Archive for November, 1993

The Question

Posted: November 27, 1993 in Poetry
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Twin rivers of sweat
trickling from my armpits,
tickling down my sides
and a quaver in my voice,
dying for a cigarette,
a script, a wish, or that
I’d rehearsed more.

For Dawn

Posted: November 24, 1993 in Poetry
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I know I could live
without you here,
but it wouldn’t be something
I’d choose.
My bed is empty;
I’m tired and lonely,
my blankets worn
like the soles of shoes.
I miss you madly,
your cotton kisses,
your blushing smile,
and sea-blue eyes.
Only when you
return to love me
will I enjoy these blue skies.

I used to roll spare tires
down alleys in Point Loma
to see how many streets they’d cross
before stopping:
against a trash can or a moving car,
a cinderblock wall or a pile of dirt.
Stupid things is what I thought.
Why’d they stop there; it could have kept going
after that.
Steering.
I’m rolling and I steer myself short all of the time
and it’s coming; I can feel it singing and surging to life
in a tide, a god, an angel looking for a sharp sword
in his tongue,
fiery-eyed and furious,
smoking and snake-bitten.
But I can’t be touched by the fire I create –
burning myself won’t work anymore
– there is nothing left to burn but everything else
and it is to be smelted into my sword,
my pen, my tongue, my eyes,
my breath, my words,
my blood, my thoughts.

I’m looking at myself
in the mirror and wondering
who the fuck I am –
wire-rim glasses, two day old growth of beard;
cigarette dangling from my lower lip.
FUCKING POETRY – I’ve been gone so long,
writing to myself, watching
my pen bleed from word to word
across the page,
tasting every letter,
thinking every penstroke: the speed of poetry.
And fuck it if it’s not – it’s mine:
my thoughts, my wisdom, my reminders, and my beliefs.
Soon, the anger manifests in obscenity
and thinking of destruction and Godzilla,
not caring, not feeling anything but
pinpricks in my feet from stepping on rooftop antennae.
Flying like a bird, a beast, a leap
from a cliff, to die, to live, to believe
in myself and my vomit, my eyes,
my power to change myself, thus the world.
My wildfire magick of angels and cataclysm,
comedy, tragedy, hope, lightning flying
from fingertips and pen nibs.
It’s all the beauty of the plumbing behind the sink.

Sometimes it’s hard to find myself,
camouflaged and hunting fears by
hiding underneath the lilypads.
Like fear is going to to assassinate the Froggacuda?
But the memory is that if that is what it is:
a feeling lost and sunk in the swamp it was born in;
a beautiful first and last of its kind,
bred from books and desires and pirate gold,
from lost helium balloons and forts under acacia trees.
The Froggacuda is nothing without
one poet of keen eyes and quick hands,
a child catching frogs in the bog alone near dark
with a flashlight and an overactive imagination
full of Dungeons and Dragons books and Lovecraft stories.
Nothing is the Froggacuda without the puppeteer
who makes the teeth snap shut
and the eyes roll,
the ears perk up and the lungs breathe.
But nothing is the puppet-master without
those teeth, eyes, ears, and lungs
beating, breathing
in his self-esteem, his soul.

One Paper Airplane Left to Go

Posted: November 14, 1993 in Poetry
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Alone on a rock
at the sunset’s death,
I sit with a paper airplane,
waiting to throw it away;
an edge of a cliff,
folded paper and a hope,
both wishes for things to last;
a long flight or
a short plummeting fall;
either we go on
or we don’t
and I’m waiting for the sun
to go on
or I won’t.

Playing Hardball

Posted: November 14, 1993 in Poetry
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The tears come hard and fast
mimicking the sound
of the sheets of rain
blowing over the cab of my truck.
They pool in my lap
and get cold running down
my legs, in my shoes,
cheeks caked with salt
from the crying,
wind chasing tears
from the corners of my
eyesockets.
And all I can do
is keep my head in my hands
and ask: why?
why?
why?