Quietly now, the children are sleeping
While we two are creeping
to bite cookies and leave them.
Practical worries about the yearly tour of duty:
Every floorboard creaks, every giggle recognizeable;
Make sure the flat of the hearth is newly sooty,
Make sure the stockings are equally full.
Finally finished, our excitement diminished
By the prospect of the warm bundle wake-up call;
The warning comes as bare soles in the hall —
my arm ‘round your waist,
we can admire the tree
and break our own rule
of conserving electricity:
Plug the lights in and hear the hush
Of the new snowfall, the moonlight’s touch
Twinkles the icicles on the eaves
Outside the window past the wreath-leaves.
Now that Santa’s come and gone,
I’m sure he would have left
the Christmas lights on.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
A Christmas Vision
Posted: November 10, 1994 in PoetryTags: Children, Hearth, Light, Moon, Santa Claus, Snow, Tree, Window
For Your Majesty
Posted: November 10, 1994 in PoetryTags: Add new tag, Butterfly, Clouds, Dawn, Eye, Faerie, Forest, Grass, Grey, Man, Night, Pan, Rain, Rock, Sky, Sleep, Time, Trees
I
I can imagine a perfect spot
to have a picnic with you today;
the sky is a wee bit grey
at the edges —
I caught as many clouds as I could
with my butterfly net
(I came in wet
early this morning from the rain-dew
on the unmown grass stems).
II
I’ve found a circle of trees
by the brook in the forest
where it takes a toddler’s tumble
over a jumble of rocks;
the moss grows shaggy like old men’s beards
wisping from the branches;
faerie streamers from last night’s revelry —
perhaps Pan was here just a little while ago
rearranging or arranging this spot and my walk.
III
It’s only raining a little bit now
not like how it was this morning —
you were sleeping, darling —
I was watching the whole time;
the same clouds that dampened my socks
were protectively wrapped across your eyes;
It was no surprise that I found it so easy
to slip outside to explore, to find
a real secret garden for your majesty.
[for Dawn]
The Blessed Heart Sacred Moon Wanderlust Spelunking Club
Posted: November 7, 1994 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Cat, Dark, Dawn, Dreams, Drums, Fire, Fog, Heart, Night, Shoes, Sky, Smoke, Spirit, Water
I am the sole member
of the The Blessed Heart Sacred Moon Wanderlust Spelunking Club
and I lead myself through the Scottish bogs
under a sky liberally sprinkled
with the Milky Way galaxy.
Wet shoes and grey spirits,
feather boa fog tendrils bathing my sock-tops,
no compass points me to my Holy Grail.
Two kittens accompany me
getting in my way and making me laugh aloud:
an unheard of sound in these waterlogged fens.
Hiding in the ferns, one black/white, one silver-grey,
amber eyes watching my pen dance in this damp campsite,
a smoky fire beating quiet drums
to wrestle back the velvet curtains of darkness.
I’m waking all night to watch over the dreams of Dawn;
her restfulness insures the beauty of the coming day.
Treaty
Posted: August 23, 1994 in PoetryTags: Ape, Believe, Black, Blue, Death, Dream, Eye, Flowers, Hate, Heart, Human, Imagination, Laugh, Life, Light, Love, Magic, Man, Mind, Mirror, Sea, Space, White, Wink
I’ve hated myself for so long
for other people
other opinions, other lives:
here goes my hair —
look in the mirror,
watch your steely blue eyes wink:
lighthouses to steer ships by.
Bring them home.
Home is the sailor,
home from the sea,
and the hunter,
home from the hill.
home to your heart.
Quit renting the space from yourself:
laugh and languish
with the rest of the apes called human beings.
Life is a dualism;
you are understanding
dum-dum balancing act of whatever.
Equilibrium is so nice.
So is the shift of the teeter-totter but
gain control,
remain under control;
O Captain, my Captain,
you are not yet cold and dead.
Breathe in and out,
live until the end.
It comes not from your hand;
it is not believed in your heart:
the sides of life and death
are one shot kamikaze missions:
one, then the other.
Enlighten the lighthouse.
Strengthen the beams of your winks.
Find meaning in living
to bank hard against the 100% house of death.
