AKA End of WDC Daze: Where I wrote once upon a time. No more room within.
"It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely."|
"You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself."
"...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger
I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires.
I am legally blind (since 2000) with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma (diagnosed in 1986). I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries (1990 and 1992), still subject to further vision loss. Writing tends to be strenuous because of this condition but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression (another genetic hand-me-down?).
"Fading Nearer To Black" because space here is running out. Re-starting an abandoned blog here:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on...
Trying to make sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out.
I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are.
Thank you WakeUpAndLive~December for honoring me with your kind words!
Read here before current blog entries... 2018 Highlights ▼
More... 2018: The Quiet Ones ▼
I'm on Twitter:
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Read me, don't read me. I'm going to dare you to read anyway.
Also, "Fading Nearer To Black" nominated for:
|Attempt at Allegory
When she sidled up, she couldn't match his long strides. Roxanne had introduced herself with simple innocence. He slowed his pace, knew he was not to be left alone, roam free. She had accosted him with such clever sweetness it could make any man's head turn. But, he could not know her. She was not even a vision -- just a guardian to lead him back to his room.
Brian had a history of anxiety, meltdowns. He couldn't just wander about, conjecture to the others. He had felt that soft hand guide before. He was always led to quiet places. It was like the smell of glue, crayons and markers -- given busy work to help with the obsessing. Each time he realized even sooner the ruse. Feeling manipulated, he would go along with the game long enough to earn their trust back...again.
A door slid partly opened facing a gray wall. "Why are we here?"
"This will be your new home in a few years. I thought you would like to see it," Roxanne pleasantly replied.
A concrete floor laid before a windowless room. It was just like he imagined: no air vents, square and dead silent. He noticed the peeling numbers '6, 0' on the entry. What he dreaded was presented like a new opportunity, or the beginning of the end. His days wandering the halls were now numbered.
Before waking from this dream, Brian had an odd feeling. How long had he lived in this asylum? Maybe, stay in bed a little longer, give lucid dreaming one more try.
From the time I first learned
tie a blanket around my neck
I could be like my idols,
a hero, but it would be
for no one but myself,
as I had to defend my own faith.
Faith started out as courtesy
to mother and father,
to their ethic, tradition --
values instilled and projected
on family, friends,
neighbors and community
that one by one
abolished a crusader in
running through yards
and streets majestic.
I wasn't fit.
I couldn't serve, limited
by the values, ethos and
traditions of others --
I contemplated every
nudge, get off my block --
each glare or indifferent demeanor --
studied body language,
hands on hips or
up, up and away
to my room, my corner
of a world so cold, punitive.
It was hard to believe with
what they instilled in me.
Green with anger, identifying
with powerful monsters,
I grew stronger in my fortress,
in my resolve
that I can be your hero
and eat your bullets.
I can walk the still night,
a dark path leading
to four walls --
an anti-hero caged
in my solitude,
seek quiet within knowing
out there someone needs me,
and if I serve
I will die a little more,
I serve darkness
and yearn light instead.
I'm as public as ever
and alone as hell.
Monsters don't know their limitations. How am I still alive, thwarting pure evil?
|Some days, I feel I’m the only adult at a kid’s table. And, they’re trying to intimate I should be somewhere else. Indifferent, they play amongst themselves. If I chime in, furrowed brows and scowl as they whisper in hushed tones.
Yup, just sip the imaginary tea old man. Observe.
