(This is not about Donald Trump, Lindsay Lohan, The Excomony, Barak Obama, or Paris Hilton.)
I stuffed them with newspapers
the local edition and the New York
Times, and when that wouldn't do I tried
the Daily Mirror, having heard it made
the optimum fodder for situations such as these.
His name was flashing in the headlines
incredible feats of daring do, moving
mountains with the power of his voice.
He spoke softly and enemies dropped
their weapons, loudly and they felt ashamed.
Guiding the tribes with a wave of his hand,
factual lies in pliant ears, give them just
a little truth and it can't hurt them; they
threw flowers, kissed his size 18 feet,
lips blackened but unbelievably satisfied.
His legend grew with every news bite, hyperbole
run rampant on the printed page, words falling
over themselves in their search for superlatives;
people bowing and scraping as a means of closeness.
When I could not read one more word of it, I packed
paper down deep in the toes, finding it still strangely
uncomfortable; toes slapping with each careful step,
my gait stilted like a brain damaged clown.
It will be very hard to fill these shoes.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcxVwa3o
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Innocents
(This is not about Obamacare, Wall Street, Human Rights, Fidel Castro, Or Hugo Chavez)
This is not the soldier
here in this plastic bag holding
a piece here, another there,
tossed into Hefty, stuffed in a
flag draped furniture box, sent
home so Mom and Dad might
have something to remember.
Buried in a sea of crosses, Stars
of David and myriad gods, man-made
holy arms to hold that which cannot
be held, wilting flowers, dying like
the blush of youth, sacrificed for useless
causes, for we never remember this one
fact; they died so that no one else had to.
But we send them back again and again
human lives too short for history,
which will always repeat
as long as there are still innocents born.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcxFs2eP
This is not the soldier
here in this plastic bag holding
a piece here, another there,
tossed into Hefty, stuffed in a
flag draped furniture box, sent
home so Mom and Dad might
have something to remember.
Buried in a sea of crosses, Stars
of David and myriad gods, man-made
holy arms to hold that which cannot
be held, wilting flowers, dying like
the blush of youth, sacrificed for useless
causes, for we never remember this one
fact; they died so that no one else had to.
But we send them back again and again
human lives too short for history,
which will always repeat
as long as there are still innocents born.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcxFs2eP
The Fall
How was I to know?
He told me he was driving
to the mountains; a short
climb to breath clear air and
revel in the change of seasons.
He said how he loved the brilliant
colors; he waxed melancholy
at the coming of the chill, that lonely
feeling when the year approaches end.
There were cliffs where you could
touch the eagles, he said; a place
to leave it all behind, soar like falcon
flight when you felt your life adrift.
"Will you take a lunch?" I asked.
Replying that he wouldn't need one,
he waved, and took off down the driveway,
(I waved right back, unconcerned)
not knowing I'd replay the Fall
in Technocolor slo-mo until end of days,
for how was I to know?
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcwTFf6h
He told me he was driving
to the mountains; a short
climb to breath clear air and
revel in the change of seasons.
He said how he loved the brilliant
colors; he waxed melancholy
at the coming of the chill, that lonely
feeling when the year approaches end.
There were cliffs where you could
touch the eagles, he said; a place
to leave it all behind, soar like falcon
flight when you felt your life adrift.
"Will you take a lunch?" I asked.
Replying that he wouldn't need one,
he waved, and took off down the driveway,
(I waved right back, unconcerned)
not knowing I'd replay the Fall
in Technocolor slo-mo until end of days,
for how was I to know?
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcwTFf6h
Look Back Running
Was I ever that young?
We loved as if we had forever,
danced lithe bodies through
the torid nights; kisses that
left dark wounds of sex and
the thrill of unmet violence,
loved like that was all there was.
We ate rough noodles that tasted
like golden silk, drank cheap wine
as if ambrosia, washed the sheets every
day, all we owned, dank with flesh heat
and the perfume of pugeant pheronomes.
