Anyone want one?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
We must certainly have ideal futures
Where we capture the developing phenomena
Of our own self awareness
That cannot find a path to follow
Because normality is the expression of defeat
And it will run our sensations numb
Because we have made a compromise
With the invention of our self
You must either have nothing
Or be able to pay for all of your wanderings
To be the proud owner of physical freedom
In this world recent humans have created
If, there was never obligation
we would stare at earth
and pass the imprecise hours
absorbing the sensation of existing
We walked to the lake
To be reminded
Of what we have to rely on
If the structure of our society fails
People are so satisfied
With unnatural nature
Uniform and saturated
Shaved and malnourished
Several blocks ahead
The lake is constantly
Reflecting the sky
Purer and unclear
The rocks that have been placed
On the side of Milwaukee
Seat sculptures of finished soda cups
And the waste of a million people
You are greeted with the smell
Of the colon of Milwaukee
That is heated by the sun
So that bacteria can thrive
As well as anything
That can survive in thick poo
We must shift our waste
Or that will be me and you
Unsatisfied with open sewers
That swallow up the breathing
We head north to find beaches
But are greeted with barbed wire
Between the city bustle
There are patches of earth unpure
That remind the urban people
That their lives are strange
Being so close to one another
Walls are erected
Going against our natural instinct
To travel where we intend
We are caught in our own zoo
Unlike other animals, it is what we choose
There is a break in the constant dullness
That has hit us like a flood
That cannot come out of our carpets
The conversations this evening
When looked at as a whole
Form an incomplete weave
Of personal history and idealized futures
When we form a circle
And become unstable
When there are more people
They have all become silent
And one looks up from it
To see why nobody has spoken
And you make eye contact
With old friends-become-mute
They agree in silence
“I will not say a word”
There is giggling
“come on you guys”
Some drink their drink
Light new cigarettes
Put out the old ones
Become interested in the dull scenery of life
Some are empty
And wait in the silence
Some have become self-conscious
Because they have nothing to say
Some find themselves
In a dumb interview
Or in a museum
Because we have all become plastic dolls
If you can recognize silence
It is always fleeting
And is broken when
We become less concerned
with who we are
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
In between the times that it is O.K. to die
I am unsure
I get lost and I see everything nothing
Wear white if your into that
but know that
Your glimpses of reality are the same as mine
rare, and I’m glad that I know you at all
even if we don’t talk
and we are both embarrassed.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
hanging out in the bathroom mirror
rehearsing lies for grandma
but because I am there
and because I am younger
the naked CPA hangs the question
of my own personal future
if the whale inside of me
would only roll from the beach
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The lake rising above me, the steep ground pushes me closer.
I womp when I walk.
Stride leaning, cowering, swaying. The trees, branches crack. Back curves, try to be flat. Hope not to slope as the ground does. Tide, no tide, although it tries.
No salt to satisfy. I’d rather it that way, why?
Left, flap, right.
The light leaves some shadows. The leaves leave, crack, drift, like my mind.
Where are you?
Hallows await, the gate. My gate, yours. Symmetrical, we try.
Here is where i’d like to run, now though, no. I will not, for the predictability sets in. Possibly, causable, probably, possible, I wish I did.
Sometimes I am here with you, or her, or him, who used to be IT.
Trail, then, lead me to the rocks, where my feet loose their footing, where I wobble and clank, and keep my head to the ground,
stuck in the color of the sand that once was, and now is, formed.
Seagulls squawk ahead and overhead. With jet tails from planes mistaken as their exhaust and eyes to the lake for a catch.
How do they see from up so high?
I cannot see the end, though If I were to fall in, splash, I would surely know it.
I sit where I shouldn’t, I am not scared.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
I picture he and I in Wisconsin.
I picture us in a cranberry lake.
He is forcing my head under water
and the little tart hard red berries
are going in my water logged throat.
He's aware of it all, so clearly,
even thought he is him,
he's not himself. My head
in the cold crisp water. The berries
filling every area of surface.
They gather in a mob around the fight
and attach themselves to our
submerged waists. My head goes
under again- this is not voluntary,
the water is splashing and dead sticks
are rising to the top, above me,
as my kicking feet try to find
and push off the sodden ground.
Am I drowning or swallowing?
Cranberry bog for time and
some woman above me
is reminding my struggle
I am alone in this
red berry ridden water.
Of course I can see that I am,
I can talk and touch that I am.
I sense his hands, some hands,
holding my shoulders down,
hands pulling hand fulls of hair
and a pressing palm
Against my skull
with one goal-
My body to fill with this tart crimson fruit. Little berries to make a basket of my lungs, and a jar of my throat.
I'm alone here, of course, with my reachy arms.
When she reminds me, and I remember, it's clear;
Despite my fear, the girlish cries and gurgles,
the suffocating confusion
all I can really make out of this location
is it's absolute sacred beauty. Never mind the rest.
Always never mind the rest.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
lost in age and gender
role and goal
next to the mudslide of algae
transcended year after year
season after season
into the island it is now
her island in the city
always too loud
lilly pads sprout up
ask where they are
so rare in this vicinity
fish circle her
but not as much as the bark
the moon, Luna, howls near by
with a bite that put the other one down
we will always feel guilty
a splinter, a toothpick hangs from her mouth
she looks nervous
her teeth almost grinding
she looks calm
her eyes close and feel the sun
they squint too tight
and she moves to the shade
checks the watch on her belt loop
picks with the splinter
and these soft teeth came from her
these thighs didn’t
not these legs
only this year did she begin to feel old
wishing she could move rocks like she used to
pondering the boulder from her stomach
sometimes she plays the piano
the ivory battered
striking her fingers
and i’ve listened
danced sang hummed along
one long song
the end not concrete
variations of the same story
she thinks this way
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
She always preached to the back wall of the room,
switching her gaze from the windows to the tops of our heads.
But she was an excellent speaker.
And she started to solve all of our problems.
This was the fourth time Jeffery had been here,
he is very over weight
and his tiny sickly wife hasn't engaged in any form
of sexual activity with him
in over ten years.
He cries all the time.
Charlene’s daughter was murdered.
There’s something not alright in her head,
they think, sometimes I think, sometimes she does.
They are trying.
She wants to move away from her negligent husband.
Terry listens to the goals we set.
Terry gets upset when
my mental self esteem
becomes visible on the outside.
Terry has white hair, Marlene is tougher.
Marlene is a hardcore recovering alcoholic;
25 years sober.
Missy is very pretty.
When you stare at the sun and close your eyes;
you’ll see the color of her thick curly hair.
She’s heavy, on crutches (due to her amputated leg),
has two little kids, an affair, a husband in the military,
and a suicide attempt.
She’s incredibly kind.
Molly is nineteen and her mother died last August of cancer.
They were very close. She has two older sisters. She has brown hair, brown eyes and a round face. She drank too much after the death. Whenever she talks
she says “situational.” She has really bad panic attacks
that scare some of us. She’s always had them and some kind of depression, cutting and such. She’s very caring. And she’s very oblivious.
Rhonda is frail, bony, thin, toad like.
She speaks softly. She smokes.
She quit drinking,
she kicked her husband out of the house
and bought his bus ticket to California.
He’s still a drunk.
She doesn’t have any lips
and her hair is thin, short and caramel grey.
Robert has a deep, resounding african american voice.
He’s horribly depressed, but still somehow demands your
respect with his presence.
He has five children, he has been a good father,
they are grown and love him.
He has depression. He’s in a lot of pain.
And we just kind of come and go based on insurance companies.