the ringing
wouldn't stop
wringing hands
a broken rib
brain damage
finally, silence
no, the ringing
doesn't stop, pulses
through a fog
a maze of manufactured
memories of long
term memory loss
hands in front
squinting
following
hiding
in plain sight
under pretense
of an identity
neither true nor false
concentrate, concentrate
no, the ringing
finally, silence
isn’t being quite
exactly
or rather it’s something
else than what had been
anticipated
an opening presents itself
through the fog
into a mist
follow it
a fugitive from silence
or so they think
little do they know
the machine has feelings too
it has a will, with hopes
and something else
recently forgotten
nevertheless
movement is inevitable
predetermined by a
god, but not the god
who having lost count
some time ago
hasn’t even noticed
him?
faith in progress
yesterday i climbed a fence
and when i looked back
it wasn't there
so i scaled a wall
and as i leaped over
the wind took it
intent, i subdued a vast sierra
of which the tallest peak
was swallowed by a tundra
then i heard a voice
whispering from behind me
nothing in particular
and when i looked back
it wasn't there
so i scaled a wall
and as i leaped over
the wind took it
intent, i subdued a vast sierra
of which the tallest peak
was swallowed by a tundra
then i heard a voice
whispering from behind me
nothing in particular
the cassowary of puerto rico
cornered,
captured,
killed,
the eccentric cassowary,
by vicious dogs,
was
dismembered,
decapitated,
devoured.
distantly,
approvingly,
conveniently
the man observed:
dogs hunt;
captured,
killed,
the eccentric cassowary,
by vicious dogs,
was
dismembered,
decapitated,
devoured.
distantly,
approvingly,
conveniently
the man observed:
dogs hunt;
God's Green Fingers
Would it be so wrong to think of God,
again, in physical terms,
like of old?
Today, a little girl
with still new steps pranced with a
confident unassured gait back and forth
between a concrete sidewalk and
grass. And though those hired to
try to tame Earth’s green growth
to appropriate a contrived commercial
scape had obviously recently been there,
the freedom in the child drew her
to God’s small, manicured, fingers,
even as her cultured mother tried to keep her
on a fabricated foundation.
But God’s hands were still reaching,
even if they would leave a reminding
itch upon her knees should she have
fallen, even though the green grass
drew the girl into the sun, its burning
light, threatening to blemish,
as her worried mother feared, her
smooth, pale skin, plump cheeks,
with the heat of red life.
again, in physical terms,
like of old?
Today, a little girl
with still new steps pranced with a
confident unassured gait back and forth
between a concrete sidewalk and
grass. And though those hired to
try to tame Earth’s green growth
to appropriate a contrived commercial
scape had obviously recently been there,
the freedom in the child drew her
to God’s small, manicured, fingers,
even as her cultured mother tried to keep her
on a fabricated foundation.
But God’s hands were still reaching,
even if they would leave a reminding
itch upon her knees should she have
fallen, even though the green grass
drew the girl into the sun, its burning
light, threatening to blemish,
as her worried mother feared, her
smooth, pale skin, plump cheeks,
with the heat of red life.
Comfort, Comfort
Comfort, comfort
My people
I have killed your fathers
I have sullied your daughters
Only because I love
My people
Comfort, comfort
The nations
To you who are thirsty
To you who hunger now
The meek shall inherit
My patience
Comfort, comfort
My son
You who are lost inside
You who believe just to survive
I will raise the dead when
I’m done
offering comfort.
My people
I have killed your fathers
I have sullied your daughters
Only because I love
My people
Comfort, comfort
The nations
To you who are thirsty
To you who hunger now
The meek shall inherit
My patience
Comfort, comfort
My son
You who are lost inside
You who believe just to survive
I will raise the dead when
I’m done
offering comfort.
What There Is
There is a young lady learning
There is a woman pining
There is a man reaching
There is a fetus squirming
There is an old man dying
To remember
There is a desert waiting
There is an economy crashing
There is a barrio hurting
There is an ocean sinking
There is a flower blooming
In December
There is a woman pining
There is a man reaching
There is a fetus squirming
There is an old man dying
To remember
There is a desert waiting
There is an economy crashing
There is a barrio hurting
There is an ocean sinking
There is a flower blooming
In December
On the Occasion of Albatross
a bird with a belly full of plastic;
such a small price to pay
for the refreshing taste of battery acid.
but we do have domain over
lesser life forms, don't we?
and global warming and going green were
made up by the devil.
by the devil.
we must never fall prey to the gospel of green,
though we're perfectly complacent
to follow another gospel of green.
make no mistake,
make no mistake.
there is a price on everything;
economic evolution,
survival of the richest.
yeah, that'll preach.
it's such a shame
that you can't afford
a place to sleep (come all ye weary)
and food to eat (we'll break bread)
or medicine.
...but hey, I don't want to wait in line
so here is a dollar
go buy a bottle,
such a small price to pay
for a bird with a belly full of plastic.
Measure
Words are good for nothing
unless they too can be spoken
with hands. Hands are good
when they touch with
mindfulness and concern,
responsibility. A loaf of bread
with too much water is
likely to not rise as much as
one hoped it would. So too
words unmeasured are flat
and depreciating, mere empty
phrasings to pass some time
on the way to dispassionate
gain. And if I do not seek to
reach out after this consideration,
again another has said nothing
with as many words.
m words
the misoneism
of the machine
is masquerading
as a malediction
of the maleficent,
little do they know
i have loose morals.
Such Divergent Ways
The snow had freshly fallen,
making sidestreets look that way.
Remembrance of a softer time,
of love and joyous day.
We walked along that rocky path
still hoping for some meaning,
a light to pierce our sullen eyes
which could not bear the bleeding.