The Love comes:
a white ship,
a black frigate,
the swarthy faces of dream-lands sailors
set foot on the dry land
of your once-fertile imagination,
bearing gifts of gems and spices,
flowers silks and brocaded tapestries
unique to your mind and your magic —
so you trade them to the rest of the world.
These gifts are your giftedness;
these waves are your talents,
and when your life is lost,
you will trade no more in this heady marketplace.
Learn to be a good merchant of your wares,
a good businessperson,
a good man;
everyone barters and sings praise and stabs.
Be better: be the best
that your will and imagination can conceive,
then focus your lighthouse lantern
to illuminate,
to enlighten,
and to greater things to believe in.
Murder by Dinner
Posted: August 21, 1994 in PoetryTags: Alcohol, Drink, Friends, Murder, Wedding, Window
I’m going to dinner
and I’m nervous.
A family friend;
Don’t continue your trend, Mike.
If the one drink, two drink
Three drink, no think
Pink elephant stupidity
of the Alcohol speaking;
Speak when spoken to
And you’ll get through
Your nerves and your dinner.
Be polite and considerate;
Practice for the day you’ll see them again.
I’m scared because I never want
To see them again;
That’s why I’m scared of the wedding.
How many cousins and aunts,
Uncles, relatives and friends
Of the family
Know me as the drunken braggart,
The impolite scene-maker,
The window-puncher,
Under pressure and
Making the most of murdering myself?
Sometimes I think about things,
and I’m embarrassed because
of the way I think.
I am just another person,
another human being,
and I’m sad because I’m supposedly
special.
I’m sad that I’ve been determined
to be smart or something.
I’m different, and that hurts,
and people need me because of my “gifts”
and “talents”.
I don’t refuse their necessities.
They need, I fulfill
and I’ll do my best.
But like any tool, my existence
is taken for granted.
We never thank the hammer
for hammering —
we don’t remember
how difficult a stone
drives a nail.
We don’t remember to thank ourselves for coping.
Something I Haven’t Quite Finished Yet
Posted: August 1, 1994 in PoetryTags: Car, Eye, Rhythm, Sand, Sky, Song, Stars, Wind
To the hip-hop rhythm of my break-beat bounce
I sing sun stars surf stoopid something amounts
To a funky fresh freestyle flowing fast and far
from the breakers to the speakers in the trunk of your car.
I get a little sparkle like the wind in my eye
When the sun is shining steady from the stretch of the sky.
Outside doubles dating skating surfing and tanning
Hacky-sacking frisbee throwing bubble blowing — outstanding!
Groove, move and schmoove like a rubberband.
Take a dip in the drink and dry out on the sand…
Son of the Untitled Dickwad Poem
Posted: July 31, 1994 in PoetryTags: Cigarette, Dreams, Drug, Heart, Love, Mind, Song
Love is the drug
that opiates me nowadays
to fend through this morass
of doing what’s to do.
Love and Nicotine,
not pen and paper,
heart and dreams
laid out, a mindsong
to read.
a cling-to-my-sanity Love,
no Woodstock peace and
fuck-your-neighbor crap.
“She’s an Angel
of the first degree…”
And while I grip my head
to quell my own rising laughter
at my inability
to find a self-esteem,
I pray to the mirrors
of other people
who find worth in me.
as the heart withers
like a cut rose,
days old,
the adult in me grows stronger,
builds the muscles I wear like a bear hide,
wears the callouses on my dirty-nailed hands.
so stands the brown and broken-necked sunflowers,
seeds pecked out like eyes
by the crows of these grey skies,
so stand I, roots screwed in place,
back bent like a bow,
my head hurting from the effort to look up.
You Wanna Know What? (One Two, One Two!)
Posted: June 17, 1994 in PoetryTags: Bela, Chris Feher, Dawn, John Roy, MC Honky, Pus, Song, Zero Boy
You wanna know what? You wanna know what?
You look mighty stupid with my foot in your butt.
I cut like X-acto and I’m stronger than stone
and you’re the fucking chicken from Aames Home Loan;
always being rescued, always being bailed out,
but no amount of money gives you my type of clout.
You’re soft like a Kleenex™ on your weakly old track.
Your tongue’s only good for licking my sack.
