Re-Creating the Language: A Poet's Responsibility

I have maintained, for some time now, that it is the responsibility of poets in particular to re-invent, re-invigorate, and re-charge language. Over the years, we watch television and "news" where not only the language, but the information in dumbed-down; reporting the news has become rife with suppression by news corporations whose CEO's don't want to criticize the government that they've bought and paid for, so instead we're offered trendy stories of whatever movie star or sports figure has screwed up--along with an endless string of talking heads and media whores babbling about it--mixed lightly with news of the world presented with the proper "spin." Information about corporate, police, military, or government blunders (or out-right crimes) is culled relentlessly. One might argue that this is not necessarily affecting language as a whole, but i beg to differ. Language is, first and foremost, a way of communicating. It's a way of presenting information, a way of speaking a message, a way of sharing concerns and showing love and concern. When language is relentlessly "spun" by various political factions to support their viewpoint, or agencies within the government who don't want the masses to have TOO MUCH information, you have a gradual dumbing-down process that eventually affects everyone. This is one of the "trickle-down" theories that actually works in practice . . . Orwell would have called it "doublespeak," and decried it as a death-knell of liberty. Often, when we think, we "hear" ourselves thinking in language . . . Orwell's view was that the "doublespeak" would eventually result in people incapable of thinking anything that was out of synch with the official, established norm. In America, in particular, we assume that we have Freedom of Speech. After all, it is written in the law of the land, and it means that people whose viewpoints may not be popular can say, and print, what they want to. There are reasonable limits to this . . . language that commands or urges violent and destructive actions can (and does) fall under legal scrutiny. However, i'd like to go back to that word "assume." Rights and liberties, like muscles, are only strong when regularly exercised. Without that regular exercise, that vigorous stimulation, they become weak and atrophied, and will (like muscles) fail when they are depended on.

This is where poets come in. Recently, on formspring.com, i was derided for my use of the word "proclivity." My insistence that i was simply availing myself of a wider vocabulary in order to communicate more clearly provoked verbal retaliation, the responder apparently feeling that i was being arrogant, or trying to "prove something" by using that word. Realizing that my responses were the equivalent of beating my head against a brick wall, i stopped trying to defend myself and simply ignored any further communication on the subject. As a poet, i realize that i have to embrace the vernacular--that is, communicate in the common language, the "language of the streets,"--i also realize my responsibility not to have an incestuous relationship with it! I use both street-language and (for lack of a better word) intellectualized-language in my poetry. I've never heard anyone complain about my use of the latter, although i have received some complaints about my use of the former . . . my response in those cases was that people are more apt to understand and respond to something that speaks in a way they are familiar with. When i use the larger or more complex words, or using the language of the streets, in my poetry, i'm not consciously aware of one or the other so much as i am the context of the poem as a whole. I occasionally drop "invented" words like "enphoenixed" (my own) and "frankenpoem" (coined by Ian Cohen), which are generally understandable in the context of the poem in which they're presented. I don't assume that my listeners or readers are English majors pursuing their Masters or Doctorate; by the same token, i don't assume that my listeners or readers are stupid (the way television does). I frequently use odd juxtapositions, either for metaphorical purposes, or to get people's minds in the mode of non-linear thinking. I want to surprise them, or shock them, a little . . . but i don't shock simply for it's own sake; i use it to call attention to something.

All of these things are tactics that i've seen other poets, and better poets than i am or will ever be, use. It makes me feel good when i see other poets challenging themselves or their readers/auditors with interesting metaphors, complex language, street-talk, witty turns of phrase, or shocking juxtapositions . . . all combined with the poet's eye to impart a message. Poets, i think, above all, desire desperately to communicate, to expose themselves and the culture around them to a critical and, sometimes, uncomfortable examination. The fact that some people regard poetry as "uncomfortable" is proof that it's working. In the Old Testament, the prophets often spoke their messages in a poetic form . . . that much hasn't changed. There are warnings implicit in many poets' work, as well as an unflappable determination to improve things.

Don't ask me to dumb down my language. Don't ask me not to discuss things that make you uncomfortable. Don't come to me expecting a poem that completely and neatly falls into your preconcieved notions of what poetry, literature, or language should be. I write, ultimately, because i don't know any other way of dealing with both my own emotions and the complexities of the Universe. I'm not asking for you not to critique me . . . i'll always listen to constructive criticism, even if i don't necessarily immediately agree with it. I'm asking you to understand how important it is to me that i keep working with the language, keep it moving forward, and keep breaking it up and reassembling it in order to prevent the arid locks of "doublespeak" and political or social norms from killing it. There's not much left of me but poetry, and for some reason, God's made it such a part of my life that it seems inextricable from breathing itself, and from whatever it is i'm supposed to be doing on this planet. I don't have it all figured out yet. I'm not a know-it-all, and if you perceive me as "arrogant," that may be as much your own fault as it is mine. Don't insult my intelligence by insisting that i need to "dumb it down," and i won't insult yours by assuming that you're already dumb.

