"workshopping" poems
i would compromise
--i compromise. i appear to i mean,
with peace-demeanor customized for show
paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense
in a confidence of meek to render compliments
crowding infancies of all
for the sake of art
i bend my frame about cliche
to have a human dragon claim
"the real persists unknown"
and gather at a sacred dolmen
fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun--
you said there was a butterfly
tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too..
its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz
within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight.
a blanket iris cries warmth
in clusters hung ripe, filming over all
a native ceremonial, falsepolitik
i pluck at them atop a fence
obscure for comforts masking truth
discarded, found, fashioned
into furniture for candled houses
built with children's sons
where families try to see
a clearing in the warping
mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends
. wooden beams help it rise and dim,
the sunny lie, genuinely fake,
authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true
-- growing young, stemming back
to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely
patient basements full of heirlooms,
sheik dining areas all
nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at
in apple layers
symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly,
serving existential voids--
grace, fall, stumble catch
acquired tones of oak or berry--
other fruits would do, or none,
as i still feel
praised by your rejections --
when indifference gains a sweetness
like a novel vengeance won
i am indulging villainy
workshopping staling norms,
garden dark as cultivated loam.
where i am words
mooding intellect to torment,
faun complexity awry
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
I sit before you all today,
Christ deformed on a cross of
Whitman and Eliot and Plath.
You all surround me with your helmets lined with blood stained papers of past battles,
stabbing, tearing, poking and maiming at my ribs with your #2 pencils and ball point pens.
You mark me up, carving me up in red and black for all the mistakes I have apparently made.
You belch out how you would have done it, how it could be better. Why does that matter?
I hang here now, dreading it all.
Gazing at my heavenly home,
I start to ask, “Father, why do I
have to make them love me?
Can’t I just exist and be free?”
And God thunders down to me,
“Sometimes, son, being imperfect
is what makes you too perfect.”
And with his words, I purge myself
of all of the scars and judgment,
and I am born once again, anew.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
Santa Claus is coming.
This isn’t a luck situation.
He knows things, like if you’re sleeping.
Which is kind of creepy if you think about it.
I suppose I’m an open book.
It’s an implacable reality.
oops, better rhyme something.. let’s see..
“Santa, that elf commanda
will bring you all a panda
fresh from the jungles of Uganda
straight to your verandah”
Whew.. art is hard work.
Leeza has a small aluminum-tinsel Christmas tree in her room with a new-age LED-star topper. It slowly prisms through the color spectrum, breaking down light, like modern jazz. Small things can still enchant, if you’re open.
I was sipping dark-chocolate coffee while Lisa rearranged the ornaments on the tree - again (as head-elf, the tree is her purview). She was humming to herself unconsciously as she worked, like a finch in a beautifully lit, evergreen garden. There was no real melody to it, it was just happiness.
Peter (my bf) is here, he arrived last night - we’re workshopping instant gratification.
Even if things have been tough - I hope you have a joyous holiday - that you chose it, like an option in an app. Nothing’s sweeter than the bruised joy of someone who’s known sorrow.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
Dec 24, 2023
Dec 24, 2023 at 8:22 AM UTC