I've got so many chickens on Main Street

I’ve got so many chickens on Main Street

I’ve got so many chickens on Main Street
that the commercial neighbors can complain.
But realize folks, I do not keep roosters & their straw is fresh & clean.
They’ll eat the organic restaurant scraps left by people on their plates
& my chickens will not keep the 9 to 5ers up late.
They close their eyes when the sun sets over Half Moon Bay
& awake plenty early to make your breakfast eggs.

mmmm.....

I’ve so many

good wishes from

fortune cookies

saved in my home,

you’d think to see

diamonds and plums

in Chihuly

bowls in each room.

Reality?

Bowls by Ari

fill with pennies

and small apples

from our own tree.

Fortune’s simple

sugary crumbs

fill my temple.

My luck’s ample.

Learning the Drill

Adults always tried to peer into our heads,
tinker with what went on in there,
control our tongues. Only one of them ever could.

We had to see Him regularly. For our own good.

We went unwillingly, quivering in the car,
to a house that was more than a house
in a neighborhood nicer than ours.

The side entrance was guarded by a woman in white.

Surrounded by faded Highlights and expired Time,
we waited in despair, dreading our turn in that oversized chair.

The lobby stunk of formaldehyde and the tiny flecks of bone
that He scraped off people’s skulls.

First some stranger’s kid went in, then a trembling sibling.

They’d come out pale, shoulders tense, faces strangely drooping.

Most were silent as they emerged, which was less distressing
than the gas and gabble of those who spoke.

Mother made odd promises: milkshakes to the docile.

At home, we were too big for these childish bribes,
but here in His harsh light – eyes pressed shut, fingers twitching –
we clutched stuffed talismen no longer needed in the dark.

For parents desperate to decipher the content of crania,
X-rays were not enough.

He pried open our jaws and slid in a mirror,
then played a tune on the edge of our molars.

The shrill music of metal against mandible
echoed insanely from within our ears.

We cried out, but it did no good.

We cried out. It was for our own good.

And it was. They were right, of course.

We chew, true, to this day. We even learned to floss.

And, while He never did extract the truth,
no priest at confession ever came so close to our secrets.

(the great cycle:) the same things that make me whole will make me dead

they say the stars of all the constellations
when compressed onto the body
become the chinese medicine points and meridians.


so i walk with galaxies under my skin -
and i've already been told
dinosaurs in my brain and bridges between.


every construct and metaphor, ever leaf and twig,
snout and slime mold, cloud and fever
clings to the depth of my fibriles and forms.


i've got so much life in me, if i grin
the songs of creation leak out, a small
glamour of sculptor and reaper

whisps into flight on sound waves
of delight and dread. the same things
that bring us death make us whole.

the same things that make me whole will make me dead.


today, cedar boughs (my lungs) heavy with cones (breath),
the wind of what-has-made-me (the thrillion conversations,
with young deer and neighbor, magnolia and moth),

like a galactic zephyr, roll through my blood
and start me thrumming. a tuning fork
for stars unseen and seen, i start glowing and know

what brings us death will make me whole.
the same things that make me whole will make me dead.
which leads me to believe: this poem will never
end.



October 3, 2011

Image credit - thanks to Anonymous and their free fractal desktop image

IMUNURI prompt: muchness

(C) 2002-2011 Michele Pred

so much 

paperwork.
admiration.  
tangled string.
boundary.


For this week's prompt,
complete the phrase  
"I’ve got so much ____." 

Make this the topic and/or the title of your poem.


Alternative 1:  Start with the phrase, "I've got too much ____."

Alternative 2:  Substitute many for much.


