday #19
love song for the end of summer
green-gold canopies catch the last
remaining light and shrivel, brown
and red, in time. not yet,
not until the storms have had
their say, and the air shrinks
and breathes a final sigh of warm air,
and the crowns of summer wither
into twisted skeletal circlets
that adorn the children of autumn.
I was a child of a warm spring,
but summer's death is a welcome
one, when the heat drains from
the world once more, and the crisp
fall descends--
festering green
gives way to earth colors until
the white blanket spreads and we
start our journey again. the end
is always a welcome friend.
green-gold canopies catch the last
remaining light and shrivel, brown
and red, in time. not yet,
not until the storms have had
their say, and the air shrinks
and breathes a final sigh of warm air,
and the crowns of summer wither
into twisted skeletal circlets
that adorn the children of autumn.
I was a child of a warm spring,
but summer's death is a welcome
one, when the heat drains from
the world once more, and the crisp
fall descends--
festering green
gives way to earth colors until
the white blanket spreads and we
start our journey again. the end
is always a welcome friend.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sunday #18
Here it is. I'll probably write more as I go to the pharmacy more. It's an interesting place.
La Farmacia
A mother stands in the checkout line,
well dressed, death-grip on youth,
arguing with the cashier, her son
silent behind, worn like an unwanted
accessory. Perhaps there is love
between the two, but it is not worn
for the eyes to see, like the tight
lime green shirt or the impeccable hair.
Another mother drifts behind a nearly
empty shopping cart, a disinterested
teen floating in her shadow, a sliver
of a mirror accurate only in the face.
The girl breaks off from her mother
and wanders, as the pharmacist waits
to complete the transaction--
two prescriptions
iced tea
toilet paper
But the mother rushes away, muttering
anti-itch cream
as her eyes scan the signs down
aisles. The daughter returns while
the mother still searches for her salve,
unsure of what to do in her absence
until, with a triumphant waddle,
the mother arrives. Though there
was a moment of separation, they stay
together as they leave, a connection
deep and unsaid and realized only
in those empty moments.
The pharmacists turn blind eyes
and practiced smiles towards
the pill-soaked lepers, rattling
their bottled chains behind
the counters. They work slowly
but shatter silence in rapid
pulses of pointless activity.
My name floats, mumbled over
the loudspeaker.
La Farmacia
A mother stands in the checkout line,
well dressed, death-grip on youth,
arguing with the cashier, her son
silent behind, worn like an unwanted
accessory. Perhaps there is love
between the two, but it is not worn
for the eyes to see, like the tight
lime green shirt or the impeccable hair.
Another mother drifts behind a nearly
empty shopping cart, a disinterested
teen floating in her shadow, a sliver
of a mirror accurate only in the face.
The girl breaks off from her mother
and wanders, as the pharmacist waits
to complete the transaction--
two prescriptions
iced tea
toilet paper
But the mother rushes away, muttering
anti-itch cream
as her eyes scan the signs down
aisles. The daughter returns while
the mother still searches for her salve,
unsure of what to do in her absence
until, with a triumphant waddle,
the mother arrives. Though there
was a moment of separation, they stay
together as they leave, a connection
deep and unsaid and realized only
in those empty moments.
The pharmacists turn blind eyes
and practiced smiles towards
the pill-soaked lepers, rattling
their bottled chains behind
the counters. They work slowly
but shatter silence in rapid
pulses of pointless activity.
My name floats, mumbled over
the loudspeaker.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Sunday #17
I didn't finish the thing I was working on, so I'm posting something different. An experiment from a little less than a year ago. Somewhat fiction, totally strange.
AZO. Bags labeled grand ol' Kalamazoo-Battle Creek International Airport, the mutual silver bird artery of the Cereal City and the land of Celery. Celery. Flyover country with its twisted pride, all covetous and grim and very, very serious. Salt of the earth. Salt. Earth. Assault of the girth, smug fat prideful ignorance, all wearing that merit badge of disdain. A beautiful people, really. Seriously.
Of course not direct from the Zoo. International maybe for a direct flight to Canada, for certainly it fits the semantics and works. It's different, perhaps, and there's some geographical boundary, certainly, certainly and that bird flew its coop to the bigger nest and, certainly, certainly those brave, proud Battlemazooians all gobbled up by bigger birds with fancier plumage and now shuttled off to God knows where, and me too, of course, for certainly, certainly I am one and the same as those others, more than they know perhaps or perhaps they do know or assume or maybe they don't care. That must be it. Care. It deposited me... where? Where was I gobbled? Gobble, gobble. Ah, yes.
