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Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Just Let the Darkness Come

Just let the darkness come,
If it can't be helped; let it come soon:
Let it remove your too familiar touch
From the rippling canvas of my heart's hesitations.
Erase too, all the moments that were stolen,
Borrowed from the quotas of the innocent-
Remove the malfeasance of pleasure, that was given in error.

Replace with a blank face, the soul's colorless artifact, 
Of what was once you-
And then we must forget the words; already fading now,
And if even the memory can no longer bear itself,
Let it fade, like that instrument
That by accident, or on purpose
Is the last voice heard, at the concert's end; the one
That reminds the audience, as they rise to leave
That however much you try to control
The music and power of humanity's emotions,
It can always break free again, 
Even though no one ever expects it.

And though it's not supposed to be heard then,
After the show is done; the musicians busy packing up their black bags,
It sends it's echo, far into the empty aisles, it's voice bouncing
From surface to surface, in the lofty building's sky
As if it longed to keep singing it's own voice forever, 
In a kind of animated, directionless passion, maybe to continue
Until even the theater succumbed, and itself fell down broken,
To collapse the stage; to crush whatever was left of the velvet seats.

But if there's nobody left to notice it,
We can always pretend the lonely cry never came;
That there never was a sound, at the evening's conclusion,
And no attention will be focused, and no pity stirred up
For the careless musician, and his oddly moaning string.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Universe for sale

Universe for sale; hardly used.                                                              
Well recycled, with resultant complexity of life forms-
Call SETI with best offer.
Terms: nothing down, everything comes with it;
Complete universal kit for life included, free of charge;
Mix-ready amino acids and lightning generators widely available.
No refund, no return.
Use at own risk.
Find the advertisement in any book of poetry,
Home Office Earth, Milky Way Galaxy,
The Local Group, Virgo Supercluster, Inc.
Inquire there about possible future merger with the Andromeda Galaxy

God Hides in the Smallest Places

God hides in the smallest places:
the carelessly upturned cuff of a sleeve,
the highlight in a lover's eye,
tucked inside the spine of some book, 
like a ribbon of place-marker

the pistil of a flower,
the smoke plume from a pipe,
swirled air through a Monarch's wing,

half filled cup, sitting in the sink,
dried tears on a handkerchief,
the pause, in a sob of anguish,
half burnt letter on the fire.

when your hand finally attempts to close on god,
you will find instead lint, dust, spores;
even though we are the predatory species,
the original hunters.

we are hunting that
which has turned itself inside out
and wrung us out, like ants fall
from a rotting log.

our busyness only takes us farther away,
farther from the beginning;
we must make ourselves smaller
on the inside,

than the smallest creature;
an ovum of closed intellectuality,
for we are the keyhole,
the minutiae, of god's existence

in the chess game
of the solitary mind,
we are the pawns:
god hides in the smallest places;
for he is also the master hunter.

Your Eyes Are Two Lean Wolves

Your eyes are two lean wolves                              
Who want to slowly tear me apart, limb by limb
Your eyes are the voice of the lost infant
Crying for a savior in the wilderness
Your eyes are the sky in eclipse
Begging for the moon to move aside
Your eyes are brilliant floodlights
Illuminating me from the inside out
Your eyes are twin suns in a remote universe
Removing the shadows from every place of refuge
Your eyes are the trap door I climb in through
Your eyes are the last thing I see.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Circuit Interrupted

You say, we need to think of some things
That went forgotten, during our days together.

You say, we need to pay more attention
To the greater world, ignored for so long.

You say, it might be better
Not to have this exclusive relationship
Here between us, since it blinds us
To the importance of everything else going on.

My brain hears all your words
And is busy placing them in compartments;
But my body hears only with it's heart-
And now these hands are shaking.

Monday, February 15, 2010

In another galaxy far away..

In another galaxy far away,                                                                
We humans are the orderly mannequins of society;
Standing in store front windows of every city,
Holding perfectly still, for endless hours 
Of standing upright, straight and unwavering, 
Through the hours of both darkness and light,
Since the malls there never close down.

We are the exotic, ideal look, as far as the aliens are concerned;
Whether large or small; that whole predatory/prey aura thing
That we carry about us, with our front-facing eyes,
Our canine incisors, claws and strong hind-leg muscles;
Our ability to move fast, or over long distances.
We even have rudimentary grasping fingers on our feet, of all things.
Our heads of lustrous hair are the envy of all aliens.
Our penchant for rare meat, and intoxicating fermented beverages-
It all screams out 'danger' to the aliens, who seem excited 
By the novelty of it; of finding themselves in such close proximity 
To beings who have not left behind their rustic manner of life,
While the aliens had evolved to a peaceful co-existence,
Practicing moderation in all things, of course;
And multiple levels above us, in understanding and intellect.

