We revel in the sky,
and dusk,
and eventuality.

Love,
hopelessness,
diaspora.

Moment to moment,
we are the ever-changing aurora.

Our lights and our heat,
in the fading dark
we watch the horizon
where the mountains meet.

The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning at the muzzle in heroic glory
ending in the stomach with epic sorrow.

The sky is large,
the moon is bulging,
the clouds are pastel and burning,
smeared by the wash of darkness.

I am famished, but painless
because pain
is the dim smolder of love and freedom
suffocating deep inside.

That fire has not been stoked,
untouched for a while.

The oven has gone black,
the charcoal tastes mild.

And I have been loved with no freedom.

And lived for freedom with nothing to love.

I have gained wisdom,
and talked to myself.

The sky aches for its reunion with the horizon;
humbles itself, all out of color now,
and hungers for the embrace
of the mountains.

Into the murk,
the tracers go,
round by round,
lighting up that dividing line,
between hungry sky
and famished mountain
creating separation
in a world lost in time.

The tracers go,
round by round,
beginning in heroic glory,
ending in epic sorrow.

1.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
rubbernecking
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
perfectly
perched
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful
mark.

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
upward;
yet
thankfully
remain
distant
enough to
recuse any
possibility
of an
intimate
nexus
with the
besieged.

2.

From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
demanding
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
management
promising a
much needed
refurbishment.

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
ambassadorial
prelates, Emirs and
state department
bureaucrats
summoned
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
sanctify
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
rationalizations,
commencing
official commissions
of inquiry,
deliberating
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
Humanity
while
remaining
urgently
engrossed
in the fascination
of interviewing
potential
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
Baathist
confederates,
if papers
are to be
served.

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
Russia’s
gun running
intransigence
and China’s
geopolitical
chess moves.

Statesmen
boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
asymmetrical
symmetries
of civil war.

Caravans
of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
obfuscations,
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
recollections,
pleading
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
explanations
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
scopophiliacs
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
frantic
fathers
rushing
the mangled
carcases
of mortally
wounded
children
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
children
emaciated from
the wanton
indifference
of the world?


3.

From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
burning
ambivalence
continue
before it
consumes
our common
humanity in
a final
conflagration?

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


4.

From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
mercilessly
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist
lordship.

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists
lust.

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
outrage
beholding
careening
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
protruding
from marauding
jeeps of laughing
soldiers.

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
tears
reflecting
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


5.

From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an
avenging
angel?

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of
satyagraha?

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”

6.

Indeed,
physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my
illness.

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

This
pernicious
plague,
subverting
the notion
of a shared
humanness
is a cunning
sedition that
undermines
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

Allah,  
My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.

Selah


7.

From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
zaghroutas
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lamentations
lifting from the
the burning
destruction
of shelled
buildings.

Our eyes spark
from the night
tracers
of sleeking
snipers
flitting along
the city’s
rooftops.

The deadly jinn
indiscriminately
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
skillful
head shot.

These
ghoulish
assassins
lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


8.

From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs
shouting;

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
freedom,
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a
butchers
terrible
sword.


9.

From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
children;
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated
pools.

10.

From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed
minarets.

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


11.

From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
insistence
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
upheld,
respected and
protected.


12.

From my safe
window
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
levitating
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
mourning
joins my
desperate
prayers;
rising in
concert
with the
black billows
of smoke
dancing
away
from the
flaming
embers
of scorched
neighborhoods.


13.

From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
wings
of avenging
angels
furiously
batting
as they
climb
the black
plumes,
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated
city.

It is the
Jacob’s
Ladder
for our
time;
marking
a new
consecrated
place
where
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
pulverized
stones of
desolation.

14.

From our
safe windows
we peer into
resplendent
mirrors
beholding
the perfect image of
ourselves
eying
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


15.

From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


16.

From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
shot
precedes
the wiz of a
passing bullet
whispering
its presence
into my
waxen
ear.


17.

From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme
Acknowledgment

Oakland
2/28/12
jbm

"The thought of  the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go."

The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man.

All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again.
The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra *******, lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers.

Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life..

Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake.

This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of  it's unwanted face..