Give me a beat and a drum and a mike
and I’m guaranteed to break down something you’ll like
because I ain’t a mystery and yes I’ve got the history;
that girl on your arm — she just blew a kiss at me.
What’s on your mind? you wanna battle me, boy?
I’ll wind you up and break you like a Tonka™ toy.
I never know whether to laugh or be sick
when I see you walking ‘round, grabbing your dick,
blowing your nose, soiling your clothes
and paying all those people to come to your shows.
I’ll step to you and put your pea-brain to the test.
I’d like to see you swim wicked witch of the west.
I run the show like I’m Captain Kirk.
On the street I’m known as DJ Lurk.
Rhyming and stealing from all types of scene:
nothing is safe from my sample machine.
Sortof like Aliens got acid for blood,
I got funk in my veins and your name is mud.
Five years from now my shit’s still in
while your CD’s are filling up the bargain bin.
But I let you go, let you run away.
Hide in your home and practice all day.
Come back tomorrow or Saturday,
or do you have to ask if you can come out and play?
I was fucking born with a mike in my hand,
that’s why I’m named Mike, do you understand?
Let me rock the party, just slam the groove,
and we’ll see how many fat asses I can move.
Jumping out their seats and wiggling their hips.
Smiling like Erik Estrada on CHiPs.
Turn it around with a likkle house sound;
all those silly sucker still suits get clowned.
I mosh and I mumble, I drink and I stumble;
turn up the bass ‘till the foundations crumble.
I can rock a party ‘till the break of dawn.
My mind is so sharp it can mow your lawn.
Kick lyrical footballs to pop out your eyeballs;
invite your friends over to put holes in the drywall.
I said I’ve got a serious flair on the mike.
Do you want a lick of my ice cream? Psych!
My rhymes are built to give you something to purr on.
I’ve got tricks up my sleeves when I ain’t got a shirt on
and just when you think I’m all through . . .
I catch another beat and I pound me a Mountain Dew™.
Wired on caffeine, vicious and lean,
an eliminating terminating rapping machine.
I’m a wild man Bigfoot and I’m getting prepared
by kicking back Schaefers™ with Bela Fehér.
I’m a screaming kamikaze on a technopop track;
the needle in the haystack, gett off my bozack.
Give me a break beat, my mike will destroy.
I’m a wannabe member of the Beastie Boys.
Party people in the place, doowhatchyalike.
Funky rhythms, straight talk and such ya like.
So I give it to you straight from the soul . . .
have another beer, then lose control!
Stepping to me, you’d better come correct
because the Mission Hills posse’s always in effect.
When I rap upon the mike you’d better shake a leg;
this jam’s so hot you could fry an egg.
I’m a lyrical spherical diabolical demon.
I’m so glad to be here — I must be dreaming.
Y’all out there having a good time?
Well I’m about to rip out a funky rhyme!
I’m a party playing, roof-raising Point Loma rebel,
and the school administration thinks that I am the Devil.
I never will slow down, I’m back in my home town,
the suburbs to downtown, here comes the lowdown:
a shotgun tongue but I’m always nice.
My back’s always covered by OB Vice.
I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming for you;
make your booty do things you didn’t know it could do.
That’s the idea, guys, get out here and dance.
If you wait too long you’re going to miss your chance.
The walls are built to stand all on their own,
get your dérriere out here and shake your bones.
Yo, the building doesn’t need support
now get busy like my brother MC Alex Kohrt.
I’m a poet of freestyle, my lyrics are worthwhile
I get paid every day making other people smile.
A magician of attrition in the MC arena.
I wanna dye my hair like Jerry Medina.
Who’s in the house? I am, that’s who.
I’m always in the mood for curing your blues.
Pass me the bud and the pipe and I’ll toke it.
Wipe off the blood from the mike and I’ll smoke it.
You know I’m getting lethal, yo, word is born,
and now my boy John Roy will get dumb on his horn.
I don’t get paid much, but I stay in touch:
that color you’re claiming? Your bloodshed’s still red.
It doesn’t take a man to pull a trigger, loc.
It takes an education to use the mike to smoke
silly suckers that walk up on me,
get played razorblade by my tongue, G.
So leave that shit at the door with your worries,
and shake your body on the floor in a hurry.
I got skills, I got bills but you do, too.