New Poem: What if They Created an Economy, and Nobody Showed Up?

What if They Created an Economy, and Nobody Showed Up?
***
do you dream in chocolate
while your Toyota's gas pedal
gets stuck to the floor
while you're talking on your cellphone
discussing last night's American Idol?
or,
is your American Idol
already entered into evidence?
what if they created an economy,
and nobody showed up?
does your economy
lose its flavor
on the bedpost overnight?
all your experts have been
bought and paid for
by whatever political party is in favor--
the flavor of the week, one might say--
and you have to take advantage
of the opportunity, especially
if what all the Mayan Calender theories say
are true (what? haven't you seen
the movie
paid for by corporate sponsors
and endorsed by all the appropriate
Scientologists?)
everbody's saying the same thing,
which sounds like
NOTHING
played at a very high volume
turning CNN up loud
so it drowns out doubts and conscious thoughts
alike, and the commercials have that sense of
URGENCY,
because you have less than 2 years
to repair the economy,
and if you're not responding to this emergency
by dreaming in chocolate (which is mostly artificially-flavored CRAP)
driving in your Toyota (or other overpriced death machine)
and talking on cellphones (which are monitored by
elected officials, telemarketers, and the DoD)
about reality shows
(that don't give a damn about anything REAL
that doesn't drive up ratings
by dumbing down the content) . . .
if you're not
choosing Pepsi or Coke
if you're not
believing the political lies
that compel us to vote
if you're not
spending, pretending
that we're not already broke . . .
well,
you're not supporting the Economy,
the Almighty Mammon whose
floppy teats supply
the rancid milk of overindulgence
that, like heroin,
ultimately consumes the consumers.
And,
if that's not already a crime,
they'll make sure that it is
before the 2012 election
(participation in which will be mandatory
and saying the whole game is rigged
will be considered treason,
the only non-violent crime
which is punishable by death) . . .
but, if you're shot, at least
you won't have to live through
the disaster
that will be brought to you
by EconomyUberAlles.com.

New Poem: Mystery Reporter

Mystery Reporter
***
here's a news-flash for you:
either nothing is amazing, or everything is.
either the unbelievable never happens, or it's going on all the time.

poets, you see, don't quit being poets, alive or dead.
prophets don't get to retire.
troubadours aren't ever gone when their verses are still being read.
coals and ashes, when stirred, remember the fire.

one crocus doesn't make it spring, but it's one thing spring
won't get started without,
and for want of one snowflake, and avalanche would never slide.
an interstate will go from point A to point B, missing everything
on the old country route,
and a chrysalis whispers no secrets of the butterfly burgeoning inside.

thngs you can see in daylight change their forms and natures
in the dark,
and shadows only grow when light from some source flows.
the most brilliant flowers are never seen, and pass away
without a mark,
and birds flock as one, but how they choreograph their wingdance,
nobody knows.

the sun burns across rippling waters,
heliographing hieroglyphics that can't be translated,
only red in the moment before they change,
explaining things that in language can't be communicated.

every leaf on every tree is a verse in an unending song;
even in their falling, they sing; and, on the ground,
still they sigh, brittle papyri, underneath your feet.

in a universe that rings like a bell,
what further evidence of a Divine Hand
would you demand
when you can't even understand
the wonders that cascade around you--
a world at your fingertips, and
yet so much slips
through your mind like water
sluicing through a sieve,
because it takes an uncomfortable risk
to believe . . . .

don't wish for myths or miracles,
your brains are too tight to contain them
because every bit of knowledge you gain
gets rejected if you can't explain them
or turn a profit on them.

either nothing is amazing, and the unbelievable never occurs . . . .
oh, but it IS--it's going on all the time.
i'm just a reporter, i didn't make the news,
i'm just rying
in feeble meter and fumbling rhyme
to focus your attention
on what you're missing
all the time.