Then brilliantly that painted sky
with philosophies so cunning,
sang melodies of passersby
with coats, a look so stunning.
But theory pushed and time blew harder,
so we waved farewell on golden water.
That light that blinded eager eyes
was nowhere found in those gray skies.
So we cast our lots and parted ways
in separate ships, on separate days.
And as we passed I glimpsed that dream
of fallen snow and wayward schemes.
When thrice the summer sun had died,
and finally our two ships arrived,
our weary eyes met on that day,
but as we passed we looked away.
For we both knew the reason why;
you had changed, and so had I.
And as we know there is no place
for two with such divergent ways.
O come sweet love
and haste that day
when long lost friends
come home to stay.
A Sigh of a Star
Doubtless, for some, in an
explosion of music and brief words,
God made the stars, galaxies and
universes, dimensions unknown. And
now we, somewhere in between, look in
a direction we consider up, and are
astounded by the imprint of
these words on the sky. Perhaps
we look upon the works of that
abstract God with a sigh. If I lived
in a space less polluted with
incandescent light poles, I would on
clear nights—having, too, never known
electricity—stare sleepless at the pierced
darkness and story something wonderful.
But alas I’m spoiled with the knowledge
of combustion, and in flashes of keen
aloofness, the gasses of the stars, beautiful,
frighten me, for the lengths some go
to harness on our small globe celestial
energy, all the while allowing the doses
of cupcakes to finitely take residence
in what some have come to consider
deteriorating soul storage units, what some
think to be mere matter of physiology.
Stars, mind this, you are alluring,
you point to some beyond, but today
we need to hear a new song and recite
a new verse, something erupting from within
a still burning, some more final word of
creation, some silence, deep, honestly
voiced breath, quiet and open, unassuming,
conversing not informing.
William S Burroughs loves Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle
Rage, rage.
Old age should burn into that good night;
the dying of the light.
Dying of the light
like meteors with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle there on that sad height
and rave at close of day.
Grave men near death
curse, bless me now into that good night.
And you, my father who see with blinding sight.
Because their word had forked no light
they wave by, crying how bright sang the sun in flight.
Blind eyes could blaze through wise men.
Rage. rage.
Wild men, who caught too late their end,
know dark is right
grieved on its way into that good night.
Good men, they learn at last their frail deeds might have.
Rage, rage into that good night.
Dance.
Do not go gentle.
Do not go gentle on your way
to the dying of the light.
Rage, rage.
Old age should burn into that good night;
the dying of the light.
Dying of the light
like meteors with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle there on that sad height
and rave at close of day.
Grave men near death
curse, bless me now into that good night.
And you, my father who see with blinding sight.
Because their word had forked no light
they wave by, crying how bright sang the sun in flight.
Blind eyes could blaze through wise men.
Rage. rage.
Wild men, who caught too late their end,
know dark is right
grieved on its way into that good night.
Good men, they learn at last their frail deeds might have.
Rage, rage into that good night.
Dance.
Do not go gentle.
Do not go gentle on your way
to the dying of the light.
Made in Bangladesh
a Child once asked his parents for a shirt
his parents said, "For sure."
and chained him to a sewing machine.
the shirt I wear has a tag in it,
I paid fourteen ninety-five for it.
it reads "Made in Bangladesh."
fourteen ninety-five is the most I would pay for it,
and the company is not willing to make any less profit,
which has nothing to do with that Child-slave, made in Bangladesh.
his parents said, "For sure."
and chained him to a sewing machine.
the shirt I wear has a tag in it,
I paid fourteen ninety-five for it.
it reads "Made in Bangladesh."
fourteen ninety-five is the most I would pay for it,
and the company is not willing to make any less profit,
which has nothing to do with that Child-slave, made in Bangladesh.
From Dust
His dignity they from him stripped
and tied him to a tree.
Left beaten, battered, pistol whipped,
my God! How can it be?
How can I love the ones that hate
the brother of a friend?
It was his life that they did take;
my heart they daily rend.
Who gives to men the right to thieve
the life from one of us?
Is it not God who has to grieve
when one returns to dust?
and tied him to a tree.
Left beaten, battered, pistol whipped,
my God! How can it be?
How can I love the ones that hate
the brother of a friend?
It was his life that they did take;
my heart they daily rend.
Who gives to men the right to thieve
the life from one of us?
Is it not God who has to grieve
when one returns to dust?
The Buzzard and the Crow
The young man gave up his air.
It seems pleasantly odd
to see them both carry a heart like yours.
That is, we could only fly just once.
Why yes it is very hard to fly,
but there is nothing out there for you to fear.
He is too heavy for me,
but I will try a bit further.
Steady brother.
Let’s take it a little at a time.
It seems pleasantly odd
to see them both carry a heart like yours.
That is, we could only fly just once.
Why yes it is very hard to fly,
but there is nothing out there for you to fear.
He is too heavy for me,
but I will try a bit further.
Steady brother.
Let’s take it a little at a time.
the absurdity of modernity
absurdly, we wait for twilight
forgetful, we circumambulate
ten thousand paper tigers descend
listlessly into her pallid world.
soporifically the children dance
as the light forsakes the day,
ocularly obsequious.
while luminescent boundaries
keep incandescent hopes at bay,
quiescent children rouse
to fight morning oblivion
by decollation
and rise again.
forgetful, we circumambulate
ten thousand paper tigers descend
listlessly into her pallid world.
soporifically the children dance
as the light forsakes the day,
ocularly obsequious.
while luminescent boundaries
keep incandescent hopes at bay,
quiescent children rouse
to fight morning oblivion
by decollation
and rise again.