Detroit and all its art deco still-birth glory, Harry Ford's golden fucking industrial wet dream but he never had the courtesy to change the sheets and now it's crusty. Rusty. Good Lord. Detroit. No, too soon.
****
"You're going where?"
I told him.
"No fucking shit. You're looking at... fourteen hours?"
I told him I was aware of the length.
"Well, it's no fun all at once."
Certainly.
"Well, there's a way. Two should do, doo de doo. But!"
The psycho. Greedy-grinned Saint.
"Yes, yes, yes, but!"
Again that grin. He grabbed my cell phone, took out four and slid them neatly, neatly, so pretty pretty underneath the battery and grabbed my hand and put the two there and God save me if he didn't cackle and chuckle and--
"A fly on the wall, my friend. I'd wave off the admission for that, but!"
It's a business.
"Indeed, sir, indeed."
Slick, slick, slick the money counted and exchanged.
"It's a slow burn, certainly, but you won't-- Ah hell, don't want to spoil the fun."
****
I wish I could say it was raining. The sun was out and shining and the city was beautiful there underneath the window. Ann Arbor waiting during the summer. Waiting for new people to mold, build and spit out into the world. Except I had stayed but that wasn't the problem. Not now.
The wood floors creaked. They were new and shiny but cheap and already starting to show wear but I slid around the boards already popping up from the humidity but there wasn't time to worry about it. Total obliteration of ego does that. I pulled open the drawer and took out the tiny bottle, the label peeled off, anonymous, drug-less donor protected, a hastily erected barrier torn down to distance the source and the final destination. Wonderful. What did she need these for? That was neither here nor there.
Pharma Junkie, a haughty bunch, with their disdain for the dirty. I reveled. No bloody ritual. Protestant pill popping. Cleanliness being, of course, next to Godliness. Of course.
A horse of a different color. Pure synthetica, laboratory distillation of that fabled, coarse junk, the fuel of madmen, that.
The sun was shining, the city was waiting and I, void of sanity, insanity, feeling and perfect, nothing from nothing and content had something to do. Something. But not now.
****
"Pillow, sir?"
Not now. Comfort is a sin, dirty, forsaken and not on the in-flight fucking menu and how dare you even suggest? What think you me, some comfort driven muck all bloated from the teat of luxury and ready to take take take your hypo-fucking-allergenic half-hearted neck brace and what good, you damnable harpy, bird-beast inside metal bird-beast fleshy polite symbiont of the dinosaur-shitting engineering goddamn marvel, will it bring for me to be comfortable at a time like this when-- No, this is too soon.
"I-- I'm sorry?"
"Nervous flyer, hon?"
You. Have. No. Fuckin'. Clue.
"You could say that." I managed an amiable-enough (and, of course, tinged with enough fake nervousness to hide that other, creeping, sliding shifting nervous, real nervous, anxiety burning its way through my body) chuckle.
"Take this and, if you need anything, just let me know, okay?"
"Sure, thanks."
Sherman tanks. Harpy.
****
AZO. Bags labeled grand ol' Kalamazoo-Battle Creek International Airport, the mutual silver bird artery of the Cereal City and the land of Celery. Celery. Flyover country with its twisted pride, all covetous and grim and very, very serious. Salt of the earth. Salt. Earth. Assault of the girth, smug fat prideful ignorance, all wearing that merit badge of disdain. A beautiful people, really. Seriously.
Of course not direct from the Zoo. International maybe for a direct flight to Canada, for certainly it fits the semantics and works. It's different, perhaps, and there's some geographical boundary, certainly, certainly and that bird flew its coop to the bigger nest and, certainly, certainly those brave, proud Battlemazooians all gobbled up by bigger birds with fancier plumage and now shuttled off to God knows where, and me too, of course, for certainly, certainly I am one and the same as those others, more than they know perhaps or perhaps they do know or assume or maybe they don't care. That must be it. Care. It deposited me... where? Where was I gobbled? Gobble, gobble. Ah, yes.
