Monday, January 30, 2012
except when you
ask me to; then
looking for blue,
I find cyan.
Work is a zoo;
lunch is butter.
I can't complain.
It's a subtle
shift, grouch unease
to unframed peace.
So ask me please,
at times, to grouse.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
even when it has been years.
I see your face clearly, and I have no photographs of you
except one that does not show your face.
In it, you are turning toward the window
as though bending to reach a falling balloon.
The window is on the outside of the house.
The sun catches something about you.
If it is a balloon, then it will pop in the stiff, dry grass.
This is not an island. This is a place
that may be the most fearsome adventure yet.
Firecrackers light our way, tell tales of unimagined distances.
The beauty of inflections and the beauty of innuendoes;
the crows watch us, and we leave our jackets on.
Seen here, I am playing on a stagecoach.
The window of memory makes me believe I know myself,
makes me believe that I knew myself as a child.
I can move out of the window toward stars and caverns.
Calling one fickle moment after the next:
“Just try to step into me twice.”
When we have to make a swift exit,
then our drum solo will echo, our icon melt into the sunlight and
finally, a l l l e t t e r s f l y o f f
Monday, January 23, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Imunuri Live Reading Group Collaborative Poem
Firecrackers light our way.
slapdash the sunshine through the lampshade
Damn! Them's some good biscuits!
Move it, pajamas! My levi's put whipped cream in the bird feeder. Black magic marker!
Tells a tale of unimagined distances
"A horse taught me to bow when I walked that path.
May I remember his quiet grace as I kick at my stall today."
Nobody knows that I am here.
I am alone but not alone. You are here but vanished before my eyes.
"the window that lives
in the flesh and
pulse of my
that opens out"
close together, bound tight by DNA
"my wife and I were happy for 20 years and then we met"
"This is not an island of sirens, witches, giants, storms.
This is a place, alone, to wait.
Which may be the most fearsome adventure yet."
Sunset edges two small clouds above the mountain.
"What precedes the start of a story arc?
A place devoid of heat, sound and motion,
a still place fraught with potential to spark."
"I've got so much life in me, if i grin
the songs of creation leak out,
a small glamour of sculptor and reaper"
Pachyderm two-stepping in time to the green-haired surfer
"A hungry night owl bee
Pollinates the silver moon
Milk-weed flower, a galaxy"
"Pushing myself / brusquely / out of nite wrappings / into jeans.
Out to Sweetmilk's / feeder & / Nature's dark art."
"...curve cut wood / that frames the light / into a design
I've never seen before / or since, the sign
of make it nice, / hold fast, make due, / rain or snow, / catch this prism of
I love you"
back in time it took me ... back ... back ... back
"my mother took us to this cool park where I
(seen here) am playing on a stagecoach"
["Drum solo, My icon"]
Everyday I pour myself through myself.
I was blessed by a hummingbird once --
its tiny wing against my face
softer than grief and love combined.
"You want mountain? Easy--
Sling me across the landscape
like the body of a voluptuous
a voluptuous, sleeping
or a river
calling one fickle moment after next--
go on, just try to step into me twice"
"I stop typing and move out the window, towards stars and caverns, where I can pause and take shape as air bodies.
Finally, a l l l e t t e r s f l y o f f"
"There’s no one watching over us now (except the crows)
and if you plan to stay, brother, trust me:
just keep your jacket on at all hours.
It's warmer that way, and you never know
when we'll have to make a swift exit."
thought, we dissipate it all.
"Are we not dark,
dark in our marrow, in our quiet…"
A thought of a thought precedes the start of a story arc.
reveals its down to earth
shaved head of my love
unveils her brave
being a forest
will sprout green
being an artist
she will get
henna head tattoos
in many colors
forest & artist
totems in texture together
turn dust and ashes
under source light
to bloom again.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
At first I feel like playdough
After it starts crumbling the
Blue color a kind of aftertaste
Of crest, but where are the blueberries
Then I feel like yew fronds
Caught in wind billowing gold
Pollen only I thought it was smoke from
A fire, is there a difference between
What starts life and what takes it?
