twist on the woven fabric of her
vision within the the broken phrase she just
spoke softly into the darkness
it spreads along the pattern of her days
like tears spreading thru her years
she never seems to escape them fully
they are allways a moment away
from her delicate smile
from her soft butterfly of a laugh
break at the waters edge
and draw in a last gasp of the wave and wind tainted air
her voice comes to you
slowly in thick accented phrases
a passion play filled and ready
for sweating hard erotica
in the shade of this palm tree
tattered edges bring me sorrow
but its the untainted heart of her hearts tapestry
is where i attempt to find a secret home for my
a quiet place from which to shout my poems
down to thouse who would listen
to thouse who could hear
in the morning draw the curtains
shut out the light
Greed! Greed! Greed!
The hammer cracks down his back
like a gavel. Spilling his metal guts-
shrapnel of silvery money
lighting up a boy's face
with consumerist gluttony.
At dream's end he is made whole again.
Returning in one piece on the straw floor.
The day is made
to fatten to grunt to situate the mud
with this drooling nose.
These devilish feet propping
my pink-tumored body,
my poor head, it thinks
and thinks and thinks...
will rise above
my sizzling blood,
churning in a witch’s mix-
a cauldron full-up
with animal carcasses?
With severed eyes and tongues
to curse and rot the world?
It is no more comforting
appearing in the morning,
crackling in a pan!
The corpulent preacher
muttering the Lord's Prayer
over my greasy, meaty slivers.
in stomach acids
alongside eggs, and a cup of orange juice.
These eulogies will not do.
What of my ancestors?
When demons stole their shape,
herding them towards a cliff?
What of the powdered whore,
who's cheeks appear with the pinks
behind my jeweled nose ring?
What are these pearls doing here?
Are they food?
Am I to snort them?
I already feel cultish.
When they picture just my face,
I feel it impaled upon their imaginations.
the mocking things.
Me leading the flock
on the air of the impossible,
migrating lies around mens' heads!
Why do I not possess the lullaby of sheep?
There there now pig.
For here you are,
On a chaise longue-
the poet's song.
Let your heavy head rest,
A woman pours love, sweeter than perfume,
on the feet of her son.
The smallest of his holy toes bring him the most joy,
all the way home.
You come home late in your short skirt
You're such a flirt, that's what really hurt
I pretend to be asleep as you enter
You see at this game I'm a beginner
In my universe you've become the center
I'm never sure what to say or do
When I get the blues
So I act a fool
Under your breath you start to giggle
You crawl in bed and start to wiggle
My emotions get so fickled
Inside I start to cringe
Cuz you need to make amends
Fast asleep I still pretend
Yet I guess you have your plan
And it's all that I can stand
When you whisper "You're my man!"
Don't wake me from this dream
It's not a bad dream
Hell I don't know what it means
First I start to waste away
Then you feel the need to play
Perhaps I'll figure life out someday...
In slipping moments
I see the gap appearing
In white-knuckled joy
In shimmering ebb of
evening's closing tide
I kneel and kiss
Your jeweled footprint
above a trillion super stars
illumine the temple dome
and a crescent moon floats
near the crown of my head
I've forgotten my name
and the way home
long ago washed out to sea
there is no existence apart
I wander the dazzling shoreline
a cobra draped around my neck
I am Shiva
the thousand petaled One
It's freezing in your bedroom
And I just wanna dream this bright day
straight into its darker face
I'm all wrapped up in your limbs
But I'm still shaking
You've got your hands on my thighs
I wish I could feel the warm
blood that drips all down the insides of them
But I'm ignoring every
sign that you slip in through my lips
You're pleading for my
attention at the climax of your affection
You keep digging your
nails into my shoulder blades
I know what you're thinking
Maybe a little pain will bring
my eyes up to meet yours
But I'm still looking down at your hips
And I could feel you starting to melt
Into the empty stream of my apathy
You're whispering every poetic word
you ever thought you heard straight
into my ear drums
I'm still not listening
An other night home alone
Lying next to each other
But hardly together
I shut the lights out an hour ago
But your skins still crawling
You're nestling me in the bend of your elbows
But I'm just trying to sleep
I wanna pray to your eyelashes every night
Like you do to mine
But I just don't believe in you
I don't believe in anything
And I'll still kneel for you
But that doesn't mean anything
It's all still so much nothing
As fast as ocean sweeps the bay
legs of crescent carry away
a sea of wonder won't reject
the sweetest moons you collect
in the palm of your hand soft as peach
slender spine strains to reach
the sun in the sky too far for advice
on speaking to creatures fragile as ice
because the sweetest girl, dear Josephine
shielded by blue instead of green
has a smile painted upon the wall
off the museum fortress she dare not fall
because the places you venture will seem
only to exist before in your dreams
never so lonesome as an unshared bed
cluttered with thoughts of remorse instead
slamming doors in the old broken home
cover the windows high with stones
when travels far and wide resume
remember your home is always the moon.
