auntie-hosebag - Hello Poetry

Why did I do that? Ego. Lust. Mystery. Opportunity. The lure of something new and untapped; a scent unregistered, voice un-memorized; inside jokes yet to be born. Such a heady dervish dancing, spinning, surrounding all that tiny life I perceived as quite the opposite; set in motion not so much by the haunted eyes of the widow lady— weaving once again well-worn epics of her-story for an adoring audience, luridly exploiting tragedy for various personal gains— but maybe by the way she stroked that beer bottle while she spoke? Without doubt, there were other factors, but you were never one of them. I plead stupid. Vain. Shallow. Self-absorbed. Short-sighted. Ridiculous. Unforgiveable. Twenty-one. For many years I claimed, “If I make my mistakes big enough I just might learn something”. When I learned there are no mistakes, recognized my arrogance, gave up to the universe, threw up my hands and succumbed to the ride, embracing my own sky... all those times I’d thought of you turned into stars raining like tears of brilliant joy onto a black canvas, formed overlapping constellations, and shone like a ************ Stars to wish on, stars to navigate by, stars to name on a starry night, stars to twist into animal shapes like a clown with long balloons— and all those stars, and there are more than I can count— settled forever in my heart and cannot be dislodged. Here I Iay on my virtual back, atop my personal Alaska dream mountain, on a summer night deep as sin; imagining you laying beside me, pointing out the brightest ones, recounting the stories I’ve forgotten; all those connections to you twinkling overhead— and I savor the blessing of your big bang smile

0

Jan 29, 2017

Jan 29, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC

Astronomy of Remorse

Why did I do that? Ego. Lust. Mystery. Opportunity. The lure of something new and untapped; a scent unregistered, voice un-memorized; inside jokes yet to be born. Such a heady dervish dancing, spinning, surrounding all that tiny life I perceived as quite the opposite; set in motion not so much by the haunted eyes of the widow lady— weaving once again well-worn epics of her-story for an adoring audience, luridly exploiting tragedy for various personal gains— but maybe by the way she stroked that beer bottle while she spoke? Without doubt, there were other factors, but you were never one of them. I plead stupid. Vain. Shallow. Self-absorbed. Short-sighted. Ridiculous. Unforgiveable. Twenty-one. For many years I claimed, “If I make my mistakes big enough I just might learn something”. When I learned there are no mistakes, recognized my arrogance, gave up to the universe, threw up my hands and succumbed to the ride, embracing my own sky... all those times I’d thought of you turned into stars raining like tears of brilliant joy onto a black canvas, formed overlapping constellations, and shone like a ************ Stars to wish on, stars to navigate by, stars to name on a starry night, stars to twist into animal shapes like a clown with long balloons— and all those stars, and there are more than I can count— settled forever in my heart and cannot be dislodged. Here I Iay on my virtual back, atop my personal Alaska dream mountain, on a summer night deep as sin; imagining you laying beside me, pointing out the brightest ones, recounting the stories I’ve forgotten; all those connections to you twinkling overhead— and I savor the blessing of your big bang smile

64

that’s what I want to do forget this minuet around over through situations/words/ phantom blink of tears just 2 foot lengths spreading wide for a 12 pound maul/ random tangle trap of hair for beads of honest sweat excluding our palms, our skins are too tough. The answer— The balm? Split wood: ash, maple, pine, cedar, elm, hickory, apple heave grunt slam crack silence Work with me/ with me/ aim for the perimeter and the heart will break open smooth clean still full of life and ready to burn

0

Jul 28, 2012

Jul 28, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC

Split Wood

that’s what I want to do forget this minuet around over through situations/words/ phantom blink of tears just 2 foot lengths spreading wide for a 12 pound maul/ random tangle trap of hair for beads of honest sweat excluding our palms, our skins are too tough. The answer— The balm? Split wood: ash, maple, pine, cedar, elm, hickory, apple heave grunt slam crack silence Work with me/ with me/ aim for the perimeter and the heart will break open smooth clean still full of life and ready to burn

