Archive for January, 2011
in dense ancient oaks,
realistic yet again, but hush
intensely with feathers of red snow,
And we know why we start. And
motion comes bounding, bearing
crack and snap landing
silty tan air with furry curved edges.
Sparkles from stars comfort.
Even echoes racing,
passes, rises, wheezes, drops.
Horizontal dives, silent brushstrokes
sent using wireless time travel
across sandy orange hair.
Evelyn and I wrote a poem together, and then we wrote our own versions.
Evelyn changed the rules mid-game without telling me, so her work is better: Approaching
Internal heat and bubbles,
Vicious guest is
stab wickedly to end all.
But there is no end.
There is no good.
A tribute to John Cage,
Some of you might want to skip on by. . .
Arrive winds twenty night late and
from precautionary freezing
snow significant winter storm
flashlight glaze snowfall national
timing forecasts become Kansas
visibilities other there
freezing location light is a
actions Wednesday through area
ten and accumulations night
afternoon watch preparedness
strong watch covered freezing falling
Western reduced monitor well
Read the rest of this entry »
All but I restored.
Find the right god.
Someone prays for me.
Wait for god.
Is god inside?
How long shall I wait?
I decided that it would be fun to respond to Eric’s Monday Photo Prompt. I do not know if the form of my response is in compliance with the rules and I did not have any money for the judges. I love Eric’s pictures – Go check him out.
Escapism is my brush with infamy, but my brain shrinks rapidly as my escapes no longer work. I wish to leave the neighborhood, to head for Terratell Park, not artfully named for a famous man from our city who cut down millions of trees and was thus able to wire the entire town with electricity and telephones. As we get further away, as history gains perspective, sometimes we become more confused on which humans do good things.
I strive to get out of the plastic neighborhood with structured blocks that might curve and then not curve to fool us into thinking that there was some natural essence to how we live. The sidewalks bulge from tree roots, and I must watch carefully as I move quickly, listening to loud music, attempting to get away from the world, or else I trip on one of the bulges in the sidewalk. It is the broken form of man creating a stumble that feels as though I am going to be face down into this cement which might hurt twice as bad now with our temperature at ten degrees Fahrenheit. The bulges tell us our forms are wrong, our structures are wrong, and each house is the same as the other but in order to make it tolerable, the ingenious developers reverse floor plans or chop off floors. Each form is so contrary to nature that it seems as though the neighborhood would fall to dust within a year if we were not out with our hoses, our paint, our caulk, our fertilizer, or the multitude of machines we use to groom our forms into acquiescence to our square and empty lives, our lives built on a godless concept of the world where we work to serve as god ourselves, to take a perfect world and foul it all to pieces.
Getting out of our Barbie Doll neighborhood brings glorious feeling. I feel as though I am flying a kite, and nothing could possibly go badly because the wind is beautiful in its care for my graceful and respectful sail, which seems to be most in compliance with our miraculous habitat.
The park has a sandy path which was necessary to keep the joggers feeling as if they were in control of the earth and not the reverse, joggers needing clear boundaries on where they might feel comfortable to lay their feet, not wanting to get lost off course, but also not ever wanting to do something different today from the way it was done yesterday. At least the path is sand and not tar, but I approach the old train station where Mr. Terratell received all of his contaminated nature so as to control his city and bring millions of dollars to his pet poodles and other caretakers.
The center of the old train platform is a yard blanketed with cobblestones and an old evergreen tree surrounded by what we try to call a natural rock wall but is nothing other than chopped rock that is laid in an offsetting pattern. The evergreen, which has been growing under man’s hardline stare for perhaps more than 20 years, in a central position as if we worship it and then we surround the tree with cobblestones as if at one time our city was like Vienna.