New Poem: You Are Not Here

You Are Not Here
***
town dump gulls, foraging
like Rio kids in a mound of garbage
looking for edible discards, and
"everybody's lookin' for a
free ride," shallow mockery cries
echo "get a job" = "work for free"
echo "protect & serve" = "neglect & sever,"
and even the gulls are crying,
dying for a seashore
without a high-rise.
still, hear
"quit givin' people handouts, and those
______s will have to
W.O.R.K." = Worry Overpay Rich Killers,
but
would you pay your tithes
if they weren't tax write-offs, or
would you crawl on the floor,
squall, bawl, and bemoan
that lousy 10%
that you didn't get to spend
on Lotto & Beer?
chickadee, chickadee in the trees,
backhoe-fart, no more trees,
so no more chickadees,
no more cock-a-doodle-doo
until the backhoe man goes home,
jacks off over internet porn
until his cock crows,
silently disdainful of the dreadlocks
and cornrows
of kids busted for spray-painting
a new Picasso
on a gray underpass, "Hi,
i'm a cop, and
i can kick your ass and
get a free pass
when i flash my badge."
and it's no need explainin'
that the ones who get paid for complainin'
on talk radio or teevee
look like the fattest gulls in the dump,
knee-jerk reflex action-figures
that aim kicks at anybody
bent over to scrounge nickels from the gutters
or half a sandwich from a garbage can
in the park
where "rummaging through rubbage"
is punishable by law,
you may have to pay a FINE, tee-hee,
from nonexistent funds
stolen from your wallet
by tax-cuts for the rich,
the wealthy Bible-thumpers
who've forgotten how to read
about the widow's great gift of 2 pennies
or the warning about serving Mammon.
for every white suburbian girl
who gets into a stranger's pick-up truck,
a thousand non-white non-suburbian kids
get written off as acceptable losses
in wars that are more about profit-margins
than about the boys * girls who die on foreign soil
to pave the way for those
to arrogant to fight & too rich to care . . .
and you are not here
and you are not seeing this
and you aren't to blame
and you aren't doing anything wrong,
and you aren't doing ANYTHING
and you are WRONG
and you ARE to blame
and you ARE seeing this
and you are HERE
right where the arrow points down
and nails your insignificant mortal speck
to the spot.

New Poem: Breaking Day

Breaking Day
***
poised, walking the ragged edges of the world
like a man standing in the bow of a ship
riding into a stormbrewed night.
calamity's hand strokes my forehead damply, feverishly;
dangers amply apply their pressure.
ever-present, the desire--like Simon Peter--
to boldly stride across the waters;
like him, my steps falter
when i look at the storm
and lose sight of my Father.

i could cry myself to sleep at night,
curled in my curdled blankets,
huddled against the haunted dawnlight
afraid to walk the streets in the face
of what's hunting me, terrified
of hurling feeble words in the face
of what's haunting me, unable
to describe in plain language the face
of what's hurting me . . . .

what use am i to God, to humanity,
scared to death in my tattered jeans,
clutching with desperation to ragged dreams,
ribbed as sails to tug my boat
from the grip of the undertow?

around me, jackals bow to a sacred cow,
a bull they both worship and hope to feast on,
the ancient golden calf given a different cast . . .
though scores of them have been torn
on the horns of their Master Dilemma,
the sight of blood only excites them,
delights them, whets their appetites, and
ushers in the next atrocity.

the towers i wander among are already doomed,
ever civilization ultimately ends up in ruins--
but that's a poor excuse for speeding up the process
and it may look like they're building an empire
but it will only amount to a funeral pyre . . .
aspirations and transitory glories lined up for their graves
followed shortly by fools who were their slaves . . .
we've plundered the Heavens, sundered the Earth,
measuring down to the molecules for material worth.

and, confronted by this,
i'm expected to speak the oracular in the vernacular,
to engrave the turbid air with measured beauty,
to blow away the smong, even briefly,
long enough to provide a glimpse of the Divine
that works often behind the scenes,
beyond the screens of tawdry mortal schemes--
put this into words? better words?
these thoughts, translated, would
tear the air itself to shreds,
and though i maintain it's a necessary art,
a survival skill,
i can make a map of my scars and show you
where words kill!
pray to God every drop of blood i spill
will be to deface the iconic mortal dreads
that the Master Manipulators maneuver like chesspieces
to keep their pawns in line.

swords of Spoken Word, warriors of the Last Frontier,
ragged kings in rugged garb
carrying white fire in Numenorean hearts,
we bear the brunt
of contemptuous tongues
who would silence us while we breathe,
and only speak well of us when we're gone,
safely in our graves, our words enslaved
in backwards-masking to sell blue jeans
and tennis shoes.

the gifts we carry are perilous fire,
tools to dismantle the status quo:
neglect them, and they become lead weights,
deadwood, hindering our steps,
dragging us down to the depths.
arm yourselves.
don't let your minds lie fallow.
don't quench the white flame.
RESIST,
not with fists thrust into the air,
not with guns, bullets, that are ignorant
of causes or purpose . . .
linked arm in arm, forge an unbreakable bond,
unshakeable faith, and march . . .
march . . .
march . . .
towards the dawn.
the breaking day will show clearly
which side we're standing on.

