I was captured in the mirror
of a pool of clear water.
I watched myself climb a big rock
behind me without falling.
Posts Tagged ‘Untitled’
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sometimes you feel like a nut.
sometimes you don’t.
“Almond Joy’s” got nuts.
“Mounds” don’t.
I am clear.
the moon, branches crosshatch
her light.
shot, I bleed.
I rot.
waving my arms about
to fling the blood.
I’ve bled.
I don’t understand you
sometimes.
I don’t pretend to.
this is like a coal
forced down my throat
and dropped into my stomach.
this anger,
petty and full-fledged,
ripping the roots from the soil,
shaking the dirt off,
packing down what is left.
taking out frustrations,
biting down on the toothache,
I clutch my stomach;
you curse my name.
it all is okay.
I sit by a silent road
Waiting for a car to go by
Racing the split-rail fence
To the lightning horizon.
rolled
in a quadrilateral
of liquid sunlight,
I snooze.
my eyelids are warm
and look orange
from inside.
the carpet
could maybe be sand
from a ferny beach
full of dinosaurs.
I am a big dragonfly.
I am a turtle.
I am a seed.
the silence of a late night drive.
empty streets of wizened asphault.
my tadpole car rattles from lamp to lamp…
Untitled Poem #101
Posted: January 10, 1991 in PoetryTags: Blood, Blue, Eye, Green, Leaf, Mountain, Ocean, Pain, Sky, Star, Trees, Untitled, Yellow
I crawled and crawled and crawled through this
Dark mountain of wet bloody clay clawing by chunks
Of big puppy chow kibble breaking my nails
From the dirt wedging under them inflamed and
Painful falling clumsily at the side of the precipice
Barking lacerations down the cliffside thousands
Of feet to the tree leaf ocean below where I
Crashed through the pretty green carpet to
Pachinko my way limb to limb from limb
Down to land crawling my way under hot wet
Underbrush wiping my faces with their
Leathery-thorny branches twigs under my
Eyelids parched streatching burned by the
Twinkie-colored sand under the trees
Broiled by a starry yellow sun in a blue sky
Chopped up by the stringy branches of the jungle
Dissected sunlight lay strewn on the ground
Pulsing, heating the loam and roots to consciousness
As I crawled and crawled and crawled to be with you.
Untitled Poem #100
Posted: December 28, 1990 in PoetryTags: Cloud, Drum, Eye, Night, Rain, Sky, Tree, Untitled
I heard the liquid drums pounding
and the silver sky tore apart.
the moonbeams fell sharp and screaming
bending their rainfall to my face.
I smelled the coming heat
and the clouds were writhing soundless.
the wind chimes swung emptily,
wailing their grief into the night.
I saw the many trees dancing
and the glow from my eyes went silent.
the earth grew faint beneath my feet,
melting my flesh off in runnels.
I knew the serpents were stirring
and my old scars split with delight.
the hum of the land was loud on my skin
when walking with the Lords of the Wind.
shadows have much to speak of;
a depth of water holds many mysteries.
trees hold secrets that men have never dreamt of;
a stone whispers to pass the time.
the mind works
like the spider spins;
a gossamer hammock
for unwary prey.
the innocence of sleeping children
makes me softly tread,
not to keep from disturbing the children
but that which is under the bed.
laying face down on my bed
hoping for an earthquake
dreaming of what’s going on
on the floors beneath me:
a young lady undressing,
a piano playing below that,
worms tunneling under
the creaky foundation;
small roots in the hard dirt,
then maybe rock and water,
occasionally pockets of other stuff.
deeper and deeper, it’s hot
and the earth starts to melt.
so I wake up and turn over
to stare at my ceiling.
How do you know?
I know you don’t;
Shut up.
Is she looking?
She got upset,
She passed it off
With smiles and insults,
Playfully barbed with seriousness.
I know because she asked
You do not
Conjecture
Assumption.
Somehow, I don’t think so.
I’m just waiting for it to rain
So I can caper around in the puddles
Holding my hands out like an aeroplane
To rinse and spin dry my troubles.
II
Searching the sky for forked lightning
Cowering under the thunder
Soaked with excitement; it’s frightening
Taste the damp, earthy smell of wonder.
My days are numbered
In the belly of the beast
Floating paper boats
On a sea of stomach acid
Journey to the center of the earth
I encounter dinosaurs
Huge and big gulping
7-11 insatiation
Rod / Staff / Wand
Berzerk.
Tension. Pressure.
Little scurrying demons
Crawling around my mental ductwork.
Work I can’t.
Not now. They’re everywhere
Pipes, vents, ducts, corridors.
Haunts of the hordelings
Marathons of minute monstrosities
Racing through out
Out! Out!
Who is that masked man
Who leaves those secret notes?
An enigma; who can say
For sure it is him or him
Or her.
No one really knows why
Or who or how or where it is
Unpredictable – you might say
Like the power of a phantom,
Or a flower.
[for Jamie and Nini]
Contemplation,
Concentration,
Distraction,
Subtraction,
Frustration,
Temptation,
Extrapolation,
Verbositization.
Yes I have explored deeply those gorges which cross
Between myself
And all the rest.
I have run alongside each one for what seemed
Like forever
And I met a wall.
I have tried to climb up to see what was on the
Other side
But I fell
And landed hard.
I have descended into the depths of these
Bottomless chasms
But foul things repulsed me
I have tried to reason with them and then
Trick them
And then fight them.
I have explored my boundaries very thoroughly
And I am surrounded
By wall or valley
Inverse incarnations of barrier
I have tried many ideas and inventions
Scraped from my mind
By years of thought
And only for what seems like a short time ago
I leaped over a gulf
Sailing for the opposite side
And I have been falling to unplumbed depths
Toward the unknown
Through doubt
Ever since.
Death is a lonely business
Bearing an hourglass
As the tide shall sweep the shore.
Shall I be no more?
Like a drop of precious wine
Life can pass you by.
Smell the flowers by the wayside
Happiness stays sublime.
Reaper with his just sickle
Doest thou be fickle
Within your reckoning
About your victim?
There are cobwebs
In my brain
I shall never
Be the same
Put a bag
On my head
And shoot me, please
Full of lead.
This here poem
Is a recital
That is why
It is untitled.
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