a day late, but the story remains the same…

The National Security Archive

We want our Art to bring out the Bigot from inside the Liberal, and conversely to bring out the Liberal out of the Bigot (Gilbert & George, Fournier Street)

How ironic to read this quote on a day when vote our beliefs, demanding to make things as real as Gilbert & George do on Fournier Street where reality has shifted from originality as they recreate space of those that came before them, Huguenots, little elves who created their own universe in order serve – Who will you serve? Who will your vote support? Tonight’s results remind me of da Vinci’s  Last Supper – we are gathering round to declare our passions, our righteousness, only to betray those very words- we will  forget to turn the other cheek. Damn Gilbert & George for calling me out – shall I plead to be a zombie from the book of philosophy – one that looks like me but is consciously dead? If I swear one more time about Them being Okay as long as they keep it away from this street gone orange with nightfall -fearing it will encourage difference in this grey painted block of cobblestone, have I not just become a cog in a wheel already gone out of control – whose rights do we really protect when we look but fail to speak- the Bigot or the Liberal, wish I knew…

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blue calm

She never said it would hurt so badly-  burn, to be more precise. Pressure was mounting under my left eye. I fixed my right on the shallow point of the rising moon, remembering how I used to obsess about the face that was partially hidden. Damn, this is a mistake. Trying to lift away from the dampening bed of fallen leaves, my limbs would not respond. Motor commands lost to the pulsating burn mounting at the base of my skull. Was there a way out…what had she said about envisioning a trap door or was it a false window.

Your mind is an amazing vehicle, if you relinquish control the crash could be fatal. 

Three blue pills appeared like tears in her palm, which was inked with a third eye. There was something unsettling about her deep-set, heavily lined gaze. She was a modern gypsy, a new age type. Her home office, a tiny house on wheels complete with maroon, sequined saris for curtains. A friend who believed in two things, serendipity and karma, gave me her card one night when I was struggling with reality.

Louise said you wish to master leaving this world.

She smiled, but it never reached those kohl rimmed eyes I refused to stare into. An odd skip pushed at my sternum while a cold tingle traveled from my shoulders to the base of my spine.

Yes, so to speak.

Do you wish to return. For if you do, there are rules. She rotated her gold bangeled wrist so that the three blue dots rolled toward her thumb. Disregarding these measures is a grave mistake. You may die or succumb to madness.

A snapping branch jolted my whole body. I had been drifting in a cerebral blue calm. The leaves had become tiny cold blades, burrowing into my exposed right thigh and knee. I tried to roll toward my center of gravity without luck. The moon was higher, no longer yellow but blue-white. Time had stopped for me, but I knew the Earth continued to rotate.

(are we not all tired of my last post….I had a poem in mind to post, but my mind decided to forget it, ergo, here is the latest write for the online MOOC on fiction writing over at Iowa’s International Writers program… google it – you can still join. As for this – not sure, perhaps I will take it somewhere…or it will take me somewhere – peace ~ a) 

metamorphosis

Summer of 97, a rough patch of life – solitude, hours in nature and reading books such as Women Who Run With The Wolves.  I healed enough to follow a slightly smoother path. During that time I painted ‘the wolf’ – I’ve no picture of the original  -an abstract wolf face on blood-red, a spontaneous result after I embedded two aspen leaves in the middle of the canvas.  A friend made me promise never rid of the painting. I have lugged it from place to place with a promise to give it to her someday. Alas, we have lost touch, the wolf remains with me.  I never could toss it away, it has hidden in closets until recently.  A year ago, I started painting on it, though never quite happy. After a recent overhaul of my place – I decided I need to ‘finish’ the wolf and use it amongst my rather stark palette. A cityscape quickly drew itself one afternoon while playing. The wolf remains, but she is now peeking from oil pastel layers of an abstract city. This painting has had its metamorphosis – one could say, so have I ~

 

 