28

We are rain, we are tears; we're the condensation on your beer mug. And we form, and fall, and feel forgotten some times. From heaven, to earth, and back again, we take trillions of tiny journeys— assemble in sheets, hover in mists/ trickle, splatter, pelt without mercy/ quietly collect and freeze/ loud as the sea, softer than the whisper of death—easy to deflect and shatter, with power to carve canyons. From shoulders we vault to elbows, dance down arms, scurry between legs, squish between toes, hurry down the drain linger on linoleum when you pad away from the shower, trailing steam down a sweaty hallway— to where he lays motionless, breathing sunny solstice dust in a closet-sized room. “Better”? “Oh, much. And thanks for the towel, too”. II. Everything about you was flat. I knew your hair was blonde but also something else— not dishwater or ***** or even unclean— “flat” was the only word that fit. Flat as your face, your chest, the bottoms of your shoes, and not a whole lot less scarred. Flat as your eyes— such eyes as I’d never seen; not always awake— hunting/wanting/sharp like a scavenger’s yet full of blind spots, placed there by the drug to impede self-perception— and wantonly green. I knew only your name. You hung with Jim, haunting Mother’s— just two junkies bumming change. I was amazed you managed to survive. House rule was never trust a ****** but home alone, in too much pain to care, I let you take a shower, borrow my towel. We compared spinal surgeries; vinyl siding on childhood homes; monsters and movies; fruits we didn’t like; a nod to new music/ put on your red shoes and dance the blues then places we’d go when our ship came in; the greasiness of the sun outside; the final indignity of death— anything but our lives just then. From summer cotton to suddenly nothing— no memory of how or why. You spurned my offer of a cigarette after with a gesture so shy and self-conscious I felt myself growing suspicious—then alarmed, confused, and finally, amused at my own lack of observation. You weren’t hiding anything. You just didn’t want me to see you as begging.

0

Dec 19, 2011

Dec 19, 2011 at 6:53 PM UTC

Suzy — [A Suite]

We are rain, we are tears; we're the condensation on your beer mug. And we form, and fall, and feel forgotten some times. From heaven, to earth, and back again, we take trillions of tiny journeys— assemble in sheets, hover in mists/ trickle, splatter, pelt without mercy/ quietly collect and freeze/ loud as the sea, softer than the whisper of death—easy to deflect and shatter, with power to carve canyons. From shoulders we vault to elbows, dance down arms, scurry between legs, squish between toes, hurry down the drain linger on linoleum when you pad away from the shower, trailing steam down a sweaty hallway— to where he lays motionless, breathing sunny solstice dust in a closet-sized room. “Better”? “Oh, much. And thanks for the towel, too”. II. Everything about you was flat. I knew your hair was blonde but also something else— not dishwater or ***** or even unclean— “flat” was the only word that fit. Flat as your face, your chest, the bottoms of your shoes, and not a whole lot less scarred. Flat as your eyes— such eyes as I’d never seen; not always awake— hunting/wanting/sharp like a scavenger’s yet full of blind spots, placed there by the drug to impede self-perception— and wantonly green. I knew only your name. You hung with Jim, haunting Mother’s— just two junkies bumming change. I was amazed you managed to survive. House rule was never trust a ****** but home alone, in too much pain to care, I let you take a shower, borrow my towel. We compared spinal surgeries; vinyl siding on childhood homes; monsters and movies; fruits we didn’t like; a nod to new music/ put on your red shoes and dance the blues then places we’d go when our ship came in; the greasiness of the sun outside; the final indignity of death— anything but our lives just then. From summer cotton to suddenly nothing— no memory of how or why. You spurned my offer of a cigarette after with a gesture so shy and self-conscious I felt myself growing suspicious—then alarmed, confused, and finally, amused at my own lack of observation. You weren’t hiding anything. You just didn’t want me to see you as begging.

