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…


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




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…
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

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 -

(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) 

    eyes closed – I write to “Long Night”

    Eyes closed and in my mind’s eye there appears a slash, a Rothko, or perhaps a Motherwell, it is really an echo of the laptop screen but we shall focus on something inside not the external environment that often overtakes words meaning, it is Gann’s piano streaming through these layers of metal that captures the image of life’s rhythm and for some reason the flat air sounds like a rushing ocean until a bird caws from a spruce tree ten feet away- why do we pretend to be someplace else when there is no place but here
    I try to focus as she says but I am more intrigued by the sounds intermingling with this lazy key stroke and the avant approach, no it is not really avant, what he is doing, but instead a weaving  a cacophony that reminds me of playing when I was a little girl in that peach colored room on an old plastic organ wishing it were a baby grand
    these fingers feel like sausages, they are not the graceful ballerina hands that  often interlude in winter, it is the heat of the day and the buildup of hours of use for there is no luxury of being one who just sits and thinks or contemplates tomorrow’s tomorrow
    yes, I’ve lost that free-flow , though it is how I write so often, I sit here with my eyes closed still, but still don’t focus until now – there should be no surprise as the keys suddenly click to the tinkle of his playing, that the breath has strayed as it is held and the body holds rigid
    when writing, I am no different than I am any other minute of the day
    waiting, holding a position just hoping that the shoe stays of the foot and that the hand continues to follow the command of this wayward mind

    (this was a true practice of freewrite – eyes remained closed while typing  this directly to forum after taking a few moments of cleansing breaths – I often have practiced freeflow writing inspired by music or outside noises – I tried to incorporate observation as instructed– thank you in advance if you have taken the time here… PS Gann is in reference to Kyle Gann’s Long Night – a piano piece that can be found on Spotify)  A MOOC exercise from poetry course at U of Iowa. 

    old maid

    We pledged our allegiance to a kind of girl power
    but we never sported pink
    our strength came in packs of Marlboros and 90s grunge

    Years gone past and distance becomes metaphor
    we drive the same roads
    yet our paths never converge

    Fourth of July’s call made rethink this independence
    as the blackbird mocked with its incessant cackle
    creating uncomfortable spaces in my mind

    Twenty years and we remain sisters without blood
    high school days seal our history forever
    but this pact has finally been lost to maturity

    You will be beautiful in ivory and diamonds
    and my lips shall smile the curve of champagne
    as I sit at the square table reserved with a lone card

    that odd queen, how she remains the same


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