New Poem & Dedication: Stolen Property

This poem was written partially in response to the arrest (under false charges) for "receiving stolen property" of Elysee Thomas, a good friend and respected poet in NJ. For more information on this, please go to www.slamglobal.com and click on the "Free Elysee Thomas" link. This poem is dedicated to him.

Stolen Property
***
it's 2009, and New Jersey's finest strikes again,
in an empire embattled by evils, but
one wonders why the master perpretrators
aren't being pursued or prosecuted, so
to prove that "THE SYSTEM WORKS,"
they've got to persecute somebody, and
surely society at large
will condone the removal
of a young, black poet . . .
"receiving stolen property," as long as it's
worded properly
will suffice as a charge . . .

but society at large
is guilty
of receiving stolen property . . .
most of this great nation
having sprung from the loins
of illegal immigrants,
geographic dunderheads who
mostly died of syphillis,
never once asking the natives
if they were particularly troubled
by our taking over of their land
writing treaties we planned
to break, and when wholesale slaughter
and firewater
didn't break their will,
smallpox blankets smothered it,
a "kinder, gentler" biowarfare genocide . . .
the very land under our feet
is stolen property
that our great-great-great-ancestors
took unlawful possession of.

we wear clothes and fashions
with fabrics sweatshopped into designs
stolen from street-kid innovators
and set at a price that the laborers
could never afford . . .
and this country would never even exist
if we hadn't stolen living men and women
from their homelands,
tried to beat them into shapes
we could use,
but to admit that much of our nation
was built on the backs of the blacks
would be tantamount to an admission of guilt,
so we cover the track-marks of our greed
with politically correct foundation,
pretending that segregation doesn't still exist
and that racism is a thing of the past; but, like
buried used reactor core rods
our radioactive past can't be ignored.

hip-hop was stolen from the streets
and imprisoned behind the bars of a UPC;
delicacies and recipes from a thousand lands
wind up at celebrity dinners, a thousand a plate,
"for the benefit of the poor;"
every fifth of April, Uncle Sam picks our pockets,
uses the money to by guns, bombs, limos, and blow,
and complains about the "heathen nations"
and their godless ways;
and even God's name is pimped by politicians,
a holy name stolen so it could be
stamped on our money,
and the very dollars in your pocket
could very likely have passed, unknown,
from bloody men who used it to do
things that God would never condone!

and now they've stolen a voice from the streets
just to prove the justice system is still viable,
but whether through oversight or just plain lying
there's a Higher Justice that will hold us accountable . . .
and poets continually provide an uncomfortable reminder
that everything we have is stolen property,
and even the breath we use to speak
is just the stolen breath from somebody else's last gasp . . .
those "things" you clutch will slide out of your grasp,
and stolen voices will be strong enough
to cause your walls to break.

New Poem: A Measure of Insignificance

A Measure of Insignificance
***
time pauses, perhaps no longer
than it takes for a dust speck
to trek the space between
your forefinger and thumb held apart
to signify
a measure of insignificance.
there's a chance you might miss this
if your blind spot widens enough
to block your third eye, or
your tunnel vision narrows your focus
on the mirage you call success
will visionaries call your attention
to the Green Flash, the halo of the eclipse,
and meteors that fell like the Lion's tears
while you were busy with your mundane missions;
these missionaries are visiting you, offering a revision
you won't find on television,
an undiscovered country not shown
on the Discovery channel . . .
panels of experts will argue
so they don't have to agree,
and all their degrees are forgeries
doctored by people who believe that
the alphabet begins with PhD.
don't you know the Mystery exists to twist
your feeble rationality into question marks?
don't you know that beyond the fall of dark
are terrors that beggar description?
don't you know there are places where
time pauses, causing your watches to lie?
don't you know that angels and demons wait
with bated breath
to see what you will make of this,
while men with narrow minds
gather around wide tables
and count deaths like deutschmarks
and print labels for "acceptable losses?"
what you call "history" is barely
an ellipsis in the sentence, the
infinite second that God can measure
with the space between
His forefinger and thumb,
before He points at you, calls your bluff,
and says, "Time's up."
then, infinity
will open its books
and bid you to look within
and read the backwards story
of the fallen history
of these awkward creatures
called men.