Detroit and all its art deco still-birth glory, Harry Ford's golden fucking industrial wet dream but he never had the courtesy to change the sheets and now it's crusty. Rusty. Good Lord. Detroit. No, too soon.
****
"You're going where?"
I told him.
"No fucking shit. You're looking at... fourteen hours?"
I told him I was aware of the length.
"Well, it's no fun all at once."
Certainly.
"Well, there's a way. Two should do, doo de doo. But!"
The psycho. Greedy-grinned Saint.
"Yes, yes, yes, but!"
Again that grin. He grabbed my cell phone, took out four and slid them neatly, neatly, so pretty pretty underneath the battery and grabbed my hand and put the two there and God save me if he didn't cackle and chuckle and--
"A fly on the wall, my friend. I'd wave off the admission for that, but!"
It's a business.
"Indeed, sir, indeed."
Slick, slick, slick the money counted and exchanged.
"It's a slow burn, certainly, but you won't-- Ah hell, don't want to spoil the fun."
****
I wish I could say it was raining. The sun was out and shining and the city was beautiful there underneath the window. Ann Arbor waiting during the summer. Waiting for new people to mold, build and spit out into the world. Except I had stayed but that wasn't the problem. Not now.
The wood floors creaked. They were new and shiny but cheap and already starting to show wear but I slid around the boards already popping up from the humidity but there wasn't time to worry about it. Total obliteration of ego does that. I pulled open the drawer and took out the tiny bottle, the label peeled off, anonymous, drug-less donor protected, a hastily erected barrier torn down to distance the source and the final destination. Wonderful. What did she need these for? That was neither here nor there.
Pharma Junkie, a haughty bunch, with their disdain for the dirty. I reveled. No bloody ritual. Protestant pill popping. Cleanliness being, of course, next to Godliness. Of course.
A horse of a different color. Pure synthetica, laboratory distillation of that fabled, coarse junk, the fuel of madmen, that.
The sun was shining, the city was waiting and I, void of sanity, insanity, feeling and perfect, nothing from nothing and content had something to do. Something. But not now.
****
"Pillow, sir?"
Not now. Comfort is a sin, dirty, forsaken and not on the in-flight fucking menu and how dare you even suggest? What think you me, some comfort driven muck all bloated from the teat of luxury and ready to take take take your hypo-fucking-allergenic half-hearted neck brace and what good, you damnable harpy, bird-beast inside metal bird-beast fleshy polite symbiont of the dinosaur-shitting engineering goddamn marvel, will it bring for me to be comfortable at a time like this when-- No, this is too soon.
"I-- I'm sorry?"
"Nervous flyer, hon?"
You. Have. No. Fuckin'. Clue.
"You could say that." I managed an amiable-enough (and, of course, tinged with enough fake nervousness to hide that other, creeping, sliding shifting nervous, real nervous, anxiety burning its way through my body) chuckle.
"Take this and, if you need anything, just let me know, okay?"
"Sure, thanks."
Sherman tanks. Harpy.
****
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Sunday #16
Vertigo
The taste of the possible drop--
wavering meat of a thousand
plunging suicides,
metallic tang
of crushed car hoods,
gritty
specks of crumbling cement pressed
through the falling skin.
Knees quake
on the slippery metal rungs,
birthing a thousand tumbling
scenarios,
one for each fear-multiplied
foot
to the ground that,
through spinning
imagination,
becomes creeping darkness flooding
vision
and grasps with
gravity's fingers
at still-shuddering
feet.
The taste of the possible drop--
wavering meat of a thousand
plunging suicides,
metallic tang
of crushed car hoods,
gritty
specks of crumbling cement pressed
through the falling skin.
Knees quake
on the slippery metal rungs,
birthing a thousand tumbling
scenarios,
one for each fear-multiplied
foot
to the ground that,
through spinning
imagination,
becomes creeping darkness flooding
vision
and grasps with
gravity's fingers
at still-shuddering
feet.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Sunday #15
Chicago Odyssey
Home
A quarter century perched
between the weeping giants
of the Midwest--
one, with glorious tears
falling upon the ground
and springing up in twisting
spires of steel and glass,
the other, with rust stained
cheeks and stubble shaped
from the crumbling corpses
of a pre-Depression dream.
Paw Paw: Just So Nice, They Named It Twice
Small town reverse momentum--
the padding between a colliding life.