When I Arrived
(Note: I'm still working on this)
Remember that summer
He took us to the Tastee Freez
After helping mow a field
He Sprang for 10 cent cones
You had your freckles
I was just past orange
Blond hair a melted heap
Beneath a cap, grass
Specked, stained by messy
Errant sun screen applied
Before she would let us go
I remember the day at camp
Arriving, big wiffle bat in hand
(the kind that couldn't miss
A pitched ball). Temptation sated
As I flung it at his fat behind
Maybe, he was frustrated
Maybe, I was acting out
Before he rumbled, chased
Down, assail like
No toy could
A tender backside
I wasn't in pain as I cried
Learning to hold in anxiety
Especially the evening
He pinned my neck
In that dinner chair to floor
Vicious words spat
After I realized openly
I had five extra newspapers
Left over from my route
I wouldn't finish my meal
He drove me to deliverance
Of each tardy daily
I suspected you were amused
Each time I failed him
But I was in his way until
The day he lynched you
At the back door
After midnight with his
Accusations of drug use
Questions about your intent
When she intervened
(Slapped to the floor
Like a dog)
[With free mitt] before
Locked burly arms behind
thick torso, shoved
Across our house to couch
Sat upon him
hammering his face
Two stone fists
Just glancing off
That thick, dull skull
Like a wide-eyed fish
Punished like a child
As I shouted contempt
Why couldn't I hurt him
Hit him harder
Turn him to dust?
I still loved him.
I went to bed knowing
You and she were safe
I still relive torture
Not to hurt another
But, I guess that depends
Since I have my vocabulary
You might not see me as a child of abuse.
Nowhere to stand in your house
With my drama.
I'll wait outside
No matter the weather
Long for the proper invitation
Somewhere the likes of me
Did I mention my baggage?
|Bhlog prompt today:
Make an alphabetical list of 26 items starting with each letter of the alphabet.
Any random items, related items, as long as they are in alphabetical order...
be creative, imaginative, weird...
I should add, we play the non-sequitor game to pass time when we travel. Each person has to follow the previous word with an unrelated word (non-sequitor) to keep our list going. If we decide it's linked to a previous word, we start over. If we're good, it's like a memory game. The more creative a word, the greater acknowledgement from mom and dad. Sometimes, we do it alphabetically or all words start with the same letter. When we're lazy, we do the alphabet game.
|If you could have a...national day to name and celebrate however you wished, what would you do?
I'm pretty sure it's all been covered. My google searches would probably make any idea attempts futile?
Hmm, let's peruse...*click* (assumes I have a mouse, not this tablet) *finger tap, tap, tap*
Well, an international get off your butt annndddd....oh, go look for a missing person day? Could have a website dedicated to cold cases. Dress up like your favorite detective (Holmes, Colombo, Monk ) after getting clues or hints where to search. Okay, that might mean uncovering shallow graves . People would trespass, stare in windows, contact suspects...we don't want more people disappearing. Maybe, just look for Jimmy Hoffa Day.
How about National look for pirate treasure day...? Oh, but...they have a national scavenger hunt day. Then, how about look for a dead relative day? Ancestry got that covered.
Googles time traveling...
"PRETEND TO BE A TIME TRAVELER DAY. Pretend to be a Time Traveler Day is observed annually on December 8. Time travel has..." Yeah, nothing ther...Ooo, ooo, ooo!! Shaddup, shaddup. Okay, I got it! What we need is:
National Laugh Like Burt Reynolds Day Not like that, you're doing it wrong.
Okay, so National Act Like Burt Reynolds Day
Why not international? He's an anti-Harrison Ford, rooted in a certain southern sophistication....okay, he's brash and lazy just the way we/me wish we/me could all be! So was Han Solo...Bandit was just different, that's all...yeeessshh. And yes, ruwth , I idolize all things macho, too!! My sophistications spans beyond my inner teenage girl drama.
I thought his Tony Curtis impression was spot on.
Okay, after much hemming and hawing...or, huhing , what's more natural than National Burt Reynolds Day. He made 'look at me' a cinematic artform the likes we hadn't seen before and could still appreciate and not tire of (or am I just nostalgic for the mail-it-in, tongue-in-cheek movie performance genre: actors who can't hack it in drama who just goof...Eddie Murphy gets me. Watcha talkin' 'bout Shrek!).
Burt could even make his mustache wink. (I wonder if it was fake? Well, def not that hair. ):
Instead of ’shine, he’s running Coors. He’s smiling his ass off, too, a hunky Bugs Bunny in a souped-up Trans-Am, ducking the cops as if highway outlawry is his by-God American birthright. The stakes couldn’t be lower. Rather than doing it for his family, or for justice, the Bandit’s in it mostly for the hell of it. (And eighty grand.)