Tags: poem, muchness, [your handle]

I (earth)

I (earth)

I (earth) sit on my deck under my sun
& hear sounds of children on the playground yelling, shrieking and bellowing
crows sound from above squawking
autumnal train whistles resound
my sun warms me, soft September breezes brush my skin with the moment’s liquid butter filming

“Accept the things,”  I (earth) cannot change
 My orbit
 My people
 Population growth
 My sun
 All things water
 All things fire
 All things air

Grant me (earth) the courage to “change the things I can”
My belief
  in my power over the universe
  in my everlasting existence
My resentment
  of my dependence on the sun to sustain life on my terms
  of  water/fire and air that do as they please
  of the overwhelming weight of gravity

& “the wisdom to know the difference”
between heaven and earth
amen
  

Poetry DNA Retina, or "all like earth"

All the poems for the past three years, all the words, 36 thousand 5 hundred and 39 plus of them, each one an eyeball of time, a species of momentary flashdrive on the retina of the heart of the world, form an all-seeing eye, for which EARTH is the pupil, the black hole of knowing and from which i can see everything clearly now

these are the refrigerator magnets of my perception and locution...

****

all like earth
a meta-poem

long time moon
body open
night rain making
healing rock | old life
long time moon
days again moon words
river space | hands dance
cloud take light
now come, like life

like through the heart,
one space more for
dark, kind, world poems:
people's bodies need the moon.

dream | poem | breath | fire
water knowing | wind sense
now walk, come cloud
the small blue year
(first full song before ocean)
(take light heart, air)
the small blue year
KNOWS
ALL ABOUT
something between creation:
LIKE LIFE THROUGH EARTH


****

put your poems together and see your world... e.g. www.worditout.com or another recommended of the many word cloud generators

From eyeball earth

"From eyeball earth"

--After Gertrude Stein


The trouble in both eyes
does not come from
the same symmetrical carpet,
it comes from there being no more
disturbance than in
little paper.

one FIELD is the over-arch
of dark endless-out sky,
all to all going out to dark lighting
onward there, just there,
nothing else but everything

one OBJECT is ground,
a ground,
self-thing,
created thing,
flat pavement, runway,
machine,
moving machine,
distant whirling of
light machines

one LAYER is reflective
bounce of light on air,
masking both
field and object:
someone approaches--their image
in light traces on glass,
words on a sign
HTOUM OTAMOT YHW
some mechanical shadow of
a mechanism

and then there's
one other SOMETHING...

an aspect I can't sense to name--
the witnessing-ness
the earthing thing,
the hold that releases this,
some kind of verb,
some kind of numberless

Prompt: Earth Eye, Globe-Eye, World Vision

What if our eyes are small globes, the earth holographically embedded in our eyes? Write as if you are seeing through the point of view of the Earth inside. Your eye is the globe, what do you see? What is the vision of Earth?

Tags: globe-eye, poem, [poet's handle]

Image unattributed from http://www.lettheglobeknow.com/Globe-Eyes.html

IMUNURI prompt: exlamations

Create and post something that contains exactly three exclamation points.


Keywords: poem, exclamation, your name

gravity is a form of love/the heart dentist

i. bird song and planet spin

down the long rills and funnels of bird song
into the headblasting wind of the new day
as the earth furls and twists
her daily spin.

here, in these parts, i don't know the songs
of these birds. their sudden pats and thrills:
how they wake me, as if i'm on the wrong planet.
some of them seem to be complaining.

others startle the whole sky with lyric.
i point my head east and feel the wind of how
we are turning in the galaxy in a slow whinnying
corral of sun spinning. gravity is a form of love.

ii. the heart dentist

extraction, dental or of the heart variety,
is best done quickly. some people find pain comforting.
i hope you can't see the gaping hole
in my chest

left by the heart dentist, how come they were
all out of anaesthesia when you started dying
quicker than we all are? is your planet spinning
faster now, in a diminishing gyre,
a downward
descent
to
final
fusion?

Mimi at the dentist

Prompt: After The Dentist

Watch (or rewatch) this viral video.