90

Grim sonnets fraught with fraud and trauma stuff her notebooks—steamy, bitter memories of finished romance, rarely with enough sweet lip syrup—ripe with frivolities, important drama, broad license. She needs an audience like green things need daylight. I’m the sun to her bright lily. She reads with fierce emotion—I squeeze my arms tight around me, choke a chuckle—she pretends I’m just amused at her soul-piercing style. So much to ask, this ritual she tends like a garden? I feign attention while she rails at love and fate, lips pursed or drawn— sarcastic, crushed, dismayed her youth is gone.

0

Nov 26, 2011

Nov 26, 2011 at 5:09 PM UTC

Afternoon Reading, Rainy Room

Grim sonnets fraught with fraud and trauma stuff her notebooks—steamy, bitter memories of finished romance, rarely with enough sweet lip syrup—ripe with frivolities, important drama, broad license. She needs an audience like green things need daylight. I’m the sun to her bright lily. She reads with fierce emotion—I squeeze my arms tight around me, choke a chuckle—she pretends I’m just amused at her soul-piercing style. So much to ask, this ritual she tends like a garden? I feign attention while she rails at love and fate, lips pursed or drawn— sarcastic, crushed, dismayed her youth is gone.

14

that’s what I want to do forget this minuet around over through situations/words/ phantom blink of tears just 2 foot lengths spreading wide for a 12 pound maul/ random tangle trap of hair for beads of honest sweat excluding our palms, our skins are too tough. The answer— The balm? Split wood: ash, maple, pine, cedar, elm, hickory, apple heave grunt slam crack silence Work with me/ with me/ aim for the perimeter and the heart will break open smooth clean still full of life and ready to burn

0

Nov 26, 2011

Nov 26, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC

Split Wood

that’s what I want to do forget this minuet around over through situations/words/ phantom blink of tears just 2 foot lengths spreading wide for a 12 pound maul/ random tangle trap of hair for beads of honest sweat excluding our palms, our skins are too tough. The answer— The balm? Split wood: ash, maple, pine, cedar, elm, hickory, apple heave grunt slam crack silence Work with me/ with me/ aim for the perimeter and the heart will break open smooth clean still full of life and ready to burn

28

“Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing”. Salvador Dali -- Dali on Dali Dreamrise. The sliced steep slopes of those cliffs could be anywhere--say, Yosemite--buttered by the same sun, not battered by these calm seas, or bothered by melting timepieces draped about the landscape. Why does the artist’s head melt, deconstruct, feather into foreground loam— teeth, tongue, lips fading nearly without notice, nose pillowed on his own ear? Is there a reason a single housefly struggles against sky-blue stickiness--imperiled heroine awaiting the locomotive crush of the sweeping minute hand--or why the bottom of her golden prison melts in the sepia heat, its silver sisters hung limp from a branch long dead, or laid carefully as a blanket over the sleeping focal face? What of the copper watch, alone in original form, though a cluster of ants spews from its center in lieu of hands? The artist provides no answer, perhaps presuming the question sufficient. That dead tree— the only thing vertical, unless you stand beneath the cliffs; the only thing anchored, unless you allow the cliffs; the only thing obviously dead, unless those buttered cliffs are someone’s skin— that tree is Watcher and Scribe, the Presence of the World, and at its base a face is embedded, of some Bosch-spawned horror, gaze trained beyond borders, back to the Middle Ages, or maybe on its own shadow. Straight lines are few enough to count. The horizon is one, or four, depending on how you tally. Plain plank painted every hue of blue on the canvas numbers ten—again, depending—could be seven. And the platform: four, or six? Are these tricks of the eye or the mind—or math? By the magic of perfect draughtsmanship it works out to just the right number. Note the placement of pebbles—gold right, gray left—for each side of the brain, he dreams; for balance, for focus, for scale and distortion, placed with precision to escape first notice, the better to manipulate mind and eye to see what isn’t there: the dark, the void, this universe collapsing, howling open emptiness, no stars, no cliffs, no clocks wormhole of sleep which draws all from there to here, bloated, belligerent Babylon of black consumes the bottom corner, far removed from ants, beckoning the dreamer homeward--or Hellward? In every direction lies fear or fulfillment, each boundary spreads wide to possibility, from this static domain where no breeze exists to mar the surface of an ocean so vast.