This is a serious question, not a
poem. Like sitting next to someone
at a meeting who is not well, their breaths
do not syncopate to a rhythm, their body
rocks slowly like a music student’s
scrawls on the 5-line clever but
who doesn’t know
how to count. I never notice
how we rise and fall all
in a room until that day, by feeling the
antimetronomic asyncopy of
this person who must have been close
to death. If he had fallen down dead
would I remember it well? There was a woman
off kilter at a poetry workshop once
my friend and I start to fight about whether
a song needs rhythm. I resist.
who died the next day. We sucked air close by each
but she was way too much for me, she was like
a fuse: the verve of life demands things
it’s not just a pretty sparkler
i say, absolutely not. It’s as if he’s saying the
whole way I learned to sway with sisters
But maybe we can never
escape how our hearts beat
perhaps the fuse of life is what was burning into pollen
off the yew tree, and that’s what would heal the broken scraggle
rumpledump of blue playdough dried out. Next time it blossoms I’m going outside with glass vials. I am ready to be more, to be blessed, to remember how I’m whole
without being near something dying to remind me by counterpoint, a kind of syncopating of the heart that tolls and bumps
just for me I say just for me I feel just for us.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
the X-Ray (in the hospital basement)
came the MRI (outside the hospital on Broadway)
came nuclear medicine (in the new building) to drink the blue (die?) dye
then off to Neurology (back in the old building up the wheelchair ramp alongside EMERGENCY)
then back out (backout?) & over again to nuclear medicine
the next machine
is the end near?
did the crowd cheer?
a flaming orange glow;
next to the hardest working
water wheel in West Berkeley;
rises from a green pine
a demented cat chases her tail
inside a blue laundry basket
raising a racket
the electric streetcar stopped running
a long time ago
Perhaps I had to bend to spring back up.
If my grandma loved me too well
and my grandpa called me Dan-up,
then I needed to see how the apple of someone’s eye
might be a Red Delicious—
how I dislike Red Delicious apples,
a half-misnomer, I reckon.
Perhaps I needed to bend back to spring back up,
to climb alone up the boulders under the bridge,
to write about my loneliness reddeliciously,
to fumble an embrace,
to walk alone past the beachside births
built of driftwood, a neighborhood of those
who belonged, me feeling the strain.
Perhaps it’s the strain,
the discomfort of passing under the hurdle
that tenses the body for springing upright.
Perhaps it knew what it was doing all along
while this late-blooming mind clung on
through the final dip—changing it’s name—
to Danup, to e., to Frank, to Gertrude—
before relief flooded in and—
took myself a bow.
Perhaps the song
was in my ears
without my ridealong mind
hearing it; perhaps
my body knew
the dance all along—
kiss my ass, ridealong mind.
My ass knows exactly what it’s doing.
My ass never questionmarks itself
nor wonders if it dips correctly.
My ass sure can dance, word
The moments fell in chain reaction
in and around my life, 1995.
Suddenly, friends at my side.
Suddenly, bowing silently out of the party I had crashed.
Here, a body close beside.
Here, the taste of a purpose
walking on a sidewalk.
I pivoted on a city and a time,
my body flinging up.
My body is one of these upright things
that grows in a clump.
Monday, January 9, 2012
|Shemika Charles from Buffalo, New York broke |
the world record for the lowest limbo dance by a woman.
Bend back like a limbo tree...
Saturday, January 7, 2012
ororor yor bot...
here key blvd
points my accord
an X, N to S
east to west
X on the sky
the bankrupt school
marks the sky,
a spot: up
behold on yor
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
muck of muck, muck of muck, perhaps the angels will change my luck.
muck of muck. muck of muck, oily sheen underneath the duck.
muck of muck, muck of muck, only celestials will get me unstuck
muck of muck, muck of muck. muckety uckety uckety uckety muck of muck.