We organize our cobblestones to combat the ruinous damage of dirt on our shoes from Wal-Mart, and on top of the cobblestones there is a bench. The style these days is with the rod iron handles and frame with the wood slats. All of these forms, even the tennis shoes from Wal-Mart seem to pollute my will to live, but today, the bench is partially covered with snow. I feel the snow ravaging the bench and creating splinters for the springtime lovers who don’t care to get mixed up in the grass. The old queen evergreen drops poofs of snow and water and these create an amazing pattern on the slats of the bench. Nature comes in to show man that his forms are fully defective. I imagine and then can see clearly, mixed up in this nature, are the ghosts of family members of Terratell who lost their lives at a young age while he was collecting poles of wood. I intently see marks of two butts which had sat down so lightly on the bench that they did not crush the snow or pack the snow, but they poofed it – Yes, nature and ghosts have an incredible talent for poofing. Maybe that is man’s problem – He masters his forms and structures, but he no longer poofs.
No matter, for nature and ghosts have rendered our bench irreconcilable with any human activity, have returned the bench to nature and have installed the most outstanding shapes within the snow that you will ever see.
She holds a soft landing place, lifts my spirit out of heavy rock.
She tells me this will not last forever, that I am not stupid,
that I am smart enough not to think I am that stupid.
She tells me that my prayers are not defective.
It seems that a god or a genius should be able to conquer
the mess that is I, but she assures me they can’t, I can’t.
She tells me that we might not fix me but that I am good broken.
Only real angels love you when you’re broken
and do not require that you be fixed.
Bad devils want to smash you into a plastic
doll who can survive earth and her people.
She reminds me that I am not pottery.
She knows that I am more broken than pottery could ever be,
but she tells me that I won’t cry forever, that pain does not kill.
She tells me that if we get desperate, we can fry me,
but we are not that desperate. I am good broken for now.
Incredibly rare, but it happens.
My angels crawl into people
I encounter for only a few moments.
Three or four humans consecutively
have massive smiles.
and greet me
as if they love me,
and there is no apparent reason.
There is love spilling from them
like bearnaise sauce at a furious boil.
I’ve submitted this for Jingle’s Potluck with the theme of Peace, Relaxation, and Spirituality.
I wrote a poem long, long ago.
It was good.
There were fork tines and some maroon.
My heart was delicately spread on the paper.
My heart observed herself and she said
it was good.
I’ll never be able to do that again.
I cannot duplicate the accident.
Muddling through tar-faced crashes,
frozen, wrapped with paralyzed skin.
If the luck plows gracefully into me,
one of them smashes into my jail.
She smiles huge, her fingers dance
on my face and inject high-speed love.
Oh, the unexplainable thrust of joy!
They swing on delicate, perfect legs,
their fingers smothering me in green,
plush, sweet jelly and bandages of milk.
Their arms wind and wrap smoothly
around my head millions of times.
Millions of assurances of permanence.
Bubbles of my blood tell me it is okay.
Sizzling threads of my shirt say, king,
go wrap yourself with their bodies
and dine in the sweetest nectars.
My angels arch their backs and
their necks are the smoothest fur.
Their eyes sprinkle grains of love.
The sieve sweeps softy through
the gray of my mind, blubber lightens,
it starts to float and starts to charge
my frame with bolts of fused
shaking strokes from Picasso’s
brush, pulling all of the fog
deep into the fabricated carpet.
Losing faith in my god, I believe
in restoration for everyone save me,
but do not tell me angels aren’t
from the most special god.
My angels give me sparse,
brief moments of pure elation,
pure love, and without these
very brief moments, I would
have been gone long ago.
I want my angels with me,
wrapped around me with slick
juices protecting me from the
world forever, but my angels
are busy with chaos, fixing other
failures as heavily as they do me.
So my only wish is for these brief
moments to allow me to live.
Please, my angels, help me smile,
help me breathe, help me go slowly
in love. Breathe slowly in love.
but I hang with dizzy stars which shoot
in resignation for black holes,
delivering the power of hopelessness,
defining my emotional ruins.
How can I tell you it is easy?
Watching dancers on the street,
sweetly frazzled hair, freaking love, bouncing joy,
and I’m glued to the awning with sticky slobber
from cats with motor-driven claws.
It is One Shot Wednesday AGAIN. Go check out the good people and the good poetry!