And the more we aged the less we had.
No free nights while the wind blew chill
but hot with human furnace, just fine foods
too easilly gotten that melted in our mouths,
forgotten, stumbling in, full of cellared vintage,
but empty with still nagging cares, acquisitons
hung on busy walls, and we worried about the keeping,
Apart but dreaming of our brilliant selves,
porcelein dolls in the blinding light of love
and passion, racing through timeless
years now not nearly so endless.
And we stare so at the relentless clock hands;
were we ever that young?
And will we ever be again?
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcw45JpP
We loved as if we had forever,
danced lithe bodies through
the torid nights; kisses that
left dark wounds of sex and
the thrill of unmet violence,
loved like that was all there was.
We ate rough noodles that tasted
like golden silk, drank cheap wine
as if ambrosia, washed the sheets every
day, all we owned, dank with flesh heat
and the perfume of pugeant pheronomes.
And the more we aged the less we had.
No free nights while the wind blew chill
but hot with human furnace, just fine foods
too easilly gotten that melted in our mouths,
forgotten, stumbling in, full of cellared vintage,
but empty with still nagging cares, acquisitons
hung on busy walls, and we worried about the keeping,
Apart but dreaming of our brilliant selves,
porcelein dolls in the blinding light of love
and passion, racing through timeless
years now not nearly so endless.
And we stare so at the relentless clock hands;
were we ever that young?
And will we ever be again?
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcw45JpP
When You're Insane
When you're insane
everyday is new, and the voices
keep you company, speaking
in tongues you understand,
insights imported into compartments
of the mind; a sense of wonder
follows you, carries you. You leave
reality far behind, entering a world
of finger colors and pupil touch, smelling
words as delicate bouquets, blood nail
written on invisible walls, fascination
with red drop saliva flowing on a clear page.
And you grab clouds, squeeze them dry;
paint by numbers grass and flowers, seen
in integers, x never equals what they say it does.
But you know the answer
and the answer is whatever you say,
a consensus of many, and one; you
were born undone, and you like it this way
because real can be so boring....
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcvkD6p7
everyday is new, and the voices
keep you company, speaking
in tongues you understand,
insights imported into compartments
of the mind; a sense of wonder
follows you, carries you. You leave
reality far behind, entering a world
of finger colors and pupil touch, smelling
words as delicate bouquets, blood nail
written on invisible walls, fascination
with red drop saliva flowing on a clear page.
And you grab clouds, squeeze them dry;
paint by numbers grass and flowers, seen
in integers, x never equals what they say it does.
But you know the answer
and the answer is whatever you say,
a consensus of many, and one; you
were born undone, and you like it this way
because real can be so boring....
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcvkD6p7
Evolution
There was a time her body yearned for touch,
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.
There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.
But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.
She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.
"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."
But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.
The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcvLh3ah
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.
There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.
But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.
She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.
"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."
But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.
The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xcvLh3ah
Monday, August 23, 2010
Evolution
There was a time her body yearned for touch,
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.
There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.
But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.
She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.
"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."
But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.
The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xRHYY8w0
the internal explosion of his skin on hers, lips,
arms, legs, hips; moments when the universe slowed,
only becoming flow at the resumption of contact.
There was a time when she would do anything,
trust in his motives, revel in the sense of doing;
knowing he was pleased with her, sensing his
satifaction when she followed his lead where
ever, what ever, he would think to suggest.
But now she searches far to find the love she
had, the trust that was implicit, the faith that
he would never hurt her. She finds excuses
not to touch, for it only heightens her sense
of wrongness, of the things she now finds lacking.
She knows everything he did was for him, not her,
and that he never did try to protect her. Selfish
when she was giving, closed where she was open,
inner laughter bubbling at the thought of her sacrifice.
"Do you love me?" he asks.
"Of course I do."
But she wonders if she does, and if he knows.
The answer, she thinks, is no.....and yes.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0xRHYY8w0
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