The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence.

"Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment.  

This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.

(a travelogue)

He stared down through
the unbroken silence
lapping the shoreline
Water skippers dart around
the rocks and windfall driftwood
settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds
and emerging broadleaf sprouts

A petrified heartwood timber
lie fallow waiting bare barked,
hushed like a pining lover’s
     timeworn love seat,
     rubbed smooth as
     the crystalline waters
     of  half-moon lake

Lingering for a while  ―  
like a hidden stalker,
a perched wildcat waiting
for the full moon’s  
swooning spell to saturate
the thickening dusk quietude;
     arousing the urgent
     call of the wild —
exhaled from the held breath
of the wilderness nocturne
    on half-moon lake

The stillness was scattered
with the soft downy hairs
of the sleeping cattails,  and
the newly shed catkins
a spring gust bestrewed
from a tall resin birch tree
nigh the Sitka willows

     He  sat  quietly ...
     time out of mind ―

tossing his eyes up into the sky;
taking the time to read the stars ―
catching  them  each  again
as they fell into his gentle hands,
to show him who he was

Seeing their sparkly tracers  
trail-out above the cattails,
     from a distance
they resembled falling stars
unable to perceive their own renaissance ―
plashing lightly upon the still-water
     on half-moon lake

A lone shadow glides stealthily
near mid-tarn,.. swimming  
enchantingly with the grace
     of a blackswan
Appearing to glance shoreward
at the glowing low stars
rise and fall, as his eyes
twinkled skyward over
     the moonlit lagoon ―
heavenward of its moonlit ballet;
the lone sleek dark shadow
     slipping through
     a faint circular ripple
stirring the smooth as glass waters ―  
disappearing like a fleeting moment
     waning deep aneath
     a subtle silent wake.

When all the clear lines blurred,
he knew it had been so long ...

     but hearken !
… an interceding
     long drawn out wail  
     echoed  a feral ache
     across the stillness,
     breaking the silence ―

as the shadow reappeared;
     his tears surrendered
to the undulating call of the wild;
he felt the spirit of the sole Loon,
     as black and white
     as the moonlit night,
stir deeply in his wanting heart ―
     lay bare the silence
in lengthy yodeled psalms
to the god of the moon

Diving down deep yet again,
keeping the light he’d been given,
vanishing into the lifespring
sanctuary of half-moon lake


harlon rivers ... May 2018
travelogue: 4 of some more

The moon will get more blurred, not less

and more and more i'll look in vain
for edges
and reasons

old errors lose their lines and shapes

leave flashes, not whole cycles
there are peaks
and troughs

i see how all is blending thick

mixing, slurring, soup-of-lifeing
is it done yet?
is it right?

i stir, i eat, i look, i sleep

i dream of moons that fill the sky
with brightness
with courage

Four A.M.

Nothing, at first,
then clouds part,
and stars fall
like showers
of seed pearls:

perfect white
particles
of creation,

God's tracers,

tiny droplets
of beauty

raining
on a still,
dark world.
  - mce

In Farmington the misfit suffers the jukebox and dances to an unknown song. He dances on the pool table. He wears black—black skull cap, black
duster, black shirt, black slacks, black boots. He's in Farmington and
the women here drink Bud Light. He dances slow. It's similar to a dance
you've seen before. You have that friend that climbs on couches after a few and half staggers, half sways. The women here watch him with unhappy eyes and hands stained blue from the textile mill. He seems to mouth the words although he clearly doesn't know the song. They, the women, dig their elbows into the bar. Pocked and graffiti'd, the bar soaks up spilled beer and ash and nail polish. Behind the bar a sign reads: Free Beer Tomorrow. And for some reason, you must admit, this sign's effect never dulls. The Misfit pantomimes a dance with a pool cue. His face is severe, serious. He's in Farmington dancing with a pool cue on a pool table to a song he doesn't know like a drunk friend of yours and the women are watching. Next, he does something amazing. He removes his cap. He's got shocks of bleached hair and burn scars run like rivulets between the patches. He tosses the cap toward the bar. One lucky woman catches it and summons herself to the pool table. You want them to have a bit of dialogue here, to say something oblique and innocent. Instead the lucky woman dances at the man's feet. He surrenders a smile and he's got small tracts of bleached hair and burn scars and he's in all black and he's dancing. The lucky woman, she's in a canary yellow patch dress. Her dance, although clumsy, still mesmerizes you. It's without ego, without shame. She is a child. She is the light in the room. She is, in this moment, the world entire. He pulls her onto the table. It's time to appoint the Misfit and the lucky woman names, you think. His name shall be Joshua. Her name shall be Anna. Palms together, her head resting on his chest, they sway. The smoke and the tracers of light meld and Joshua and Anna's outlines become muddied. Their bodies merge and they are both yellow and black and covered in burn scars and bleached hair and the women are still watching. As the song starts to fade, someone—maybe it's you—drops a few coins in the jukebox and it begins again.

