"sawing" poems
110916
Yugyugan, walang hele
Galit at poot, walang tuldok.
Bayan, Bayani at Rebolusyon
Dugo, Latay at Krus.
Pintasan sa saradong Libingan ng mga Bayani
Pasismo'y binabali
Demokrasya'y katunggali.
Hampasan ng Hustisya,
Latay ng Pagtutuligsa.
Kalampag ng mesang panay barya
Sigaw ng paghain ng kamatayan.
Bukas ang Pintuang tila batong hinati
Uhaw, sawing-palad,
May luwad na dalamhati.
Di makilala, suyod nang kaladkaran,
Saboy ng pighati.
Walang bahid, walang bisa --
Hindi maramot ang May Grasya.
Negosyo sa pulitika
Kalakal ng mga salita.
Palimos nang makaraos
Lusong, tapon, salo at ahon --
Yan ang pagtatapos --
Isa, dalawa, tatlo
Tatlumpu't tatlong taon.
Inihanay ba Siya sa mga Bayani? Hindi.
Nalimot ba ang Kasaysayan?
Hindi.
Ang natatanging Kasaysayan,
Tanging Kristo ang tutuldok
Tanging Kristo ang saysay
Walang iba, tapos na.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
#041716
May mga bituing nais abutin,
Nangangalay ang diwa pagkat dapat habulin.
Ganoon pala ang pagtatagisan ng mga saranggolang itim,
Sisipatin ang isa't isa't may pandilig na patikim.
Ako'y musmos sa alok nitong ginintuang pangarap,
Dilubyo'y mabagsik bagkus may matinding yakap.
At doon matatagpuan ang haplos na hinahanap,
Ako'y alipin sa sahig na Langit ang sumusulyap.
Sa paglatag ng Liwanag na may bahaghari
Waring yuyukod siyang ulap na mapagkunwari.
At kanyang saplot, ihahanay nang sandali,
Saksi maging hanging nagtataingang-kawali.
Sa pagsalin ng hiningang latak ng kahapon,
Baon pala ang sakit hanggang dapithapon.
Ipipinta ang itsura ng sarong na maputi,
Siyang pupuri sa Langit na may bahid ng kayumanggi.
Tila baryang itinapon at nagkakalansingan,
Sa papag na mistulang may sawing kasintahan.
Mga tauha'y lalaban sa kuweba ng kadiliman,
At doon ang kandila'y panandaliang tatahan.
Babahagian ng yaman ang uhaw sa kalinga,
Hahagkan silang mga busal na walang isang salita.
Hanggang sa magkandiring muli sa saliw ng musika,
Silang tangan ang pising may kakaibang mahika.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
April doesnt hurt here
Like it does in New England
The ground
Vast and brown
Surrounds dry towns
Located in the dust
Of the coming locust
Live for survival, not for 'kicks'
Be a bangtail describer,
like of shrouded traveler
in Textile tenement & the birds fighting in yr ears-like Burroughs exact to describe & gettin $
The Angry Hunger
(hunger is anger)
who fears the
hungry feareth
the angry)
And so I came home
To Golden far away
Twas on the horizon
Every blessed day
As we rolled And we rolled
From Donner tragic Pass
Thru April in Nevada And out Salt City Way Into the dry Nebraskas And sad Wyomings Where young girls And pretty lover boys
With Mickey Mantle eyes
Wander under moons
Sawing in lost cradle
And Judge O Fasterc
Passes whiggling by To ask of young love: ,,Was it the same wind Of April Plains eve that ruffled the dress
Of my lost love
Louanna
In the Western
Far off night
Lost as the whistle
Of the passing Train
Everywhere West
Roams moaning
The deep basso
- Vom! Vom!
- Was it the same love
Notified my bones As mortify yrs now
Children of the soft
Wyoming April night?
Couldna been!
But was! But was!'
And on the prairie
The wildflower blows
In the night For bees & birds And sleeping hidden Animals of life.