No hermits, saints, mad scientists,
just thin mothers and their hungry spawn,
young couples so long together
they've begun to morph into the same shape.
All lives, smudges on the map
between points of interest.
Reunion
twin brother faces removed by time
and conjoined again in momentary memories.
the insertion of past lives frozen
into the newly polished, pulsing, growing
shine of a separated seed spread upon
the westward blowing wind.
what's the story weeping brother?
new sprout tears upon a roasting
wooden roost overlooking the squatting
gem of the vast lake.
the city slid to the side,
a glide upon un-choked highways
to the calm old places
and a transplanted familiarity
in an unknown shaking attic.
airplanes and traffic and the aortic
spurting of a vibrant world
wrapping the peace of timeless static
drawn through the foggy past
and found with newborn old eyes.
let's baste the roof with cigarette butts.
I will leave
the tar in my lungs
and let stubs
of tobacco and paper
bake in the sun
we'll never see
from this perch tomorrow.
Traffic Jam
a single drop of water
affixed in the midst
of the anonymous sea
streaming by the window
reflecting a thousand crystal
lights, orange and blue, flaming
white, dancing upon the edge
of the rational spectrum--
all light condenses into shadow
halos shrouding illuminated faces
transfixed by a midnight emergency.
worry and bother,
curiosity and a stoney ambulance,
all flush knuckles and the knobs
of the steering wheel
beyond the grasp
of that anonymous sea.
The Elevator Room at the Top of the World
ancient machinery sparking
to a monolithic, disinterested audience
in the throes of near-organic midnight.
just reworked stone devoid
of the flesh machines running
the cables with automatic
flicks of the lobby button.
just empty gap-tooth grins
in the city horizon
smiling out at the fellow elders--
nocturnal clankings,
forgotten arcane steel,
the rusted city guts.
Detente
piano adrift in the night city air
playing askance distant sirens--
peace in the middle of kinetic,
frantic lives.
The Cats Come on Little Cat Feet
Mingus rolled on my lap,
exposing white and lifted paws
and twisted, feline balance,
into a new position--
she plucked my stomach
like her namesake with talons
attacking catgut and a barrel-chested
bravado permeated the night smoke.
Preparation
weary travelers rest their heads
upon eastern promises
interpreted through chemical western eyes--
the silver and bronze cities transposed,
frustrated vibrancy against hopeful decay,
full time suburbs and the rattling retraction.
all lives and cities are the same--
mothers and their french fry kids,
young dresses waiting in a night queue,
a diaspora of paths,
but the feet tap out cousin
rhythms, fingers pluck sister strings
and the songs all blend
into one chanted hymnal devoid
of time and loss
encompassing willing ears in eternal
knowledge--
Words of Departure
What now, sleeping brother?
Shake off your rust and know
we are all discarded
rubbers at the bottom
of cheap plastic wastebaskets.
and there can
never be
anything
holier.
Signs
one sign hung above
the encroaching eastbound city--
a dove constructed
of beautiful blue notes,
wax wings of blind hypocrisy
and a timid sun
unable to burn them away.
he will not place
a common stain
on the still-mystical earth.
Epitaph
The road dust clock ticks
its last humble seconds
and all city visions and country questions
fold up into neat rear-view packages.
Home
A quarter century perched
between the weeping giants
of the Midwest--
one, with glorious tears
falling upon the ground
and springing up in twisting
spires of steel and glass,
the other, with rust stained
cheeks and stubble shaped
from the crumbling corpses
of a pre-Depression dream.
Paw Paw: Just So Nice, They Named It Twice
Small town reverse momentum--
the padding between a colliding life.
No hermits, saints, mad scientists,
just thin mothers and their hungry spawn,
young couples so long together
they've begun to morph into the same shape.
All lives, smudges on the map
between points of interest.
Reunion
twin brother faces removed by time
and conjoined again in momentary memories.
the insertion of past lives frozen
into the newly polished, pulsing, growing
shine of a separated seed spread upon
the westward blowing wind.
what's the story weeping brother?
new sprout tears upon a roasting
wooden roost overlooking the squatting
gem of the vast lake.
the city slid to the side,
a glide upon un-choked highways
to the calm old places
and a transplanted familiarity
in an unknown shaking attic.
airplanes and traffic and the aortic
spurting of a vibrant world
wrapping the peace of timeless static
drawn through the foggy past
and found with newborn old eyes.
let's baste the roof with cigarette butts.
