disasaipulate – a poem

disasaipulate a conscious jersey drink
french kissed swim suits
a propilist intuition

spell back adjingo low
a query
summer
how are you

jinting on a precipice
slack cat quits sax
clumberten a row
jacks
all ace down

california squall beach high tide
rest
sand blanket shakedown
avantrail signals
moon blushels water edge
sidewalk market
close
chimtin rag minuet
three quarter
time

An Artist and an Ambassador – A Poem

 

An Artist and an Ambassador

She is outside painting hieroglyphs
on the tin roof
in the rain.

It is not her charge though.

An ambassador climbs the steps
to the stone chamber
on the second level

where she dissects
the translucent musings
of a diary

from the close
of the nineteenth century.

It is written by a man named Phillip
the one time owner

of the estate
who she has come to realize
she hates.

But it is her duty
to log and translate

his delusions.

And yet the ambassador dreams

privately

of her
outside
with beautiful paint stained hands
carefully constructing
lines
that effortlessly wash away.

And outside she dreams of the ambassador
and of umbrellas

and of birds
that nest in gothic spires.

Repression barters time
from ghosts

in the courtyard.

The ambassador
and the artist
both believe that

somewhere out in the gardens

an answer waits.

To Reconsider the Arch of Humanity – A Poem

To Reconsider the Arch of Humanity

Time mechanics look up from their work
chains goggles and gears

sloppy work really
and justified
considering
production down to minus 2 degrees F
hell of a way to pass a winter

sensitive sad poet ponders
Electricity

fuck him says the foreman
bleached hair mustache
Bring me an electric razor
and I’ll bring you his head!

the poet writes
innocently
inconspicuous

another hour, another day, another year
change focus

Gears grind out seconds like ground beef
what was once worthless is now $.37
each
and the stock market agrees

OPERATOR OPERATOR
friar tuck yells
but there are no operators in the digital age
fumigation team arrives
2:10:37 PM sharp
searching laptops and
phillips
screwdrivers
for pornography and violations to the dress code

barney opens the door for vanessa
a change is in the air
jesus would not recognize you with that haircut
barney writes in an encrypted email
but jesus never recognized me anyway
vanessa replies

crash goes the clock smash on the floor
a full line stop

To reconsider the triumphant arch of humanity
outside a coliseum

Prometheus Ponderings – A Poem

Prometheus Ponderings

Explain to me why I am awake at
three seventeen
in the morning, sharing my time with a tonic
and lime
thinking about
what similarities there are between
Prometheus
and Marlon Brando.
Fuck, I hate Prometheus,
but I do love Brando.

I suppose that is a difference though.

Beatrice really is a lovely name.
Perhaps it is its
odd combination
of consonants and vowels
that the reason lies as to why
it has not caught on as well as it should
and why I love it
as much as I do.

But back to Prometheus
as it is not too well known that what
led him to the tasks he is so
admired for
and written of
through the ages was primarily due
to his utter lack of acting skills
(unlike Brando who was a terrific actor)
(when he wanted to be, that is)
and his unfulfilling career as a motivational
speaker.
It was his failure in both
and longing for universal acclaim
and fame
that made
him desperate.
You see, he was always the charming
charlatan,
but no one ever took him seriously,
so the whole fire affair came
rather unexpected.

Personally, I am fonder
(as far as these mythological types
are concerned)
of that little devil Pandora,
yet I may be biased by
having spent time with her
on her estate
devouring in the virgin light of the new day
her lovely morning croissants.
Oh, how light, flakey and puffy they are!
And she serves them up on terracotta plates
on the veranda
if the weather is fair.

As a gentleman
and for the curious
I should make mention here of
her box,
how she has it displayed on her coffee table
and how small and surprisingly
transparent, and really
altogether
unremarkable
it really is.