The Chicago
Spitters in the spotty street
Cheap beans, loop, Girls made eyes at me And I had 35 Cents in my jeans -
Then Toledo
Springtime starry
Lover night Of hot rod boys And cool girls A wandering
A wandering
In search of April pain A plash of rain
Will not dispel This fumigatin hell Of lover lane This park of roses Blue as bees
In former airy poses
In aerial O Way hoses
No tamarand And figancine Can the musterand Be less kind
Sol -
Sol -
Bring forth yr Ah Sunflower - Ah me Montana
Phosphorescent Rose
And bridge in
fairly land
I'd understand it all -
11.1k
we are monsters
from the boutique to the
embroidered throw pillows the
pen dashed around the neck
stage 5 bone cut
sawing ossification to the
hollow core
we are monsters
hooting in tunnels lined
with bats coming out to feast
creation
to scrape the streets
shimmy the walls
bust the coffin and
succckk
we are monsters
who can't enter under the
doorframe
fearful of being burned by
the sun silver stake
rat poison holy water sickle
and windmill ash
we are monsters
sewed stapled dead meat
skin hair plugs ceramic
teeth tested and tasted by
rats
we are monsters
jumping high over white
fences frenzied explosion
running through corn
angrily bled in a field shot and
hunted like embarrassing
waterfowl in the jaws of
mammalia
we are monsters
of flaming brilliance flashing
in your inbox
read us and gnaw
braised
roasted
grilled limbs
watch
as we watch you
be scared and
stab
I promise we don't die.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
Bakit sinta ako’y / sawi, bigong-bigo
Sa pagsintang lanta, / tuyo’t walang kibo?
Ang ‘yong mga titig / ay titig ng bungong
Patay at may dalang / sumpang mapagtampo …
Bakit nga ba sa’yong / mga gawang mali
At sa paglililong / hindi ko hiningi
Ay dagling nawala / ang dati kong ngiti?
Kaya’t sawing puso’y / hilam sa pighati …
Bakit din binalot / ng lumbay at sama
Ang pusong umibig / sa mula pa’t mula?
Dahilan sa iyong / kasalanang gawa
Naglaho ang tamis, / namatay, nawala …
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
MONKEY IN A RED FEZ DANCING TO ABBA
I watch the children play
on a sunny Sunday in Rotterdam
like a stereotypical alien
studying humans.
Their cries rise and fall
like seagulls as they swing
sea-sawing or blurring into one
on a brightly coloured turnstile.
A man looking
like a badly drawn cartoon
turns the handle slowly of
a broken down barrel *****
A monkey in a red fez
dances on the end of a chain.
The barrel ***** spews out
everything from Abba to Franz Lehar.
The decrepit old man
and even more decrepit monkey
appear as if they have
stepped out of another century.
I am far from home.
The day is dying.
I read from my battered book
Hamsun's HUNGER.
It's lurid cover torn
half hanging on/off.
The park deserted now
as night steals its colours.
The last words of
of this the final chapter
are lost to me
swallowed by the dark.
The barrel ***** peersists
the soundtrack to some forgotten film
The monkey red fez
fallen at its feet.
The monkey blissfully
asleep.
The music caught
entangled in branches and leaves.
I watch the yellow lights
blossom one by one
a silhouette of houses
like a stage set.
Houses like cut-out silhouettes
a stage set.
The last lines revealed
under a passing lamp
"...where the windows shone so
brightly in every home..."
I laugh at such
a coincidence.
Leave the book on the bench
for some other me
to discover
when the sun comes up.
And return
to my space ship.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
08:18AM #ToSite
Bagamat ako'y bulag
Sa mundong puno ng sawing imahinasyon,
Patuloy Kitang titingalain.
Ihahagis ko sa Langit ang mga kamay
At bahagyang tatakpan ang paningin
Nang masilayan ang iyong kariktan.
Nakasisilaw ang Iyong Liwanag,
Sabayan pa ng nagbagong-bihis na liriko
Ng mapang-akit na sansinukob.
Bagkus, ako'y mananatiling walang kibo
Kahit nahihingal pati ang puso
Sa paghihintay Sa'yo.
Muli akong aalukin
Ng mala-piyestang pangarap,
Siyang babandila sa espasyong
Puno ng takot sa kinabukasan.
Ang mga banderitas sa Kalye,
Walang sawang tumatakip sa Iyong katanyagan.
Ngunit hindi Ka kumukupas,
Di gaya ng laos na musikang
Hindi na tipo ng makabagong henerasyon.
Hinuha ko ang lente
**Makuha lamang ang matatamis **** ngiti**.
At sa bawat eksena'y hindi ako pakukurap
Sa mga alikabok na namumuwing,
Silang nililok para ako'y patirin.
Naglantad ang klimsa
Ng kakaiba nitong anyo.
Kaya't sumanib ang sining
Na tila iba ang maestro.