The laugh, that laugh! Ha-haaa! Hey, Eddie. Can you top that? Sounds too much like Arnold Horshak, Mister Kotter. *clears throat* Ahem.
Norm McDonald, you're up. Ah, yeah. Sure...
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK
Is now a certified gold blog entry soon to go platinum!
Back to original post from October 11, 2018...
I'll bet they thought they had me stumped with this prompt:
October 11 is International Day of the Girl Child. What are your favorite girl power songs? Share 11.
*Screams like a teenage girl*
Ahhhhh, yeah. Here...we...go!
*jingle* Entering our countdown at number 11 (our 10 + 1 artist), and the first to come to mind when I saw this prompt, is this girl-power-smash-hit for Miss Kelly Clarkson. If you know it, you love it, if you haven't already overheard the immortal, tad-cliche line, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger..." That's right, it's "Stronger"! Kelly will be joining us later in the countdown.
STRONGER - Kelly Clarkson
Our next artist,
▶️ 🔟 ARMY OF ME - Bjork
As one reviewer put it...
...both the literal and ironic interpretations of this song are right. On one hand it's saying if you want to overcome an obstacle, just sitting there complaining will be no help - you have to put the effort in and be proactive to succeed. Yet at the same time, given Bjork's history as an anarchist activist and critic of oppressive states, it could be read as a sarcastic attack on those who demand obedience while offering no support to those under their authority. Ahem!
Among the remaining hopefuls coming up: Katy Perry, Shania Twain, Madonna, En Vogue, Bonnie Raitt, Beyonce, Pat Benatar, and Stevie Nicks. Did I give it away? We'll see. Now, on to our countdown...*catchy jingle here*
Joining us at number 9 is someone who qualifies, in fact emblifies, girl power with songs: Firework, I Kissed A Girl and Roar (sorry, Helen Reddy, not you). I skipped past all of them for my personal favorite type of girl empowerment, sexuality. With her hit California Gurls, Katy Perry owns Snoop Dogg with whatever she's wearing on her chest. Works for me, too. Eat this top ten smash:
(Pfffftttt, VIDEO NOT PROVIDED)
▶️9️⃣ CALIFORNIA GURLS - Katy Perry featuring Snoop Dogg
Another girl power classic reminds diamonds are a girl's best friend, before you can get into her pants. We're looking at you Jay-Z. Made her an honest woman. Her song,
▶️8️⃣ SINGLE LADIES - Beyoncé (Great video. Man, can she dance!)
Rare songs that I enjoy (some familiar with my Spotify playlist *insert plug here* ) came close to making my short list: I Am Every Woman by Chaka Khan, NOT Whitney Houston, Bitch by Meredith Brooks, Extraordinary by Liz Phair, (dark horse fave, Chuck E's in Love by Rickie Lee Jones, and even rarer, You Never Done it Like That by Captain and Tennille.
Now, moving on.
Who can ever forget, pointy bustiers and a sexual evolution spawned by the queen of pop...is that her title? I'm just making this up, but Madonna sure knew how to (s)express herself. (Mike Meyers thought so...Schhwwiinngg!!) Number seven with...2 bullets!
▶️7️⃣ EXPRESS YOURSELF - Madonna
This little number is quite liberating. In fact, freeing. At number...who cares. It's En Vogue with Free Your Mind...and the rest will follow:
[[Embed over limit (1).]]
▶️6️⃣ FREE YOUR MIND - En Vogue
TAKE IT OFF! - The Donnas
We're just over half way to the end of our countdown and closing in on the number one girl power song. Why are there Powerpuff Girls flying around in here! *closes window* Will it be about female empowerment through sexuality...again? Sorry, Sheryl Crow, could you step to the side. Though, you and I should soak up some sun and have a little fun watching people at the car wash in their shiny Datsuns...later.
I don't care if this doesn't fit. This next song at number five has long been something worth talking about. Real clever how I use all these song titles as introductions.
▶️5️⃣ SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT - Bonnie Raitt
That is an empowering message, though. Women have come a long way, baby. (I'm old enough to remember) Maybe, all the way from...(see what I did there)...Canada, like this country-pop-crossover-megastar from the 90s. I'd park my boots under her bed, if I wasn't married.
