Friday, May 31, 2013

fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfj

fiji, i'd like to go
but they tell me
it looks a lot like home.

like home. it's like
write for cracked
and you could get paid

the lost discs, the saved dollar.
the ten top measuring instruments
you never knew of.

thalassometer for the measuring of tides
tensionometer for the tension

poetometer for the measuring of black painted lips
and the length and amount of the skirt

chrome angst

its ok you didn't save the pages this time
and anyway, if you lost them it would be
quite human of you.  we'd like that.

dali in the sky. i hear the clouds of bara resemble
st pete. i'm watching fluffy underbelly glow
bird flitter, roosting. thought about letting in
fresh air but mom's been a wild child for a while now
blistering across the pennisnula, spitting on
drought stricken petunias, what the hell.
i open the window, let the crickets in.

i find myself waiting for you even though
you're always just around the corner. one of us
without a phone at all times makes me remember
how it used to be, growing up. you had to trust
the world to be safe, your loved ones savvy enough to survive
whatever demons are out there. the sky neons up.
dusk sings itself in. i had the cold hamburger for dinner.
watched reincarnation vids on youtube. enough of the tornadoes now
stalking us, tsunamis bulldoze you under
you can come back as that native
 american crow in the sky,   bright pink  cloud simmed.
thank you for the sign. resembling programmed
resembling memed complete with feather.
it's ok you missed this one
 there will be othersa


a dark cloud sails across the pink, fading too.
it's prow a swan, it's prow a duck it moves that quickly.


it i were a nat, i would people them in drunken life.
rich,full, blooded in the rites of alive. show not tell.



damn, it's been a while since i really let that happen.
if one can be said to let it happen. for me it's prolly more synergy
playing off the dragon scale that sweeps my vision
and when i limit that scope to mainly you
and forbid myself to jinx it with introspection
then the writing suffers. the sufferring writing.
the suffered writer.






   
trees as amazing as . i want to past life regress
to my time as a dolphin. i want to be the tree
housing the mayfly
 the mayfly on the last day of the month.







if i said i'm weary would you send me to india?
i guess i can warm up the sake now.
good nite little bird warble bow.


Tuesday, May 28, 2013

steampunk web book

just connected  white and black speaker leads
together with seal it tape, insulated 3 sets of twisted 
wires, now morcheeba sounds like the first time
then the rush comes, molly to my side.
his frenz is always tweaking
nough drugs in this hood to ground a helicoptor
parent for life. this music feels like a rave , a wave,
an oblivion to undertow fake muscles, shaking a trailer.

what is it you wanted from life, after all, little nyad, little nymph
that your wellspring is well swum nigh these centuries gone.
bored with immortality you beg for suicide by hepheastus.

the rigor mortis sets in cal told her
then slumped over his bench 
in the engineering lab, next to her twenty
five  going on tombstone years.
. the walls close in,simone
the noose looks inviting, in the rough 
exposed beams under
 the attic where we sleep.

but meanwhile the young lads invade
lookin for hookin up with the way
the hiway flows when you're on gotan.

all these music references. i think if they become
foam on the beaches  a  sand flea's emergent
  scurry between the falling over again tide,
 our eye good as god's.

well, i hope. for love among that.
the wiped tear, the shared story.
dinner and its tidings.

misdirected waves, serotonin stones dropped
accidentally. the rush of neglect, the piteous cage.



my baby girl's baby girl.
live show, out of tune. a bird's
turn on the sideshow.
the way she dreams of flight.
skittle colored, peopled with cartoons.

you show me a hobby. your eyes alight
mine light upon the ics
 i am not impressed
by the gold, silicon arsenic doped snacks
in your fingers.

you have  miner's blood.  he was on his way west
and got stopped in chicago by a woman
he met in the park. they moved to indiana
to settle the plains. he was killed in a raid
while she was visiting relatives in the city
to have their child. a boy. she went back
with a new man, a lot guns. the boy had bothers and sisters
the army ran off the indians. lfe was good. now his genes
pop up in your sky blue eyes, your fingers itch
to find a frontier , somewhere in the mountains
where the landfills go. gold. your eyes a glitter.







