log poetry...prose commentary

the way: home / back to life

2009-06-09T23:29:00.000-05:00

i just finished an album.
i had friends do artwork
corresponding to it. that
art is up in a show here
in Austin. enjoy the music!

Mi Hijo!

2008-06-15T15:42:00.003-05:00

Whenever I interrupted weeks of silence with a call or came home after absence of months and sometimes when I walked into the kitchen or woke him from a nap my dad’s face would hold a momentary look of surprise. It was the look of someone not expecting friends waiting at home with balloons and birthday cake. Then, he would grin and exclaim “Mi hijo!” And we’re not even Mexican. At all.

He said it with a rising tone that went beyond pleasant surprise. He said it with awe and wonderment. He said it like he was completely blown away by our existence and presence. He said it like Little John said it in the Kevin Costner Robin Hood.

Little John’s wife is in labor and the baby is breech. Both mother and child are at risk of death when a mysterious Muslim Morgan Freeman volunteers to perform a crude cesarean section which he has only practiced once…on a horse.

The mother survives and the baby is born! Little John steps out of his Sherwood Forest hut into the presence of all the merry men. He lifts the newborn victoriously over his head and proudly shouts, “My son!” Then the dancing starts.

This is how my dad said it. But in Spanish. And he didn’t usually pick us up over his head.

He called me his son like he’d just got me back from the jaws of death. He said it like I was a miracle. (I was.) He said “mi hijo!” like I’d just returned from a five year journey. He said it like I was the love of his life, the source of his pride, the root of his joy.

He “mi hijo”ed like he was about to laugh and cry and sing and dance. It was somber reverence. It was humbly thankful. It was shock and awe. It was “I thought I’d never see you again!” and it was the first time he held me. It was steady and safe. Wild with whimsy. It was Peter Pan grown up with a wife and kids but still crowing.

I didn’t know it until now, but it was one of the best things he ever said.

Usually, I tried answering with “mi padre.”, a Polo to his Marco. But, it never carried the same weight.

Until now, I thought it was just a quirky catch phrase used out of habit. My “mi padre” was definitely that. It was a label, a formality, an acknowledgment returned. That’s okay. There are few times in history when son love has matched father’s. They usually involve senility and bodily fluids.

My dad loves me. When next I walk into his room or wake him up I hope he gets that shocked look, smiles at recognizing me and says “mi hijo!”

I’m thankful I can still remember the way he said it. It makes me feel like a kid raising midnight prayers from under warm blankets in a comfy bed in a safe house. He folds his tired hands, manages a whispered “Our Father…” and falls asleep.

Make-Up Easter

2008-03-30T15:55:00.003-05:00

“I am the resurrection and the life.” The sentence rises immediately into my mind from the depths of dissipating sleep. Alone in the dark tomb of my walk-in closet made bedroom I realize I’ve been dreaming and weep.

A week ago I slept through Easter Sunday. None of its light broke into my heart’s thick walled room. I sat zombified in the pew. Everything sounded trite and cliché: approximations of dates and events.

I guess this morning is my make-up Easter. A week ago I slept. This morning, the absurd possibility of resurrection confronts me in the rising place between sleep and waking life.

My father’s exhumed corpse lay on his bed. How or why his body found its way from the earth into the house I grew up in escapes my memory. The end of the dream, however, remains lucid as waking life.

His salt and pepper hair had grown to nearly cover his eyes. I read once that hair and fingernails continue to grow for some time after death.

I thought we should check his pulse. To our surprise, his heart beat faintly. I reminded the family not to get too excited. Dad had been in the ground for months. If he was revived, he would probably be an unresponsive vegetable.

I left the room.

When I returned, my dad was sitting up in a slouch. His eyes were open but dark and confused. Head down, he stared blankly through his eyebrows. His jaw hung limply. His bottom lip protruded dumbly.

Slowly he turned his head. Slowly he raised the red-digited alarm clock from the nightstand and stared at it confused. He flipped open someone’s cell-phone and scrunched his forehead at the date.

“Dad, its March. You’ve been dead for nearly five months.”

The next thing I remember, he stood embracing me. I knew he would be just fine. I awoke smiling and Immediately began to weep.

Waking always turns dreams into nightmares. The most blissful dreams yield the most horrific nightmares. It is a rule as certain as science.

For a moment, I experienced the shocking elation of resurrection-the redemption of that which was lost. I didn’t fully appreciate my dad until he was gone. So, his returned promised the opportunity to enjoy his presence more than ever before.

Of course, I was torn away from him as I ascended into the waking world above. The tangibility of his embrace dissolved with each waking second. This is why I wept.

Jesus also wept. Then, just before calling their brother out of the tomb, he told Lazarus’ sisters “I am the resurrection and the life.”

This is my make-up Easter because today I rode the resurrection roller coaster of emotion. I empathized with Mary and Martha. I felt the pain of the synagogue official and his wife when they lost their daughter. I felt their joy when Jesus said “Little girl get up!” and she did. I identified with the ups and downs of Christ’s disciples as they saw him crucified then resurrected. In my waking this morning, I shared the bewilderment they must have felt when, upon returning from his absence, Jesus ascended out of their presence once again.

I am thankful for the tears and hopeful that the legend of resurrection is true- For Jesus, for my dad, and for me. I want to see all that I’ve loved and lost restored to me. I know they can only be fully enjoyed after a season of absence.

A Mysterious Christmas to All

2007-12-05T13:02:00.000-06:00

i come home and
see my father
through the window
in the dark

next to unlit
Christmas tree he
stands still holding
cup of tea

he is staring
out the window
but he does not
look at me

i just drove in
from the manger
scene i saw in
stranger’s yard

leaving home I
see My Father
through My new eyes
As they form

My new mouth can’t
drink a drop from
bitter cup My
Father holds

in His mercy
He will hold it
‘til He looks a-
way from Me

I just got in-
to the manger
I just came in-
to My world

like fragile-ghost-feet grass-blade gored on heaven's lawn i stand before you

2007-10-02T17:17:00.001-05:00

discount porn picture
fading
behind the 7-11 counter
mind of one holding
“wife”
(word made flesh)
for the first time
____________________

pixilated print out
Michelangelo’s “Creation”
time-traveled
skipping Sistine
to subject itself
held at arm’s length
scrutinized through
one squinting eye
alternating
copy
original
copy
original
copy (crumpled)

“so that’s what he
looks like”
____________________

8-bit
on hold
mp3
telephone received
into room where
16“
Pioneer
hi-fi system escorts
in Sinatra
(big banded)
on vinyl

dat dat da da dat
dat dat da da dat
dat dat da da dat dat

Old Blue Eyes, himself
lifts stylus
zipping across grooves
extinguishes cigarette
and sings

As Christened Ships Set Sail – A Villanelle

2007-09-19T01:36:00.000-05:00

Each maiden voyage has its’ stowaway
I backseat-rode the minivan with Jen
My mother came along on my first date

My father gave me cash enough to pay
For dinner lest my lovely date should spend
Each maiden voyage has its’ stowaway

Her father bought a boutonnière to trade
For mum my mother made with bow and pin
My mother came along on my first date

Both our teeth in braces as we face
The camera in her family’s humble den
Each maiden voyage has its’ stowaway

Dropped off at homecoming game and parade
But soon enough she picked us up again
My mother came along on my first date

She promised Jenny’s parents we’d be safe
She promised we would have her home by ten
Each maiden voyage has its’ stowaway

My mother came along on my first date

no such thing

2007-09-01T01:29:00.001-05:00

it never rains

clouds come near
so belly up
open river-mouths
open steins

water becomes ALL:

communion
priest
lake
me
you
a drink

and there are no clouds
only tears the sun lifts
from our faces

life as a staring contest

2007-06-18T22:36:00.000-05:00

oh God.
seems
a staring contest
is underway only-

neither competition
nor hate hides
in either gaze only-

stubbornness (in mine)
patience (in your eyes)
as you wait with
no desire to drive
to desperation
exhaustion
or point of break, but only-

to embrace at the
exact second of
simple surrender
when i say only-

"alright...
okay...
i'm ready.
i give."