▶️4️⃣ MAN! I FEEL LIKE A WOMAN - Shania Twain
Working our way to the number one girl power hit on our playlist.
Sorry, to these gurrrls. You are beautiful in everything you sing. Obvious, near misses include: Gwen Stefani, Pink, Alicia Keys, Christina Aguilera, Meghan Trainer and Sarah Barelleis (the wife's fave is 'Brave'. BTW, she disapproves of the sexually-charged theme in this countdown. To her I say, wait for it).
Now hit me with artist at number three!
▶️3️⃣ HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT - Pat Benatar
Pat could do it all. Great vocal talent. A lot of older songs by Leslie Gore, Aretha Franklin, Gloria Gaynor and Cyndi Lauper could have been considered. For them, I have a lot of R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
We're almost there. We ran out of space for Little Miss Independent. Our apologies to Miss Clarkson. Hope we can fit you into some other blog post in the future. I have a hankering for something a little more tempting. Her sugar walls sounded delicious, because she had the look. Prince knew what I'm talking about because he helped her strut out a bunch of hits in the late 80s. Much respect to the artist formerly known...
At number two,
▶️2️⃣ STRUT - Sheila E...er Easton
My apologies to Stevie Nicks whose raspy vocals delight but do not appear...in text...here. After Tom Petty up and died, somebody let it be known a producer convinced that Traveling Wilbury to let her share vocals on his song, "Stop Dragging My Heart Around." It's alledged he discovered afterward the producer had 'a thing going on' with Bella Donna (ah, Stevie). He felt duped. I'm sure he got over it.
And now for the number one song in all of this port land... *drum* What? No drum graphic, The StoryMistress ? Oh, well...improvise, I always say....
That's enough. *trumpets blare* Really, we can afford studio musicians? And now, my graphics department goes home? Thanks a lot guys! Really? They don't get paid overtime...
▶️1️⃣ CORNFLAKE GIRL - Tori Amos <<-- That's mine. She has it now.
[[Embed over limit (1).]] DANG! It was beautiful when that video was working.
Makes about as much sense as anything.
I would like to send my regrets to Joan Jett and/or her Runaways. Sorry, but single cord progression is not my thing. And don't ask where I got that from (Lorelai Gilmore! You got it out of me. But, she liked the Bangles! ) Okay, confession: I cried the day Casey Kasum played their last Top 40 hit and back announced they were breaking up.
See? I AM A TEENAGE GIRL!
My thanks to Westwood 1 Radio, the late Mr. Kasum ( if that's your real name...it wasn't) and Billboard magazine for running that pic of Eddie Money and me backstage in '88! Keep reaching for the...snacks...hidden behind the cups and plates...where the, where the...hey! Where's my Eats!!!
My apologies to Meghan T, if I spelled her name wrong. Fact-checking department is done g👀gling for the day!
*play me out* Crap, im over the embed per blog entry limit...right? I think I'm the reason for that, too.
OMG!!! Lookie! My theme song, ladies ...and gents!
[[Embed over limit (1).]]
Thought for sure I could cheat the video embed gods when I saw more than videos functioning.
Where We Flowed
Gathered at the back porch
The old man's drugs were flowing
Whatever your fix
It was all good
Ills replace ills
In our neglected neighborhood
Behind the old woman's shed
It was all good
Raid canning jars
Or garden instead
Whatever will do
For the fix
For the ill
Remedy for veins thick
Ply pale flesh
Swim inner trails
Under the neighbor's apple
From a harsh sun angling
That dive, swim
To our fateful ground
Pile up like us
Until the next remedy
I told them
how I dream
Of dying like the grass
I pluck, become
Decay in mortal earth
I dream I never wake
Immortal in fantasy
I'll never be rich
Behind a value mart
Dry cardboard walls contain
Strays like me that
Dine on leeching
Never winter here
Seek shelter of
A stranger's alms
Rub elbows with
The other lonely
Sample soup endless
In their kitchens
Load up on bread
Dream, one day
Return to the tree
Where we flowed.