But they seemed to feel they had lost their connections, 
To the roots, of all animal life, they too were descended from,
While humans still bear signs of our unbroken close relationship, 
With earlier, primitive forms of man, and so are regarded 
With wonder, by all aliens. 

But just wait, till they see our procreative action.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

the chess game

the chess game, of moving all your words around
can entertain, but never satisfy:                               

you bait and switch, with relative pronouns;
the proximity of the demonstrative merely teases,
and by the tip of your tongue, participles dangle

your adjectives: just more interior decorating,
like a child at play, who dances two dolls together,
but never for one instant, forgets that they are dolls

if playing were not more fun than that,
who would ever want to play; if words were not more
than just the product of their differences,
who would bother to construct anything out of them?

if touching emotions were as easy
as touching two inanimate objects together,
while waiting for heaven to effectively deliver the lightning bolt,
that would shock them, into breath and living

then what hope can live in words, alone:
if they are not there first, inside your own being
if they are not your children, conceived under your own heart
birthed in placental tides of blood, and hopeful love

if their easing out of you, did not make you nearly scream,
with the pain of the separation, then perhaps 
they were only miscarriages, after all?

A Polite Tour of Insanity (recited to the sound of panting)

Insanity's so fascinating
As long as it stays far away
And doesn't come close enough
To ruin your life, which it has attempted
On a few occasions, so that now
Instead of gravitating toward it
I walk steadily in any other direction
That insanity is not itself moving
I feel that we have had a polite disagreement
And I would like it to stay polite.

The difficulty of this will not become apparent
Until you too have felt insanity
Breathing down your neck
Watching your every move
Because it can never approve
Of anything you do
The word 'Insanity' is not very descriptive
Of this fact, but it will have to do
Until they come up with a better term.
Whoops; time to start running again..

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Nine One One

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight, 

It's serious: A writer of poems 
At such and such street, has a word 
Stuck in his throat. 
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out. 
He can neither finish the poem or even 
Make a lick of sense right now. 
What to do? 
The medical experts confer over the two-way: 
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary, 
I think I would use the jaws of life. 
That takes too long, said another. 
I have a carpenters saw in my bag 
I keep on hand for just such occurrences. 
Though rare, it does happen. 
We will just remove the head, push the word 
Out of the way and reattach the head. 
Believe me it is much faster in the long run 
Otherwise it could progress on to 
Editors re-writes, poetry readings, 
Deadlines, and who wants all that? 
Poets really just want to write. 
The others are in agreement. 
Now they'll be able to get right to work 
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death 
In crisis situations. 
In asylums, they employ lobotomies 
To the same result. 
For the rest of us, there are the interminable 
Religious sermons and services.

who opens the door

who opens the door,
and who is knocking;
and who shoulders the dry, heaving breast of winter,
when whoever fires the gun?

is it really true the season's aimless,
when the hot breath of summer has begun;
and who'll dry the tears of springtime
when the vacant memory grows more dumb?

and who remembers,
and who forgets;
and what of earth is worth remembering
when everything's peace is forever forfeit?

Monday, February 1, 2010

I have a tattoo of you in my heart

I have a tattoo of you in my heart-
no one else can see it,

but it's right there on the inside.
If I concentrate, I can almost feel it:
A peculiar raised rawness,
like a cattle brand might leave;
the nerves all burnt and exposed,
as if singed by a sadistic cigarette wielder.

Funny thing is, I don't remember signing up for a tattoo
Though I do recall a lot of pain, one night;
remember thinking, I wasn't going to make it
through till the sunrise;
doesn't the worst pain always come
in the blackness before dawn,
and I was surprised to find
I'd survived the worst of it.

But now that I have your sign inside of me,
the bar code of independence is void,
as if my soul had been sold;
and nobody ever comes around me now-
how useless can one human being become,
and still go on existing?

I think of it now as a kind of failed science experiment;
for even lab animals are painlessly destroyed,
when their usefulness has reached an end.
But human beings must suffer through
to the very end, of their religion's required martyrdom-
And you are so heartless, my faith of one.