Waiting for Henry

2007-06-08T12:55:00.000-05:00

Though, everyone she talked to heard about him, no one in our town was quite sure if she really had a husband. She rambled mumbly about many things. But, when she spoke of Henry it was always in that clear loud voice of someone trying to convince themselves. It is the same tone people take when they want to be heard by someone in the next room with whom they are not on speaking terms.

“No thank you, Sir, I don’t need money for bread. Henry will be here tomorrow.”

“No, Ma’am, I don’t need to get in out of the cold tonight. My Henry is coming for me at half past seven.”

She had always spoken like this. There were rare rumors of times she took a bit of bread or a guest room for the night. But, these were mere rumors, you see. Not one was confirmed. It was always a friend of a relative from whom she took a biscuit, a relative’s friend who put her up for a winter night.

The woman had been in our town as long as anyone could remember. No one knew her age. When I first saw her face it had a few grey hairs and some wrinkles around her mouth that only showed when she spoke of Henry. That is, when she smiled.

No one understood how she survived. None of us ever saw her sleep. We had only heard of her eating. She never seemed emaciated or tired. She was simply sunbrown and filthy from being outside all of the time. It seemed her only source of food, of rest, of joy was this man on whom she waited. No one had ever seen him. Henry was the only person more mysterious to our town than the woman who waited for him.

Hope Group of Liberty

2007-05-29T16:25:00.000-05:00

bring your old baggage
on your heavy feet

bring your smiles and frowns
over happy endings and scary starts

carry your broken souls
packed in your weary hearts

follow your unpaved roads
to homes where you owes
your unpaid rent

come all you sinner-saints
and leave saner sent

Sparrows (a haiku)

2007-04-26T20:16:00.000-05:00

nimble song pilots
noble killers of no one
only crushing seeds

The Moment...

2007-03-26T15:30:00.000-05:00

...when wasting
precious seconds
of life
becomes crime
and punishment
too heavy
to hold
i turn
shrug off
guilty weight

...of choosing
long-term
commitment to
spite fears
while smiling

...of emergence
from nocturnal
dementia waking
to daylight

...weatherman speaks
through television
words raising
heavy head
says, "Today,"
is the
first day
of Spring."

For Zig

2007-03-06T01:18:00.000-06:00

I took her to the Elephant Room tonight

We ordered a beer and
Bailey’s with coffee on the side

She talked about how
She wants kids while she’s still young
I wonder if mom and dad hadn’t waited
Until their thirties –
Would I have more nineties memories of
You in your sixties?

The quintet takes me back –
To times I've never tasted

Times when you blew
That horn in a big band with
Baggy black tux Betty –
Giving back your pre lost lip on
Trumpet voluntary grin
She smiles from her table for two – feet
Tapping to be led
Yet content

They were blowing tonight, Zig
The sax player really swung
He didn’t just ascend and descend like
Dead soul
He upped and downed
Tongue tap-dancing on stairs
So surprising I smiled

The trombone jumped in after
Post solo applause
He got in our faces with his louds then
Let us exhale as he waved raised eyebrows
To us
Dynamic miles away

The pianist
Composed

The bassist
Fell
(And rose)
Up and down that neck
So smoothe then grit-toothed that
We weren't sure if he
was trying to kiss
or kill his big brown girl

The drummer
Baby brushed the hair of hides
And the ride with a
Chi chit
Cha chi
Chit
Cha chi
Chit
Cha chi his
Kick drum was the
Smallest I’ve seen
(You know how jazz drum kits are.)

The one who
Would have given you a real kick
Of course
The trumpet player
Blew higher and higher
Warm winded perfect weather night
It was his night, Zig
In celebration of his CD release
That is, he came out with a new
Compact Disc

(CD’s are like
Small shiny silver
Record albums
Played with a laser beam
Instead of a needle)

Do you remember CD’s?
Did you ever listen to one?
I remember you dug technology
Specifically
Photography

This girl
Took some pictures of the band
With a digital SLR camera
(Instead of film –
A tiny card
You develop inside a computer
Instead of inside a dark room)

How about that, Zig?

I know you would have gone up
To her all thousand questions bursting
One being “May I?”
And she would have let you, too –
On account of your
Warmth and smiling
Cute-old-man-ness

Or maybe we'd have both been young for
What is time-travel, if not
Resurrection?

We would have smiled at each other
A lot tonight
What with all the jazz
And just
Being together

Last time I was here it was
A big band –
Not as big as the ones you were in but –
You know
20 pieces or so

I didn’t plan this but –
I had your old brown briefcase with me
(The zippered one from the Southland Corporation)
Since I moved to Austin,
I’ve been using it to tote my
Poems and homework
Tax information
Ray Bradbury books too
I patted the case that night and
Hoped that – somehow
You could feel my hand and the horn stabs
Through time and space
You were there to me in that briefcase
Enjoying all the jazz
(especially the tunes by Count Bassie and –

And I just realized that tonight
I had on your old jeans
(the Calvin Kleins)
They’re a little big in the waist
But
Just
The right
Length...

Open Letter to the Stars

2007-02-04T05:37:00.000-06:00

friends,

it has been a long time

since we were last

all together

it does me good to see you

remember when last

i looked long into

your eyes winking

at all things easily believed

we always asked each other

the same question:

how can people disbelieve

God’s existence

when you

exist?

since we last spoke

i’ve met some doubters

i’ve been one, also

i have searched and

this is what I have found

people don’t doubt God

for lack of stars

we forsake him

in anger

in fear

and most often

in disappointment

sometimes-

sometimes it’s one big old

bright Red Dwarf

who dies

in the night that was

only one star away from

too dark to see

sometimes-

sometimes it’s small hopes

and prayers burning out subtly

among so many other delayed hopes and

so much unknown emptiness

the lack goes unnoticed for

light-years

for

a moment

let’s just sit here together

pretending to be still

all the while spinning

see if we can just

exist

together

for this moment

without any of us dying

squint at each other as

i try in vain to count you all

as you struggle to

distinguish the hairs on my head

for all the distance and darkness

light pollution and constant turning

none of us succeed

we are but rubbernecked passersby’s

over shoulders

out corners of eyes questioning

the accident

it seems we are

i laugh

at my smallness in light of

your vast quantity

and epic individuality

for you are suns and earths

of men

like me…

remember us on

unlit legs of back country roads

legs on car hoods

backs on windshields?

remember us on still lake

at summer camp?

we stood with many
now-fallen comrades
then still fighting

to believe

horizons

2007-01-25T03:13:00.001-06:00

(painting by faith)

you are all, all
always
too distant to be
familiar

like negligent fathers
strangling their only Sun
you left-handed ones
entomb him
while you wise ones await
him, star
rising in the East

the night chases him away
in silent loudness
of orange where you laud him
and purple where you

bruise him black because…

do you loath because
like me
you can never touch him?

well, I can’t ever touch you and
it is you
i chase
each time I run

you evade
at precisely
the same rate
i pursue

always moving
you are everyplace
one at a time
sometimes in sight
but never where
i am
until where
i am is where
i was

i feel for all of you
what you must feel
for the Sun

seems to me
you meet him
every evening
and morn

but you don’t

seems to me that
i will never reach
you horizons toward whom
i run

but I do

do, at least,
attain to my destinations
for my heading is set
to their constant coordinates
not your fickle false ones

your only consistencies:

you’re gone
on my arriving

you’re always
far as the eye can see

and it is for this distance
i do not fear
wounding
any of you
by my boasting

for my voice dissipates
in the space-

falls splashless
in the ocean-

between us

i hear my mother calling

and run not-
to the homeless horizon of her voice
but rather
to the soulplace

that is she

who
receives me not-
as star untouchable

but as a daytrip heart
come home

Psalm at (to) the Sea

2007-01-15T19:56:00.000-06:00

your curves: too numerous
for regimental organization
yet marching step-less
to every horizon

your sound (your only sound):
hushes my mind as i
lay on top of you

your motion: a lullaby
beckoning my body
to stillness

if i wake and
dare
attempt walking over
any inch
of your skin-

(especially the deep
cold parts where
your secret blues become
bruised black darkness)