Sijo 1  

The rapid rattle fire, red tracers screaming in silent air,
woke me from half dream sleep--eyes open are better than eyes closed,
when ears are filled with black noise, and Victor Charlie wants me dead

O the mustangs stung like mosquitoes,
fast as lightning & thunderbolts,
liberators & fortresses,
hurricanes & tornadoes,
hell cats & bears,
invaders & dragons,
good grief Lord,
those mighty Gordons!

O wily foxes & quick lancers,
avengers & vindicators,
swordfish, barracuda,
some tuna, albacore.
Gladiators in the gauntlet,
zig-zagging & spitting fire,
spewing molten hot-lead,
bright-tracers in the night,
forever fighting
with their all their might,
bombing their daylights out
and into submission,
la morte, stone dead.

O they sank the Rising Sun,
'cause they had that *****,
battling against all wrong
& protecting only
what was right!

Infinite, iridescent ribbons
Spinning out around us.

With every word you let slip,
I dare say I see every hue,
Drifting closer to me,
and you.

They speed up with every second of anticipation,
Wrapping tightly around our skins sensation.

But somehow, these mingling ties,
they cannot bind me.
instead they move us.
A deep blue undertow, your eyes,
washing over my entirety.
Bright hot Scarlett's sweetly pulling us in,
Closing the only gap left between us,
now chest to chest.
white light, tracers at your mouths content.
silver as winters first gasping breath,
shivers as you reach for me again.

Our strings of thought do not break as they should.
Concoctions of enthrall,
tangling, mending, strengthening,
as you move to my hearts rapid beat.

We could not understand because we were too far and could not remember because we were traveling in the night of first ages. And those ages are gone, leaving hardly a sign and no memories. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there, there you could look at a thing monstrous...and free.  The Heart of Darkness

Slowly ever so slowly
Gliding above the burning things below
Some still moved but we did not attend

We were tired of carrion food
There was too much
Still we could hear the distant passage
Of a great beast
Earth shaking roars and shrapnel filled flames
Shaking the backs of our eyes
We waited for that moment of stillness
When the earth breathed between eruptions
Just like that night in Stalingrad
Or Gettysburg when the cannon stopped that summer afternoon
All that could be heard were
The groans of the wounded
Then the clatter of the gunships returned
The spell was broken
Just as it began to move toward the lines of tracers and the 20mm rapid-fire,
Flinging the broken skeleton of the city before it
The beast met our eyes for a moment
Shared a sly grin
Then we knew it for our own
Our private monster

The Flak hits the wings and body of the plane
506th Easy Company
Of the 101st Airborne

The leg bag
Tore right off
They jumped lower than they should have been

Tracer bullets burning holes through the parachute
Tracers spraying around in the air
Firing in every direction

Paul "Buck" Rogers
Lands in a tree

Some worked their way down
Through a farm area
To a hedge row

Easy Company captured and destroyed
The guns at Brecourt Manor
Saving countless lives on Utah Beach

They helped to liberate the Dutch
Angels from the sky

The black and white footage is amazing
The gratitude and love the people show
To the men is wonderful

Finally free after four years
Of Occupation by the Germans

Battling from village to village
Along "Hell's Highway,"
Easy Company crossed Holland to the Rhine River

Nine men of Easy Company
Lost their lives
Battling in Holland

By the End of the Holland campaign,
Easy Company had been on the frontline
For more than 70 days

