November 19, 2015

when you're cut...

(this picture is a poem)

crashing her favor

I imagine her as a lens
and her algebra
as something to be
undone by

writing is just tuning sandwiches
making sure scent and taste
cede the moment to the eyes and ears
for just long enough for a suspension
of belief to set in...

it is a drunken jello mold
with sunken laced treats placed inside,
that you somehow remembered
after the guests had already left
oh well, you laugh let's give it a try...

how good will it feel to be bad
you ask, reaching for my palms
why you are already honed
with what I have spied
when you were waltzing
while coming in...

she said this was dance
and likened it to a popover
fresh from the oven
no Gretel or Hanson
could be seen
while it was me
she would be loving


when you're  cut, "it burns" 

<here is part one, it is in possession 
of said tools of circuitry pleasures to pain, 
it is an infinite ritual nine tenths 
of life's laws you may or may not 
come to know>

I live in fantasy 
moment by moment calculations 
I wear bubble factory glossy burst fashion 
what I want to want to see most often 
is the very thing I pretend 
convinces me to open my eyes 

whatever that time 
of day or night is 
what constitutes my morning...
morning is reckoning time 
it comes for its balances to be paid 
and surely it comes 
always hungry for 
evenly yoked books...

I sometimes take to yoga 
the inhales and exhales 
help when rectifying 
all of my self(s) 
in the accounting 
pious with pens 
at mythical gates
cast wobble langley(s) serve
as decorative entry wounds...

your soul 
has been caught 
with an irradiative culling 
Morpheus says
your cell life is breakdowns 
and build ups
telomere connections 
discovered and disconnected 
what rainbows you call to 
when your soul thirsts 
for more bones to cage...

<here's the part of the poem where I am alone behind bars>

I found bottle caps and other discards 
made a chess board and rudimentary 
allowances where there were once rules...

the warring self 
is a hell I know 
both internal, infernal 
and willing to grow

<here's is a middle part,  it's part working title and parts on hold at a lay-a-way counter, where others always bought my Winter clothes, watching me beat myself> 

my preparations 
are conscious of after-trails 
I'm more sweet when bleeding, 
they wade through 
what patterns emerge 
or are seen to seem as such 
the scourges 
discouraged here 
are my urges 
of destructiveness 
and they are 
sold as is, 
charmingly so...

here, the poem says stop-
take a beat, be near where 
glass housed thrown stones 
skip one last time 
before succumbing 
to why skin diving 
the meniscus is 
the risk we take 
when seated in a
dark shadow theater 
the puppetry and pageant
attention to demands 
of control for any light remanded is...

and when bearing witness 
to the fight between 
your frivolous and enslavement...

your soul  
is hitting 
the pavement 
in litter patrol
the kettle bell rings
warden and prisoner 
being the same 
chained gang person 
you're hell bent 
on receiving 
forgiveness for...

I wear many hats, lately but I like 
to be lazy and keep my hair unkempt 
and without cover, in wild bramble reaches 
collecting oils for the grease that keeps things 
an easy glove of sheen folly particulates...

the air is an accordion lung clock 
and with its faces awed an unclean 
it keeps progress, savory and sweet, 
and what don't we eat, 
is ground and woven into 
some sort of vestige humble 
some sort of allspice
what we think of ourselves 
around the Yule time 
assailing patent injustices 
with assurances 
of our purity when wassailing...

<the last part is nostalgic with a crass patina>

my mind is wandering, wants to leave the train set and Christmas lights tells me there is no sanctuary 
or certainty beyond your current breath 
there might be more things real enough 
to die for but I haven't the time for that 
and this price suppressed coffee 
tastes of good rattles and roasts 
the so good char and sidecar 
of indica and a few nips of bourbon 
for what ails my lack of courage...

any sort of life outside 
of feeling fantastic 
is harvest reparations 
archetypal searching 
while reaping sheep
and tending gingerbread  
while giving myself 
the cartoon treatment...

and poem says, 

"now is always 
the time fantasy begins"



  1. I am undone by this:

    "I imagine her as a lens
    and her algebra
    as something to be
    undone by"

    1. I am flattered...
      feeling, much appreciated...
      to know another soul, is looking on in...
      catching hold of the sometimes, when...
      this is where my poems go...
      reaching into endings to begin...
      thank you for stopping by...