-you knock me down
drown me with
lung-fulls of you
then,
swallow me whole

if empowered to
remove your lethal attributes
with a touch of my toe
i would cut off my feet

for i desire not
to change you approachable
but rather to know
everything
and approach without accessories
to make you accessible-safe

i want to touch your all-
with my nakedness

(though your deadly mysteries
and horrific wonders
overwhelm my
small humanity
unto death)

Call Me Baby

2006-12-23T21:26:00.000-06:00

she just got her learner's permit
she's known him now for one long year
he just registered
with selective service

"oh no!" she says
"i'm late and we're unprepared."
"you're what?!" he screams
this ruins all our plans

call me baby tonight
sing me fast asleep tonight
'cause all i wanna be
is somebody's baby tonight

he goes to see her twice a week
he holds her like she used to him
she laughs like crazy
when she can't remember who he is

time goes bye and back again
the young mothers age to helpless kids
he calls her "momma?"
she takes his hand and says

call me baby tonight
sing me fast asleep tonight
'cause all i wanna be
is somebody's baby tonight

she pushes him into the world
the way the world was made through him
he takes his first breath
and cries out desperately

he doesn't know a single word
still she understands each sound he makes
they rise into the night
and become the melodies of angel songs

call me baby tonight
sing me fast asleep tonight
'cause all i wanna be
is somebody's baby tonight

father looks down on mother
looks down on child
looks down on lamb
looks up at child
looks up at mother
looks up at father
looks on and says

all i wanna be
is somebody's baby
tonight

The Living God Hides

2006-11-24T11:41:00.000-06:00

on the wind through the window
past colorful curtains-

on my shelf-
on my walls-

on the stove
in the steamy whistle
of tea and
in my favorite cup-

in the oven
beside baking banana bread-

in the freezer next to
frozen grapes-

in the medicine cabinet
behind my mirror-

in my bed-

on the roof-

in my hammock
over the yard-

in my car
stereo-

on my computer-

on my blog
online-

in all my places
of pride
of shame

The Living God hides
simple surprises
good gifts of
comfort and love

In all places
The Living God hides

Holy Ghost Halloween Hymn

2006-10-11T16:51:00.000-05:00

Holy Ghost
Haunt me now
Like this run down heart
Was Your run down house
I need to get spooked
So come on around
Holy Ghost
Haunt me now

Holy Ghost
Scare the hell out of me
I'll be Your Scrooge
You my Christmas ghosts three
Past, Present, and Future
Lord, help me see
Holy Ghost
Scare the hell out of me

Holy Ghost
Prove that You're true
You're a mystery machine
And I am Your sleuth
Pull the masks off Your villains
Just like Scooby Doo
Holy Ghost
Show me the proof

Holy Ghost
Come haunt me now
Just like this old heart
Was Your creepy old house
To get spooked I need You
So come on around
Holy Ghost
Haunt me now

Mondrian's Tree

2006-09-30T02:22:00.000-05:00

trees cut down
cut rectangular
pureed shapeless
pulp to paper
rectangular

yet,
i've never seen
a square tree

earth dug up
quarried rectangular
mountains made manageable
baked to brick
rectangular

and i've yet to see
a square mountain

unplanned/undetected repentance in shaving

2006-09-13T18:11:00.000-05:00

whisker
whisker
whiskers
white backgrounded
on landing in basin

loosed cords
once binding
now freeing
lightening face
as light we can walk in
lightens soul

all straining to grow-
-abandoned

all that hid behind hair-
-exposed

all the manliness i mustered
squeezing it out my lip
through follicle-
-gone

bare face
bares inadequacies

i am boy again
simple and free

running

hindered not by lostness
found in tall grasses

i run
over smooth earth
bare and fallow
awaiting turning

my own skin
i will not break

i will not blood-let
flagellating asceticism

plunging that razor-spade
sadistic into soil
of self

but rather

look myself
nude faced
in the eye

and walk away
regretless

washed and shaved

Oh Paletaman

2006-08-31T23:32:00.000-05:00

Oh Paletaman

August is dying
in sunlight of gold
two million
bat-flight
every eye holds

but not mine
not my eyes

it’s stuck on my tongue
stuck on my mang-
os Paletaman
oh Paletaman

frozen tangles
of frozen mangos
frozen to my skin
Paletaman
oh Paletaman

August is dying
in sunlight of gold
two million
bat-flight
holds every eye

except the girl beside
except the girl beside
me

she’s stuck on my tongue
stuck on my mang-
os Paletaman
oh Paletaman

go down to the river
under the bridge
bring up some water
set me free

Paletaman
oh Paletaman

river reflection #2 (the next summer)

2006-08-31T00:18:00.000-05:00

i am valley of dry stones
once smoothed
moved and
shaped
by spring waves
of rain
now scorched and
separated
by summer-sun heat
by long days of
long drought of doubt
of anxiousness to
do what they really can't
(get up and move)
but what can
only be done
to them
or rather,
to us
or to me
for,
i am
a valley (river made)
of stones (river laid)
and we
will not passively
bake
but rather,
actively
wait
for new rain
to unite us
to unite me
under old and new
names
for we are more than
a valley of isolated stones
in truth,
we are a river's bed waiting

smell #810

2006-08-13T16:02:00.000-05:00

compulsively painting new skin
on old beach house pickets and rails

obsessively scrubbing new paint and old skin
(both unwanted)
off my own fingers and nails

citrus squeeze
of soap foam
into hands

citrus squeeze
of soap smell
into nose

seven summers
ago...i go
into mind

i mow
i mow until
wilted grass
grows on sweat river banks
between leg hair reeds

not the scent of grass
(just cut)
not my odor
nor gasoline
fuming
enclosed in my truck

but rather
another liquid
in another reservoir
in my 80's Jimmy of 90's
unites it's era
to this one...

Fierce Melon Gatorade
contains some same
artificial flavor-aid
as Dawn Direct Foam
Citrus Kick soap

the connection recognized
i dry my hands
and return to
outside labor
of hands
to same summer sun
seven years further burned
into eyes
into nose
into mind

i have grown old
but i
(like memories)
cannot escape
the remembrance rays

what will i find today
forcing sweaty paint and
grass-stained hands
into ice
into chest?

To Whom it May Concern

2006-08-04T13:50:00.000-05:00

(a cover letter in free verse)

Me: the eager applicant for Oak Springs Elementary
Program Manager position

You: hirer for - Oak Springs Elementary
Program Manager position

See attached resume

See my elementary experience and know I am no novice
At this: caring for kids

See my counseling of college students
See my after school
Program management

See my Leadership Development degree
But most importantly:

See me.

See past my adequate written qualifications
See how hard my heart beats
It beats to give to (and not up on)
Youth

Whose hearts are hard from beatings
From neglect, From hunger, From pessimism,
From “you can’ts” and “you don’t haves” and “you ain’ts”

My heart believes kids are (valuable/capable)
My heart believes kids can (hope/grow/laugh/succeed/do anything)
My heart believes kids have (dreams/potential)

My heart beats
Let my eyes see
Let my hands meet needs
Let my empathetic ears hear grief
Let my encouraging mouth speak my belief

See me…in an interview, please.