On Dec. 16, 1944
****** launched his offensive into the Ardennes

The Battle of the Bulge would become
The largest engagement
In the history
Of the U.S. Army
600,000 soldiers would fight in the battle

Easy Company was told to hold the perimeter of Bastogne
Surrounded by Germans
Branches knocked off of trees
Holes in the ground

Artillery attack
88s, mortars, rockets
They jumped into foxholes
He could see all the shells hitting from the foxhole

The wounded got relief from battle
Maybe a ticket home
If they died they were at peace

At Berchtesgaden
They uncovered artwork

In Zell Am Zee, Austria
Easy Company helped secure
The surrender of 25,000 German troops

On November 30, 1945
The 101st Airborne Division
Was inactivated

Day after Day
They fought together
Fought for each other
Knowing some would not return

This veteran said,
"I cherish the memories
Of a question my grandson asked me the other day.

'Grandpa, Were you a hero in the war?'
Grandpa said no
But I served in a company of heroes."

Dearest Tommy
I think of you every night
I lay awake listening to the thunder
and the lightening, and the rain
on the old tin roof
(which is leaking again by the way)
but during the day
I can't hear it, I'm so busy staying sane
Just want you to know, even though
it's only been 2 months I'm thinking
of you, again

My Heart, Melissa
I'm thinking of you out in the desert
there are 50 million stars
and several stray bullet tracers
but they can never mar the beauty
of the night sky, from where I lie
thinking of you and maybe...
our babe? Don't leave my hanging
sweetheart, give me a hint
to make my darkest day

I LOVE U!

Dear Tommy
The mailman came again today
with no news from you, I can't pretend
that it didn't light a fuse beneath my temper
but I understand you are busy and it is September
Autumn months where life lies fallow
I'm not trying to be shallow
I'm just trying to plug up the leaks
there is no babe, I'm sorry (I'm not)
but it's cold and life is bleak
without you

Darling Melissa
I'm hearing you cry out to me
I'm getting your letters but you're
not seeing me? How can that be?
I want you to know that each grain
of sand that I pour out of my boots at night
I count as minutes spent away from you
and I'm seeing you beyond sight
when I close my eyes under stars
that don't shine for you in your universe
and I'm sorry for that
but under each shining light, I pretend
that your looking up at the same star
and you are whispering what we rehearsed...
No matter where you are, you are my star.
Remember?

Love your Tommy

Dear Tom
The leak was fixed last week by Steven Treadle
remember him from High School
He played football for a little while
and then he decided college football wasn't for him
so he decided on a trade and now he's a roofer
He wanted to be a soldier but his injury prevented him
He's doing well, here in Suburbia...

and with me...
I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry, so sorry
but he's here for me...
I'm so sorry
but Tommy

I Loved you
and the idea of you and me
but Tommy
I need someone by me...

Sorry

the last response Melissa received
was not a letter
from Tommy
but an Official
Sorry*
from the Military
but it was never
as sorry
as Melissa felt
that Tommy
may have
(or may have not)
received her last
Sorry
or the Hell
it may have spelt