0

Feb 13, 2011

Feb 13, 2011 at 11:45 AM UTC

The Persistence of Memory -- Salvador Dali

“Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing”. Salvador Dali -- Dali on Dali Dreamrise. The sliced steep slopes of those cliffs could be anywhere--say, Yosemite--buttered by the same sun, not battered by these calm seas, or bothered by melting timepieces draped about the landscape. Why does the artist’s head melt, deconstruct, feather into foreground loam— teeth, tongue, lips fading nearly without notice, nose pillowed on his own ear? Is there a reason a single housefly struggles against sky-blue stickiness--imperiled heroine awaiting the locomotive crush of the sweeping minute hand--or why the bottom of her golden prison melts in the sepia heat, its silver sisters hung limp from a branch long dead, or laid carefully as a blanket over the sleeping focal face? What of the copper watch, alone in original form, though a cluster of ants spews from its center in lieu of hands? The artist provides no answer, perhaps presuming the question sufficient. That dead tree— the only thing vertical, unless you stand beneath the cliffs; the only thing anchored, unless you allow the cliffs; the only thing obviously dead, unless those buttered cliffs are someone’s skin— that tree is Watcher and Scribe, the Presence of the World, and at its base a face is embedded, of some Bosch-spawned horror, gaze trained beyond borders, back to the Middle Ages, or maybe on its own shadow. Straight lines are few enough to count. The horizon is one, or four, depending on how you tally. Plain plank painted every hue of blue on the canvas numbers ten—again, depending—could be seven. And the platform: four, or six? Are these tricks of the eye or the mind—or math? By the magic of perfect draughtsmanship it works out to just the right number. Note the placement of pebbles—gold right, gray left—for each side of the brain, he dreams; for balance, for focus, for scale and distortion, placed with precision to escape first notice, the better to manipulate mind and eye to see what isn’t there: the dark, the void, this universe collapsing, howling open emptiness, no stars, no cliffs, no clocks wormhole of sleep which draws all from there to here, bloated, belligerent Babylon of black consumes the bottom corner, far removed from ants, beckoning the dreamer homeward--or Hellward? In every direction lies fear or fulfillment, each boundary spreads wide to possibility, from this static domain where no breeze exists to mar the surface of an ocean so vast.

44

Bernie frames the TV between his feet-- left hand remote, beer bottle balanced by his right— clicks through half-time shows, clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer, a death-ray secret weapon, clicks just to do it, an idiot’s smile faint on his face. he sees only noise Emma tends her stamps, perched on the plain board chair she upholstered herself— its arms worn, warm, warmly welcoming— her back to her husband, her life as wife and mother coming to a languid close. she tastes some regret-- yet spicy with passion-- where life has had its way with her. The rug’s bright stew of colors can’t hide everything children spilled when they were young-- juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears; little dreams, tiny heartbreaks, minor crises ground into the weave; all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs, blood and sweat and nightmares congealed into solemn patina-- I see protects it from time. These solid objects— stout, no-nonsense chair wearing gouges, marks, discolorations of use and years like badges; fat, chunky, cigarette-burned BarcaLounger, drunk from drink spilled on every surface, handle supple as a young girl’s wrist, swirling a territorial aura around its microscopic sphere of the universe; and the rug… unassuming, proletarian, handmade and honest, each scrap of fabric chosen by the weaver’s hand, now useful again, reveling in redemption— these solid objects invade, infuse, invigorate otherwise empty space, squeeze meaning from the world around them, same as the hand of the artist sculpts love from her heart to give them life. The children have moved away Old friends are dying every day Stamps no longer can be licked There is no way to interdict The Jets are losing again