Apologetic Postscript Of A Year Later
by Robert Louis Stevenson
IF you see this song, my dear,
And last year's toast,
I'm confoundedly in fear
You'll be serious and severe
About the boast.
Blame not that I sought such aid
To cure regret.
I was then so lowly laid
I used all the Gasconnade
That I could get.
Being snubbed is somewhat smart,
Believe, my sweet;
And I needed all my art
To restore my broken heart
To its conceit.
Come and smile, dear, and forget
I boasted so,
I apologise - regret -
It was all a jest; - and - yet -
I do not know.
Before the boys wake
the refrigerator hums discontent --
furred, snarled dragons ply
smooth, dead floor
about idle, be-socked feet --
hardwood surfaces plateau
from toe to eye
in chilled autumn morn --
our clear vestibule prison
Before one voice unwinds
night already nearing --
mindless echoes still chirping
draw dragons' eyes out
return their desires
chained to domestication
in padded sofa/lounger play land
Nearing the crack of pipes
emerging mechanical waterfalls
an empty hull longs fill
to the brim with expectation
neglected brown coffee cold
e.e. was right about i though We never met. 🤔
A feisty tatted Irish chap?
But he surely busts
The fourth wall
Because in many a Shakespeare act
A second chance
Not caught in a lie
But how one does try
(Like a fool)
Then double back
In another act
Hmm, looks Scots to me
Must've broke from the clan
Give me my stead
'afore he sock me in me eye.
You wouldn't beat up a bard?
Old, blind man??
Bad try, mate!
You bet your Bollocks!
Never say McGregor
near a boxing ring
Nay, 'tis a charmed life
Watch 'im 'awk 'is whiskey.
ESPN left out one detail from McGregor's past in story announcing his 'comeback' (cue LL Cool J). I think the last graph of the story today explains why:
Let bygones be bygones. Let's make some cash! Brian is such a cynic.
I wish I could use this image:
his mugshot is public domain!
|I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep when I realized I had Bonnie Raitt on a loop in my head. Mostly it was the chorus, possibly reminding me that art rejects this dreamer. It could be I'm stuck idling over stuff that's easy to do rather than tackle the monster that's been alive in me all these years.
I might pine over a what-would-have-been woman, write her odes she'll never see. But, it keeps coming back to me: what I'm afraid of, intimacy and the ultimate rejection of that which we don't have the mental fortitude to master. Maybe, never had or never will sail that craft. Wrong metaphor? Out of place.
I looked at at dark wall for about an hour, tossed. I knew I could disturb her, in every sense of the word. So, I went downstairs for a respite. Even after telling my wife and daughter I was getting published last night, put on some enthusiasm so they could appreciate what I should be joyful about, I had that gnawing in my gut. Seeng a poem in print isn't what will suffice. My brain didn't negotiate what the dreaming mind keeps relating at 3 a.m. When are you going to write her?
I had a dream about her (LuAnne) again the night previous. My mind is deceiving me into believing we live in two altered worlds. The LuAnne I knew and the story that could have been, at least about her. I had a scene play out in my head that would be the climax to our story. I had woke and was jotting it all down when real life reminded I needed to shower for an appointment. I wanted to revisit her, if even to reread the notes. Reality kept us apart. Though, she didn't disturb my slumber tonight directly, I was reminded I was neglecting her call...the true vision that could make her come to life.
I've wrestled with the story, thought about it from all perspectives. The thought of wading through chapters of disjointed material...it's difficult to separate what really happened to what I could imagine our outcome to have been. That's not something you toy with, like second-guessing if the life you lived is worthless in pursuit of one that was not. It was a parh not chosen. No sliding door references, but a portal keeps opening to my past and shoves me back to pursue a woman seemingly unwilling to meet me. So, it's me, not her calling?
