I will invite you to dance

dance

.
.

It’s the last day of November

my morning starts with coffee
like so many others
or so I imagine
I picture an enormous army of people sitting
drinking coffee
trying to wake up

I like early mornings
I like the quiet
I like the light
Things are somehow more easily seen

shift to the right

beat the drum slowly…

The bare truth is
we’ll never have wings

Comfort can be found in the most banal of images.
People find themselves most easily in the mundane.
Perhaps routine and familiarity are the easiest
and sharpest
things in life.
I find some images too compelling to ignore
and find myself in them more complete.
But could go on forever about symbols….

There are few tricks of rhetoric that are truly useful

I won’t convince you of anything.

Shift to the left

play the fife lowly…

If the mission is truly to be understood,
that’s simple enough:
This is me. I like the sound of birds.

I can’t say I give a shit about that.

My mornings start with coffee and my head begins to open.

Comfort can be found in the most regular of things.
Circles, squares, stop signs, bike lane symbols –
People get pissed off if you scribble randomly all over the paper:

cannon miracle, my forefather ate the hummingbird,
while the band played a swing
swung pinnacle. Yellow knives cut just as well as
grey beavers. Leave the rest to me. Go fuck a donkey.
Lalalalalala hahahaha pffffffft
silence. echo. silence.

I heard the lightning.
I felt the truth.
I can taste the moment.
I can see your point.
I smell the injustice.

Shift to the right

play the dead march…

Let’s linger a while on
wide open fields of grain.
I wonder at the horizon.
I always look to the edges.
If I find a field, I wonder where the body is buried.

Let’s linger a while on
the deep dark ocean.
All I can think of is the shore under my feet.

Let’s linger a while on
reading words.
Perhaps it should be eating words.
We eat words, grow from their sustenance,
absorb their qualities, whether we like it or not,
become what they say, what they tell us to be.
We get drunk on words of love,
become sick from words of hate –
or is it the other way around?
Your diet: fate form lust anger

Let’s linger a while and
reread the last line.
I can’t trust your eyes so –
Your diet: fate form lust anger

How is possible to be so wrong about so many things?
Born that way, I guess.
How do we turn a screw?
Arm wrist hand tool?
No –
screw.

How can we be so wrong so much of the time?
It feels good.

How do we tell the truth?
Mind mouth words?
No –
we don’t.

Shift to the left

as you carry me along…

I will invite you to dance.

Perhaps you will take my hands,
perhaps put your arms around me,
perhaps stand at a distance
and shift to the right….
shift to the left….

I will invite you to dance.

For we are born of motion,
in motion we live,
even those of us who cannot move
are moved.

I will invite you to dance.

For I cannot show you anything.

The Beauty of a Sundial

fungus 2011-05-29

Excuse me, he said
but I have mirrors to break

Previously, they broke the genitals off statues
and smashed the regal icons

Now they snap pencils and worry about splinters

Excuse me, he said,
but you’re in my way.

I have paper to fill.
Previously, I imagined the words could clutter the page
then run off and smear
like ashes across the desk

Instead, the grey dulled first my hand
then my mind.

Form is not a crutch for a crippled imagination

I sometimes like
to make substitutions.

Excuse me, he said,
do you know what time it is?

Previously, time was where you were standing

The beauty of a sundial

Inner Machine

dandelion 2011-05-28

I knew him as
a mountain

I lay close to the ground
my cheek on the grass
my eyes closed
I am invisible

There are so many places to hide
amongst the trees
behind the shed
between the parked cars

But I stay in the open
down on the ground

The sun warms my side
No shadow crosses me
and I start to hear
the inner machine

The sun warms my side
I know the grass soil stone
the massive thing beneath my head
will thrust up

I pretend it was never a game
and stand

Let it End

cherub2

these miles
dragged in dust

he prays for you
and you leave him

let it end

all the coal that burns
leaves a trace of soot upon you
every move you make betrays it

let it end

this fault
split you open

he fades away
you forget him

let it end

all the plans you made
strip the past of all its meaning
you have nothing left to guide you

let it end

all the tales you told
break apart the bones inside you
there’s no reason to pretend

let it end

(recording available on Bandcamp)

Carved Bones

lilac trees2

‘I say the trees
look like carved bones.’

The boy’s head turned, tilted
sideways.
His sister kept the rope
in motion.

The smell of oil
mingled with lilac.
Oil on skin

‘The leaves are gone,
there’s nothing left.’

The girl skipped on
and sang
‘Miss Mary Mack Mack
all dressed in black black’

The taste of salt
and a hint of lime.
Salt on skin.

‘I say the trees
look like dead soldiers.’

The boy leaned over, bent
sideways.
Hand on the concrete
one leg in the air.

Hands unsteady, but
work keeps the mind
away from itself.

The girl stopped, looked
through fingers
pirouetted
and stepped aside.

‘I say the trees
look like fallen gods.’

the calm sea swallowed Irene

NF 2010-08-03

Love is like the wind.
It plays with fools and toys.
She checks her watch
and waits once more.

These walks
never used to be this way.
Her mind turns to the water’s edge
to look deep within.

And the air is so still.
And the scene so serene.
Her hand finds itself
on the beat of her heart.

Cold tea and stale rooms
mark other days
like tally marks on prison walls.
She shudders at the thought.

Love the slavery of the day,
love the slavery of the night.

So beautiful, the water coils
and reaches for its own.
No dawning fear protects her,
no habit or desire.

The stolid sea
retreats in darkness,
drinks at night and grows
in violence.

But she drinks tea
and watches time
and counts the stones
at the water’s edge.

Deep Snow

frozen eye 2009-01-14

Far from the smell of coffee
cigarettes and the sound of
knuckles rapping tables

My legs are snowed in
to the thighs

Treetops send the sun everywhere
A white world with diamond sparkles
cold as the bottom of the deep freeze

I delight that I can feel
my nose freeze when I inhale

But I am afraid of being stuck
in drifts of snow taller than me

The wind blows billowed rainbows into the sky

Back there, they sit and argue
over cups of coffee and
kitchen cooking smells

Out here, the scent is freezing
but my sense is enclosed and protected

I panic and thrash to extract myself from the snow
It reacts to hold me in
and take me down even deeper
A new experience awaits me there,
wandering beneath the snow.
My arms flail as I pull at one leg
then the other
then the first and throw myself forward
I swim in fits
And with a final battle cry
I am free

I lost only one mitten and one toy car