David After Dentist


With what you see, hear and feel
as your starting point,
write something.


keywords: poem, dentist, [your handle]

spark 2 - present state

spark 2 - present state
i believe in motorscooter cellular youth
working hot Yogyakarta daily prayers
into this 2-cycle engine stroking present state.
reproducing & multiplying
dressed in bright yellow,& oranges & pinks of Java modern.
“it works”
so with respect i gave up milk in my coffee for this Ramadan.

i now drink the naked taste of african & arabian mocha beans brewed together,
unfiltered, fresh, top & bottom fuzzy blanketed softness.
our skins teasing bare senses out of my foggy hibernation
into visions of rock hard Osiris in Abydos.
“very strong”
hearing blues coming from behind the curtain
not missing the cream
“working it”

Sugar Streams from Her Fingers

bows to Marie Elena Good, Marna Cosmos, Philip Levine and others…

In Safeway’s industrial kitchen, she

dips her latex-covered fingers into

warm glaze; then, thinking of his stubborn F

grades, moves her hand like magician gestures

over the coffee cakes. Principal Dowd,

you’re not being fair. Robbie, you’re killing

every chance you have. The grocery driver

can’t stop ricocheting between Shirley’s

ultimatum and himself—who is who

he is, like Popeye, damn it. The women

and men go with their urges piled on top

like whipped cream spires. Everything they touch

comes away sticky and faintly sweeter.

When the man with his lonely hunger bites

what her glazed fingers spellbound, may he taste

the soft center between today’s meetings

and the woman who disposes her gloves,

punches out and drives home to the escape

of daytime TV. Holy Creator,

let our tongues school like fish and find blessing

in the joined continuation of our

living substance simply carrying on.

Everything Is All One Cake.

This form is called Poesia de Tema, developed by Marie Elena Good.

Read about it here: http://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/

Prompt: poems making a difference - SPARK 2

For your poeming this week, take this quote and/or this image as inspiration. 



"But then there is all this other stuff going on -- which is wilder, which is bristling; it's juicier, it's everything that you would want. And it's not comfortable. That's the kind of poetry that interests me -- a field of energy. It's intellectual and moral and political and sexual and sensual -- all of that fermenting together. It can speak to people who have themselves felt like monsters and say: you are not alone, this is not monstrous. It can disturb and enrapture.

"Poetry can add its grain to an accumulation of consciousness against the idea that there is no alternative -- that we're now just in the great flow of capitalism and it can never be any different -- [that] this is human destiny, this is human nature. A poem can add its grain to all the other grains and that is, I think, a rather important thing to do."

--Adrienne Rich, From an interview with the Boston Phoenix

Image from the energy off the tip of a person who has just grounded

the coming feast of earth; or, like the moon, towards dark

near the festival of first fruits and the dark moon, 42011

for 17 days
after seeing you
beyond voice
breathe out "please help me"

i see how the wane will come
and i cannot eat or sleep, i cannot
take it in, and also the gladness
overpowers me, i see how perfect
everything is, just as it is

it's a relief to return home from the airplane
i feel guilty for the beauty of my life
a hospital room is a kind of jail
and wellness only comes for visits

to never taste again, to never breathe deep on my own
what does that mean?
i think the waning moon, moving towards black
knows more than she's letting on, could help us both

what do you think it means, the festival
of the harvest of first fruits? all that we eat
has died first, dies into our bodies, which
82 x 365 x 24 x 60 seconds of writ(h)ing later
we also die into the earth

the earth eats us,
that's what a grave is,
a mouth

i am glad to be feastware
for the belly of gaia
may i be a splendid repast
for the swirling girl
giddy and young
who dances her way round
with black knower moon

may
the tin-stitched etymologies
of your poems
be spice and mint so i am savory
for the coming feast of earth

Drinks at the Gold Spike

We laugh and laugh.
The waitress, who is also a dealer and a middle manager,
has brought back the girliest drink the hidden artist of a bartender could make:
hilarious pink froth (a “Pink Squirrel” we surmise)
presented with a thick straw flanked by cherries and topped
with a dollop of whipped cream in sculptural representation
of a penis. (Only at a small casino like this, and one struggling to cater
to the curious class—to we aging hipsters exactly—
could we order by adjective this way.)
We attack the pink drink gleefully in the photos.

The unmet mixologist sends a green version next:
tropical-frog maraschinos to match the swampy shake.
Call the first drink the “Caucasian Boyfriend”;
the second “Pistachio Casanova” or “The Incredible Fulk.”