Oh how I'd love that
and from a San Francisco organization no less
a month in the Santa Cruz mountains, no less
the most liberal city in America no less
and last year's winner has his picture displayed
and it is not innovative or interesting or shocking but all too predictable
Like something I saw how long now has it been? twenty five years ago...
how many times have I seen this picture
a white guy, looking very much the suffering, creating artiste
handsome, like an actor, but not an actor, a creator of meaning
of art, and he can't smile, but looks away from the camera
mimicking an ad for J. Crew
it's amazing how only white men can write about the important things in the world
and the background, how many times before have I seen it
a graffiti sprinkled nowhere in an urban jungle
somewhere where preppy white guys never go
street art, street communication created by people
who don't see this concrete as an exotic backdrop for their egoistic posing
but as a part of their lives, as part of their meaning, their world
and he stands there, in front of it,
Mr. Screenwriter, the gulf of culture separating him from that background
spans the entire country, or an entire universe
but the implication of the picture is: he is home here
this is who he is and he can emcompass everything, since white men
as we know, have a magic ability to understand and synthesize everyone
all genders, all races, all religions
the rest of us are merely stuck in our own myopic little worlds
of gender, race, socio-economic status
but these spanner of time and space and human difference, they can be anyone
they can understand and represent anyone
So I look at the picture
and think, I could apply, but I'm busy during the blissful month of the residency
but how dissapointing, that I feel looking at this picture, now online of course
that it is the same picture that I looked at over twenty five years ago
pinned to a film school wall
in Los Angeles, in New York, in those edgy more conservative places
and it is the same guy. the white screenwriter artist who will write about me
and others and it will be a lie
and we are excluded. all the rest of the human race.
but what he writes will be exalted as truth
when I know, that no matter how time he spends wandering
the foriegn worlds of ghettos and genders
the one thing he knows, the only thing he knows how to write about is
white guys, because he is no superhuman
he is like us. He will write about white guys and there will be
more films about white guys, who are supposed to represent all of us
but they don't, because they are only human,
and can only represent themselves.
The morning breaks through the clouds
and the sun hits the green in the hills
like a scene from a foreign movie.
The main character embarking into unknown,
captivating rocks cradling them
as they ride the train to new lands.
Steam from the heat of day
rising and mixing with the wind and the breath.
So full but so silent,
only nature's stories.
But it's not far away
or a place I've never known.
And I can't believe it's mine.
My brother and I were invited to
Polynova, "The Grande City of The World".
Polynova is the largest city
To exist in our world,
It is home to every race in the world
It is has the largest trade market
It has the most beautiful architecture
You could imagine.
It can best be described as a giant pyramid
Where the governor sits atop
And the city becomes larger and larger
'Til the base.
I couldn't tell you a specific color of the place
Because the people have tampered
And structured it over time.
Gold, Magenta, Bright Green,
Cerulean, Silver, Mud Brown,
The list goes on and on.
It is constantly crowded and bustling,
You would be surprised how good it smells.
The cuisine is magnificent,
All the best foods from the world
Gather here and share their secrets
With the masses.
This city could be best described as,
"A city of togtherness".
It is a city of hope
Hope that the world will settle its differences
And hope that one day the fighting will stop.
Polynova stands as a symbol to us,
Some reject it,
But I embrace it.
I am but a boy
Too young to have seen the world
As a cynical and terrible place.
I regard everyone with the utmost respect
My brother and I were invited to Polynova
To participate in the first ever
Grande Fireworks Festival.
We come from a long line of firework makers,
My grandfather was one of the first firework artists
To grace this world.
So off we go to Polynova
To share our secrets and craft
With other firework artists.
Off I go to,
"The Grande City of the World"