New Poem: Weltanschauung

Weltanschauung
***
this ministry takes place
in a life under giants,
a playground of tyrants
where the usurers insure
the poor will always be with us;
what good is wealth
without someone beneath you?
this is mending the tatters
on the frayed garment of liberty;
if she was naked, these beasts
who wear men's faces
would not only abuse her, but
rape her as well.
this is holding up a map of hell
and showing how well
the outlines connect
those who have the most power
and have the most to fear
from a massive cry of"Unmask!"
this is asking the questions
that make people squirm in their seats,
and hurling a meteor storm of words
that's as like to bring me down
as collateral damage
if i'm even left alive long enough
to sound the attack.
throw it all on the line.
step up your game, or step out.
this is a razor edge
that might cut me off from
jobs,
friends,
family,
and leave me in unfamiliar country . . .
but the One who asks this of me
will apply the Cross-hairs to my vision
and make of me the necessary fusion
of wolf and whirlwind, gunslinger and preacher,
private eye and loudspeaker
that's required by the job.
yes, this dead serious, and yes,
it could be deadly, too.
yes, i am afraid . . . .
but this consumes me.

New Poem: Stoner Notepad

Stoner Notepad
***
it's another stoner notepad,
another way of attempting to corral the chaos
in a complex combination of correlated sounds
called "words."
it's another dystopian warning,
another cry of "it's not too late . . .yet,"
it's another attempt at tearing out
the rage that attempts to strangle me,
so that my tongue clings to the bottom of my mouth
or hides behind the lumpin my throat.
it might just
kill me.
it's another manifesto,
another unnecessary proclamation of exactly
why i'm doing this or
why i go on or
why i haven't given up
as if i haven't been wearing my heart on my sleevef
rom the time you stepped into the room, so,
beware when this thing strapped to my wrist
grows thorns.
it's another attempt to cage the quantum tiger
but i'm always missing a substantial portions
of his particles in the attempt, and most of these afford
only a glimpse
of the possibilies.
it's another futile attempt to, through self-disclosure
and an honest understanding of my limitations,try to communicate something so
fundamental in the equation,
because it confounds me that you can't see
the pattern holding things together.
it's another explanation that,
what you see before you is just a loose conglomeration
of molecules and past participles,
a shadow of the possibilities,
each jagged gasp of air a stolen moment in infinity,
as much a slave to my appetites
as any common reptile . . .that God would allow such an unlikely specimen
to breathe poetry,
is beyond my understanding, but a gift
so unrestrained that
resistance is futile
and
i can do nothing but release.

2 New Poems, New Themes, New Styles: "Childhood Calling" & "Bitter Rivers"

Childhood Calling
***
your childhood is calling
collect, because
you left it stranded on the
inflammation super-
highway to hell.
no pocket change, and no
pockets in footie pajamas for that
matter. you
amputated it like an appendix when
they told you
GROW UP
like it was anything to aspire to,
when things like belief and wonder and
imagination
were too immature for a
comp'ny man.
your childhood is calling
long distance, because
wolfchild howling epiphanies don't reach your
ears, years
down the line when the bottom
dropped out of your bottom
line, like roadkill behnd the limo
double-parked when you had to
drive yourself or just
walk from point A to point B,
discovering a secret alphabet of
outcast letters between the two that
resonated with the ones carved in your
bones, the things that should be
engraved on your tombstone, just another
dead kid dressed in old man's
clothes.
your childhood is calling
you names, playground
vernacular, street urchin gospel,
words you thought you outgrew by
degrees: BS or BA, MSW, PhD, MD,
A through Z when
A is for Another Aspirin and
Z is for Zoloft, anything pharma-
copious and
alphapolitically correct to
disconnect your train of thought and
leave your childhood behind, a
useless caboose, and when,
and when you need,
and when you NEED it
most, no
ghost of a map shows you the
tracks of your tears to reconnect,
recollect, because
your childhood has hung up the
phone, and now, something
worse is calling your name . . . .

------------------------------------------------

Bitter Rivers
***
bitter rivers
shiver your reflection
into shards of imperfection, seven
centuries of bad luck every time
you cry, and whales and coyotes are
symphonies for
"goodbye." croon, tune,
misfortune, all to soon, and other things that
rhyme with rune, scrawled
on the wall
above your
hollow ckull
mouldering like a jack-o-lantern
mourning its candle of thought in
November;
nine hundred ninety nine points of
light, outposts blown out
in a countdown,
empty integers all adding up to
zero. ignorance
is bliss because it's
blind to all you've left behind,
and only lasts until, at last,
history
catches up with you.