0

Feb 6, 2011

Feb 6, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC

2 Chairs & a Rug

Bernie frames the TV between his feet-- left hand remote, beer bottle balanced by his right— clicks through half-time shows, clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer, a death-ray secret weapon, clicks just to do it, an idiot’s smile faint on his face. he sees only noise Emma tends her stamps, perched on the plain board chair she upholstered herself— its arms worn, warm, warmly welcoming— her back to her husband, her life as wife and mother coming to a languid close. she tastes some regret-- yet spicy with passion-- where life has had its way with her. The rug’s bright stew of colors can’t hide everything children spilled when they were young-- juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears; little dreams, tiny heartbreaks, minor crises ground into the weave; all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs, blood and sweat and nightmares congealed into solemn patina-- I see protects it from time. These solid objects— stout, no-nonsense chair wearing gouges, marks, discolorations of use and years like badges; fat, chunky, cigarette-burned BarcaLounger, drunk from drink spilled on every surface, handle supple as a young girl’s wrist, swirling a territorial aura around its microscopic sphere of the universe; and the rug… unassuming, proletarian, handmade and honest, each scrap of fabric chosen by the weaver’s hand, now useful again, reveling in redemption— these solid objects invade, infuse, invigorate otherwise empty space, squeeze meaning from the world around them, same as the hand of the artist sculpts love from her heart to give them life. The children have moved away Old friends are dying every day Stamps no longer can be licked There is no way to interdict The Jets are losing again

71

Stage Design/American Drama Down front on America’s stage— awash in a universe of light arranged by the ultimate technician. Come closer. Anticipate spectacle. First sun-splash on these shores fashions fool’s gold of surf that heaves against foam-smoothed, lobster black, slick rock beaches of northern Maine/ bubbles about black rubber boots of men in boats— another day, another dime, shivered away in ancient rime— adrift in fog on the black glass harbor surface. Grand Canyon sunrise EXPLODES copper and white/ orange and green/ blood red/ over many thousand pounds of brash brown dirt— in every direction/especially down. Soldierly shadows armed with swords of slivered sunlight hack through scrub like so much meat, to each day’s final battle at the canyon’s rim/ while a mile below the torment called the Colorado turns silver and gold, black, blue, and thundering mud. Louisiana bayous trickle chlorophyll caramel over twisted hickory sentinels, monumental elms and sycamores—even the alligators. More mystery here than far-flung nebulae—and everything fighting back ***** green kudzu. The Badlands of South Dakota, striped like the surface of a ***** peppermint planet—sizzling in the sun, bone cold in the shade—knobby tan canyons wrapped in ribbons of rust that dribble sounds one can neither recall nor reproduce. Same phenomenon frames dawn over spongy folds of tall green cilia ocean called simply The Plains. Kansas, Nebraska, horizons so far away thunderstorms creep along like dark, threatening slugs. Distant night fireworks laden with punishing hail hide tornadoes and winged farmhouses in the horizontal gloom. In the morning—those