Sincerely,

Matt Graham

Prague

2006-07-18T02:49:00.000-05:00

your castle looks over the city
a king's daughter prophesied
you're the city i came to see

you're a temple of God
you're a synagogue
a cathedral in progress
you're Prague
the city i came to see

you're a house of tea
you're beer-gardening
you're a speakeasy
the city i came to see

i sit outside of you
take in your beautiful view
and know your central sites
like i'm on the inside of the city
the city i came to see

you're a river bridge
crossed by music and legend
love and poverty
you're the city i came to see

you're a cemetery so crowded
you must give up your bones
they'll dance in the streets of the city
the city i came to see

there's a metronome
keeping your time forever and slow
as the angels look on
the city i came to see

the beverage on the right...

2006-07-15T07:04:00.000-05:00

the drink on the left
contains zero calories

the drink on the right
contains 430 calories

the drink on the left
makes up 70% of the human body

the drink on the right
is 4.5% alcohol

in Prague...

the drink on the left
costs 40 kc (about $2.00)

the drink on the right
costs 25 kc (about $1.00)

the drink on the left
is water

the drink on the right
is beer

in Texas...

the drink on the left
is also water

the drink on the right
tastes gross
is a poor excuse
a cheap imitation
a rip off
a drug
and fattening

Paris via Portugal

2006-07-07T17:12:00.001-05:00

July 6th, 2006

9:00 a.m. wake up in Santiago de
Compostela, Spain

12:00 p.m. walk to train station where
i learn that the ONLY train to Porto,
Portugal (the city from which i fly to
Paris) is TODAY at 4:30 p.m.

1:15 p.m. walk to park and have rushed
picnic with Brian

4:30 p.m. get on train to Porto,
Portugal where i meet Brazilians and take
in the Portugese countryside

9:55 p.m. arrive in Porto, Portugal

10:30 p.m. board the metro (subway)

10:43 p.m. get invited to a "Barbeque"
by 5 college freshmen (Ana, Zita, Ines,
Luis, and Dio)

11:00 p.m. get off the metro with new
friends and walk across the city to the
university campus barbeque location

11:30 p.m. arrive at HUGE party with
cheap beer...

cheap pork...

and live music by Supernada!!!

1:30 a.m. dancing to Supernada sounds

4:30 a.m. still dancing and meeting the
people of Portugal (instead of paying
for a hotel room)

4:45 a.m. start walking to train station

5:30 a.m. arrive at train station

6:00 a.m. leave sleeping friends to
catch the metro to the airport

7:00 a.m. arrive at airport

11:35 a.m. leave Portugal

2:00 p.m. arrive in Paris

afuera de un café cerca del catedral

2006-07-06T04:12:00.000-05:00

the busker´s merry flute
plays lead to the chirping
of sparrows.

their song is interrupted
(nay punctuated!)
by a five-toll
of cathedral bells

the dishwashers join the song
with their away-putting of
plates and silverware

old men slap cards on table
just inside open window of
La Restaurante San Jaime

the youth clap in cadence
they sing Alle! Alle! Alle!
they´re probably dancing
up the Rue da Franco
i can´t see..

i hear...
the wind walking
(feet off the ground)
up and down the streets
and inbetween the leaves
on the shrubs of this plaza
it pops four flags
atop an ancient tower

i hear...
the trickle of peacful waters
circulating in the fountain

the man beside me smokes a cigar
i hear it!
i hear it crackle with his inhalation
i hear the smoke mingle with the steam
from my afternoon tea

the flowers are growing
in the mortar between century-
old stone walls
i hear the mortar bits bouncing
sprinkled on the cobblestones

i hear the pilgrim´s staff
century-old sound
resounding clonk step step
clonk on the cobblestones

i hear
hot
tea
between my own lips...

ahhh...

Catedral

2006-07-05T05:54:00.000-05:00

weary of waiting
we asked for king
our weary senses growing
dulled to recognizing
his sucessors

weary of waiting
we made a god
just to bow before it
pay it visits from abroad
as pilgrims

four letters form the line
between idol and icon
i trust the good intentions
of those who lay the gold leaf on
iconographers

one body many parts
of my history that i loathe
i cross myself on my knees
make confessions both
to God and
to priests

London is

2006-07-03T04:57:00.000-05:00

not tower
not tube
nor Trafalgar
not Thames
nor bridges o'er river
not Antony, Shakespeare,
nor theater
not museum nor music
not garden nor gallery
no restaurant nor headrest
not cathedrals nor Camden

no, none of these are London
but rather-

Yunus
Tom
Calypso
Luca
Peter
John
Dana
Miranda
Luke
Matt
Bree
Mia
Chris
Cat
Danielle
Jarrod &
Jen
Sarah &
Richard

thus...
London is-

Turkey
Wales
Greece
Italy
Poland
Texas
Canada
Germany
L.A.
& the U.K.

yo soy el disco vinyl

2006-07-03T04:27:00.000-05:00

i fly
as record-turned-frisbee
from London's busy hands
into the seated lap
of Tiago San

his finger applies pressure
to my grooved surface
revolving 33 times a minute
my black stallion song
in a single second
is whoa'd
reined in

33-28-21-14-8-0
silence...
stillness...

his gentle voice comes to me
from the rest he's entered
...commune.
...celebrate.
...rest.

all together alone

2006-06-29T19:36:00.000-05:00

let me be
all alone together
with you
and you are...who?
anyone
(on desperate days)

in the city

(we've changed into)
everyone
and we are...what?
alone
all together alone
let me be

Wednesday PLANS (in Seuss)

2006-06-28T18:31:00.000-05:00

what? oh what

did i tonight?

i can not

will not

tell a lie

i did NOT ride the London Eye

was NOT strolling

'long the Thames

i was NOT Cathedralling

late night hymns

NOT on a bus

(two deckers tall)

NOT shakin' clubs

(from wall to wall)

nor in the pub

my pounds all spent

my ticket stub

tells where I went

A Written Prayer

2006-06-27T18:58:00.000-05:00

Creator God
thank you for written word
spoken y despues created
in tangible form
poetry-the gift of speech
made physical
-metaphor for You,
the Christ
God incarnate
THE WORD
flesh and alive
among men

Subway to St. Paul's

2006-06-27T03:57:00.000-05:00

he strums his pipe organ
head down
determined to dine
on more than
poetic icons
on walls reverberating
emo trumpet dirge like
an army of souls of
chiorboys
reverberating off St. Paul's
walls
each voice singing:

"soon, soon i will climb
from this blackened earth
into the diffident light."

meanwhile
street-bard
calls me "blackbird...
singing in the dead of night..."

Palmer's Lodge

2006-06-27T03:42:00.000-05:00

you teach me the secret of contentment
as London calls for going and coming
and going and moving and doing
you are my Victorian victory
quietly triumphant
over restlessness
you give me rest
in just right chairs
in a cup of tea
in A Wrinkle in Time
in the only London you let touch me...
a soothing cool wind
through your open windows

transit authority (in two parts)

2006-06-25T20:26:00.000-05:00

flat top cotton plains
shadowed by wings
of silver plane
pierced from below by
fairy-tale castles white
snow made mountains
i sight i magine my flight
is not a number but
MY FLIGHT o'er this
imagined Middle Earth
between familiar earth
and outer space
for five and twenty days
this road of sky
is my home...my place
to dream
to be
to write
to read
refuse the call to do
do...do
all that London says i can...
too busy tour-guiding
those compelled the fear
of missing sights
to believe
in who
i am

and beneath
make-believe
cities in sky
i
look
down
not up
nor out
at real steel
and glass
collectives
of blues
of Hemingway
of Big Sweaty Men
and the sea-called-Lake
Michigan
i look out
at sunset
down at tops of tallest
buildings i've climbed-
-until now
i wait for darkness
for the Great Chicago Fire
of countless man-made lights
i ask "how did i get here?!"
it was the Blue-Line
train from O'Hare
it was directions
a bellman gave
it was onboard a plane
it was onboard fate
and it was
my
coming of age

here lies sam

2006-06-03T13:36:00.000-05:00

“ugliest dog in the world”
yet loved
by most beautiful
of all creatures…

woman

and
here i am
“chief of ugly-hearted men”
yet loved
by Love
in whose image
were made
she/i

loved
by Love

known in this

loving

of ugly dogs

Mike vs. The Openness

2006-05-21T20:45:00.000-05:00

I’ve seen the mic
Get passed
Get slammed

By heartbroken lovers
Passionate preachers
And poetry pimps

I’ve seen women and men
Wield the mesh of steel
As if it were…
Excalibur
Unsheathed from the stone
That is a stand
As if it could
Make kings
Or queens of them

Is the mic
The power in poets’ palms
A magic wand that
Welds words to wattage
Helps hold hostage
The minds of those
Noisy
Revolutionaries?

