Saturday, April 19, 2014

the day before Easter

photo by Stuart Seeger

you can't see them from the knoll
behind third base,
                             grass tickling the back of your legs

POP
                             all the kids chasing the ball to one point on the field
                             while coaches yell
                                                      "get back in position!"
                             no one listening
                             the mind can only hold one thing
                             sacred @ a time

& when nature calls,
100 bumble bees circle
the latrines
                as if they were a flower,
                petals parted, still damp
                from morning
                kisses,
                          the high heeled mom
                          made up thick for a Saturday morning
                          talking over pouty lips with all the dads,
                                                             on the loudspeaker
                                                             the instrumental version
                                                             of International Love,
                                                             by Chris Brown &
                                                             Pitbull, blares
                                                             the beat//the beat
                                                             hotter than Miami...
                                                             feel the heat...mm hmm

as another
young man steps into the box
for his first chance at bat

& when houses fall, it starts with the neglect,
layer after layer, gutters full of leaf litter,
we never bothered to clean,

the devil in the desert gets the rap
our being out of position, circling latrines
lost in the music & attention

"Strike three---"

"don't forget to visit the concession stands
on the way out folks---
that's your ball game."

                            

Friday, April 18, 2014

yes, i hear you sighing in line behind me as i write this on the receipt - i'll move on soon

photo by m.a.r.c.

Self serve check out @ the grocery store
the red eye adds up the toll, with each pass
of a can,
           a box,
                bottle,
                   cello-wrapped meat pack,
                       weighs the cantaloupe
i want to scan myself
                             lay my head on the little glass
                             window
                             to see
what it comes up with
as worth---
                 it's the fear i don't have enough
                 to buy myself
               
that keeps me
from letting the laser do more
than caress the the bar code whirls
                                           of my fingers
as the voice reminds me
"place your purchases in the bagging area."

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Self Portrait in others' words


i wear love letters // a second skin,
take them
               as i find them,
                                    lost,
                                     as children
                                   among racks
                                 at department
                             stores, discarded
                           when feeling  left
                         with Elvis, paste
                       them gently over
                     those worn  thin,
                   smooth any bubbles 
               & ensure the corners are
           tucked in like a scrapbook of
      all the moments we shared, hidden
  in the attic-until found by one that needs them,
 faded with time to sepia still bearing the memory
  of trees that gave their life so love might be written
     on them - i am dry cheek beds remembering rain,
       the wiry brush br'er rabbits hides in to spin wit, fire
           fingers dance over in back alley steel drums, bottle
               passed lip, o'er lip, native land taken but culture 
                   never erased, the white buffalo grazes at my
                         cerebral temple, but don't confuse that
                           with wisdom-peal these words from
                                me if love's what  you need, no
                                    box to check  passing thru
                                      customs, i expect sharp
                                        objects, turbulence
                                           & wear scars
                                            of a history
                                             learned
                                              lip
                                       read
                                 silently
                             sitting at
                        the feet of the
                   cast out, studying the
                 curve of curse-ive words,
                periods that end life sentences
                 & forever's punctuation, whatOnce
                    was, is, shall be & i'll keep scouring
                       dumpsters for unwanted love letters
                         a second skin i wear, heiroglyphs
                        read in understanding foundations
                     civilization's left behind enrapt w/
                  modernity's plasti - coated  kiss,
              a  busker's  song  strummed
        loading  dock box  cutter
  hum, single mom waitress
working twelve hour
shifts, stories wait-
ing to be told
for anyone
willing to
listen,
i am


Over @ dVerse Poets today, I will be hosting MeetingTheBar and we will be writing poetic self-portraits. They can be metaphoric, symbolic or literal self portraits. Doors open @ 3 pm.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

ragamuffin afternoon

photo by Robobobobo

all the houses
nestled in the arms
of the mountain
                        & my backyard polka-dot
                            in brown fur on green

they work jaws
                                look
work jaws
                                look

hop a bit
looking for something
that tastes better
                            a nerve bundle
                            ready to bolt
i suck
a strand of grass
not going anywhere

we each get what we need
~bees playing the soundtrack.