New Poem: I Identify "I" (maybe retitled at a later date)

the only thing that links these things
is time, and the times in which
i identify "i"
this whole concept of "i"
like why i write, what my eye
sees, and the trainwreck of mixed metaphors
and past participles that form the collective whole
of "i."

walk around Bonsack.
i can tell you where the sweetest water
flows into a cattail swamp,
where a naiad lives in a waterfall
with bloodroots around her feet,
where Solomon's-seal, black nightshade,
water hemlock, St. Jonhswart, and jimsonweed grow,
where the red barn once stood in a suburb,
one road named "Red Barn Road" after they tore it down.
this is where myth and reality walked hand-in-hand
as i walked, learning the lay of the land,
finding places that seemed like dreaming legends
and the made-up names i gave them in my heart.

walk around Union Square, NYC.
i can take you to the circle where the park-rats sit,
where street intellectuals and sidewalk philosophers talk.
i can introduce you to people with legendary names:
Smoke, Spider, Conscience, Old School, Papo, Shadow, King Twice.
i know where to find: street artisans that would make Salvador
weep with joy, nag champa incense, chess games, sparring, and cannabis.
there's a map in my soul that i could follow blindfolded
to restaurants, poetry dives, coffeehouses, and bookstores.
this is where i wed myth to reality, becoming mythical myself,
an outsider looking in and an insider looking out,
finding a hunger, and learning what hunger was all about,
and growing a few streetwise hairs in my ragged, thinning pelt.

walk around Hinton, WV.
i can point to the land that my great-great-grandfather owned,
and sold when they came to build the dam.
i can take you to the place where the water sounds like thunder,
and where a single misstep can pull you under.
i can show you the Cave Ridge, the Old Rail-Yards, the point
where Greenbrier and New River's join in their flow.
i can show you the building that held the store
where my great-grandfather worked when i was a boy.
this is where i merged bitter with sweet,
just like the Greenbrier and New River meet,
and flow together like nostalgia and nightmares join
and from troubled waters dive for darker pearls.

the only common element is this insignificant particle
that i identify "i," and the thread that binds
them all together
is time.
at any point along that line, i could have turned
another way, made
another choice, or breathed
my last breath. this mortal thread
is finite. i keep the cords
wrapped tightly as i can,
binding them with words, binding
words into poetry, and trying to make sense
of senseless things,
and when people tell me these things aren't connected,
i tell them, "yes, they are.
you're looking at the common element,
the rare earth that has tied the knot."

New Poem: Untitled

there was a deer stepping with unconscious precision
through the scrubby brushthat borders the field
where, i'm told, a strip-mall
was once pondered
but, real-estate being what it was,
and the economy being where it is,
was a discarded concept.

what was the pretext of adding yet another
bland carbon-copy
of a thousand other strip-malls
to our already blighted landscape?

there's nothing missing from this picture.
gray, flat sky, evanescing on the mountain;
tawny field, shrubs, people passing in cars
staring at somebody
who isn't indoors letting the simple plans of wonder
occur beyond their sight-lines,sacrificing something insignificant
on the altar that would make life
so much more convenient.
what kind of a man
would do that?

can't you see that we're dying here,
not for want of another Starbucks
or Burger King
or nail salon,
but from an overdose?

i hope that deer survives hunting season
when hordes of idiots with guns
will descend upon the unspoiled
in faux appreciation of nature
to mount a stuffed head on their wall
and let the meat get freezer-burn
because Whoppers have ruined our palates
for venison.

watch out for that tree . . . it's only growing there
so that a winter storm
can send it crashing down
on your crackerbox
and spill your human crumbs
out into the street
that's due to be repaved next week.

New Poem: No Accidents (work in progress)

No Accidents
***
i have seen the smile in the alligator's eye
on the Suwanee River,
and worked with one teenager
who had the same look in his.

i have waded the waters of the Gulf Shore,
a school of rays parting around me,
making me for one moment
a part of their dance,
and from there to New Orleans
in a car filled with laughter
and the redolent reek of marijuana
for a Ghost Tour in the Vieux Carre.

i have looked through a telescope, breathless,
at the Orion Nebula;
my friend, an astronomer, beside me,
telling me, "You're watching a star
being born." That crucible of Creation
is a spark reflected in God's eye,
in Whose eye i also dance.

i am not the protagonist of this story,
but these are no accidents of Fate . . .
tracing these lines back to their Source,
i feel as ever the incredible force
of the first poem spoken
into the audient void:
"Let there be light."