..
Mouth full of semi-raw fried potatoes and
dehydrated orange wheels, doesn't Mr. Appleseed come out of
nowhere
and plant a speck of a seed right smack dab in the centre of my
reptilian cortex, but I
pay no mind because Buddy has adored me for a whole five minutes until he rebounds
              harder
                        than an
                                    addict discharged
                                                    fr­om
                                                        forest-y­ methadone clinics
                                                        i­n downtown cores
                                                        pop­pin' Hilfiger blue collars
                                                        y­ackin' it on the phones to guys named D, or
                                                        D yackin' it to guys named Friendo, Jai, or
                                                        Little­ Tim,
                                                        buri­ed from ******* back too much hillbilly
                                                       ­ ******, while
                                                        col­lege girls sleep in their Sahara beds,
                                                        sav­ing up to buy bouncy trampolines with
                                                        boun­cy cheques,
                                                        ­listening to lullaby coos of pimps and ******
                                                        on­ the downstairs couch,
                                                        ga­zing fawn-eyed at cavediums next to
                                                        nobody cares muffins and syrup-y coffee
                                                        canyoudropmeoff?
                                             ­           outside of the seventh-story window of
                                                        million dollar saloons,
                                                        ­wearing blings and rings,
                                                        purchase­d by wealthy husbands and
                                                        travelin­g yuppies for their wives' veneer,
                                                        eating breakfast cereals that go
                                                        Snap! Crackle! Pop!
                                                        for three square meals,
                                                        re­furbishing plastic containers
                                                        on foot-stained broadloom,
                                                        with cage and cagey roommates,
                                                        throwing life rafts to bloated bodies in
                                                        Great Lakes
                                                        for the price of a debt,
                                                        recalling waffling road trips,
                                                        visiting one-man tents behind billowing
                                                        smokestacks;
                                                        I blew my brains out in an air duct,
                                                        lost my life lifting up heavy floor mattresses,
                                                        climbing out of basement windows,
                                                        while hitch hiking mothers sing karaoke
                                                        nursery rhymes by Janis Joplin,
                                                        20 notes off-key,
                                                        harboring skeletons in stairwells and rusted
                                                        out Grand Ams,
                                                        making friends in Tim Hortons after last call,
                                                        dressed in leprechaun fatigue,
                                                        driving like England at midnight,
                                                        I spoke to a faceless man,
                                                        whom I'll never get a chance to send a
                                                                ­               thank you
                                                       card...
                                                       as for me? I never touched the stuff

but I was too spent to care and was already floating on cheap Chardonnay and authentic vitamin D with my bindle stuffed to the brim so I thought I'd just American Beauty plastic bag my way through this one, cropped in floral, patio sunglasses, swirling and twirling on Ballet Boulevard until
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left  ear
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
        the testa bursts open.
..

I need a release, a relief from this pressure.
A cessation of the flooding,
An infestation of the catalytic chemicals that feed my brain

The battle for attention is overwhelmed by anatomy,
keeping me on the fringes of insanity

I can't control it, only roll with it, embrace and encase this energy inside

Projecting my being;
rejecting the snares,
the lack of cares that fill the air

Cognitive dissonance entertains and persuades the whispers within
as they swirl and whirl their tracers are all that remain

The red of satisfaction yet to be attained,
a heart unrestrained and a feeling still unnamed.

.
Even after visits to apartments in self-named cities to see soccer stars swathed in orange tuxes,
Swerving off country roads in berating fits of tenderness,
Sputtering 'i love yous' in ditches and river canals;
Even after chais with Ye Ye Elders,
Messenger powwows with ancestors, and
holding the hands of comforting Harmonies, I

Never got it right.
.
It was a pathetic attempt to join a traveling circus; a passive means for an escape. Who were the Elephant Man, the sword swallower, or the contorting twins?
****** if I know.
Buddy had his hands wrapped around my neck in a nihilist noose so tight that it bubbled up amaurotic visions within my retina.
I couldn't see or feel a ******* thing.
Lost consciousness on his cold bathroom tiles, sprinkled with ***** confetti, **** all up on my cheek.idonthavetimeforthis!sleeponthecouch!
Watching 'Teach Yourself Circus!' videos at circus camp, I learned to juggle,
albeit groggy and disoriented. Only brightly coloured ***** at this point but I was up to seven tosses! While the freaks and geeks headed to carousels in the big top tent, I headed back to my dilapidated den leased on a broken Concord.
getoutbitchgetoutbitch
Back at camp ( hazy lazy crazy ) rivets affixed so I could only stare forward at the wall.
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left  ear
voice reverberating down thru
t
h
e

w
e
l
l  
past
   t
   h
   e

   b  u  c
   k  e  t

I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
glacial stares softened into slushy moss.
A buttery soft cashmere reply,
                                      i'm sorry? what did you say?
                                                           ­  you seem nice...
.
Infrastructure collapsed.
    ****
Gone.
Crumbled in a heap of rubble.
Impaled by rebar and rebar erections.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab. Dab.
in a black plastic sack
And....then....
Who's to say about the linear sequence of events, anyway?
.