Puso ko'y kinatok
Pagkat ito'y tumitirapa
Sa bawat lasong kumikislap,
Siyang sinasaboy
Ng mahiwagang mga kamay.
Ako'y nagpahele sa Iyong misteryo
Hanggang sa naging kalmado
Buhat sa **likas **** pag-irog**.
Bumungad sa akin
Ang Liwanag na gaya ng dati.
Nakasisilaw, bagkus suot ko na ang pananggalang
Masilayan ka lamang
Kahit saglit lamang.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:42 AM UTC
You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
like a shank of butcher's meat,
your dorcel fin peaks through the sand where my toes peak through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
I take photos, make reservations, and
even after I'm canceled on for walking around
downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry: Stardom.
I don't have room for you in the corners.
The corners of this room, padded walls,
shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
in the specks of light flicking
out of the horizon like a carousel ride
around and around.
I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.
If you want to see me spring,
like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
I observe you through a kaleidoscope of dexedrine and morphine.
Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
in alien-green ******* at that party in the abandoned firehouse
on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that
(a daydream with sawing you called me)
sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
&
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC
These optical illusions
Create an optimal confusion
When eyes are a welcome intrusion
To the brain's inevitable conclusion
We stared into the mystic mirror
I witnessed everything I ever wanted in life
All you witnessed was just two people standing there
The transparency you cast upon me
Reminded me of how the plumes of **** smoke
Were never as thick as my problems
And as those clouds left my mouth and dispersed into the air
I saw your image
Preserved in briefness
It's a shame how my magician's mind
Summons smoke and mirrors
Nobody else believes me
But magic is the only way to explain you
The way you turned me invisible
Was spectacular
Your methods of sawing me in half
Certainly weren't natural
And your teleportation demonstration
Left me suspended in ice
So I guess I'm to Blaine
For the mirrors I erected
And the truth they reflected
Because now I'm lost
In what I refuse to call a funhouse
As I search frantically for some ancient tomb
That might reveal your brilliant incantations
Attempting to ignore the horrid revelation
That every spell I learned
Had been based in your arcane aura
And all the power I had gained
Had been based in your enchantment
I want a magician
Not an illusionist
So what does it mean when your illusions are so magical?
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
What happened a week ago
I’m still recovering
Some have told me I’m in mourning
when you lose something that was a part of you for so long
I feel like I’ve lost a limb or
a big chunk of my heart
what happened a week ago
friendships severed, felt like an amputation without the anesthesia
sawing and gnawing
whittle by whittle
the pain, never less than searing
what happened a week ago
I feel the phantom limb
I think it’s still there
I go to my inbox, check the chats, click one and
BOOM
shouting matches and f-bombs being dropped like the a-bomb on Hiroshima
my words, arrows dipped in poison
I flung everything I had
poured my chopped up heart onto a silver platter and let the blood drip drop for all to see
what happened a week ago
I said some things I shouldn’t have
I let my heart speak instead of my head
letting my anger and red flurries get the best of me
what happened a week ago
is an awful lot like what happened 11 years ago
I’m six years old
piecing together a puzzle of forgiveness
walking back to my room after a yelling match with my sister
I scribble I’m so sorry I got mad at you on the back of my homework
slide it under her door
and wait
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
281
’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates—
So over Horror, it half Captivates—
The Soul stares after it, secure—
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more—
To scan a Ghost, is faint—
But grappling, conquers it—
How easy, Torment, now—
Suspense kept sawing so—
The Truth, is Bald, and Cold—
But that will hold—
If any are not sure—
We show them—prayer—
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now—
Looking at Death, is Dying—
Just let go the Breath—
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth—
Others, Can wrestle—
Yours, is done—
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded—come,
It sets the Fright at liberty—
And Terror’s free—
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!
2.5k
Aluminum foil teeth
Enamel taste bud bayonets
Molars initiate waging war
On the soft pink left cheek
Gnawing away radiated flesh
Sawing off fat
Eating through layers of rotten blood
These
Metal dentures cut gums
Tonguing out iron spit
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
Letters come & go.
Messages from home: love lost.
Jefferson Davis
& “Honest” Abe Lincoln’s war…
…nothing more than flexing strength.
The sun rises up
above the barren Culp’s Hill
as Ewell kept them
back, & Jackson’s wishes were
lost on Cemetery Hill.