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the song remains the same

I looked for you behind the clouds today – problem, there were none
All okay for we are not supposed to look backward, revolve/evolve forward following the lunar tendencies but how are we to know, really, how it ends
Black and white is a way of seeing the world – a vision that is best left to photographs
Such a small pinprick of allowance allowing nothing
A no color philosophy leads to a road dripping red
It is all cyclical, that is why one looks back behind a cloud for a ______
For a memory – to remember the why of the human Now
Concrete beneath these feet tells nothing of our history – it has been broken, repaired, repainted, manicured time
Take time
Drill deep into the grey strata of truth
What is this truth – you, me, them, them
Largess stolen from the destitute
A ten year-old-works ten hours days collecting garbage to avoid eating from KFC trash
This silly world slays with its twisty humor
Pop culture says don’t look back – screw that notion
Perhaps it is time to play the B-sides  again
Stop, listen

 

 

legacy

It bows away from the window, as if dejected, yet that is purely speculative for does a tree really feel – In my little world it does  It couldn’t remain outside, blowing its fragile limbs of fifteen years in lilting patterns for an early frost came – There is a part of me in its soil and it leaves me attached with fear of its dying Yes, well all must die but there is a difference of death from neglect vs time  Time may sway your blood slow but lack of regard shall kill even the hardiest of souls  Do you know which door opens to answers vs alleyways – does it matter - Did that hummingbird know I was human when it almost flutter kissed my shoulder Perhaps it was a drone, its wings sounded mechanical  How ironic to startle from something so small  Can one imagine the sound a live drone must admit before it strikes down, you sipping coffee  from a steaming mug  Time lost to confusion -
The cotton blooms and we consume it despite its hellish legacy  A purity cloud to be plucked – Will anything exist in pure beauty, call it organic, earth/wind /fire, if we continually fail to lay down the rock in our grip, holding it so tightly that it rips the skin to bone from our peace hand ~IMG_1616

the big easy

of course, she had forgotten to look at the sky – how can one forget, it is there -
blue / grey /white, it harbors nothing – naked, it hangs with adornments of rain, pollution,
perhaps even a winged silhouette – her mind was so drawn to imperfection that it
stopped cold – dead – when her gaze looked up, peace unfolded for was it not rimmed
in blue and she swore when time shifted slightly the world tilted too -
two slits unmasked as greys drifted in thin wisps and suddenly she knew what it meant
by his eyes were watching – but just as quickly, white filled the blue space and he was
closed to her as always -
parallel universe, gaze turned downward and he smiled as he cast a horse then dragon
then unicorn for today was not to spill red upon the open wound, today was beyond taint
though there was no stopping darkness that hid behind honest eyes caught in the landscape of…
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and she closed her eyes while duncan Sheik sang her off into a dream, never to awaken the same…

sad funny son

for a dear friend… 

Isn’t life funny Funny, I mean oddly sad in ways that sneak up behind you in bright alleyways while lugging groceries out of TJs calculating the bottles of wine to food ratio First world problems, wine instead of water then whine about floors that do not come in cork color or was it burnt umber The dog ate a million biscuits again today Who the fuck cares they say, she is just hoarding, remembering life as a stray How can I worry about anything when she is wondering how to plan a newborn’s funeral when his brothers still lay in wait, tiny hearts matching fluttering beats of emerald hummingbird wings juxtaposed from ruby throats, color of spilt blood Do we pray to the son who gave us red wine Do we hail mary or toast an empty sky A wrong way sign, we turn glassy eyes to the third world haze  She would love the luxury to weep on trivial things Little hand holding the right one that blesses life away Lest we forget, dip bloody hands in holy waters, life blood, thirst quenching third world wells help save Hell, how can I justify breathing when her whole world, body and heart, has gone ripped open, part of her ancestral fabric taken away Too many deaths today justified as ‘his way’ Should they continue to tear children apart on main street Mean street is now found anywhere in this occupied universe where humanity has turned the wrong way Perhaps it is time to savor a simple moment, to save her or her and him or and The ands could go on forever, but we are too consumed with right now to hear I fear this small world may swallow us whole, a swan song plays, a million beating wings burst open the cloud Fly away home, dear one, we pray to hear your melody in the sun, a sad funny son

 