So what is it about Beatrice
I find so compelling?
(The name that is.)
Perhaps the answer is in my tonic somewhere;
In how the ice collides cruelly against each other,
or in the sourly twisted lime,
or in the bubbles
expanding
exploding
gallantly in a vain effervescence.
Is there a clue which can found in Brando’s performance in
On the Waterfront?
Maybe it is the name of the daughter
I never had.
But no.
These are only Prometheus Ponderings
to waylay me from knowing
that the universe is too large
for any man
to truly envision
and too small
to concern
any god or conceited titan.

Echoes of Thunder – A Poem

 

Echoes of Thunder

Echoes of thunder rolling over the desert canyon floor
shake us.

Can I fade and forget the horse whip that you carry at
your side
to rock back and forth on the silver thread you sewed
into clouds?
There are violations I cannot ignore in the lining of your
leather apron,
in the seams of your skirt, in the weavings of your sheer
black stockings.

Pricking my finger on the passion maniacally splintering like
cactus needles
over your body, I debase into the tyrannical will of your
hypnotic persona.
At noon we are free to break and explore the arid regions of
the heart,
the parched ground stings timid and trembles under your
delicate touch.

Wary of the distant water, of the dangers lurking just below
its surface,
we cower in the naked desert, making love in the shadow of a
blurred image
we nurtured, neglecting the flashing light out beyond the
far hills.

Notifications from the Passing Rain – A Poem

 

Notifications from the Passing Rain

Painting morning meditation
in discarded coarse bouquets
in broken glass
in the zeal of an empty decanter.

Notifications from the passing rain
sweet with soft
regret
pretends resolutions in a marginal
wind
blowing through a screen door.

Juniper berries boiling in a pot of water
on the stove
accents the rooms.
The fragrant steam
breathing across clouded mirrors
where life
appears and disappears.

Time corrupts a narrow space and then
retreats under a layer of
unopened mail
on the counter.

A jubilant memory hungers just outside.

Genesis – A Poem

Genesis

I remember the night he spoke to Amber and me
about New Jerusalem
well.
The lamb was wedged between his
cauliflower teeth, and his face was a
devilish red.

“You are taking on
a paragon
of deceit,” Amber told him.
But he had spied her nakedness
earlier that day, and she knew that her words
spoiled upon her lips
even as she uttered them.

I was powerless to defend her against his
charming disillusionment.
His silver foxed wavy hair had always
intimidated me,
and his eyes which intensely covered the table
broke down all
barriers.

“The good news,” he said in a silky
sweet voice
“never lies, love,
it merely shields us from the truth.”

There was something justified in the way
we murdered him
as he slept
in the dark of the early morning hours
after we had been forced to swallow
his words
and abuses
for so many years.

Slipping from his bed Amber came and woke me
with a kiss.
The summer birds twittered and chirped outside in
the glade.
I drew her willowy body close
entering her as she handed me the weapon
pleading
“This, this, above all this.”

In his room we gazed down on his shadowed
manly form, and were filled
with a lustful dread.
Amber shrieked then,
suddenly bounding forward,
jumping upon him,
pulled his hair yelling
“Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Thus does he fall
the tyrant
and the patriarch!”
as I shoved the wooden spike she found in his workshop
into his gaping mouth,
feeling as it tore flesh and cracked bone.

Screaming gargling words,
curses
we could hear and feel fall over us,
he flailed violent and helpless,
crashing onto the ground
where death finally came to him
all too mercifully
while Amber huddled close to me in fear on the bed.

When his last breath bubbled from his lungs
we got down and knelt
before his body
dipped our fingers in the blood pouring from his mouth
to each mark the other’s forehead.

Amber gathered our belongings as I prepared to set
the fire to the house.
Outside we watched the flames lick the sky
that had turned purple
with the coming new day, and we
listened to the bricks creek and the timbers sizzle
under the stress of the blaze
before they toppled
to collapse in ruin.

“Our genesis,” I said. “There won’t be a
New Jerusalem.”
And we left the ashen remains of his home,
removing ourselves from the treacheries of his
summer glade,
turning our backs to the west,
setting out
to chase the dawn.