Stevie orders something “sinister,”
and out comes an opaque, burnt umber shot.
We pass it around for tasting. The first impression:
Jagermeister at room temperature—evil enough itself—
but then the attack of rubbing alcohol—
maybe 151 rum or straight ethanol (if that’s legal),
and a hint of absinthe and maybe vinegar,
but who is tasting anything at that point?

In a series of photos, we take turns grimacing horridly,
glass of syrup in hand as the scant mouthful
sears lips, gums, tongues, throats, larynxes, esophagi
and stomachs. It's like eating a despair sandwich,
impending loss on sourdough (not good sourdough).
It drives the soul to the wrong side of an unknown town
where morasses of formless fears coagulate
into the secret twisted spine that makes what’s wrong, wrong.

And a few hours later, out comes a startling fart—
quick, loud and superheated.
That’s a drink I would call a Cluster F,
a Neitzsche in Hell, a Gulf Spill, a Character Assassination,
a Hubris, a Hoarcrux, a word that means
"an indiscretion that turns into a total disaster."

But Ari won’t end on that note. Remember:
it’s only a drink mixed by a comedian/bartender
for aging wiseacres on their most recent farewell tour.

A taste of honey

A taste of honey

A hungry night owl bee
Pollinates the silver moon
Milk-weed flower, a galaxy
Flavor captured in a long tapered wooden spoon.

A Pickled rind of lime
Pounded into continental sweetheart pastes
Fates burn down time
Lapsed tastes.

A long lasting chile burst
Signals surrender to imaginary woes
Candle lit swords slice fiery thirsts
Fire’s black ashes bury wigwam toes.

A yellow & ground fine cornmeal
Peace offering to my numbers
Stirred into polenta deals
Blown eastward in my slumbers.

Poetry Prompt: Food

Food comes first.

The letter A begins every alphabet in which in lives. Same for the Greek Alpha and Hebrew Aleph. These first characters evolved from a pictogram representing the head of an ox. In early human cultures, oxen represented food, both as animals used in farming and as sources of milk and meat.

When oxen became symbolized with pictographs and that symbol evolved into a letter, it's no wonder that letter remains first in line, because no matter what else, ya gotta eat.

Write a poem about food. It could be about your favorite meal, or where your food comes from, or an what non-material things sustain you. You could share a recipe or a restaurant review. There are many directions you might explore. For bonus points, begin your poem with the letter A and mention at least one specific food within your poem.

Tags: food, poem, poet's handle

solstice is here/the candor line is open

solstice is here/the candor line is open

thump thump thump
state line speed bumps

little fake chalet idyllic
rich bungee jumping clique
patio chair lifts
moon struck overheated pools
casino ski jumps

thump thump thump
state line speed bumps

dusty gravel parking lot
the video store,the laundromat
beneath South Lake Tahoe submarine sign
store front with no ads
almost next door to a crummy liquor store
cigarette smokers out front
signal to me that this is the place
I already knew
where the candor line is open
where the amygdelic dice roll
brother Steve’s memory recast
in an eighties survivors tales
of Cal Expo acid rain/Pepperland
& coyotes two sharp teeth
in a room full of pain melding
reminding us of our part in the knife & cutlass party

thump thump thump
state line speed bumps

again the pine scent overhead, overhead
a ski run up the mountain
a stripe of white brilliant white so white of a stripe
against our ice blue sky
Sierra snow melts
reminding us
that without the intake of the sun’s rays
there is no pine scented forest.

solstice '11 (near 04 july) - the year burning (song with refrains)

old friend,
perhaps our minds
from long knowing
have the same grooves

i'm sure it happens
even as the year curls in on itself,
a leaf of sage
burning
blackening into curled
vapors and wisps
into substantless clarity

even just so, the nooks of my
mind curl into transparency,
as do yours

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down

near solstice,
they light nightbombs
to remember the sun which is already
fading in the start of the wane of the year

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down

why do they light the nightbombs
i don't need reminders
of how we fought and slaught
ered to clear this space and claim it

it's never been ours, and stealing
from other thieves doesn't

make it home

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down

just as the curled cats of our luminous
clarifying brain grooves
saging into wisps and air
as the year does
seems to leave us empty -
doesn't make it home

just because
we say it does
doesn't make it home

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down


(melody snippet)