I will leave
the tar in my lungs
and let stubs
of tobacco and paper
bake in the sun
we'll never see
from this perch tomorrow.
Traffic Jam
a single drop of water
affixed in the midst
of the anonymous sea
streaming by the window
reflecting a thousand crystal
lights, orange and blue, flaming
white, dancing upon the edge
of the rational spectrum--
all light condenses into shadow
halos shrouding illuminated faces
transfixed by a midnight emergency.
worry and bother,
curiosity and a stoney ambulance,
all flush knuckles and the knobs
of the steering wheel
beyond the grasp
of that anonymous sea.
The Elevator Room at the Top of the World
ancient machinery sparking
to a monolithic, disinterested audience
in the throes of near-organic midnight.
just reworked stone devoid
of the flesh machines running
the cables with automatic
flicks of the lobby button.
just empty gap-tooth grins
in the city horizon
smiling out at the fellow elders--
nocturnal clankings,
forgotten arcane steel,
the rusted city guts.
Detente
piano adrift in the night city air
playing askance distant sirens--
peace in the middle of kinetic,
frantic lives.
The Cats Come on Little Cat Feet
Mingus rolled on my lap,
exposing white and lifted paws
and twisted, feline balance,
into a new position--
she plucked my stomach
like her namesake with talons
attacking catgut and a barrel-chested
bravado permeated the night smoke.
Preparation
weary travelers rest their heads
upon eastern promises
interpreted through chemical western eyes--
the silver and bronze cities transposed,
frustrated vibrancy against hopeful decay,
full time suburbs and the rattling retraction.
all lives and cities are the same--
mothers and their french fry kids,
young dresses waiting in a night queue,
a diaspora of paths,
but the feet tap out cousin
rhythms, fingers pluck sister strings
and the songs all blend
into one chanted hymnal devoid
of time and loss
encompassing willing ears in eternal
knowledge--
Words of Departure
What now, sleeping brother?
Shake off your rust and know
we are all discarded
rubbers at the bottom
of cheap plastic wastebaskets.
and there can
never be
anything
holier.
Signs
one sign hung above
the encroaching eastbound city--
a dove constructed
of beautiful blue notes,
wax wings of blind hypocrisy
and a timid sun
unable to burn them away.
he will not place
a common stain
on the still-mystical earth.
Epitaph
The road dust clock ticks
its last humble seconds
and all city visions and country questions
fold up into neat rear-view packages.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Sunday #14
An old-school (for me) style poem.
Measuring
the preposterous melancholy
of a summer simmering
against the silent ticking
of a doomsday egg timer.
a winter's born too
of the same meandering air--
wears the same clothes
at the end of its stay,
the comfortable garb
of a guest too long lived
and now one with the wallpaper.
temperature, a moot detail--
(hair color, shoe size, favorite food)
boiled down (the simmer lost),
or frozen, all seasons
adhere to the same shape
in memories--
a life measured out
in ice cube trays,
and a fear of overflowing.
Measuring
the preposterous melancholy
of a summer simmering
against the silent ticking
of a doomsday egg timer.
a winter's born too
of the same meandering air--
wears the same clothes
at the end of its stay,
the comfortable garb
of a guest too long lived
and now one with the wallpaper.
temperature, a moot detail--
(hair color, shoe size, favorite food)
boiled down (the simmer lost),
or frozen, all seasons
adhere to the same shape
in memories--
a life measured out
in ice cube trays,
and a fear of overflowing.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Sunday #13
Short one today, probably not finished. My apologies.
Untitled
dreams like manacles,
with the key
lost between the twisted
sheets,
crumpled at the foot
of the bed.
Untitled
dreams like manacles,
with the key
lost between the twisted
sheets,
crumpled at the foot
of the bed.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Sunday #12
morning stanzas
the scarification of restless sleep
and a morning spent surveying
new wounds, all the same shape
and color, vivid pink highlighted
in returning sunlight, and blue
houses blooming against red bricks.
the moments of contrast, reflection,
a fresh day's coat of paint before
fading with the encroaching dusk
and a sickle moon seeks to make
its new cuts--
an endurable, terrible cycle.
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