Poems remain forever unfinished, only to be completed by each new reader - Dan Eric Slocum
Saturday, December 31, 2011
truth in the light
falls
into full view
on the floor
at the support group
before the eyes of many.
Brave descriptions of romance
even true love
lifetime companionship
every need met; adoration
and abundance.
Why now, three months later,
do you hate the way he eats?
----
Friday, December 30, 2011
enter the mystics
a steep, solitary climb
on this snow field could be
so noisy. Nisqually Glacier
on the left, all day long, belching
thunderclaps. ice walls and
chasms waltzing, (the summer warmth-
the invitation to the dance.)
and you feel (could it be love?)
for this mountain. and you feel your age (young)
Rainier has seen five hundred thousand
summers.
this volcano, capable of such destruction,
from a distance, is the quintessence
of peace. (past lahars speak to the contrary,
of course. the geological history is frightening.)
but up you go (moth to flame?)
life is a roll of the dice. oh,
the numbers are good. (in your favor)
at ten thousand feet. (yes. that is the summit just above:
four thousand feet from your very own feet) a few hundred
thousand years of this view. what a thought!
(what has been seen?)
you will see science on the mountain.
(that mountain will chew you up)
always in motion, each glacier a
huge extended tongue. crevasses bring the surface
texture. deep, deep cuts born of moving ice.
dear Mount Rainier is the unlikely muse;
a place for dreams
(hoping, praying)
You’ll find enough ether here to move
your most secret thought. (absolution,
if it is needed. the last confession)
and here, on Rainier, is the staircase.
everywhere you look. (so many ways
up the mountain.) Your staircase and you know it.
for memory’s sake
for navigation. (motivation)
for God’s sake
for time will tick you forward
(off the mountain); so much less time spent
in the present moment, searching
for powerfully spent other (past)
moments.
the whiteness will come full circle.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
surface tension
on my shoulder
with premeditated fingers
or glimmer flesh
a torso flash, floating
in loose fitting pants
do choose
each word you whisper
whiskey voiced man
and when you pause
to breathe
look at me.
Monday, December 26, 2011
my true voice
to arrive on this, thrumming pulse.
Constant; but too vast for any calculation,
enumeration, description.
(loving rhymes and chromosomes)
The ethereal light
almost phony, corny looking,
until you’re too close to move away.
It is real, pilgrim
You’re in.
And then you know.
Eternity.
Love.
Just in time, the Truth.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
fresh sheets (title by r)
nursery.
baby powder bare
crispy bright white
receiving blanket white
swaddling
hopes for futures on
other soils
pressed innocence
helpless to a
threaded surface
orbs of coming days
behind crusty slits
their focus on linen canvas
bounty in the mainsail
of a crib.
2
night.
crease-less sheets
to be imprinted with the
moons and rivers of life
human forms on gravitational
earth. Above and below
fibrous threads
warm
with muddy swamps of thought
or
recollection
a glassy shard of lust
on a fold
in your brain
and now
wet
on a fold
in your stunning fresh sheets.
3
final.
Earth
her
fresh muddy sheet
warm
sun warm
earthworm warm fresh and sweet
with blood
insects torn apart
now give way
to a corpse heavy box
forked into her steaming throat
threads of root, grass
perfect count
fresh bed
eternity bed
final bed
dirty and pristine
shoveled in as angel arms.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Aurora Borealis
I have traveled with you in my mind
to the north; me the student. you the teacher, forever.
many times
together on the floes,
above
the land of Eskimos.
you know the way
the ocean becomes clotted with ice the way pudding refuses to
separate, under-stirred. the way the seal-hunters only acknowledge our presence,
indignant; respectful?
together on the floes,
above
the land of Eskimos.
But, the Inuit teach us nothing about survival we
(you especially) have not known for years. we turn away
laughing, knowing we are the hunted;
laughing, still.
you, with the bad heart
me flailing all the way, of course.
what have we left, at best, on this speck of white ice
or green,
twenty years? If that.
and we are laughing, even crying
crying, because we know this is as far as we can travel
to the north; at least safely.
It is as far as we can travel alive.
Friday, December 23, 2011
near white center
Thursday, December 22, 2011
the sweet bird is singing
so sweet, and I love it.
(but as daily sustenance?)
this is the weight I carry; the albatross of my lifetime.
no more
too much, too sweet
(brain on the very brink)
can this little taste of arsenic in sour milk
save me from myself?
Sunday, December 18, 2011
mimosa
Saturday, December 17, 2011
blue skies
your face in south-lit shadow
your chocolate candy eyes
teeth;
electric
lips;
rose- from chill
want;
evergreen in a sea of red and gold
perfect
fingertips- alive in parting-
dancing for blocks
beneath a certain sky.