Gettysburg was filled
with mudpits, puddlepits, shitpits
& every kind of
pit. Not any kind that they
wished to see as guns moved up.
The barrage of shells
from the artillery was
never ending, not
unlike this cursed war, all
while brothers & sons were lost.
The second day came
with no signs of stopping, he
packed his gear, grabbed his
rifle, & marched out to the
sound of Charon’s ferrying.
The medic rushes
out onto the battlefield
hesitating not.
His crude instruments flailing
about in his pack, he works.
Medicine, horror,
they were synonyms to him
as he braced the man;
scraping against flesh, he screamed.
This Civil War--hell on Earth.
Sawing off a leg
was much harder than once thought,
the medic then knew.
In the thick of battle, screams
drowned out screams, & drowned out screams.
Bullets whizzed by him
as he cleaned up his patient.
Or was it victim?
These days it all seemed the same:
North, South, free, slave, dead, living.
What once was blue ‘n gray
was now brown & black & red.
Explosions tore up
the land around him as he
cleared his vision & finished.
Out of the brush, fear
overtook the medic as
a man in blue clashed
with a man in gray; blood ‘n sweat
drenched both as life was on balance.
The medic was stunned
& failed to bring himself to
act at first. He shook
himself awake, & grabbed his
knife, & leapt into the fray.
His knife plunged precise
into the blue man’s heart. No
soldier, but knew his
stuff. The gray man thanked him, &
the South fought another day.
All for naught, for on
that third day, Lee ran with his
tail betwixt his legs
all the way to Virginia.
Two years later, all for naught.
July fourth, eighteen
sixty-three, no cheers, no love,
no wins for us folk.
Only them **** Yanks get their love
from home: letters come & go.
Sherman’s March left him
quaking in his boots; gone was
his love. Gone was his
home. Gone were his letters. All
of it gone. Gone with the wind.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Loving the addict is
an addiction in itself
Learning to digest
all of the sharp pieces that
come with it
Apologies and how
they lose meaning
after the second
Loving the addict is
as much of an art as
the hiding is, as
the covering up, as
the forgive me
After some time
I love you and I'm sorry
start to sound the same
letting go and withdrawal
become an equal amount of
swollen
and coming back is
more relapse than any
tangible substance
Loving the addict is
a guilty habit growing
inside a dark closet
feeding the plant until
it becomes animal,
ravenous
love and dependence
are both diseases that
share the same root
But being the addict
is always an attempted break up
It is avoidance at
its finest
It is ripping apart
strings of a rope
with chipped fingernails
in attempts to
cut loose ends
It is sawing pieces of
wood with bare skin and
trying not to get a splinter
It is leave me
It is don't go
It is I am trying to not destroy
everything in my path
It is painting with
heavy winds and rain
hoping there wont be
a mess to clean up
But mess is as inevitable
as the art is creating
And love and addiction
mix like oil and water
nobody is perfectly
capable of cleaning
up correctly
So we leave in a pile
to return to later
Coming back is
more relapse than any
tangible substance
that has ever
existed
and mercy is more perilous than
we'd hope it to be
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
The jagged cut from the dull, serrated blade of rejection. I lay down for you wounded, asking for healing and compassion. The absence of your touch wakes me to the shooting pain up my leg.
The infection of grief is growing as the reality sets in looking down where my leg once was.
I am an amputee.
My leg, my foundation of who I am, has been hacked off without anesthesia.
This separation procedure has taken months of sawing. Startled wake today hemeragging emotions at the wound of your disregard. Doc explained I've been experiencing fanthom limb...
"But we've been walking together, side by side. I've felt the strength and balance of two legs. When/how did this happen? " I protest in disbelief
Standing next to the mangled discarded remains, "one cut at a time" you reply coldly, the dripping blade still in your hand.
"But perhaps we will walk together again once you have time to adjust to your prosthetic"
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Ruby Jeffords was cutting a rug
To the music played by hubby Bub.
Four guitars and a moonshine jug,
Bass fiddle made from a wash tub.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
There’s two stepping and stomp
And a lot of big cowboy hats.
It’s a country and western romp
And it don’t get better than that.
The fiddle player is sawing
Like he’s cutting a cord of wood.
The onlookers are clapping hands.
They’d all join in if they could.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
The dance floor is so crowded
Some people just sit this one out.
But they add to the joy and spirit
Because they clap loud and shout.
They feel the music and tap toes
Falling into the music and beat.