We took separate trails. But, all the odes I've ever written, the one most prophetic is hidden in a folder somewhere, begging me to try again recapture the feeling...so I can move forward without her once again. And, my mind will always come back to this place at three a.m. when I'm not thinking anymore about why she didn't love me. She did. It wasn't in the cards. Yet, she (me) haunts me some nights, but leaves me smiling. She's not really gone, you know. As long as I wrestle with writing and some kind of acceptance to validate me (acceptance that I must validate myself), I'll be stuck with this misery. Maybe, I'll stop getting near to others in hope of the same kind of shared intimacy only to shove them away once I've had a taste and find it doesn't compare...(don't you dare sing, Sinead!)
I'm lost like Disney's Stitch. I'm prone to break stuff like David Banner when he's Hulk. I'm running through a village chased like Frankenstein because I'm just too damn ugly, I shouldn't exist in anyone's garden. Stitch finds love, the abomination of revealed science kills his master (or gets a bride, you choose) and Banner will be haunted forever unless Marvel has the decency to kill him like Spidermam (although, like D.C. and Supermen, they'll bring him back. Just wanted to make you feel something since we're all getting bored with all the super hero nonsense and it's like a billion dollar industry). And so...
At 3 a.m., after I exhaust these thoughts, I'll sleep, wake and sober to these meandering internal reflections. Are you ever going to write her, Brian? Afraid to rebuild your monster because you might kill her, or will it destroy you? I'm guessing this lifelong process of wrestling with the art of it all includes suffering, brooding and a need to be misunderstood...yes I like aloof!
And because I can only access a friggin' iPad, I type with one finger as fast as I can, making sure this stream doesn't close. It's closing. Adieu sweet ghost until deja veux?
I'm sorry to all those who have to suffer when I'm around...like a moody goth teen. It's easier to accept your rejection than realize I'm screwed up and am forever figuring out the coordinates to this portal so I can just get inside and destroy it...or forever merge with it. Just had a flashback to 'Eureka.' Look it up.
What I struggle with:
Written 30+ ago
|My son is taking AP Lit in his senior year of high school. He came to me with a poem 'Crossing the Swamp' by Mary Oliver that was a task master and said, "Okay, Dad. Explain poetry to me.' We got distracted with dinner and other obligations, so I decided to write my discourse on poetry to him, hoping it will help:
Why watch a movie called Titanic, if you know how it ends? There is more to the story than beginning, climax and outcome. It's about how they got there, what you experience along the way. A poem can be like that.
A poet wants you to feel what they are experiencing, but they don't want to just shout out the answer in these never ending games of charade. You have to guess. But, who's going to tell you you're right? It's like working a New York Times Sunday crossword alone now.
You figure out the parts that are easy to understand and place them next to other clues and puzzle it together. But, the whole time, you have to remember, you must stand back and let this wash over you. Don't strain too hard. Because a poem is like a painting that can be wild in color or muted in tone. What type brush strokes, canvas? In essence, what is their medium? Is it traditional rhyming (feel good) or free form with line breaks putting emphasis on some words for extra meaning. How do the words layer over one another like the painting?
You might feel better as you go along collecting clues, assembling them, getting a general spirit for the writer's game. In the end, they want you to feel something in your gut. It's experience. If it's something you can't relate to because of lack of experience, it would be hard to feel empathy. Sympathy is a tool for those who can feel your emotion but cannot relate. Everyone (except, maybe, sociopaths) experience joy, pain.
This is why reading poetry about stuff you know will help you understand/feel poetry -- poetry that uses form (can be lyrical), poetic devices (personification, imagery, allegory) and those words so cleverly paired to give us coined expressions. (Just Google Shakespeare and you will see.)
I'll end with this, for now. I can explain further in the days, weeks, life ahead. But, I wrote a poem in college that was my rant about people confusing my writing for greeting card stuff. Though, it doesn't prove my point (it would take many toils to come), it describes what a poem was to me then. My 25-year-old self to my near 18-year-old son:
What do you make of a poem?
is a poem, is a poem, is a poem.
Is that all you can make out of that?
Wherever you roam, you roam, you roam,
don’t forget to bring a hat?
is a rose, is a rose, is red, now dead.
Now what do you make out of that?
You killed it with your drool you fool;
slobber from your face you spat.
is a dream, is a dream, is a dream.
What a scene you made out of that.