So let’s see what type of boogie-business you can do.
Vocal acrobatics coming out my speakers,
speaking to your spine, your shoulders and your sneakers.
Get to know your neighbors, don’t pick and choose.
Be obnoxious like my boy Kevin Bacon in Footloose.
So pump your fist if you like the sound;
I’m a disco inferno, and I’m coming to your town.
i got a polyester shirt and the collar could kill you.
“Good Times” in my eight track, my mind’s gonna thrill you.
Fresh artistic sleight of hand —
you’ve got a real jive show from the one man band.
I’m out of here soon, I’ve got to watch me some cartoons;
I eat my Lucky Charms™ with a ladle or soup spoon
and just when you think I’m comin’ wack . . .
I’m gone with the diamonds like Camel Jack!
Candle Flickers
Posted: May 25, 1994 in PoetryTags: Angel, Believe, Candles, Children, Fountain, God, Human, Love, Magic, Man, Night, Science, Woman
a candle can
move its shadows
like the magic
of an angel
if you believe
that it might be so.
one word
one attempted
explanation
and it’s war
so I give up,
keep my mouth shut
and rot
from the inside
out.
page after page
of meaningless meaning
to myself
tonight
to forget tomorrow
to rewrite
tomorrow night.
Love is no longer
a good enough reason
made to bow to religion,
made to bow to science,
cheapened
and losing the battle
to the evolution of humankind
into the machines
they build,
the laws they build
to worship.
lost is the love of man
of woman
of children
and of God;
love is
the fountainhead
of meaning.
there is a love
for everything good:
if it is good,
then there is love.
some things that
have been found
to be good
are still used
but loveless,
lifeless,
perverted from
their original use
because
love is what
was original.
just so that I could
keep spouting poetry
to myself in the dark
of hidden poetry journals.
there came a chisel
unto the flesh of my heart
today.
examine the date
and remember what it is
during these times:
the abject punishment
of yourself
for unpreventable,
unlooked for damages
and a sick sense
of trust gone green
with rust.
battling roaches at 3 in the morning
with chemical after chemical.
I’m high on bug spray
and wood putty
(for the enormous holes
around the sink pipes).
There’s a hole in the door frame
big enough to lose a golf ball in —
plenty big enough for the
1 1/2 inch monster roach
that skittered across your foot.
I ran across the street
with a golden-haired girl
to watch the grunion run.
She’d never seen it before —
I’d never touched one,
always too scared —
but for her I wrapped one in seaweed,
careful not to touch its skin,
and I returned it
to my Mom,
the ocean.
there’s a tension between us
and I’m just wary of it.
you take things too seriously sometimes
or too personally
or
no you don’t it’s me
or my imagination.
so sometimes I
don’t want to say anything
and even that is a statement.
funny how you can’t get around that.
agnostics go to hell, too, y’know.
Meatgrinder (Version 2)
Posted: March 1, 1994 in PoetryTags: MC Honky, Pus, Song, Tempest, Zero Boy
I get wicked like the wickedest man alive.
I stick your head in my window, roll it up and I drive
your ass around your own block so you all know;
I’ll stick your face to the wall like a gecko.
You’re always trying to come off like you’re hard, son,
but you start from square one, you’re poor like a bum.
I don’t want to upset you, but I know that I do
because I can’t help but point out what I know is true.
You can’t rhyme, you can’t wrestle and it’s nonsense;
you don’t believe in what you say and it’s not making dents.
I put on my glasses, I studied your track
and I filed it in the dumpster — definition of wack.
You’re so high, G; you’re played out, see?
And you get nowhere fast fueled on your hypocracy.
You think you’d look as good as I do?
I think a Doberman or two would suit you and your crew
of sellout suckers, they lie to themselves every day:
you say you’re from Compton but never been to L.A.
Listen to Cube and chikkity-check yourself;
you’re a Balsa wood glider trying to battle the Stealth.
Don’t push it too far, ‘cause you’re out of your league —
you’re a rodent Roger Ramjet and I got your ass treed.
You don’t want to feel humiliated? Get the fuck out
because I’ll meatgrind you, pork boy, ‘cause I got the clout.