(To all who have been kind and posted comments – please accept apologies of no reply or perhaps delayed visits – I shall try to catch up soon. I always appreciate your thoughts, esp when people whom I’ve not ‘seen’ for a while pop in to like something – it warms me to know you are doing OK. My own personal life issues seem rather trivial when I found out a friend faces such a difficult situation in which she has no control. I listened to a lecture about writing prose poems with one ear while this poem continued to rise… peace  ~ a )

to ED – a letter of possibility

Dear ED ~

Please pardon this posthumous post -

I figure your are positioned properly in paradise
aloft looking from one of your perfect windows, a precipice perhaps
waiting for another poetic form to present itself -
not a poem, per se, but a possibility …

You must know, poets posits possibility a la Emily upon their pavilion -
during a poetic parade of words! How I smile at its dramatic pause

You, dear prolific one – a peacock who painted our world – your power
your feathers spread wide
not for publication, but to push poetry -
preaching to periwinkle, pinking heavens as planets crawled upward
imagining pure power in possibility
knowing that to forsake one’s pulsating internal music
(part melody / park beat denied) was to
perish, to become a puddle only to
vanish in tomorrow’s sun

But we push on, don’t we -
we poets playing off the margins
painting pictures not always personal or perfect
but certainly attempting to a point of progress
remembering to plow our pastures daily
to plant persimmons, purple coneflowers and pink roses
in between the outgrowth of pines -
​it is here within this peace filled place,
perchance call a palace of hope,
we will generate a pleasing vision,
a rectory built of parchment
where whirls of paint produce words
and these words generate another
possibility

What become of these pursuits -
one can only dream
not of publication (as you well know)
but of discovering a new path
finding untraveled pavement to dirty our pure soles
pacing to our powerful rhythm set by no one
but all a culmination
of all people who walk upon this earthly plain -

Signed,
nobody
(This is in response to the second to the last ‘assignment’ for the online course I’ve been taking from Iowa.  This poem is to ED and with the set constraint of using the letter P as much as possible)

 

  • mirage

    They said snakes coiled along the canyon edge,
    a warning of copper illusion that could strike dead

    I hiked on, believing in the hatchet hooked to me
    and the golden eyes sought would protect.

    It was those eyes, embedded in fine, iridescent feathers,
    that sent dust laden soles deep into a burnt landscape
    each exposed inch of flesh chalked cinnamon.

    A sacred valley turned burial ground no longer visited by the ancients
    who had lined its four corners to mark the red road home.

    How life would have been different if we had not stolen their paint horses
    and killed all their white buffalo. A hungry man’s lust for gold turned his own humanity.

    Least we forget all our hands are line, no matter colour or ancestry
    our notes to be read when we finally return home.

    I roamed this earth for a stolen bird of beauty
    its own life symbolic of resurrection,
    its many eyes watching God or is it God watching within them…

    As the light dims, the world opens its organic skin
    a thousand stars appear to echo a watery sphere -

    It will be years before someone recreates my attempt to dive
    into its shadowy depths after glimpsing a coppery eye ~

     

    (the assignment was simple – to write a poem that is a delight or to savor, that is rich in experience…tonight, the ink failed to dip into something rich, but rather wished to explore the dry desert in search for life… peace ~ a)

    late bloomer – a not quite love story

    It was to be my summer of love,
    or so I thought.
    A kitschy love that can only be
    product of a late blooming plot.
    It was a harsh summer,
    even for sinners.
    Urchins of urban
    struggled in layers
    of mother’s humidity.
    A midnight dip
    in a mud slick
    pond left me wanting more.
    But, as he slept next to me
    there was a voice of prophecy
    and damn it all, she was right.
    That summer was preparatory
    love life’s classroom
    for unaware late blooms
    that survive despite harsh weather
    poor things, they know no better.

     

    (So, this weeks lesson for the MOOC is to write a sonnet – or whatever one wishes to deem a sonnet. I’ve taken some major liberty here – no 14 lines, no major rhyme scheme but we shall call it a sonnet anyway. The text was actually taken from a short story I just wrote about a summer memory – it was rather fun to try to condense 600 words into this thing. ~ a) 

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      Words are my own unless otherwise noted. Creativity is something to be shared, but that decision should always be left to the creator.
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