And there was.

New Poem: Bitterness Enough

Bitterness Enough
***
winding through the thickets, laurel hells,
mosscrowned forests . . .
like greenbrier, tangles of something wicked,
wretched, vetchlike strangling
what could be underblossoms here.

when something has clutched so long
that it's regarded as part of the mental scenery,
it isn't hard to see the disease,
here in seasondeath, winter's colder breath
breathing down your neck
in icy, fetid gusts
a yeth hound looking over your shoulder
reading it's own legend in every book.

pound the keys,
clutch the pen in a deathgrip,
spill the ink like blood,
and build a cage to trap it in . . .
and once you make the key,
throw it away.

you need only survive until the vernal equinox,
and Spring, and Rebirth . . .
forgiveness covering the jagged scars
in the earth
with gentler blossoms
and kinder foliage.

with every seed you plant in the heart's soil,
say a prayer for the crop that will come,
so you don't need to fear the harvest . . .
there is bitterness enough
in the foulness others have sown
seeking only to stuff the barns of their own appetites,
their bloated self-importance gloating
over sharecroppers
who never even received the gleanings.

there's poison in that soil.

Wonderlost (New Poem)

Wonderlost
***
incessant intellectual exercise
devoid of discourse;
breaking old habits, fearful
of what new ones will step forward
to inhabit those now-empty niches,
praying not for empty rituals
but to be taught new steps for the dance.

i remember when four walls and few meals
sustained me.
i remember writing poetry that thundered
and widened eyes.
i remember when forests had names and trees
spoke, and eyes burned in the darkness,
and every scent was a living thing,
and that was the dance,
and that was enough.

now, i live unchained, but haunted.
something dogs my steps, breathing down my neck.
something pulls me forward like a lodestar.
in between, these myths grow potent,
and these pedlars of banality weary my ears
with their pallid recipes for "reality"
that's no more real than the whispers of the breeze
and insipid as history's repeats.

i've been locked inside my own circles for so long,
and i long to share the dance with others,
but my steps falter, and my ears are attuned
to a rhythm that doesn't belong to this sphere.

i've heard:
i'm too extreme, i'm too emotional, i'm paranoid,
i'm looking for something that isn't there, i'm a
dreamer, i'm an idealist, i'm unable to forgive
my past, i'm scared of success, i'm just
fucking well
-STUCK-
and beating my head on a wall, and
i'm not going to change anything.

in one breath, somebody asks me
to be more "tuned in" to my surroundings,
then complains that i tune out sirens
because i became accustomed to hearing them,
and unable to alter their cries.

i'm asked to devolve, to adapt backwards,
to adjust to the rhythm of a railroad town
with an overblown ego based on
making a bigger rut to get stuck in.

new job, advancement, "because i deserve more,"
but deserving more obviously doesn't include
being respected for surviving against the odds
transcribing the history of an urban tribe
trying to represent an alternative
in a World dying of thirst for the Truth
that doesn't trickle down from any empty theories
that the elite deem sweet.

wanderlust aches in my bones,
and winds from other worlds blow around my head,
and sleep is only a temporary respite
from the appetites that gnaw and claw
and have left me leaner than ever . . .

all these stones, they might break my bones
oh, this fire, it might set me alight
c'mon, set me alight . . . .*


*lyrics from The Wild Flowers "Set Me Alight"

New Poem: Beyond the Edge of the Chessboard

Beyond the Edge of the Chessboard
***
don't worry. be happy.
the politicians pharamceutical companies
bankers lawyers doctors
various NWO conspiracies
religious fakers
media whores
telephone name-takers
advertising CEO's
have got a PLAN for you.

they're not necessarily in collusion
but they're all selling variations of the same illusion
and, despite the apparently conflicting world-view solutions,
the resolution is always about
GREED.

gimme dat, gimme dat, gimme gimme gimme dat
MONEY.
whole lotsa
MONEY.

their quest for money seems funny
because in order to get it, they need to be phoney
because the reality of their ghoulish greed
even frightens them.
they have the best
drugs
cars
wars
bars
and various other ways of disguising themselves
and like all liars, are skilled at lying to themselves
to avoid the truth of six feet of dirt
all the land they'll ever really need
to hide their remains
until rot and decay
reveal humanity's true face
unmasked.

and, unlikely as it is,
they've sold these masks to us
telling us
don't worry, be happy
because happy faces sell products
happy faces make the malls more inviting
happy faces on the drug commercials
make you wonder what you're missing
if you don't take that blue pill
that gives you a 3-hour erection
blood rushing to a place
where (at least in the male body) it tends to remain
at the deficit of the brain.

