Saturday, November 5, 2016

The cure



Like most people,
I know more than most people.

Taboo topics, like religion and politics
have no place out of doors,
less is more-saying wise.

Opinions, as I have said before, are canned 
goods, homemade tastes better.

Did you notice the leaders need more followers?
I have no doubt their pantries are stocked. 

Perhaps taste requires focus.
Pickling causes swelling. 

All people only recognize five objects at a time, 
so how would leaders know a lover from a hater
up front?

Or a pickle from a cucumber...
Precisely my point. 

There is no crime in popularity contests,
pretty packaging by poll, you follow?

Me neither. I will walk away
and say nothing about knowing 
anything about anyone
anymore.

Unless I thought my opinion may be expired
until I checked the label noticing a 
dangerous dent
where it says 
Homemade Poetry
concentrate.



Photo By Bruce Bisping, 1953-, Photographer (NARA record: 1888360) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lay me down


A head on pillow
hits the bed
again
and I confess it is useless
that I pray without membership
all men taste like forbidden fruit
so some nights I try just a little lullaby 
words work as stuffing say, softer,
consoling, comforting to tuck in tight,
granting the priceless gift of deep sleep
and hibernating potential 
in the conversation of dreams
possibly something snuggled 
warm with want
lays a head. 



Artwork by Jules Pascin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, November 4, 2016

Coffee Table Book


As a little girl I remember the living room, 
        the smoked glass paneled hexagon coffee table 
with the abalone ashtray 
always full.
This table back then was the media center, for the TV Guide and 
disheveled stacks of various magazines;
Rolling Stone, Glamour, Woman's Day, Better Homes and Gardens,
Guitar, and Cosmo-always had the cover covered,
censorship-I guess since it always said something about sex.

I rarely saw her read them, she just threw them on the stop sign table 
day after day.
Along with sticky spilt drink rings and bits of green leaves, 
          there were tiny straws always there too,
and I could never find any tiny drinks 
          in the fridge despite looking
day after day.
They were collectors of clutter.
I remember taking all the magazines, 
                sorting them into music and beauty,
by month, bindings all lined neatly
and of course reading the Cosmo.

I also played library 
with my stuffed animals before they were all
taken away due to allergies. The animals, not the books.
I got them all back, I wasn't allergic to them, it was just dust.

Back then I decided I must become 
a magazine writer-No I would own my own!
I am no Oprah though, I remember her before she was 
her Own woman with an over-sized magazine I have never seen
on any coffee table. Square or round.
We cannot all be famous,
but we can all become anonymous.

When I learned about air-brushing, angles, and trending topics,
I thought I must become a librarian-antiquity-my own library (with a ladder)!
Then Google and Amazon got around collecting and distributing rare
and hard to find literati-poor little she already too late. 

I worked at a bookstore when I was 16.
I implemented a used book exchange, 
I met a man named Adam Walks Between Worlds, I learned
floristry and barista services, he was brutally murdered.

It was not the job I sought. I did not want to check, sell, stack, dust, sort,
I wanted the words only, the cover, my name, and sex, permission
to express succinctly what I believed in me. 
A better home and a garden, possibly
a new edition of Cosmo-logical, not politan.

Alas, I am only a famished writer who wants 
real words in an unreal world. 
Some sex up front.
Sneezes are similar to sex.
some dust is okay but no clutter
or stop sign tables
to bring me back
there believing in limitless opportunities 
for those with life experience
with a loss of words,
like, Bless you.


Painting By Adrien-Henri Tanoux, Afternoon coffee (1888) 
via (Christie's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A as in Atlantis


With these eyes,
i thee read, these lines, repeating after me,
Love thyself first mover-
Touching is not happy after ever.
All we wanted was with in us, All ready
an honor about Time.
Cherishing those kaleidoscope views 
as the clouds grew and threw shadows for depth,
making perfect patterns that reflect you 
and eye am more voluminous than any body of work
with more baritone than you can 
Here,
horizontally.
Deeper than i can sea.



Image By Scan by NYPL [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I am mortality


            You-
Are afraid of death.
We can all see, it remains 
obvious to the living.
Your trembling keeps you aware
of your limits by
          borrowed body and baited breath.
Those weak limbs only lent in posterity
          become bent
out of sorts and in specimens 
You know, you have no ownership
Accept
the choices all there 
your self unaware
the voices no where ensemble
the sirens that blare
some semblance to soothe by
Temptation
          and taunt steadily
amplified at the base 
of all heart beats
and eardrums.
You
conductor, 
are listening for a pattern, 
          a way of knowing
the curse was weak
the cures were waiting
before Eternity for
You
in terrified harmony
aghast and kept petrified
shivering me to timbers. 




Painting By Thomas Degeorge, Death of Archimedes (1815) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Worry some, or winsome?



I feel no (blood) pressure.
No, I am
not dead (yet).
I wait for the machine to be triple checked,
and checked again
and asked
if I feel okay today?
(like always)
I do.

I feel my tail but don't tell 
and my blood is warm to touch.
Good veins, they notice,
they roll over hearing this,
I feel those too as they go back to blue.

Despite the vitals-
I am (still) not lethargic or pelagic,
worrisome or winsome, anemic, 
or academic.
I am like this-
          land locked atop shiny surfaces
even keel
in calm waters
mirror(s) but blind me.

I look across the reflection
and see deeply through
under the surface, currents collecting 
all trace(s) leaden in me
pumping ferrous Iron  
or capitulate by capillaries.

I remain 
calm under the pressure.

Painting by Vasily Polenov, c. 1886 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Name extraction


On the tip of my tongue
I close my eyes to differentiate
sensuality and recall
only to get a glimpse
of another thing
I had tried to re-member
by conceptualizing
behind closed eyes
aimed upward toward the starlight,
the expansion of the universe 
is demonstrated before me.

There, dark matter doesn't care
about bonding and periodicals
or a sense of stability.
The first thought dissolves
into the next
continuum of generations.
The name I need jumps out
shattering the dim bliss.
It has been used before,
it is thinner now
in this event
not solid enough to hold more space
for future
consideration.



Painting by Isidre Nonell, Thinking (1906) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...