Now I’ve got your attention, I see your ears are cockin’,
like the Sugar Hill Gang I don’t stop the rockin’ to the
tick tock I don’t pack a glock because my tongue’s a lethal weapon
I can kill when I rock.
But why add another MC to the list of my killings
when I’d rather reform you to the art if you’re willing.
I could loose your caboose from the rest of the pack
or put some sense in your skull with a backhanded smack.
I don’t say I’m from the Ghetto ‘cause I’m not from there;
you’re formatted for pop and it’s sad that you don’t care.
As long as you’re a gangster, a hustler, a pimp;
mack dady loc biscuit-eating knucklehead shrimp.
You might have fooled yourself that your fans believe you.
Fool yourself again when they wise up and leave you.
When the circus is in town I might go see you clowns
while they’re hammering the lids of their own coffins down.
Pay a lot of money to make people believe,
but that falls flat, New Jack, against the Trick up my sleeve.
A scandal vandal man with my hands — they’re slammin’
and your rinkety-dinkety jam falls short ‘cause you’re shamming.
I might wobble like a weeble to the fresh guitar licks,
but your track couldn’t hack it, even with a remix.
You’re jealous of my posse ‘cause they’re people I trust
but your records don’t bust it . . . they only go bust!
I said I’m the meatgrinder, I’ll grind you like meat
I see fear in your eyes because you’re smelling defeat.
Get funky from my feet to the birds and the bees,
from the buildings and trees to the rivers and seas.
Swaying back and forth like a hypnotized cobra,
one snap of my fingers and your dream state’s over.
I never really mind when the weaklings, they dis me.
I never seem to care that your girl wants to kiss me.
But keep it all in check, man, like you know you should —
now go bandage your ego, tramp . . . it’s all good.
I got the hip hop flavor, bouncing around to the beat;
you see I’m never quite finished, grab yourself a seat.
Get a little bit of popcorn get yourself a soda.
You’re a wannabe Jedi, and I’m like Yoda.
If you’re gonna get excited do us all a favor
shut your fuckin’ mouth and fall on your light saber.
Sometimes I think that I am wasting my time,
trying to teach a nincompoop like you how to rhyme.
But I’m a poet and a prankster, the airwaves gangster.
I got the flying vocal guillotine and you can call me master.
Now I’m on line and I’ll get you in trouble.
Like Fred Flintstone you’re always fooled by Barney Rubble.
You’ve got monetary clout and you think you know what to say
but I grind meat like you for a living each day.
Like a chicken you’re plucked and you’re shit out of luck
feeling like three pounds of fat ground chuck.
Of course you’re right and I’m an amature wrong
but I prefer not to fall like a boulder, King Kong.
I’m more like Godzilla with his nuclear breath:
I melt every motherfuck I put to the test.
I couldn’t give a damn about the way you dance;
some aerobics instructor in circus tent pants.
I got the kick drum humming from my MTX eights.
Golden sun is gleaming from my California license plates.
Sitting back sunny from the south, San Diego,
sculpting rhymes from my my mind as if it was Play-Dough.
Then I get the call when my Bat-Phone rings;
the room’s illuminated by the searchlight with wings.
The President’s on the line “the madman’s escaped!
He’s taking people’s money, do whatever it takes!”
So I eat a bowl of Wheaties ‘cause I’m coming to find ya,
‘cause I’m the one and only motherfucking meatgrinder.
A Plea for Relaxation
Posted: February 17, 1994 in PoetryTags: Believe, Closet, Frog, God, Happy, Light, Magic, Science
People treat themselves like natural resources
(yes we are as part of the ecosystem —
we can be useful)
but expenditure like the burning of a ton of coal
to light one lightbulb?
I ask if this is necessary;
there is a chorus of affirmatives
from the millions who know no better,
who know nothing else,
who bought and will buy again,
who sell this idea.
Accomplishment is one great feeling,
but conversion of a ton of coal,
folding your diploma of success
into the paper airplane of your resumé,
forwarded into the next office,
the next buyer’s grabbing hands
leaves little room for meaning besides
fleeting appreciation and a closetful
of dusty awards that mean nothing.
A rusty mailbox doesn’t care if it rusts;
frogs don’t care where they croak from
or where they croak to,
or where they croak.
Life doesn’t seem to care
scientifically
where it is going.