written for poetry jam

Monday, April 14, 2014

all pyramids made of flesh






of all the things we keep,
that occupy space
                          in the box of the singular us;
rocks our hands know the shape of without touch,
thrown through the window
                                         of us,
twine bound note attached
                                      in angry script,
                                                 all'a words that slipped
                                                 across thoughtless lips
                                                 over the shoulder
                                                 of well meaning parents
                                                 pissed off @ the plight,
                                                 directed at us

the feathered wing of the first life we took in response,
pride swelling in our puffed up chest
til we see it bodily twisting in the dirt
                                                  & mouth to beak
                                                  & mouth to beak
                                                   slick w/ sweat
                                                  it's too late//too late
                                                  the sun has set
& all that's left
are the stories we tell ourselves,
of me & you, US
                            & our collective universe
                             revolving around a point we have made
                             only in-action,
                                                   on 5th street, where the side walk's
                                                   cracked
                                                 as the houses, to customers of escape,
                                                a napFro tyke rides a little man's bling
                                              -ed out second hand yard sale tractor,
                                            spray painted silver,
                                              bedazzled in purple & green
                                                 plastic jewels
                                                   who knows
                                                     no different
                                                       than to finger
                                                        the braille of our face
                                                          to figure where we lay up
                                                           our treasure

his first words are of Elohim
which sound  more like the name we've given him
written on our doorpost and tied in bands
on our forehead
                               AND                          
                                        AND
                                                  AND
                                                          AND

he utters&we chant
our need to fill the lack, created postModern-ly
in the disassembling attempts to find ourselves
only to find our in-ability to put back together
the empty space,
the box we carry to define
                                           US

AND
          (we worship you
                      oh god
                                of more-all our prayers end
                                         in gimme, gimme, gimme)
                                             AND
war is our love language
the whisper/whistle of bombs dropped
on earlobes
                  that goosebump our necks
                                                             AND

baptism-ally cleanse US
ethnic-ally, of the downtrodden,
the alien,
                come
                to take our jobs&women
                                                           AND

on the power box
                           LOVE
                                 drips
                                   in wet lines
                                  from
                               Capitol letters
                            in black spray
                                         paint
                                                followed by
                                                   double question marks

Over @ dVerse, Anthony has us writing on the pictures of Phyllis Galembo ... really they are fascinating and full of symbolism...doors open @ 3 pm.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

specific gravity

photo by sugarfrizz

my son hangs boughs of last year's Christmas
trees, stripped & brown, prepped for burning,
as camouflage on the branches of the dogwood

ten feet up, on a limb that won't support him
much longer, the older we get the more it takes,
among the white flowers just opening,

the mud-color stain he's created,
his ocean eyes peer out at the world
like twin rulers measuring every leaf turn,
squirrel skitter, across the lawn
                                             purple wild flowers

with names no one remembers,
                                               no rose
                                               no tulip
                                               no amaryllis,
calla, bird of paradise, narcissus,
those so easily mowed over without notice

i
     Zacchaeus
                       him

& we press our hands to the earth, into trails
only the worms know, as dirt passes through them
one end to the other other, rap our knuckles on roots
even progress' shovels won't break, how ants move
kingdoms on piece at a time & leverage multiplies
the force of our weight to create movements
where there were none---

another week & we'll clear a bed
then, it will be our time to choose
                                             who we let
                                                lay down in it,
                                                      with us.

shared with PU

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Short attention span theatre (a collection of tenWords)

photo by Joe Campbell

the damp spot
                     her towel left
is dry
       as bone.


~~~~~

even birds branched
out my window sill
are silent

              awaiting.

~~~~~

the Spring in my step
is my Fall
                into you.

~~~~~

we play Scrabble
             seeking letters
for words
             we don't need.

~~~~~

your leg
            in the night
finds mine;
            playing with matches.

~~~~~

at night, under harsh streetlights
our shadows gather
                       getting darker.

Over @ dVerse, Gay has us developing our own form of poetry --- I call this one tenWord, because after ten words no one is listening anyway, or already formulating their response...and what can't you say in ten words...smiles. Doors open @ 3 pm.