Or is it an evil
Forcing patrons to
Yell more
Over all that is amplified
When they choose to converse
In competition
With verse?

Waging war
Against poetry

Perhaps theses machines
For public address
Are not necessities
For poets to connect

But rather
Accessories to the clamor
Of disrespect

Here, now
We have no mics,
No stands, or cords

Just words
Spoken from eight
Inch stage
Straight
Into air

Into ears
Lent freely
To anyone with words

Here, now
Our words
Need not change
Into electricity
To make possible
Exchange
Of vocabulary
And conviction

These naked words are
Projected honestly into
The openness
Of reverent attentiveness

Into the openness
Of an audience
Who came to listen

See, if force is used
It isn’t love
It’s abuse

Real love
Always
Lets its’ object choose

That’s why I don’t speak
Into an electronic scepter
When I read

That’s why this stage
Sports one speaker
Not three

That’s why the King of Kings
Doesn’t love
With a crown
Or a gun

His kind of love lives
On lips
And in ears
Tonight

So thanks,
For openness
In absence of mic

student/teacher

2006-05-03T19:38:00.000-05:00

all are broken
all learn
all teach
all follow
all lead
and all
are glued
together

this town

2006-04-22T00:20:00.000-05:00

i,
steel in the raw,
am
forged and welded in
placental trainyard
am
riveted to light
at the end of a tunnel
am
hurtling forward
at full steam
it seems
the only way into this town
is out
i,
quiet little engine that
could move on,
am idling
twenty-five years
am
at the station
that's been here
a hundred five more than i,
rusting locomotive,
am
built for more than
round town transit
am
yearning for
big city outs and ins it
seems the only way out of this town
is through

the hairdresser's plight

2006-04-08T00:15:00.000-05:00

i cut hair

on people

i cut hair on the highest points
of people
at their lowest

i massage the scalps
of neglected women
and listen
as they remember
the last time their husbands
touched them

i tell them
they are beautiful for

i see them beautiful
as they walk in

in my chair
i make them
(literally)
beautiful

i've inserted
(literally)
billions of
bobby-pins into the hair of
high school sweethearts
whose crushes
finally asked them to a dance

i listen
to hope
and fear

i fear this masterpiece
i've made
will fall down tonight
in the hands of
some boasting boy i buzzed
earlier today

"i hope
you have fun tonight"
i say

i hope he takes
the advice i gave to
see her beautiful
the way

i see them beautiful
as they walk in

i make them
beautiful

i make
widow ladies
in their eighties
never blue but
blonde
red
brunette
beauties

i listen
as they remember
the last time their husbands
touched them

i tell them
they are beautiful
i see them beautiful
as they walk in
in my chair
i make them
beautiful

i make them beautiful with
bobby pins
brushes
combs
scissors
and my own hands

i make them beautiful
with dryers
and dyes

time goes bye...

hair grows like
late day shadows
toward the long dark night
of the soul

wind blows out styles
blows doubt into minds

and they return
weary
teased
limp and limping

i tell them
"you're beautiful" for
i believe them beautiful
as they walk in

in my chair
i make them
beautiful

and send them out again

for more great photos please visit:
http://madameshutterfly.typepad.com/

the stuff on us

2006-02-28T22:26:00.000-06:00

we have
always been covered
in the stuff
opaque
a color
not yet named
we look
picked up
from Earth
dipped in bitter syrup and
rolled in
coarse
dust

we remember not
a time without
the stuff
on us
but we feel that
it
is not
a part
of us
it is something
evil
extra

it
weighs our steps
it
pulls our faces
early to adulthood
early to age
with wrinkles
that tell
of pain

pain yesterday as
demons came
to our continent
reeking like
the stifling smell we
have all grown used to
the smell of
the stuff
on us

they
took us
away
took us
in chains
to the coast
to these boats

boats hauling us
toward ships
bound for fate’s hopeless
cold and distant shores

we lift desperate
lungs skyward
as our bodies cut through
waves bigger than we’ve seen
on this lake
bigger than we’ve seen
the water is
salt
and somehow the salt is cause
of some stuff
on us
to peel away

through stinging eyes we
see
see our own skin

some of us are dark
darkness not
frightening like
clouds on night
but rich beautifully varying darkness
like
the shiny wood we shape
into masks
darkness like
many stones
formed deep in Kilima Njaro
and like the earth
between those stones

some of us
are dark
but not
all of us

some of our skins
are red
red like dried blood
shed for home
land wide sustaining
seas of waist high
grass
sustaining buffalo buoys
sustaining those of
us
who
have already been made
to move
away

we are thrown to
the deck that will soon
hide us from sky
bear us away three deep and
millions wide to fate’s
far and hopeless shore

some among us are
tinted slightly yellow with
fierce dragon eyes
nose and mouth subdued
by shackles on talon hands
those of us are but four
small yellow star satellites
serving selfish wants of one
fat yellow star on fabric
dyed with
bright blood of
teachers
poets
and priests
Tiananmen tank treaded
to death
for non-conformity

we are buried alive in
the mass grave
of the ship that carries us
to death certainly
on fates far
and hopeless shore

just before the door
is sealed our captors
lay down among us
themselves covered
in the stuff
they too are chained hand to foot
in the salty gaps between
their still covered skin
we see they too
display a variety of hues
we feel the wind move
us but
know not what evil
unfurled the ghost ship’s sails
or what inhuman devil
laughs at its’ helm

in the dark
mankind floats
away from home
suffocating under the weight
of all of the stuff
on us

some of us
with black beards
and curls over ears
have olive skin turned brown
by African sun
days spent
building death homes for
pharaohs

the stuff
on the backs of those
of us
peels away from
whip scars
and sandstone abrasions
some of us
had been slaves before
as the stuff on the feet
of those
peel away
it takes
seabottom mud
bits of bread
flakes of spilled milk
stuck on soles
with stray honey
from the
delivery
from slavery

¿who will deliver us
from fate’s hopeless
cold and distant shore
¿who will completely cleanse
us from the stuff
on us
the stuff that hides
the beautiful black white
red yellow brown
of freed humanity
¿who will offer salt from
sweat of
labor for our cause
¿who will
march
march
for freedom
march
march
march
as one
one bruised bleeding body
Slowly taking
Step and painful step and
Slowly bearing the burden
of all the stuff
on us
a beam across
his shoulders
¿who will absorb every
blow oppression delivers
every sting of injustice
a woodsplinter
in his open back
our hate crimes are
nails in his vessel
that bears him to fate’s
cold and distant shore

the penalties
for those crimes
are one
one spear in his side

2006-02-14T22:54:00.000-06:00

responsive football poem

2006-02-08T18:13:00.000-06:00

the following rules are published in the
National Football League’s
Digest of Rules
these rules
timing
that is…
the passage of time
during America’s game

Rule #1
The stadium game clock is official.
In case it stops or is operating incorrectly,
The Line Judge takes over the official timing on the field.