Staccato beats pulsate; contrast deep lines, extended exposure.
The stars carve bright tracers across a sky so far past midnight,
it may as well be mourning again.
I can see the city from here, but my eyes do not truly see
us in the backseat holding hands.
Your eyes are endless even in still frame photos,
the fire in your hands can't compare to the fire in your heart.
Desire; I look down on a sea of stars, and the atmosphere so foreign to me,
so alien.
I can't even begin to describe what's really real to me,
it's so different from what they taught us to see.
My eyes are open.
Footsteps silent and ghostly, across miles in seconds just to see your smile.
It rings across dimensions, the demands of the commander
to protect and love.
We run miles upon miles to settle this fury, to wrap you in the warmth of spirit.
I can't see the forest for these concrete trees.
If there was ever a horizon it settles only upon this city with the sunset,
If there was ever a moon, there it hides among our clouds.
Crown me king... this kingdom unseen, its citizens anonymous,
and unaware.
Can I comfort all who run for these outstretched arms?
I will never be sure, but I can be sure there will always be room
in this weather-worn heart for another smile,
another try.
We run together, like rivulets into one tear drop
complete apart and together.

ive been drawing for you all day
impermanent scrawlings on the white board
im just trying to keep my hands moving
so my students dont have to see me weep
because today its not going to be pretty
one of those hard lump in the throat ones
i would have taken pictures of them
the doodles
but you know how i am with technology
all thumbs if thumbs werent the only thing you needed
you keep coming to me in my sleep
and in a cold sweat i search the house
for your wet foot prints
and now your visage is imprinted
in orange and yellow dry erase
camera phones clicking behind me
performance art that hurts
wild and swooping gestures
leaving tracers to be erased

My naked skin glistens
with strenuous sweat.
My name on your lips
urges me faster yet.
The Whip in your hand
is applied to my back.
I jump in my tracers
to the head of the pack.
As we round the last turn
To hollers and cheers,
I look forward to oats,
My Jockey , to beers

manifesting destiny comes when i'm weakest
i'm weakest now, when my shade comes haunting me
tracers of past, near and far, grasp my heart, seal my chart
forever licking me
licking my neck
biting my flesh
whispering words selling failures in the stead
of who could whisper all accomplishments

here i am, open, seeping all my wounds for you
hurt through the cracks believing that the scars i wear just may reach you
here i am, open, singing the only words i have left

your shadow
my shadow sneaks in
all too close
hovering beside me
your shadow
my shadow knows all
that it needs
to do to destroy me
and it seduces

blessings rarely come and tell me i'm okay
in absence i have learned to rely on things
deep within my emotion but lacking from my bed
forever taunting me
licking my neck
biting my flesh
whispering words selling love to my loneliness
of that i know full well would disable me

here i am, open, seeping all my wounds for you
hurt through the cracks believing that the scars i wear just may reach you
here i am, open, singing the only words i have left

what the hell does love mean, anyway?
well, open your arms, i'll let you enter the void.
what the hell does our love mean, anyway?
open your reclusive arms, i'll let you fall in.

fall in to the extreme
logic fails where the soul has been
fall in to the extreme
i'm warm,
i'm warm,
i'm warm

The gun bled crimson
tracers
under moonless skies,
penetrated the ramparts
& those with tattered knapsacks
remained vigilant
as stalwart sentries
fell in ****** tatters
to the ground.

Maniacally,
they laughed
at such insane acts,
buried their own dead,
full of enemy-lead.

Bleeding* profuse orbs of bloodletting passion with glowing centers dripping drops that linger like tears sending tracers of heart stopping feelings to one's core.
Sparks ignite moonlight memories puddling & pooling until there is no more moving other bleeding hearts.

A : Feelings come and go...
Leaving their mellow tracers on my mind,
while my body is wracked in pain,  
my heart is full of thine..

I imagine thee on my  side,
soothing my hair with your fingers tine.  
That's mostly enough to relieve my pain...
Aah what to say of the fire that leaves behind?