Friday, December 16, 2011
____ins__k
the rain is a channel to you (one travels great distances
quickly; one appears transformed)
I, the many, many shapes I take as if by magic
through the water.
for clarity;
I am not invisible, but you will never see me
staring into your starving eyes
perched in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling.
Spider-like.
we all strike our little deals
stake our little claims
settling on this, I'll give up sanity
what power and vision I have
despite my pathetic, quivering
madness.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
my teeth
on some screen—somewhere in Guam
via satellite.
“That man on TV sure has nice, white teeth.”
pause.
big smile.
“They’re caps.”
click.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
the exquisite, now
and body? perfection
youth's tight edge.
I imagine you
old; ninety.
dimples supine
at rest
deep
in lovely furrows.
cocoa and wool for hair
now.
then,
wisps, snow on
crown and crotch
long limbs
your ears
stretched at gravity's call
an eternal walk to the dirt.
how it brings you nearer
and whiter.
even in brown
and solid
reality
your beautiful face.
Friday, December 9, 2011
while still a baby
1)
snow face.
lilly white; sun plays tricks;
you are the magic canvas.
When you were a puppy -- no sounds; congenital deafness --
NOT A SOUND. only sight. only smell. only feel. only taste.
no fight.
no game.
no worth.
No hearing for the stupid little pit bull. Damn you to Hell, you bitch!
They called you ‘bait dog.' (Angel, my beloved animal guide)
how could you know you would save my very life?
you spent ‘babyhood’ as bait. And the aggressors? Your breed.
Pit bulls. Mean Ones. Fighting Ones. One-Hundred pound males with
intact testicles -- jaws like sharks. ALL muscle. They tried to blind you with bites.
— and the human trash involved —
2)
When you. YOU! My white Angel -- when you were discovered in Moses Lake, Washington.
In that lonely orchard,
your deaf ears were nearly-frozen.
When you, my whiteness, were rescued, your head -- covered with pus filled bites. They nearly blinded you. (your milk chocolate eyes still shining) Delicious. Beautiful.
When YOU (you; my beloved companion) found deliverance from HATE and CRUELTY, you were dying,
a tiny puppy. Nearly frozen. Nearly blinded. (legs tortured from the feces filled crate)
Only monsters torture puppies (fight ‘em); and these monsters
are still with us: free. They still fight those dogs. It’s just for fun.
Maybe a little money. They hide it from police. It is illegal; we all know that.
3)
Angel. You survived. You thrived.
You see -- and you see those who love you.
Angel, you see the beautiful days ahead.
Angel, you 'hear' the truth in your own way.
And just so you know,
--- those monsters will rot in Hell ---
----
Thursday, December 8, 2011
hand of judgement
and exploration, not destruction,
the boy pulls the wings from a Monarch butterfly.
he knows it would live only a few months, anyway.
(in the wild)
but he hadn't meant to kill it.
(or even maim it)
what had he been thinking?
(lip quivering)
and now there is shock and exasperation as the
still-alive 'butterfly corpse-to-be' scurries on the dirt
looking like a roach or beetle; wingless,
ugly as a monster
why the tears?
as the bug crawls out of sight
the boy looks down
on his hand of judgment
on his fingers; residue the color of a tiger.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
the milk sky
Monday, December 5, 2011
mule
Sunday, December 4, 2011
time and date of my choosing
—Swan Song by Bruce Hornsby
1)
‘muffled snow‘ — the sound — the still world —
the just-fallen white --
the ‘any sound’ -- laughter (sobbing) transformed; absorbed first
by the fluff trees and marshmallow carpet.
(finally it reaches my ear) -- diminished.
2)
the night before O.J. Simpson’s acquittal, Prosecutor Clark,
on tape, pleading a final time; deliberations to follow. “He did it,”
she said to the jurors—but for the muffled snow, perhaps,
a different outcome? Still, could we not hear through such obfuscation?
(even in relatively warm Los Angeles; muffled.) the snow.
3)
2001, beautiful late summer morning, the towers fell into muffled snow.
(my body shooting bolt upright in bed—TV on overnight) “And it appears
a plane has...” But my wide eyes still gluey—and cotton batting
in my head? Tom Brokaw rambling on and on, as I clear what seems
a quart of snow from my ears. -- Is this real?
4)
and now, with years having passed—all the many times—
all the muffled snow -- I am so confused. I’ve become another.
--barely recognizable --
Can you not hear me?
5)
but there is a time and date when the dazed middle-aged man—
I indeed recognize as myself -- finally -- emerges. Has the snow cleared?
Have I actually chosen this day?
6)
—or have I been tightly wrapped in a chrysalis? did I confuse
the swaddling for the sound after snowfall? do I see a light now? -- yes?
(the kind you see at the end)
I can hear the sounds, yes?
-- answer me --
7)
or at this time—and on this date—have I become a butterfly?