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.
=============================
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.)
=======================
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.
=======================================================
I walked in as one of the Innocents
Carrying the truth on my back
Which I was prepared to show you.
And I did just that.
With all the assurance of a judge,
I spoke from on high,
And you believed me with invisible
Tears in your eyes. If the truth hurt
You, It hurts me too.
I feel less Innocent now
Than I am supposed to.
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 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 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.
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.
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.
What beckoned,
What called
must have been stronger than
blood,
overriding
Stale argument.
I imagine
a black rose
Pungent
Irresistible,
A circus barker
Promising
marriage
and
Peace,
A stepping down.
A lot of things
Go in one way
And come out another.
The Change Agent
Was in there
Blinking his eye
Not knowing even
What he was doing.
I wish I had known
Long ago
I had a home
That felt comfortable
Where I could come
Whatever the weather ,
Where I was known
For who I wanted to be,
A place that protected me
from my own intentions.
I found one late
And I still don’t know
If I belong there.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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?