But I disagree —
Something knows and always has known,
and it watches
and has its own opinion.
God is dead or at best
holds appointments on Sundays,
priests just do their jobs;
it is a profession: their work.
God or magick or belief
is no longer a requirement
for happiness or success.
Nitrogen is to Plants as Poetry is to the Mind
Posted: February 16, 1994 in PoetryTags: Elf, Light, Love, Man, Mind, Money, Porch, Rain, Shadow, Silence, Sleep, Soul, Time, Wind
I
I love you most
when you are sleeping
and around the corner
I am peeping,
shadow in the box of light
that falls from the living room;
I hear the rain is coming soon
from the whish of the wind
‘round the corner of the front porch
lifting the edges of your hair
while you sleep tight.
II
time alone, quiet and silent
a peaceful drizzle outside
and a long nap under my belt
is good for a busy soul,
bustling with errands:
remember the value of free time,
lazy time: laziness is an
art form that can be productive
in its own sense — money
is not everything.
III
the Elves are gone.
it is the Age of Man;
can we continue
pointing arrows
at everyone
until there is
nothing left?
Living a Steady Tautness
Posted: February 12, 1994 in PoetryTags: Beautiful, Coffee, Kiss, Mind, Sleep, Time, Water
Sort of a beautiful frantic hustle
Trying to be effortless;
Carrying motion into motion
From mailbox to appointment
To bank to work to a kiss.
At home to sleep to wake early,
Relax for a moment,
Gather those thoughts,
Hands around a cup of coffee,
Half-finished for a lack of time.
A free moment should show productivity
At least on paper;
Never allow for slack of mind
Because any lack of tension
Leads to play in the rigging
Which must be taken in later —
Running a watertight ship
Is a stair of preventative steps
To make living a steady tautness,
And dying a deserved rest.
Sometimes I get loose on the mike
I got juice and I might
take a hike to the store
for some more Mickey’s Hornets.
Sure, let’s get real funny, honey;
meet me at Johnny’s.
You can play the wall, stand tall,
sink the 8 ball.
Ducats is what I’m wantin’
someone’s up to somethin’
I can hear them comin’.
Tough like a Toughskin
ramblin’ like James Joyce
listen to the B-Boys
pumpin’ from my Rolls Royce.
I don’t give a fuck
if it’s funky or not;
I drop my lyrics and it makes
the spot hip-hop nonstop.
No blades ‘cause I kill with a ballpoint pen
my vocal slice ‘n dice cuts like a shuriken.
I’m laid back on the track
it’s so thick I put my feet up;
I can kick your ass
with a styrofoam cup.
you pet my head,
I’m glad I’m your dog
to your sightless hand;
I may be nothing more
than an animal whose fur
is a tactile playground.
never never and maybe
later gone again like silver
fish darting from shadows
ever to be caught?
the ideas stumble
catch and crumble
splayed on the concrete
and burning from
the sun’s heat.
When does it all come crashing down;
a sawed-through tree trunk,
an old building downtown —
this balancing act of teacups and champagne flutes,
china, crystal, candles,
coffee, coriander and cinnamon.
Sanity on low wattage wire
heating up in the house walls
threatening to start a fire
when the force of gravity falls.
they’re the cries of burning cities,
cities burning now,
cities that have burned before,
and cities that will burn again
or are waiting to burn.
No one sees the twisted faces
in the smoke from the corner store
that neighbors used to frequent
for cigarettes and milk;
we’ll all walk past the couple
sifting through the hot ashes
that evaporate their tears
before they disturb the soot.
Humbled in an Easy Chair
Posted: January 24, 1994 in PoetryTags: Cat, Demon, Dreams, Gargoyle, Human, Night, Skull, Trees
Tonight the old feelings
come back;
the old feelings
of enemies — long ago
when humankind believed
and could see their mistakes
unclothed as Demons.
They crouch in tree foliage
and prowl like cats
or gargoyles on the roof;
they know they work through dreams
and they know we have forgotten
our humble beginnings
in the depth of an easy chair.
They come to crack skulls open
and to tinker with your subconscious,
safe in your self-imposed anesthesia
of TV dinners and microwaves,
of ottomen and furniture never used,
of blinders and bit and reins
grown familiar;
you’ve grown resigned.
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