sounds again. Critters? Wind. Ghosts, maybe. Spectral mists of the Great Northwest cloak clear-cut sores on Nature’s sacred, fragrant, deep green shores, falling steep to the creamy Pacific. Light's a plaything here. Big Sur renders color to gem, sparkles down the coast to rusty Golden Gate and grimy LA, where the sun goes down brown and the rain shines like gun metal. Georgia soil— homicidal redheaded cousin running loose, looking for trouble— grows swampy hardwood groves/ leaves hung limp from humidity/ masking antebellum secrets/ offering sanctuary to voodoo practitioners and moonshiners alike. Magic, danger, ****** and ghosts of slaughtered slaves wander tight-packed old-growth forests. Some say the soil is red from ancient conflict, unanswered pleas for mercy drowned in the drenching rains of hurricanes strayed north from the Gulf of Mexico. Others claim tears of countless mothers will never leave Civil War blood completely dry. Northern New England foliage-- master maples drunk on fresh cider/ psychedelic finger-paint exhibitionists high on the year’s last harvest, intoxicated by Nature’s largess/ symphonies of scarlet, tangerine, lemon, even purple-- regal birds migrate over lakes so blue you could chip your teeth on them, and a diehard hemlock conducts its final green opus to a sea of primary colors. Iowa is quiet and corn, obscuring whole towns and the lives held captive therein. All the green on Earth is planted here; all the sun, all the sapphire sky feeding knee-high-by-July crops, bleaching spare white churches, white picket fences, white-on-white generations and all their vanilla dreams. Linger beneath Montana’s cobalt crystal canopy to know why it’s called Big Sky. Stark, Crazy Mountains chase stuttering clouds above treeless, tumbleweed towns, bathed in the same blues as Wyoming, blown through a wild man’s horn. A wink of sunlight mirrored in unseen peaks perhaps hundreds of miles away— snow so white/Rocky Mountains so hard and gray— behind a universe of wheat flatness beckoning the eye to infinity, slowly, slowly, the Continental Divide rises from the horizon like a monster parade balloon filling with gas on another continent. The Flat Irons--majestic stone slabs lounging against Boulder's nearby foothills-- were cursed by ancient observers. One peek at their precarious slopes compels you to return. Been back three times and I’m still not sure I believe it. Southwestern deserts’ blaze, haze, and halo—spotlights hot, focused on towering sandstone totems. Deep gashes of flowering canyon, adrift in the flat and barren, rage water, mud, and death during summer storms. Scrub and sand, dust and desolation, land unfit for demons. Get thee behind me, Arizona. Endless, straight, lonely two-lanes carve the lunar landscape of west Texas into parcels of wasteland, miles marked by bleached carcasses of ranch animals and their predators, some hung on fences as a warning that people really do live there. Cities have their place, their places, their placement-- but my heart can’t pound to the beat of traffic like it does to waterfall spray. Turn your back to the fire in sufficient twilight and a mountain range sharpens into a line— coyotes prowling, howling on the perimeter. To spy on a wild animal lost in thought. The sight--and sound--as swans alight or leave a hidden pond. Northern lights and swamp gas, everywhere the stench of Earth. This is what matters— all around us— this alone. Not politics, not religion, not countries. Just this— stage.