Wide-eyed girl

heart in full flight

eyes like tracers

reddened with night

then found myself

tangled in green

unable to escape

stuck in-between

weighed with longing

heart set in stone

wolf wanders closer

through grass overgrown

promising forever

begging to let go

holding my gaze

is he friend

or is he foe

ol' factory swirling of disinfectant and decay
and the arising sliding vision that brings me to my knees,
presence like you...and you...and
                                                ...you....again.­

                  (      (     (    (   ( (scope) )   )    )     )      )
                (      (     (    (   (  ( (like) )  )   )    )     )      )

a paralysis of fear
        that grips an exhale

                     ...like, serious,

for real, for real.

DJs spinnin' tunes like yarns,
blanketed cocoons
and scoring golden booties.

Divert into another duality,

                - split -

                  (      (     (    (   ( (scope) )   )    )     )      )
                 (      (     (    (   (  ( (like) )  )   )    )     )      )

a past, present, and future
>>>>>>>>>>shakin' it, shakin' it<<<<<<<<<<
like an Oxford comma weekend.

A love like, <                                                              ­                      >
and a tsk like, <                                                              ­    >
for who sells integrity on a dime?
Slo-mo tracers.....
diss....appointment.

Unconscious tallies of an inhale or exhale
that arises with the all
                unfiltered
                   now hesitant
                        but, yet,
                              here
                             ­       we
                                        are

in absolute wanderings.

The doctor gave me some pills,
Said these will help you sleep.
My eyes are getting heavy,
I think they are going to work.

My room is dark and quiet
I will finally get some peace.
The soothing sounds of music
Thunder and lighting fill the air.

The lighting of tracers,
The sound of dying men.
The thunder of the rockets,
I'm going back again.

Now I'm safe, I found a hole.
You guys are dead,
How did you get in here?
What do you mean, we're going for a walk?

I hate this time of year in the Delta,
There's red dust everywhere.
Wait, I think it's going to rain,
The red dust turns to red mud.

Frank, where are you going?
You've got the point again?
Step lightly brother, stay alert,
The ***** are all around.

Hey, Lt. let's take a break.
This radio weights a ton and hurts.
Yes Sir, I know, everyone has problems.
Yes, I'll be sure and tell the chaplin.

From the front, a M-16 on rock and roll.
I think Frank has found a problem.
Yes Sir, the radio is ready,
I think we are going to need some help.

Everyone spread out, find cover.
But watch out for traps where you go.
Radio guy, get over here, now>
**** I don't want to move.

He called the birds, help is on the way.
I see the tracers, going out and coming in.
Is it my imagination, is my radio the target?
My 16 is so hot, I grab one from the ground.

The captain calls our position,
Everyone drops and hugs the ground.
We can hear the jets coming
And hell is what they bring.

Something is not right,
I'm choking on the dust.
We are walking down a road
Me and the dead looking for a enemy.

I've learned to live with the
Loud ringing in my head.
But now it is drowning out the
Sounds of the bullets and guns.

The heat and fear, I'm soaking wet.
The sounds and smells cover me.
The mud is pulling me under.
My wife is shaking me awake.

The smell of ****** and burning bodies,
Gun power, burn pits, rice paddies, bugs.
You can leave the war behind,
But it follows you home.

Shops close while a storm front
     is moving in
and my eyes adjust to night.
Last fool who's out walking
and I guess I dressed a little light

Late winter flakes streaking
a ***** wash of tracers,
                          grey on grey
Silhouette of five fingers
in streetlights cast as they're grasping
                                    at door frames

Still holding out. Your distance
  reaches out across miles
           it strikes me blind.
Now listen up--I've been whispering,
"One more shot's all I ask;
          my aim's alright."

A laundry list of dead actions
fills up a page, it's sour in your mouth
I've been living scratched off in the margins
Take your time, we've got all Spring to thaw out.

Orange light through bay windows
               is spilling out
in a citrus wash on snow.
Street you live on a memory
913, left turn off Bird's Hill Road

I bet that it's warm there
though the frost covers window
                                       panes outside
And today I remember
the way your laughter thawed out my
                                            frozen sights

Still holding out. Your distance
       reaches out across miles
                  it strikes me blind
Now fessing up to bad reasons
One more turn of the season
                         you'll be fine.

I guess I missed the benediction;
bless your heart, cross my best wishes out.
So let's fill this page with better diction--
Syntax sorted, we'll just talk ourselves down.