The stadium game clock is official.
In the case that it stops
Football fans would do well to
Give someone a ride home from the sports bar
Mentor a depressed teen
Raise money for aids or cancer research
Lobby for an improved national healthcare system
Donate football ticket money to world hunger relief

Rule #2
Each period is 15 minutes

during each of which
someone in America
will die
because
someone in America
went for a
drunk drive

Rule #3
On charged team time outs, the Field Judge starts watch and blows whistle after 1 minute 50 seconds, unless television does not utilize the time for commercial. In this case the length of the time out is reduced to 40 seconds.

The Field Judge starts watch
And blows whistle
Multi-million dollar
Commercials convince consumers
To buy more potato chips
While 9 people die of aids

Unless telivision does not utilize the time for a commercial
In this case the length of the time out is reduced to 40 seconds
During which time
The world waits as
Someone takes their own life

Rule 4
The Referee will allow necessary time to attend to an injured player, or repair a legal player’s equipment.

The Referee will not, however
Ask that player to spend some of his millions
Helping poor kids
Pay for healing their injuries
Or just helping them buy
The school supplies
They need

Rule 5
Each team is allowed three time outs each half.

each half a year
three million children
starve
to death

Rule 6
Time between plays will be 40 seconds from the end of a given play until the snap of the ball for the next play, or a 25-second interval after certain administrative stoppages and game delays.

Or a 25-second interval for an American to die of
artery stoppages and heart delays

Rule #7
Clock will start running when ball is snapped following all changes of team possession.

As we buy possessions
With money that could
Stop death…
Death’s clock doesn’t stop

Rule 8
With the exception of the last two minutes of the first half and the last five minutes of the second half, the game clock will be restarted following a kickoff return, a player going out of bounds on a play from scrimmage, or after declined penalties when appropriate on the referee’s signal.

There are penalties for overzealous involvement with games that cannot be declined

Rule 9
Consecutive team time outs can be taken by opposing teams but the length of the second time out will be reduced to 40 seconds.

Wars have no time-outs
With all these eternal battles begging to be fought football’s skirmishes are not Worth watching

Rule #10
When, in the judgment of the Referee, the level of crowd noise prevents the offense from hearing its signals, he can institute a series of procedures which can result in a loss of team time outs or a five-yard penalty against the defensive team.

When the noise of their entertainment prevents fans from going on the offensive against human suffering, someone must institute a series of procedures which can result in a loss of America’s game, America’s drug, America’s god

Football

the day after Christmas

2005-12-28T21:02:00.000-06:00

do not scratch
the pricetag
off my redemption

show me the reciept
show me what
you spent

i promise
i will not return it
the day after Christmas

i have been psyching
myself up for this
since November 25th

now it feels like
closing night
of a play

for which i
spent much time
memorizing lines

will i find
time and lines
obsolete in the morning?

rejoice, my soul
keep singing

sing
“rejoice, Emanuel”
the day after Christmas

“fall on your knees”
the day after
the day after Christmas

keep beckoning friends
in song
“come, let us adore him”
the day after
the day after
the day after Christmas

keep singing
“glory to the newborn King”
the day after
day after
day after
day after Christmas

keep singing for
“the herald angels sing”
long after Christmas

Christmas eve meditation

2005-12-28T20:58:00.000-06:00

Messiah
You are re-incarnated
in my history
each Christmas
as in Your first
entry into world history

You divide everything into
past
and future

you bring hope again

in forgiveness form
in form of
future freedom
from failure

you come laughing
in infant optimism

the past has past
tomorrow is

life

pressing new year
petals
up through hard
winter soil

life

rising against
abandonment
that threatens
every illigitimate
son

life

born sans sanitation
and
without midwife

life

escaping
jealous
killing kings

escaping
bitter mobs
fists full of stone

life

embracing
man
as brother

embracing
death

life

lying down and
standing up again
each year

like baby Moses
taking first steps
on river banks of
desert sand

then crossing sea
then crossing river

a Christmas hymn

2005-12-20T23:57:00.000-06:00

i come home and
see my father
through the window
in the dark

next to unlit
Christmas tree he
stands still holding
cup of tea

he is staring
out the window
but he does not
look at me

i just drove in
from the manger
scene i saw in
stranger’s yard

leaving home I
see My Father
through My new eyes
As they form

My new mouth can’t
drink a drop from
bitter cup My
Father holds

in His mercy
He will hold it
‘til He looks a-
way from Me

I just got in-
to the manger
I just came in-
to My world

screaming at houseplants

2005-11-27T14:56:00.000-06:00

GROW!!!

WHY CAN’T YOU GROW!?!?

WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?!?!

GROW!!!

i will remove you
from these rooms

soil
sun
rain
might change…

nothing

changing externals
changes nothing

pretend
you are fake plastic
but know
in no time
no nourishment
wilts leaves
browns green
kills
life

this death will
prove you non-plastic
and yet
inorganic

not the tree
you can be

standing sure
on constantly clinging
always drinking and
forever deepening
root

broad spread branches
bending to the tug of
much fruit

you are less
than alive
because you refuse to GROW!!!

WHY CAN’T YOU GROW!?!?

WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?!?!

GROW!

the rainbow warrior

2005-11-24T17:07:00.000-06:00

out of the darkness
of dependence
'neath tinted windows
over black paint

red
yellow
orange
white
magenta
purple
blue

stripes
run up
down
curved and
straight

shouting
"1988!"

i was in first grade
the first day
GMC
rolled the Rainbow Warrior
onto streets

today,
i'm in eleventh

and Jimmy
is more than SUV
He
is my identity
in him
i am free

in control

i decide where i go
when i go
to what station
i tune MY radio

and i know
he can get me there

six cylinders
jumping
gears spin wheels
tires squeal
under folded down
back seats
making space to load
equipment
so i can play shows
and mow lawns i'm paid to mow

he takes care of me
so i take care of Jim

oiling
gassing
adorning
rearview mirror
with rubber chicken

cops will stop us
'cause
different is suspicious

i will wreck him
because i
drive in daydreams

mom and dad
will try to convince me
to paint Jim black
and lose the lines

but i will fight for my
warrior's stripes
and he will ride again
in full glory

in college
his hood will fly high
on highway

someday closer
to two-hundred thousand miles
i will sell him
for a less interesting
Chevy Blazer

Jim will work for the
U.S. Postal Service

eventually
he will be
a first car
again

making a lucky
young lady
unique

a toast

2005-11-09T22:25:00.000-06:00

to biggest mistakes

to hardest things faced

stare them down
in memory
unflinchingly
without
looking
away

revisit
the haunted place
watch time
reshape
a burning house of pain

momentarily
feel its' heat and
periodically return to see
hellfire
reduced to
smoldering rubble and
a few
flickering
fading
flames

it may
one day
burn out
but won't ever burn
down

a memorial remains
in cold black ruins
scarring soul's landscape like
healed wounds
on veteran arms
telling tales
of Strength born weak
and Wisdom conceived
in mistake

they grow up
and old
together

they grow
through flames that
flicker and fade
until Strength
and companion
break

break bread
in celebration
raise glasses in toast,
and slowly

drink

a friend in brokenness

2005-10-30T12:54:00.000-06:00

sixteen or
seventy seven years old

skin thin and
showing bones

long oily and
matted coat
broken by patches of
raw red infection
where allergies irritate unto
biting
and scratching

deaf ears oozing
wax
and pus

paws soiled by
backyard dust

nose wet
because it
runs

shaky feet run
solely in sleep

eyes wake only
for mouth
to eat

neglected

only petted
when owner
knows life
is a dog’s

and longs
for a friend
in brokenness

porn industry exposé

2005-10-29T17:25:00.000-05:00

she lost her life
her dignity
her name

for fame
and fortune

in front of
firing squad
she took off all her clothes
and posed

they shot her dead

in the face
in the legs
in the chest

they shot
and shot

she didn't fall
she didn't bleed
she only lay there
smiling
demurely
as the flashes

scared her soul away

they-
took what they took
air brushed blemishes
and sent it out
to the world

and the world raped her

everyday
thousands
of closet adulterers

drool and ejaculate
all over and over and
over her

they are frightening
and afraid
of intimacy
afraid of losing control
so
they lose heart
in the dark

alone

they send their love into the void
of her un-reciprocating image that
cannot hold them through
banging pangs
of shame
of guilt
that ache and

scare their souls away

so only
shame
remains

she tries to hide
from their empty stares
but they find her
everywhere
and she finds
no place safe

she puts layers
on layers
of clothes
but knows
she can't ever get dressed again

so many admirers
still, she stands

alone

in that pose
cold frozen
forever

and somewhere
sometime
out of sight
out of mind
out of print
and offline

the soul of a woman
drifts hopeless
without a body
without the home
she sold

redemptionpoetry.txt

2005-10-04T11:59:00.000-05:00

I am a poem

I am a poem about
Redemption

A product of creativity
Through fingers and keys
Onto a screen

I need to be
Saved As (ellipsis)
“Redemption Poetry”
Dot T – X – T
Or D – O – C

What do these
Salvific strokes of keys
Truly mean?