0

Nov 17, 2010

Nov 17, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC

Stage Design—American Drama

Stage Design/American Drama Down front on America’s stage— awash in a universe of light arranged by the ultimate technician. Come closer. Anticipate spectacle. First sun-splash on these shores fashions fool’s gold of surf that heaves against foam-smoothed, lobster black, slick rock beaches of northern Maine/ bubbles about black rubber boots of men in boats— another day, another dime, shivered away in ancient rime— adrift in fog on the black glass harbor surface. Grand Canyon sunrise EXPLODES copper and white/ orange and green/ blood red/ over many thousand pounds of brash brown dirt— in every direction/especially down. Soldierly shadows armed with swords of slivered sunlight hack through scrub like so much meat, to each day’s final battle at the canyon’s rim/ while a mile below the torment called the Colorado turns silver and gold, black, blue, and thundering mud. Louisiana bayous trickle chlorophyll caramel over twisted hickory sentinels, monumental elms and sycamores—even the alligators. More mystery here than far-flung nebulae—and everything fighting back ***** green kudzu. The Badlands of South Dakota, striped like the surface of a ***** peppermint planet—sizzling in the sun, bone cold in the shade—knobby tan canyons wrapped in ribbons of rust that dribble sounds one can neither recall nor reproduce. Same phenomenon frames dawn over spongy folds of tall green cilia ocean called simply The Plains. Kansas, Nebraska, horizons so far away thunderstorms creep along like dark, threatening slugs. Distant night fireworks laden with punishing hail hide tornadoes and winged farmhouses in the horizontal gloom. In the morning—those sounds again. Critters? Wind. Ghosts, maybe. Spectral mists of the Great Northwest cloak clear-cut sores on Nature’s sacred, fragrant, deep green shores, falling steep to the creamy Pacific. Light's a plaything here. Big Sur renders color to gem, sparkles down the coast to rusty Golden Gate and grimy LA, where the sun goes down brown and the rain shines like gun metal. Georgia soil— homicidal redheaded cousin running loose, looking for trouble— grows swampy hardwood groves/ leaves hung limp from humidity/ masking antebellum secrets/ offering sanctuary to voodoo practitioners and moonshiners alike. Magic, danger, ****** and ghosts of slaughtered slaves wander tight-packed old-growth forests. Some say the soil is red from ancient conflict, unanswered pleas for mercy drowned in the drenching rains of hurricanes strayed north from the Gulf of Mexico. Others claim tears of countless mothers will never leave Civil War blood completely dry. Northern New England foliage-- master maples drunk on fresh cider/ psychedelic finger-paint exhibitionists high on the year’s last harvest, intoxicated by Nature’s largess/ symphonies of scarlet, tangerine, lemon, even purple-- regal birds migrate over lakes so blue you could chip your teeth on them, and a diehard hemlock conducts its final green opus to a sea of primary colors. Iowa is quiet and corn, obscuring whole towns and the lives held captive therein. All the green on Earth is planted here; all the sun, all the sapphire sky feeding knee-high-by-July crops, bleaching spare white churches, white picket fences, white-on-white generations and all their vanilla dreams. Linger beneath Montana’s cobalt crystal canopy to know why it’s called Big Sky. Stark, Crazy Mountains chase stuttering clouds above treeless, tumbleweed towns, bathed in the same blues as Wyoming, blown through a wild man’s horn. A wink of sunlight mirrored in unseen peaks perhaps hundreds of miles away— snow so white/Rocky Mountains so hard and gray— behind a universe of wheat flatness beckoning the eye to infinity, slowly, slowly, the Continental Divide rises from the horizon like a monster parade balloon filling with gas on another continent. The Flat Irons--majestic stone slabs lounging against Boulder's nearby foothills-- were cursed by ancient observers. One peek at their precarious slopes compels you to return. Been back three times and I’m still not sure I believe it. Southwestern deserts’ blaze, haze, and halo—spotlights hot, focused on towering sandstone totems. Deep gashes of flowering canyon, adrift in the flat and barren, rage water, mud, and death during summer storms. Scrub and sand, dust and desolation, land unfit for demons. Get thee behind me, Arizona. Endless, straight, lonely two-lanes carve the lunar landscape of west Texas into parcels of wasteland, miles marked by bleached carcasses of ranch animals and their predators, some hung on fences as a warning that people really do live there. Cities have their place, their places, their placement-- but my heart can’t pound to the beat of traffic like it does to waterfall spray. Turn your back to the fire in sufficient twilight and a mountain range sharpens into a line— coyotes prowling, howling on the perimeter. To spy on a wild animal lost in thought. The sight--and sound--as swans alight or leave a hidden pond. Northern lights and swamp gas, everywhere the stench of Earth. This is what matters— all around us— this alone. Not politics, not religion, not countries. Just this— stage.

127

kneels in gravel— paws folded under, claws hidden-- sometimes for hours. In dark, in day, in rain, in gray growing gloom same color as her coat, she genuflects to her goddess, twiddles razors with feline ennui, rules the empty deck like a furry Queen of Hearts. Her benefactor borrows her boredom From time to time-- the lady with the cream, red hair, and quiet conversational tone. It took a week to coax her in— the elaborate kabuki of cats-- and the lady laid out house rules in that voice. No names necessary; friends forging a contract. No sharp kneading in the belly, out at night no pregnancies no fights. Agreed. Appearances are regular now. Screen-door meow for entrance, purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers and soothing human talk. Food dish is usually full. The lady neglected to cover the topic of gut-piles on the welcome mat. Porch Cat is most proud of these, offers them as evidence she’s keeping her end of the bargain-- with one exception-- in the dungeon of night low dark howls rise to screeches: ancient instincts, modern setting. Lady flops in her sleep, winces in her dream. Lightning lash, Soft, sharp tear of flesh. Porch cat has new wounds to lick-- a task to occupy her time waiting at the door for morning to filter into the city. 11/5/10

