Posts Tagged ‘Closet’

Fifing the Closets

Posted: May 16, 2002 in Poetry
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Leave the closet doors open
Like a trap to entice monsters
To come out and play.
I live here for the moment,
In this moment
I would crouch and snarfle
Like something from behind
Those creaky sliding doors
But soon I go elsewhere
To find new temporary closets;
These ones are to be bulldozed.
Do not be surprised
To see me fifing by moonlight
Leading silvery shadows of your
Childhood nightmares;
Snouts and antennae and bulbous eyes
Across shoulders of roads
And dew laden fields.
Closets are bottomless, backless
Like the prom dresses that hang there.

Musing

Posted: April 11, 2002 in Poetry
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If you would only punch out my heart
An spin my head right round again
With that electrical discharge of brilliance,
That revelation of ultraviolet split-second,
When the idea’s dagger is buried
And the closet door is opened,
Contents spilling like freed puzzle pieces,
A mess I can just shake my head at
Just reaching for the paper,
For the pen,
The muse.

Burn the Phoenix

Posted: February 10, 2002 in Poetry
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I am thee Froggacuda
And oh so froggy be I
Defined by myself as myself
And marooned is my current cry.
Inside I’m still the same hollow
Green straw puppet carnival black hole
Of pool-soaked poetry pages
Missing something to be whole.
Cobwebbed closets rarely treaded
And rusty hinges, unsafe passage
Basement dwelling, life enshrining
Long decoding of this message.
Love and laugh; live your time
Unwrap an onion and be true
I burn the phoenix of my years
Consumed by seeing myself in you.

Side Trip of Hyperspace

Posted: January 7, 2002 in Poetry
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I am small again:
Smell of closets, scuttle of spider;
Withdrawing as the fat withers from my mind.
Rediscovering someone vaguely familiar
Only from the corners of my eyes
In old photographs
Or in passionately scribbled lines.

In this transition,
Is it supposed to endure
Or is it supposed to break?
Phoenix, do you hurt when you burn to ash
Or when you rise to the sun?
Questions that reflect
My bewildered state of mind
What side trip of hyperspace
Oh what fortunate dilemma of uncomfort.

Forced to remember, to recall
Those unanswered playthings
With the back mirror-pooled eyes
Of teddy bears and demanding kittens;
Of imagined characters that were once so real
That I was them,
And more than that, happy to be.

George

Posted: February 18, 1995 in Poetry
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Sometimes I wish I could
Feel all four walls in the dark
From where I sit on this
Thinly carpeted floor –
Again, like a closet,
A most comfortable space
For one sad and lonely
Anthropomorphic ape.
One or two trips to the sunlight
Have sunburned him into
The hypocrisy he despised:
Loss of childhood and
Less of curiosity
Leaves George a more shallow man
And less of a wondrous angel.
Now he collects seagull feathers
For his bedside table
To remind him of
The wingspan he once had
In Eden.

Ah, this bright light —
I was a closet Vampyre,
dancing on cardboard tombstones
with flexible skeletons
who beat chopsticks on
overturned Folger’s coffee cans
— it shrivels the flesh
and weakens the bones.
I’ve heard of the process of aging before,
from people older than I
(that was all that mattered back then),
but I opened the door
just by living this long;
it was a voluntary process
to keep myself “sane”.
My closet life still lives —
the dust and cobwebs are real,
cardboard and coffee cans lay around
— it’s a mess just like I left it.
I have little time to clean up,
much less to dust them off and play;
something I swore I’d never say.
I wished to conquer this aging
in this age.
I watched the best voices of
previous generations
wither and fade,
mature and become jaded
as either adults or escapists —
I wanted to outdo them all
by keeping busy
preserving those things
that people forgot to remember:
those things that go bump in the night
and lurk shiny red-eyed in the closet.
This bright light
— reality for those who think it so —
is the bread and butter of adulthood,
and it cannot be avoided
through ignorance or rebellion:
they just won’t go away.
This revelation comes with
the exposure to aging;
the fact that changed my whole game plan.
Closets, shadows, mysteries and skeletons
beating Folger’s coffee cans with chopsticks
are for children and lunatics:
people who aren’t grown up enough
to withstand the scrutiny
of this bright light.
I hold to my original wish —
I have remembered so far
you must bend like the willow
young grasshopper —
Seuss did it,
King does it;
to each his or her own closet.
Oil your hinges,
dust your skeletons,
tune your Folger’s coffee cans:
Magick is the marrow
that runs in those bones,
and still fires the eyes shiny red.

A Plea for Relaxation

Posted: February 17, 1994 in Poetry
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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.