You killed it with your vision, division;
television spawned the illiterate brat.
I woke up one day, saw daisies, a meadow;
a brook full of leaping trout in their raincoats,
trying to land on hooks. Caviar bellies
splash on the cement, bake in the sun.
Now what do you make out of that?
I see you, I dream you; you’re just fiction.
You breathe my air like gas,
pass out from fumes too real
for your kind of imagination.
So what do I make out of that?
A poem is a red rose, is a dream.
A poem is a field full of fish in raincoats.
A poem is nothing but what you see; not television,
it’s fiction, too real for your imagination.
Now what do you make out of that?
Indirectly quoting Gertrude Stein while thinking about Shakespeare:
Truth is elusive. It makes you doubt it exists. (Your current dad)
|Imitation is the sincerest form...
...Edwyn Collins updates the Len Barry tune of '65 in '94 with an eye to Iggy who inspired the song when he was rejected by an intriguing woman. But, many still claim 'Mr. Pop' wrote and/or performed this song, keeping a discophile myth alive...
Myself, I thought it was Bowie until I was corrected. I'm an Absolute Beginner
|Dear Lois, I'm Sorry For My Ignorance
I need to unburden my brushes with great blunder
Lois Gibbs thought I underfed my cat,
worse, thought I was a biased journalist...but I was young
Spike Lee wanted to know while I was rolling tape why I didn't ask him a question
I remained mute
Maya Angelou appeared puzzled when I cornered her and compared her poetry to John Keats'
Al Gore's hand felt small in mine
a pregnant Juice Newton was annoyed by my interviewing technique that one summer day
while Eddie Money was baffled I didn't remove the 45 'Walking On Water' before having him sharpie the sleeve
but we appeared together backstage in a Billboard magazine photo
the concert promotion I stole from a local radio station promoter
because the concert manager was a childhood neighbor
in the hallway of my old university the girls of Vixen weren't allowed to pose for a pick with me
I think they wanted to, but weren't in makeup
I could have met Buddy Guy, didn't want to, wasn't my kind of music --
nor were war stories, I told a workshop author, unaware he penned the boring grist,
and Elie Wiesel, how important was he when I could spend the afternoon on my dorm floor
blasting 'Disco Inferno,' which was about what?
Social ignorance, my social discord,
wake me up when it's time for another 2-dollar-a-bottle-Boone's Farm run
I'm going to sleep this off now...plenty more ignorance to come.
*Lois Gibbs was a famous activist I invited to my house
You can look up the rest, if confused
I'm sure I'm leaving some folks out
Spike scared me most
|The Value of Good Wood
When the termites discover my woodwork
they gnaw at my ego,
they gnaw on good intentions
until they look bad
and I have to wonder
what was I thinking.
I can store my craft.
I can set out to kill them all,
tedious, as if
one by one.
Why are they so hungry
for my craftwork?
I could polish good intentions
until less ambiguous
But, termites don't know
the value of wood.
It's a poem that wants to say more, but if I did, then it would lose luster.
From my vantage: ▼
What if you could teach your teacher something. Would they willingly become your student?
One more thing: ▼
discourse in rambling ▼
You don't know.
|I've been right about there
on your horizon
you don't look for me
or just don't see
in your brilliant light
that you might glimpse
even in the darkest hour
to the naked eye
a vision to behold
if just for an instant --
one circumpolar giant
minimized by vantage
glimmering, a glint
by curling obstinance
but, constant still
peering at you
in our shared twilight.
|The moral edge you hold to my skin
close to my neck
in a chair tethered to philosophy
in cemeteries like mausoleums
you won’t visit
because you don’t know
where they are,
where they are stored.
parade your dead
while I recline,
until I am to join them
uncelebrated and clean.
Writ on phone at work 8/24/18
edited here 9/14/18
|If I start thinking about something
All the old feelings and musings come rushing back
But with a new twist,
Something new revealed as truth
To diminish the illusion.
Is it delusion that keeps me toying with
An unsolvable puzzle
We are not meant to understand
Only be entertained with
Until we die uttering our rosebuds in deathbeds.