My freedom is a burden; I have no direction
Automaton, I am missing vital instructions.
I think I know just what I must do
But I cannot seem to pull myself through
This wasteland of broken mirror shards,
A painting I thought I had painted so hard
That the quality was enough to last a while
But I hear the click of the statistics turnstile.
I hear those close freed by this decision
An am thankful that they withheld their derision.
Posts Tagged ‘Mirror’
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Side Trip of Hyperspace
Posted: January 7, 2002 in PoetryTags: Bear, Cat, Closet, Eye, Happy, Mind, Mirror, Spider
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.
Realized
Posted: October 18, 1995 in PoetryTags: Bones, Dreams, Earth, Eye, Fire, Flowers, Genie, Horse, Imagination, Magic, Mirror, Naked, Night, Power, Sleep, Snow, Story, Water
Three nights I have lain awake
Storming through half-sleep dreams
And possibilities, thoughts,
Mental magical carpets,
Half real, half realized;
Doors half opened and swinging
Smooth computers peripherally
Analyzing and verifying
Believing yet incredulous
Of the panoramic impossibility.
The stark lightning of imagination
Energized and rampantly naked;
Leaping obstacles with merry, nimble feet
Barely touching – gracing – the earth.
A sweeping wave of everything
Reconditioning, revitalized
Colorization by raw power
Of a reality as credible as anything,
Dreams of genie lamps opening
Construction paper flowers blooming
Water falling, cities lit by their own fires,
Shadows mocking their creators.
Stories so rich in texture
That you live them overnight,
Morning comes when it comes
With the snap of the blind
And a sense of weariness bone deep.
Aches from riding warhorses,
Twinges from old wounds,
Bruises and abrasions that quietly throb,
That you don’t remember receiving.
Nights pass in a variety of times
Lying awake, or so I think,
Chasing reflections in mirrors,
Tuning in to the colored snow
Falling inside my eyelids.
Isn’t it tragic to be so wise
And profess to know the answers,
Yet I help myself to my most delicious lies
And avoid mirrors like they were cancer.
Can’t get it right – I am still hollow
Inflated, life like sleight of hand,
No deserters; the blind still follow
This blind man across the sand.
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.
The Cataclysm of the Mirror
Posted: November 17, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Anger, Beast, Believe, Bird, Blood, Cigarette, Fire, Fly, Glasses, Godzilla, Hope, Lightning, Magic, Mirror, Vomit
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.
you’re going to scream at me
but I’m chanting I can take it
throwing words like
broken mirror pieces of me
beating the pinata of my disguises
but I’m chanting I can take it
breaking accusations over my head
scalding me with tears
that I never wanted to bring to you
on the silver platter
I thought would do you good.
the stars I plucked
to put on your brow
have rotted and turned into
pumpkin seeds;
it was my sleight of hand
that placed them there
and your desperate want to believe me.
now you’re a whirlwind
of shattered stained glass.
I’m chanting I can take it.
Nyarlathotep 1925
Posted: March 23, 1993 in PoetryTags: Belief, Blood, Dark, Dreams, Flesh, Mirror, Truth, Wish
thy Bloody Tongue caresses
the forehead of the Chosen
for Hotep, Dark Lord.
the Crawling Chaos erupts
from blood for us:
those willing to see his vistas,
landscapes draped in flesh,
drenched in blood,
shattered like mirrors
so close like dreams
one bright tentacle to worship
one hypnotism
one belief of truth;
as you wish it!
Fireflies in a Jar
Posted: February 1, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Believe, Blood, Cry, Dreams, Faith, Firefly, Flesh, Friend, God, Heart, Man, Michael, Mirror, Monster, Night, Quality, Scream, Soul, Sound, Stars, Storm, Tears
I am still here;
encased in steel,
frozen in flesh;
I am still here.
the I, the me, and the one and only:
Michael, an Angel, this quality,
definitely the most beautiful man
regardless of position and opinion.
building and building my building,
my self: a tower of faith in feelings.
I’ve mortared each brick and laid each beam,
chosen the colors, welded the seams,
sweated past tears, made real my dreams.
I have constructed my cherished monster
and wobble like a weeble but I don’t
fall
down.
I doubt and I die
every day
sometimes I cry
and fade away,
but I’m always stuck with myself
so I’ve chosen to stick it out
until the morning after.
I’ve got to strip and scrub and look in the mirror
I get misunderstood and filthy bad-mouthing myself;
the more I scrub the more I bleed, feeling clearer –
addicting, this hurting and cleaning myself.
in that soulless mirror
is my only true friend
and he’s true as far as you believe him.
weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
I won’t scream anymore, I won’t make a sound
on finding my construction falling apart
snapping cables in the storms of my heart.
there is nothing that can ever take me away
I’ve done too much damage already.
twenty-one years old, a missile heaven-sent
and where god has thrown me I’ve made my own dent
to sit in and scowl or wave to my stars
as they streak by in the night, fireflies in jars.