Bub playing, and Ruby dancing
Everybody tapping their feet.
Ruby Jeffords was cutting a rug
To the music played by hubby Bub.
Four guitars and a moonshine jug,
Bass fiddle made from a wash tub.
And the music they play is not
Headed out for Carnegie Hall.
While it may not be sophisticated
Everyone is having a ball.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Naranasan mo ba ?
Yung biglang may lalabas
Pangalan mula sa nakalipas
Nakakagulat diba
Kasi ang alam mo tapos na
Naka move on ka na eh
pero heto nanaman ba ?
Bumalik ka kasi
Nilandi
Nagsaya
Nahulog ulit
Ang saya diba
Na alam mo sa sarili **** pampalipas ka lang
Na diyan ka magaling ang maging past time
Tinanong ko nga sarili ko?
Sino ba talaga ko sayo?
Oo heto tayo
Naglalandian na parang tayo
Pero ang pagkakaalam ko wala akong titulo sa salitang
"Sayo lang ako"
Sorry na
Eto kasing gaga
Naging loyal sa isa
kahit wala na
Wag ka magalala
Darating yung panahon na
Masaya na ko sa iba
At kaya ko ng wala ka
Yung mga araw na sasabihin ko "ang saya pala"
makahanap ng iba
siya na nagpapasaya
kahit nasasaktan ka
Siya na nagpapangiti
ng mga panahong sawing sawi
Bumangon ako
Kasama siya na bumuo sa pagkatao ko
Magiging masaya ako kahit wala ka
dahil eto siya
siya na akin talaga
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
sa paglikha ng tuwina kong katha
madama mo din sana ang kakatwa
ngunit nakasanayan ko nang pagtatwa
hinggil sa himpilan ng tagong lubha
naririnig kahit di man pakinggan
nahihilig saglit kundi man tanggihan
inaaliw pilit ang sarili sa kundiman
bumibitiw singkit kong ngiti panandalian
dahil sa dingding lang ang pagitan
hilahil ng singsing dagliang pasakitan
walang pasakalye kang papanigan
humarang pa sa kalye silang marasigan
sapagkat ang magtengang-kawali
sa pangkat ay sadyang balewala rin
kapit sa patalim talagang tatanggapin
kahit pa maitim pawang palipad-hangin
wala kasing malaking nakapupuwing
ika nga nitong napipintong
pagsalubong
niyong yaong paimbulog na daluyong
tila halinghing, pakiwaring
may naduduling
dagundong ng kulog kung maihahambing
ang gulat na sumilay sa mga mata mo
sa halip ang kalakip yaring halukipkip
namulaga't humimlay di nais matamo
yun bang sa kabila ng pagka tulog-mantika
nakuha pang magbuhat ng silya-elektrika
tagos sa buto ang hiwa ng pahiwatig
halos tanto ang tugatog na matigatig
may tainga ang lupa, may pakpak ang balita
ganyan ko maikukumpara Ang Mala - Palara
na sistema ng isang walang muwang na puwang
pag sa sandaling mag-pasaring ang ingay ng kulay
mala-abokado ang sapak' na mau-uLinigan
mansanas sa pagkapula sa kabalintunaan!
mga paksa na may pasak natutunghayan,
tuwing ang kapas ay sawing masasaksihan
" Ang dapat ay isang Wika sa Magandang ibubunga "
pambihira naman ang mga dalahira ,
wari bagang mapupunong inuugatan !
Martes pakatapos ng Lunes ! Linggo lang ba ang pahinga ?
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 5:55 AM UTC
she brings him tea,
a piece of cheese late morn
for he has been toiling since dawn
his plane shaving the wood reverently
the old oak speaking, though not complaining,
in a language the man does not understand
a coughing code for loss, forbearance, acceptance,
redemption, he hopes, for the boys keep coming…
first from Ypres, the Verdun,
now the Marne
before, he heaved hewn planks
for the hopeful homes, built their pantries
to be filled with the bread, the kind milk
now the sawn boards are for those who once
watched his labors, but no longer hear the simple
sounds of sanding, sawing
or anything at all
most of the lads do not come home,
their souls and bodies left to rot on the blood sullied grass
or buried shallow, naked in the French soil, but all get a fine coffin
thanks to the carpenter’s wife, whose babe was the first to fall,
who demands for them all, a holy horizontal home to be built
and, empty or not, placed gently in Anglican ground
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Strangers fall in love, zap arc light
others grab, finger dumb only to repel
those held most dear.