I mean,
Am I saved
Or just safe

Did they
Create
New Document or just
Delay
Procrastinating my completion
Until another day?

I need to take shape
In tangible form
Have substance
Be reborn
On a new white page

I need out of this system
The whole thing
Is on the brink
Of shutting
Down
It’s about
To come crashing

And even after
It gets me out
This topic
That I am all about
Should make my stanzas
Increase in strength

I want to be
Hard copy
Edited in fountains
Of blood red ink

Because if a poem
About Redemption
Is to be redeemed

It’s more than just
Getting saved

Its change

A Spectator of Life and Freedom

2005-09-27T12:30:00.000-05:00

He,
Only three
Only three feet something
Stamps his feet
Sumo style

The girls
Meanwhile
Hold hands and
Skip their best skips
Round and
Round and
Round

At his leisure
Sans inhibition
And without preference
He chooses one
Taking her by the hand
And
They dance
Full of joy

Joy so pure
The mountain air
And Colorado fall
Yield

For all their coolness
And color
They cannot extract the
Same smiles
From us—the circle of adults
Standing in still participation
In the celebration
Like statues when viewed
Next to
Kids

We see the girls
Twirl
Intrigued
That they
Are mesmerized
By centrifugal force
Pulling pastel dresses
To the extreme

The boy—
Breaks voluntarily
Pulling a treat
From his left pocket
Though his M&M may fall
He will still eat

Social conventions
Convict him not
Control not
His eating
Nor his dancing

They don’t mind Miles Davis
But they
Hope the next one is fast...

As they frolic with uncontrolled laughter...
We chuckle

We laugh courteously
At life in motion
As if it were a one-liner
And not the panacea
We all long for

Some of us laugh as the senile do
We know something is cute
We know something is perfect
In these
Small footed moves
But memory fails
And we complicate the recollection
Of a time
When we
Danced carelessly
Amid pointing grown-ups

Deep inside
Some of our chests heave
With sobs instead of chuckles
Lamenting lost opportunities
To dance

They did not know it was their last dance
When he pulled her close
Kissing her nose
Or was it her lips?

I don't know
I stood behind her
A spectator
Of life and freedom

"My Poems" (An Autobiographical List of Works) by: Anonymous Jones

2005-09-18T02:45:00.000-05:00

My first words were
Red roses
And violets?
Well, They’re violet
But I was just a babe
And, thus...
Thought them blue

I went to church
And entered into
My beach motif
I wrote one called
“Footprints”
And another about starfish
Thrown to the sea
By a boy
Like me

If you’ve ever
received
an F-W-D
cheesy e-mail
That rhymed…
that was me
(Still honing my craft
In my early teens)

Anything
”Inspirational”
You may have seen
On teachers’ walls
Or on ceilings of spots
Where you had your teeth cleaned
--Me.

In high school
Teachers read
My name
At the top of pages
Penned by poet’s
Made famous
Years before my time

I tried to explain that
I don't find it a
Crime
When I
Plagiarize
On behalf of
The uneducated
Or those too
Lazy to ask the question
Who?

I’ve been too
Shy to claim
One set of works until now…

Those God quote billboards
Should really take
My name
In vain

Why Didn’t I
Copyright
My poems?

I’ve been writing
For years and not seen
A single royalty check

Who’s missing out
While whoever else
Makes millions
Without fretting
Infringement…?

--Me.

(art by kerns)

The Do Brothers (A Limerick)

2005-09-06T12:41:00.000-05:00

Can Do
Should Do
And Does Do
The Do brothers
Numbering three

All live in a town
That is full of dry ground
Near a city
That sunk
In the sea

Can
Understand
Is a middle class man
Who lives
In a house
With six rooms

He lives with his wife
And two dogs
But no child
And Can always
Has extra
To eat

Should also could
And he knows
It is good
To offer himself
Selflessly

Though he’s full of desire
Helps price is much higher
Than what Should Do
Is willing
To spend

Does Do
Has means
To help those with needs
In the city
That sunk
In the sea

Does Do
Does do
While Can Do is too
Selfish
To share
What he has

And while Should Do just waited
And felt obligated
Does Do
Got up
And did

While they share the name Do
Only one of them does
And the others
Do nothing
But be

He Doesn't Taste Squash

2005-08-30T19:20:00.000-05:00

He doesn't taste
Squash

Baked
Pureed
Sauteed

He doesn't taste
Squash

He tastes

Dirt

Waste

Of chickens
Of rabbits
Of worms

He turns it
With his tongue

His arms burn

He re-turns
Rows of earth
With his hands
In his mind

No matter how bland
He tastes
Salt
Of sweat

No matter how savory
The juice
Of earth's fruit

He tastes
The rain

Filling roots
Leaves
Shoots
Stems

And fruit

Surrounding seed
Chance
Again for
Roots
Leaves
Shoots
Stems

Squash

He tastes not the dish
But is more thankful
For food
Than those who
Chew
Mouths full

As each bite enters his

He prays
For those
Without

Jeffersonian Agrarianism

2005-08-29T10:15:00.000-05:00

For the World

I till earth
I tend it's produce
I take it's yield

For the World

I love beasts
Creatures great and small
I nurture daily
Dismantle monthly

For the World I love

I touch creation

Daily

Creator
Gives good gifts
Touching me
Daily

With rain
Sun
Harvest and
Love

For the World

The Ductility of Dreams

2005-08-23T16:04:00.000-05:00

If steel shared
The diameter
Of spider silk
The web would
Prove more powerful

While a bat’s wings are only
As thick as
Plastic sandwich bags

I tell of a tension
Exerted on steel
Spider’s string
And the flesh of wings

The opposing forces
Of this tension are
Dreams
And gifts

They tear apart
Double lives
Of men

The temptation?
To compromise
The responsibility
That arrives
When he realizes
His gift
His curse

The responsibility
To be
A Messiah
To Humanity

The tug of war
Of the mind

He dreams of
Love
And simple life

A family
And a chance to
Drive to work
Instead of swing
Or fly

He dreams of days
Just quietly going by
Going by a normal name
Like

Clark or
Peter or
Bruce

For a moment
He wishes
He never knew his own strength

Then,

Alfred or
Lois or
Aunt May

Fights alongside
Against the tension
And knowing both identities
Reminds

"...sometimes
We have to be steady
And give up the thing we want the most...
Even
Our dreams."

He rises
Accepting his station
And remembers
In this occupation
It is not uncommon
To beat bad guys

And Get the girl

Another Super-Hero Poem

2005-08-23T15:36:00.000-05:00

Who is hero
In a world where
Last is first
And the greatest
Serves?

Who possess super-human powers
Who’s identity truly
Is secret?

His super suit
Is blue
A dirty Dickies one-piece
With his name embroidered-
No-
Emblazoned
Above the pocket

Maybe he doesn’t spend his nights
Mopping vomit
In that old
Elementary school

Maybe his broom flies
And he cleans the streets
Of villains and bad guys

And what a surprise
If she
Were a super hero

One with the elements
She breathes
Fire and screams
Wind
Earth covers her dead parts
And dirties her dress
Like soiled sheets
Of a hundred thousand beds

Could water make her clean again?

Maybe her nose
Is so
Red
From all that fire breathing she does
Consuming adversaries
Of truth
And Justice

Perhaps old people
Aren’t really confined to homes
It could all be a hoax
So enemies of humanity don’t
Sense their strength
Or know
Their knowledge

While the world sleeps
Wheelchairs go 400 miles per hour
Amphibious attack vehicles
Sort of James Bond style

They sport
Top-secret prosthetics
Made by mad scientists
In underground government labs

Maybe they move like lightning
With their mech-appendages
And go by names like
Robot-Boy and
Electro-girl

They fake the shakes of disease
Feign the confusion
Of senility
So they don’t blow their cover

Little children
Might be the most mighty
Of the secret-supers
The anti-evil
With minds powered by
Naivety and pure
Un-perverted laughter

Wicked ones flee from the laser light
Of innocent eyes

I can see the Metropolitan
Headlines now

"Janitor,
Elder,
Child,
And Whore
Form Fantastic Foursome
And stop clan
Of evil ninjas
Set on world domination”

That world
Where last come first
Is probably villianless
Lacking crime
And its’ resultant
Death
Pain
And crying

The peace of that kingdom
Is kept constantly
By the King who
Saved every day
By
Sacrifice
Of super strength
Becoming
Weak

He commands
All would-be
Heroes to do the same

To love
To become
Like kids
Like untouchables
Like the poor
Like the least

river reflection

2005-07-15T02:00:00.000-05:00

consistent current
constant sound

drops convene
in the creases
of mountains

consistent
constant

for hours
days and
weeks

rapids roll like
sticks on snares
across fields of green

water
seems
to arrive
at our rock in
unending abundance

the rock
and its neighbors
are subtly shifted
slightly scraped
bit by bit
by grain

more rain
could cover them,
move,
or destry them until
nothing
remains

or

after months
rains cease
leaving rocks to

the wind
dry and mighty
consistent
constant

ceasing

like rocks
like rain
like rivers

the magic kingdom

2005-07-02T15:44:00.000-05:00

walk circles around
this world 'til
feet burn up
fall off

confuse conversation
in clamorous crowds
screams
cymbals
crashing
spinning
fast passing
hours and
days of

noises!
colors!
castles!
characters!
cultures!

creative!
imaginative!

chaos

with rules
and lines
to stay within

sent rain
entertains me
reminds me of

john's poem
the one where
the Creator
calls out through
clamorous crowds,

"stop.
listen.
know Me."

Summer Sonnet for Carrie

2005-06-14T01:45:00.000-05:00

water broken, he purchased a new car
oppression breaks as lovers drive away

girls dress-up, dreaming of eternity
boy, meanwhile, climbs hills, muddy banks, and trees
while eighteen hundred head-stones remind that
life’s fast fragile hours are precious and hard

hometowns and birthplaces are not the same
fireworks and sunset over the city
holding her interest and her body
boy and nashville comfort abroad and here

flying saucers unite friends for fun times
inside bars and out at Percy-Warner

a lazy day to consume film and food
walk through a hotel where we do not sleep

unplanned time with friends full of trivia
prelude to summer’s end celebration

naked african walls covered in beans
wooden sticks covered with angelic love
on campus he hears brotherhood arrive
test in one hand, pizza in the other

lovers separate for bro and girl time
anticipate reunion in two days
hey, there is treasure back here...crash...dang it

love ends another fight to understand
awkwardness dissolves like fruit dip and tea

eliptical dancing living loving
cranium game we thought was eternal
ends with mediocre food and music

less scary than Willy Wonka’s office
whimsical holes and staples intrigue us
we wander ‘tween canvas...“such is mango!”

smokey green wave
laps around look rock while
shipwrecked sailors cease calls for help to kiss

hit the road, stop, look at a map, truck on
McGill, Best Prize Fighter in the Nation

a run in with the rose festival queen
lights darkness where we don’t communicate

robert and annie are married today!
carrie catches bouquet and disclaimers

depart anxious for familiar mattress
Mimi and mom’s inquisition awaits
along with a letter long overdue
our quest for friendship does not end at home
but with more friends and a revolution

birds

2005-05-05T13:48:00.000-05:00

the royal
regal
blue-jay

prince of
thieves
eats eggs

the bird of
peace...
also a
thief

a pest and
a glutton
the dove
plagues farm fields
incessantly

vultures:
misunderstood
bald janitors of
the sky

eat the dead and
the soon-to-die
clean and keep
the world
disease-free

Noble eagles
cunning hawks
murder
anything
that moves

angels
spread wings and
gracefully
glide

plumage
bright
white

while

demons
spread wings and
gracefully
glide

plumage
bright
white

the same team

2005-05-04T02:43:00.001-05:00

he could apologize...
she would ask him, "for what?"
he would just sit
silent

he has no answer
he has infinite
questions
no answers

he hurts because
she hurts because
he...
doesn't know why

they're both frustrated...
at him

they're both trying to
cast off cares

they both need a miracle
of
revelation
or
consolation

two stomachs
knotted
in tangles
of confusion
he tied

two minds
both believe
distance will decrease
pain

but the hurt
is just one more
commonality

so battling
unidentified foes
he's asking the
same question
as she

"if we're already
sharing the load
shouldn't we fight
on the same team?"

Spring and Fall

2005-04-26T21:36:00.000-05:00

"the transitional seasons"
feel the same
like waking
and sleeping

feel (i think)
like birth
and death
must feel similar
i can't remember
my birth and-
doubt i'll have time
to comment
on death

Autumn leaves die
beautiful deaths

each Spring leaves are
born again
for the first time
and for a moment
the weather is
"just right"

Spring is my favorite
these moments are why
i wish all of life
could be "just right"
and like
coming alive
for the first time

but Spring
and Fall are
"the transitional seasons"
they evoke hope of eternity
but inevitably
Spring plunges
headlong into hellacious heat
down to dryness and death

while Fall freezes
inhibiting all activity save-
Counting Crows
in car stereos

a thaw
the glory of spring
the days grow long
and hot
the grass
goes brown
from green
the ice
returns
to thaw
again and
again and
again

i want the world
freed from futility of
cycles and seasons

maybe that's heaven
i hope heaven
is like the apex
of Spring

imagine
everything
constantly
coming
to life

flowers
bloom and
bloom and
bloom
colors constantly
growing
bright

no black cloud
congested sky

why?

the water cycle
is no more
exchanged for
rivers
overflowing life
from God knows where

to drink
is to be quenched with
so satisfying
a quench
that drinking
becomes obsolete
yet taste and
reminder of ended need
return imbibers
to the stream
always
forever

darkness?
there is no time
light-
shines
from God knows where
and arrives
at perfect
seventy-five

every redundant
cycle done
even the one
where people hurt
then apologize
forgive
and live
with consequence

love
uninterrupted
forever

loving God
loving people
forever

sounds boring
at first
but won't be
because love
is like flowers
and streams

love will
blossom
like blooms
set free

we will be
constantly
quenched
by all we've tasted
excited indefinitely
over goodness
we have yet to see

love
will well up
so that we
fear explosion
then we will
receive
some wondrous
unimaginable means
to express our
bursting hearts
in constant release

all at once
forever

we will go inward
and upward
through the wild country
of love
noting
as Narnians
that heaven is no
new
nor distant world
but more
than anyplace we've been

our home

download Spring and Fall (with There is Love by Cody Kimmel

call me mr. freeze

2005-01-31T15:59:00.000-06:00

it's been confirmed
every time i sit
to compute
on a mac
or pc

old school green
screened
apple II e
or a lighning-fast super machine...

freeze-