Untitled Poem #143
Posted: January 21, 1993 in PoetryTags: Child, Circle, Magic, Mirror, Ocean, Sky, Untitled, Wind
sometimes it all comes full circle:
a beautiful sky that you can’t see the end of
in any direction; even the ocean
mirrors me in its watery face.
I believe in it all now, the magic
of the things nobody sees,
of the things children tell us;
the wind remembering who I am.
Back from the House of Bedlam
Posted: January 2, 1993 in PoetryTags: Bedlam, Cloud, lilypad, Mirror, Time, White
I AM STILL HERE
TO WASTE YOUR TIME,
BROADCASTING LIVE FROM THE LILYPAD,
I, APE, THE LITTLE MIRROR-COLLECTING
BOY WITH NO MOUTH,
WHO LIVES IN THE WHITE HOUSE OF BEDLAM.
I was surprised, too, that I still fight.
A room of dank dungeon walls collapsed
leaving me on a pinnacle of cloud height.
everything has fallen away from me
except (maybe) my grip on reality.
Thee Memorable Ocean of Dream-Boy
Posted: July 20, 1992 in PoetryTags: Blood, Boy, Candles, Cloud, Cry, Drums, Earth, Lightning, Mirror, Sound, Steve, Tears, Trees, Wind
steve said C-R-Y
[in hidden eyes]
thee, tears may arrive.
striped little boy I envy your dress
AND your innocence.
(shrieking) PAINTING,
blowing multicolored bubbles
through your paintbrush…
I Re-Collect
we begged lightning with fish from the solstice
[once upon a time]
when batteries ceased to function
drums only drums and howling,
croaking, baying;
Fucking with the night in
flickering candles, canvas cloudwork
[fists full of earth]
mystic corrections of our skin, in chalk, in earth
blood leaking from my ears
as we listened to the sacred sound of the wind’s whip
[lashing the backs off the trees]
you and I and fish, standing on a mirror, looking through the grass
into the heavens of lightning.
Untitled poem #-11
Posted: December 26, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dream, Mirror, Ocean, Sand, Stars, Window
tonight
as a dream
of ocean,
there is seaweed,
a corsage
on my wrist,
sand in my nails;
my window was open
to the stars,
mirrors to
mad poetry.
Derivation of Kawabata II
Posted: December 2, 1991 in PoetryTags: Cloud, Flowers, Mirror, Rain, Wood
flowers stand
in a pot for tea
under a scroll:
the rain is quiet
filling pools;
mirrors for the
clouds’ coiffures.
in an alcove
of dark wood.
I was captured in the mirror
of a pool of clear water.
I watched myself climb a big rock
behind me without falling.
stuck in the eye
with Tanizaki’s
stolen needle.
blind, I admired
the mirror
from memory.
Midion
Posted: August 26, 1991 in PoetryTags: Boy, Cry, Dreams, Echo, Eye, Hope, Mirror, Monster, Moon, Nothing, Salt, Shadow, Sleep, Trees
mud from the river-bottom
sieves through my heart
and dries brown tile
upon the sunny corridors
of hope.
shaken by the fist
of my own excitement
I feel my lungs
fill with salt
left by the cataracts
of beautiful plants
breathing.
to hold all of you
for one moment
would be to watch it crumble
and cry like
a waning moon
doused in the ink of the ocean.
little boy,
tiptoe carefully
through the echoes
of the fallen mirror;
the leaves
will put it back together.
the stitch of a sewing machine
manufactures my poetry,
sleep baptizes
my worried face into peace.
the dances of dreams
drum my skin into rest,
slipping me between the teeth
of monsters who plague my visions,
færies who cover my ears with storms
to mask the whispering
of nothing.
I fall without recollection
through cell walls,
shrieking with my senses,
soundlessly touching stars
with the shadows
of my fingertips;
hurtling at frightful speeds,
awed by the size of it all.
broken,
reflecting the trees
at fractured angles
agonizingly compounded,
the spilled eyes of an insect
encrusted with river mud
cracked and dry with age.
alley flower
Posted: August 14, 1991 in PoetryTags: Flowers, Green. Purple, Mirror, Night, Sleep, Universe
fiery stamen and
splay-topped tendrils;
multicolored electric octopus,
singing, gesturing in Indian splendor
inside a spherical universe of glass;
mysterious flower
writhing to the silence of the void;
infinipodal walker,
reaching and grasping at a terrible mirror,
constantly searching the circumference;
hot green stalks sadly follow
my curious fingertip
across the sky
as I trace patterns on the clear cage;
pink and purple fans dreaming
support the slim emerald-waisted dancers
teasing the fluorescent pollen
on the central stem;
flickering tirelessly,
chanting throughout the night
as I sleep.
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