Seeing and sawing, gnawing ankles off in
polar bear trapped hugs.
You’ve heard this one before:
North pole lures south pole onto an ice floe, pushes her
with his toe out to sea.
SOS magnetic flux girdles her majesty.
She drags him, dinghy wed, out bound channel
past buoys and cruise ships and seals.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
I like the strings you pluck.
They sound through me and feel
Like a low hum.
I love the rub of friction
As you squeak quickly to move
Across the bridge;
Or a bow sawing back and forth,
Vibrating in my jaw. Running
Down into the soul.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
a few weeks back i
opened my big
fat mouth
& agreed to bartend
this art auction fundraiser for
street children in
kenya
which my parents organize
yearly
to which a lotta local artists
big & small all
donate pieces to.
anyway my pops wouldn't
let me serve gin with tonic *(this being a front so
i could drink it all of course, if y'know me at all..)*
and bought bud light (horsepiss)
and for wine used several
bottles of the stuff my
mother makes
in town
at the Penetang Wine Cellar
which, though rich & darkly red
is over-dry and smacks of vinegar,
be assured.
so despite see-sawing between
indignant "No's"
&
commiserative "Yes'ses"
(i mean who else are they gonna get??)
(---and due in part to
my lack of success in
making other plans)
i end up doing it &
having an alright time
in the process ...
(hey i had a big sink fulla icy beers &
'probly drank more than anyone
else save my father's friend Ted!!)
---i even threw down
a bit o cash on a pretty neat little
abstract called "view to the bay"
but got outbid,
---as if i needed to drop $100 +
on some painting
when i should be saving ev'ry dime
for old España
in the new year.
so i crack another beer and
live vicariously thru my mother
when she picks up a oil of this island
with big storm & clouds comin' in
---and then outta nowhere it actually is me
that closes out the show by outbidding
a neighbour for a
photograph of some dingy toronto night
(buildings under construction)
and then go back to pouring more wine
& smiling & shaking (wringing) a few hands.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
room for members only
inclusion to the party or left outside
for some reason, you’re not good enough - - - go away!
racks and rows of sorrowful pain come beating, like rain
in an endless circuit, it runs a spool
subtlety plays its wicked game of tug and pull, and horror is a resident in a dilapidated hostel
croakers dive into lucky packets, curing ails by tearing off layers of skin
these leechcrafters perfect the axiom, regurgitating sedatives to enact fever struck pattern
sawing bones into finest dust stream, disabling balm by wilting growth
only the knowers know what’s happening
keep the outsiders out
it’s a secret party - - - not all are welcomed
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
Just up ahead is a trail
Where people seldom go,
Sidling down the gravel hill
Into growths of ash and birch and elm,
Thickets of wild plums,
Chokecherries, leaves turning dusty,
Verdant armies of stinging nettles
Protecting coveted stands of juneberries.
Bittersweet vines entangle aged elms,
Siphoning life, to produce four petaled reds
As summer goes down to autumn.
Leaving the wind above
To batter the old truck,
I descend into the silence,
Trees stand tall, but low
Below the breeze.
Down in this steep place
The wind cannot come,
The sun, when it finds its way,
Warms gently on the coldest day.
The spring my father dug
Before I was born,
Set into the weeping gravel hill,
Runs steadily,
Strong enough
To fill the battered tank,
To keep a goldfish or two alive,
To host strange crustaceans:
Tiny shrimp, just larger than ants,
Pebble crusted creatures
More insect than fish,
Frogs in the tank,
Toads out...,
Mosses and mud
Thirty years or more
At home.
Deer come to this tank,
On hot days or cold;
Coyotes, too.
Porcupines dine on treetops
Swaying quietly
A hundred feet below
Wild Montana winds.
Cattle in winter find life
In the quiet, constant water
Flowing here.
I am taken back
To a stifling July afternoon,
But cool here in this protected place,
Dragonflies floating
And cicadas sawing in the trees,
My mouth full of juneberries
As I circle my way,
Eating more than picking...
Coming face to face with a coyote.
Was he dozing?
Passing through?
Or, do coyotes eat
Juneberries, too?
We stop hard,
Stunned.
Then bolt in opposite directions,
My juneberries flying
From the milking pail;
His tongue between his teeth,
Tail low,
Feet flying into the brush beyond.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC