STAIN

You were so colorless before the event, so perfect that you passed through our field of vision unnoticed. You would always be there, though left unappreciated for the many functions and movements you performed in the world. Then the fire, then the blemish as an aftermath that put you on the map. You are now marked, dignified in your ugliness. You have acquired history, a sense of having lived and suffered, which we will exploit as an added feather in our cap.

=============================

 

NOT A LECTURE

The human mind is relentless

at what it wants to get.

When there is a pay-off, don’t worry,

It will be there in one way or another

To turn over the earth for its desired worm.

Your call will be returned.

You’ll be called “sir”

There will be bells and smiles at your command.

The whole world will tickle your fancy

Till the worm is there in the hand.

Then it will be farewell and good luck

And see you soon, maybe,

Until the next worm is wished for.

Self- interest is a funny thing

Because it makes people into things.

It makes us a hinge on the door

To someone else’s gain.

I’d rather be called something else,

Like friend.

Let’s spend some time together.

Let’s have mutual pleasure.

What’s -in it- for- me

is a nowhere strategy

That subtracts from our humanity.

Let’s be

Animals that care for each other.

Your gain is mine

Mine is ours,

A communism of the heart

In a time when the heart has become

nearly dysfunctional.

It’s possible

To transcend the fear of losing,

Being less

Because you have given.

There are just rewards before heaven.

A life of me and mine

Is less than satisfactory.

So find your generosity.

(This is not a plea from

An ad agency.)

=======================

L ‘WREN

L’Wren Scott

la-styliste-l-wren-scott_4858771

When the bird died

I cried

She was so long and lithe

Hung from her French door.

And the world sighed,

‘Why? She had everything.’

 

Everything is not nearly enough,

There is nowhere to go from there

No real air,

Everything marked up with checks

And squares

To convince oneself this is a life.

 

I suppose we convince ourselves,

We must. Otherwise

Hell meets us face first

To declare the worst.

How to survive?

She tried , but she

Is no longer alive.

Mort-de-L-Wren-Scott-devaste-Mick-Jagger-ecrit-Je-ne-comprends-pas_portrait_w674

=======================================================

PROGRESS

The intermediary and the subject have fused

Into a person without blood ,

One perceived with eyes tilted down.

This other is me from far away

This other is you on the flat screen

Worn on your arm

To push away the world

To make you believe

You are not alone.

It is a way you have come to deal with terror-

The terror of the Void,

The terror of the foreshadowed.

So you dress up in distraction

To keep it at bay

Pay the Electronic Vampire

To keep you in its magnetic graces,

A blip in the atmosphere in sync

With all the friends you don’t know.

And you get sucked cleanly into this

Semblance of personhood.

What is left of being when

Everything can be denied by

A slight pressure?

Who are you if you can be anyone

And not be anyone real?

We do not need each other today

As long as we can go through

The motions instead, the body

now functioning on remote control in

This realm of the facile, a quicksand

In which we sink muttering banalities.

We have been taken over by a crafty

Master, who makes us think we

Are winning when we are losing

Almost everything.

THE SKY ANNOUNCES (2)

The pain caves his brain

 Like fast anxious fire

As

Outside,

The afternoon sun shines .

Nothing particularly untoward

reported . Only

A sense of the already been ,

The old islands of thought

Punctuated by angry siren swells,

 stick figures and

Sweating somersaults of gloom…

But

There is a place and

There is a way that is

Better than possibility, the far-away sky announces

To this wreck it addresses

Whose head’s in the closet

In search for a bonnet

And  a perfect drink.

The light moves fractionally  (his head now out for a peek)

Yes, movement opens to a room in his parched

Brain, the pain subsides fractionally, and he hides for a beat

In  a synapse of reprieve  between his words.

‘Reshape this worldview ,’  the sky announces:

‘All is empty argument,’

Blinks the blue cool eye.

========================================================================

THE SKY ANNOUNCES

Pain cave collapses brain

 Like fast anxious fire

As

Outside,

The afternoon sun shines steady,

Nothing particularly untoward reported

 in actuality-

A sense of already been –

Pain remembrances , the light

The islands of thought

Punctuated by angry siren swells

And  stick figures and already been

Sweating somersaults of gloom…

But

There is a place

There is a way

Better than possibility, the far-away sky announces

To the wreck it addresses

His head in the closet

In  hopes for a bonnet

And a perfect drink.

The light moves fractionally  (his head out for a peek)

Yes, movement opens to a room in his parched

Brain the pain subsides fractionally and he hides for a beat

In  a synapse of reprieve  between his words.

Reshape this worldview , the sky announces:

All is empty argument,

Blinks the blue cool eye.

TODAY

Today  I am out of the loop

Out of the play
Out to lunch.
Today I am shiny
And No one knows it.
Today all the apples
Fall from the tree
And lay there.
No one
Not even the gardener
Picks them up.
The sky is blue
Thru my window.
The coast is clear.
Noises accost me
Outside me!
(I am not mad)
Today
I don’t need anybody
To tell me I am beautiful,
That my beard
Is just the right length.
Today I am private.
It is crazy the way people
Wear the” Do Not Disturb” sign
On their eyes.
Oh well…
Today
All the arrows point up
Despite the old miseries
And the new miseries.
What did we say in Scotland?
‘Keep on walking,
Don’t stop, don’t stop!’
Yet I need.
Today I need…
What?
I need…
Maybe just to forget.
No!
Not that.
I forgot

I forget too much already .
I need…
It is vague
Today
All about me is bright
And I need…
Oh well,
Maybe an end,
Maybe just an end.

RESPITE

The architecture of summer comes
in the form of the  perfect temperature
for your clothes
and the ideal lighting from
the window which is totally open .
So, you can light a cigar
smoke it in a dream
and  hear the swish of far away traffic
play on your pleasure zones.
Pain is on hold
Momentarily
And there is nothing to do
Except write about it.

GROWING DOWN

The belief of childhood is that
Clarity is attainable with age, that we
Will know it  eventually, so that we
Can bask in its glow, and braced with certitude,
Wear a banner of  unwavering attestation
On our sleeve. Be grown up. A god. That it’s good.
 
Who knew  the tedious, aching
Places grownups live. The sharp uncertainties
To which they are subject, the moans they
Are prodded often to voice?
If I had a choice, it would be to stay far away,
live well  in my unknowing ,  and  breathe  in
my garden of silliness.

EPHEMERA

What do any of us leave when
we leave this world except a
blemish, that is, a smear on the face
of Time that may appear further along
in the sphere of  someone else who recalls
its authenticity in the form of say a word, an
image, a remark, a posture of body that enters
likely by Chance thru a corridor of Memory in
association with other factors  or none
and then passes on again without us really
having had anything to do with it at all? We live on
despite ourselves in pieces and our fame,
justified or not,  prevails.

AMANDA TODD

Amanda Todd

There is a part missing

We will never understand

The space inside and the space

beyond

The way the signs collide

If there are any signs at all.

She was her mother’s favourite

A child as fresh as a meadow’s breath

With aspirations and infatuations

that made her death

 

One of those the Fates intended

To fall into strangers’ hands

To be marked for her simple manner

The way she loved and the way

She danced.

 

The vile reaches of a vacuous public

The product of a bankrupt estate

Ripped at this flower on a constant basis

Until not much was left to chance.

 

She withstood their brutal plundering

In the shadows of the human touch

A martyr for what is decent

In an age of much mistrust,

 

She trusted

 

The lies hurled by rabid children

Against her reputation and grace

wounded her once too often

Touched her in a tender place

 

And caused a commotion of feelings

To rise up from her core.

She eventually succumbed to the bleakness

She could no longer endure

 

Yet not until she had relayed her story

In a most public domain

Did anyone go out of their way

To try to understand the pain

Of the ages

 

The plight of the young

The mysteries of a hatred

That is with us so strong.

SAYING GOODBYE

I wait for the summons.

When it arrives I comply

And enter the chapel.

I sit like a king removed

listening to the thin silence

Draw me back into the

The mysteries  and wonder

What artwork to expect fashioned

This day by the devil’s mouth,

what shapes will the body of

the snake take on , whether pointed,

or curved like punctuation, or rather

coiled almost seamlessly into an O.

I don’t know.

Death’s needs hold sway,

It’s odors must speak sweet

And fill up the air as in a stable

Or a house of ill –repute.

My back arches like The Thinker

Elbows grinding into tops of thighs.

The light is weak.

Then I jut vertical to open

To give the babies passage

And kick back.

They rush to oblige, creating

A symphony, besides, dropping

plop plop into the drink.

I think, that is enough.

But no, wait, I was wrong,

Another comes along to

join the song.

And yet, another follows.

Oh, my! I sigh, I must’ve had too

Much for dinner.

One day, I vow, I will be thinner.

At least, I’m lighter.

And now the party’s over.

Time to tidy up.

That’s less fun but has to be done.

Scroll down.

The white pages, the tugs and pinches,

the moustache all coated.

Fingers probe, scoop up the soil.

Acknowledge it’s the wet season.

How much to stem the flood? This

Is becoming drudgery! Pad after pad.

But look how bright we’re getting!

Maybe another roll will do it.

Finally, yes, here it is: unblemished. Pristine.

Not a hint of muck. Good as new.

I stand. Roll up. Buckle tight. Proudly,

Focussing down, I lean on the handle

And with sadness wave my goodbyes.

W H QUESTIONS

Press your finger
Feel the pain.
It’s not right
Until it comes again.

The wash of yesterdays
The fields of blame.
They never let you
End this game.

You stand up to it
Mouth in clench.
Never resting
On any bench.

You laugh and dance
You work the crowd.
You don’t much worry
If you do it loud.

And then you retire
To your cell and ponder
Where and when and how
You wonder.

ROUND AND ROUND

The situation is
I am living inside a hat
But I’m not a head.
What I am instead
is hard to say.
I have fallen
to reason
Today.
Everything is as it always was and it won’t go
Away:
The rain pelts the window into pinkness.
What can I do:
Hide inside a cabinet,
Sleep,
Exercise my options?
There is not one good measure that can alleviate
the general disquiet.
Sit in the middle of it.
It will pass.
It will return

IF YOU WERE MINE

If you were mine

I would advise you

To wear your skin

Like a window

Lightly and transparent

Revealing

A hard flower underneath

Cultivated thru discipline.

You are just nineteen

And you relish all eyes

On your surfaces

A radiance that sings

like the sun.

What glory to behold

For a moment in the day!

But you can I know

Feel the harsh reaches of time

Already clawing from close- by.

Don’t deny

that you can

And if you can’t you will

be shattered.

So be wise

Be wise and be kind

And find

A  centre.

CURIOSITY BREATHES

Why trouble yourself?

It will just be over and you will say:

Was it worth it?

Any of it?

The memories will not even be enough

To keep you aloft.

They will be muddled and dim,

If anything

Inviting derision.

Why bother?

Because…

Because what else is there to do?

There is a drill in my head now

And I can’t escape it.

Oh, it stopped.

Oh,it started again.

Okay,

What next? a telephone call from hell?

I am tired of talking to robots.

I am weary of playing the clown.

I can’t help you.

You can’t help me.

And yet…and yet

What else will there be?