Thursday, May 23, 2013

derecho

when the sky turned black
jimmie and me were out in the cornfield
fixing damage from the twister
a couple days ago. we'd been at it  since
before sunup, trying to upright the last  of  the tender plants
still alive .  the storm had just yanked them up,
  little fistfulls of hair,  from the earth
tossed them aside like a disdainful mother.
. they lay in patches
all around the 5 acres jimmy and i planted
 roots exposed, dying.

when the wind first sprang up
i sighed with joy under my big straw hat.
it's been so hot jimmy, i said, just feel that breeze.
he straightened up, stretched  looked over his shoulder
then slowly turned his head every direction.

yeah. he said and bent to the ground.
i knew he was thinking of twisters .


goddamn corn i thought. went back to replanting.
if we could save half of this, we could wouldn't have to buy
feed or tortillas all winter. maize. the gift from the plains.
every spring we gave  back a gift in hopes she would spare
her anger. too often, these gifts didn't please. though she never
let us starve. just hungry. all the time. even in summer
when the eggs were plenty, we pickled half, sold half
for protein during the dry season, the cold season, the inevitable
storm season.  thing is, when you work the fields
you have plenty of time to think, but no energy.

jimmie was afraid of twisters. i dont' like them
but you can see them coming mostly and the cellar's
pretty sturdy. even got a hollow shelter five minutes run
along every acre. it's the straight line stroms that scare me.
the way the wind whips like a razor, a blizzard kinfe. it rips
thinks to shtreds. the lightning touches things and they burst into flame.
even cellar doors. my friend ruth got burnt in her own cellar three
summers ago. it started from an arc lighting that caught the metal
handle on her doors. i made jimmie put wooden ones on ours
that very summer. lighting scares me. i don't know

why but sometimes i feel like it's chasing me, or that i call it
when i stand on the edge of the fields at dusk
watch the big heavy clouds flashing in the distance
catch the wind in my outstretched arms.
i don't let jimmie see me do this. he already thinks i'm crazy enough.
it's why he wants me to keep takin the pills
even though they give me headaches so bad i sometimes have
to lie down for half the afternoon in a black room
while streaks of pain slam around
 through my head in zig zag patterns
till i can corral them all in one spot
where they jump and stamp , snort,  toss across
my eyes till they are one single burning white mass.
that's when i open the gate. they stampede out of me
while i    pass out in one blinding shot of darkness





Monday, May 20, 2013

the soft thighs of renoir

the soft thighs of renoir's lover
are stroked upon my canvas, i have
the eyes of picasso in my head
my breasts belong to chagal my hair
an inka wave in grove of ice
offer me a a bite of that frosty
my brain freezes to munch.




**



at the entrance to the mobile home park
there are two storm fed reserviors, shallow
enough that they spillover in monsoon season
become delta pan in drought. this spring along
with ubiquitous ducks, black egrets, stately heron
at dusk, feeding with platypus bills,
a flock of six, sometimes eight roseate spoonbills.

they are only spectacular in plumage
only spectacular in a gentle swish of spoon through soup
the rise of the meal to the mouth, snails or bugs maybe
i have no idea what they eat, only when the spectacle
of clouds and sun turns the neon up , electric blue water
stirred by cherubic handles of baby hot pink, just a hint of red.


bleh.



but those birds. i guess i'm touched because they're endangered
(as are we all) so to see them moving
spooning photons of porous color into my eyes
i wonder how traffic doesn't stop, how news crews
are absent, how the miracle farmers do not harvest
this testimony to persistence. and then i give thanks
that they do not.



you can walk up to the water line
they won't walk away. it breaks me
the ten thousand on the hats of women
long dead as well. the absent flock
winging over the marsh toward the light, receeding.





















*(&









once we
were insects in
a gradern. you take this one
i'll take that.   common desire broke
the bond.







































(*









the brushstrokes, i can't speak on
with any authority. i didn't place them
so  much as try them on.