0

Nov 5, 2010

Nov 5, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC

Porch Cat

kneels in gravel— paws folded under, claws hidden-- sometimes for hours. In dark, in day, in rain, in gray growing gloom same color as her coat, she genuflects to her goddess, twiddles razors with feline ennui, rules the empty deck like a furry Queen of Hearts. Her benefactor borrows her boredom From time to time-- the lady with the cream, red hair, and quiet conversational tone. It took a week to coax her in— the elaborate kabuki of cats-- and the lady laid out house rules in that voice. No names necessary; friends forging a contract. No sharp kneading in the belly, out at night no pregnancies no fights. Agreed. Appearances are regular now. Screen-door meow for entrance, purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers and soothing human talk. Food dish is usually full. The lady neglected to cover the topic of gut-piles on the welcome mat. Porch Cat is most proud of these, offers them as evidence she’s keeping her end of the bargain-- with one exception-- in the dungeon of night low dark howls rise to screeches: ancient instincts, modern setting. Lady flops in her sleep, winces in her dream. Lightning lash, Soft, sharp tear of flesh. Porch cat has new wounds to lick-- a task to occupy her time waiting at the door for morning to filter into the city. 11/5/10

51

I hate what this culture does to everything— turns it meaningless; makes it product. “What’s the matter with that?” you ask. Nothing, if **** is your color. “Turns it meaningless; makes it product— what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You ask nothing. If **** is your color you’ll love what comes next. “What the hell? Is that supposed to mean you count yourself among the blameless?” You will, love. What comes next could decide many futures, assuming you count yourself. Among the blameless will shamble the shameless, the hopeless—those who could decide many futures. Assuming you won’t be one won’t save you. In droves they will shamble—the shame less, the hope, less. Those who are just looking for salvation know you won’t be. One won’t save you in droves. They count on your believing you are just. Looking for salvation? Know that very few walk this world anyone can count on. You’re believing you can’t change that. Poets won’t, I know that. Very few walk this world. Anyone can write a poem today. Scribble down words you can’t change--that poets won’t. I know. I’m writing poetry. Write a poem today. Scribble down words, you. You are not alone. In knowing that, is what I’m writing poetry? I want to rip it up and start again. You are not alone in knowing. That’s what you, I, hate. What this culture does to everything. I want to rip it up and start again. What’s the matter with that?

0

Nov 5, 2010

Nov 5, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC

Requiem For A Dead World

I hate what this culture does to everything— turns it meaningless; makes it product. “What’s the matter with that?” you ask. Nothing, if **** is your color. “Turns it meaningless; makes it product— what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You ask nothing. If **** is your color you’ll love what comes next. “What the hell? Is that supposed to mean you count yourself among the blameless?” You will, love. What comes next could decide many futures, assuming you count yourself. Among the blameless will shamble the shameless, the hopeless—those who could decide many futures. Assuming you won’t be one won’t save you. In droves they will shamble—the shame less, the hope, less. Those who are just looking for salvation know you won’t be. One won’t save you in droves. They count on your believing you are just. Looking for salvation? Know that very few walk this world anyone can count on. You’re believing you can’t change that. Poets won’t, I know that. Very few walk this world. Anyone can write a poem today. Scribble down words you can’t change--that poets won’t. I know. I’m writing poetry. Write a poem today. Scribble down words, you. You are not alone. In knowing that, is what I’m writing poetry? I want to rip it up and start again. You are not alone in knowing. That’s what you, I, hate. What this culture does to everything. I want to rip it up and start again. What’s the matter with that?

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