What? You're not HAPPY?
You didn't buy the latest product?
You didn't read the Wall Street Journal?
You didn't give envy run of the house
so that you can get one-up on your neighbor
and own a bigger plasma TV, bigger SUV,
bigger ass from eating bigger burgers?
what are you, some kind of
intelligent, self-aware, thinking creature?
how EMBARRASSING.

And, here's a guy in the White House
who's been promising change,
but it's not likely to add any change to your pockets
while he's riding around in jets and limousines
and spending thousands on an inaugural ball
just like his predecessor, only more media-friendly
and a lot more articulate.
and look at all these glossy flyers
submitted to each post office box
by the latest political candidates
who seem to enjoy flinging poop at each other
like monkeys in the zoo
only, there's no bars around these animals,
so some of the shit's likely to land on you.

don't worry, be happy,
even when 2012 looms on the Mayan Calendar,
and even if it isn't the end of the world
all those wealthy men
will find a way to make the doomsday trend
line their pockets once again
(remember Y2K?)

don't be happy. worry.
we've let these idiots play the tune too long
it's the same old song they've played
since they nailed God's Son to a tree,
and they've even taken that piece of history
and used it for their own purposes
and if you buy into the lie, sucker,
YOU'VE been played.
you're just a pawn on the chessboard
allowed to move in tightly restricted lines
and if they need to sacrifice you
to protect their king and queen,
they won't hesitate . . .
step outside the lines
demand their attention
remind them that we outnumber them
and let them know what it's like
to WORRY.

New Poem: Know the Refrain

Know the Refrain
***
it's like howling at the moon, and hearing it howl back
it's like watching the trees move in the breeze,
and feeling your veins do the same thing
it's like being tested by fire a hundred times
until only a core of diamonds remains
it's like listening to the same song a hundred times
just to hear the refrain

you wonder if you missed the train
reaching for a grip that slips out of your grasp
nothing but a gasp between you and forever
a well you're falling into
and something in the night calls your name
a phone ringing at midnight
with bad news breathing down your neck
a wreck of something you might have been
and you'll never build anything from the ruins
that won't fall down again
ashes, ashes, we all
fall down.

you can make your home look like a picture in a magazine
you can stake all your hopes on the American dream
you can break a thousand hearts looking for the right one
you can take from everybody you meet and not gain a thing.

something's missing.
meter, rhythm, rhyme
cadence and design
pages full of words that--
distilled into their purest form--
only repeat
LISTEN.
PLEASE LISTEN.
ARE YOU LISTENING?

Jesus saw us as sheep
and they nailed Him to a cross.
Paul called us idiots
and they locked him in a prison.
Socrates drank a poison cup
because he woke too many dreamers up.
Martin and Malcolm took a bullet
that was fired by 200 years of hate.

You're more likely to die for doing the right thing
and more likely to earn a profit for doing the wrong thing
and there's all these things laying around
radioactive, poisonous, dangerous
littering the ground we call history
but it's nobody's story but our own.
You wrote it.
I wrote it.
Worse yet, we let people we hardly knew
write it for us,
and our silence gave them consent
as long as we were kept content.

You've listen to this same song a hundred times . . .
i think by now
you know the refrain.

Poem: Untitled 10/03/09

Untitled: 10/03/09
***
to bend the untiring ear that listens,
you want to stand in the wind and scream silently,
mouth open as if
you would swallow the moon whole
and become something for coyotes to sing about.
why mourn the loss of things you never had;
when opportunity knocks, only to apologize
that it's mistaken your door for someone
more important, more deserving,
and wouldn't you feel better giving them a handout
like dharma-bum wannabes
who live their entire lives
in a state of mind
that they call "Zen," but is as easily achieved
by pharmaceutical accidents and moldy cheese?
something like a fever crawls just
below your eyebrows, behind your eyes,
an animal thing that crept down
from the aurora borealis
to lay its eggs in your frontal lobe.
when the temperate rainforest changes its garb,
trees shedding green for scarlets and yellows
that burn away so rapidly,
and you hate the sight of clocks
and feel the eyes of something stalking you,
as it eyes that connection between brain and spine
where the animal and the archetype meet . . .
that thing might be a poem with a dagger in its teeth,
or the last breath, last drink, last cigarette, last
sharp inhalation of breath for a scream
you'll never give birth to.
it doesn't matter. the impossible never happens
when you're waiting for it.
there's no recliner in which to view apocalypse,
and CNN isn't going to bring you hourly updates
on the burning of human souls
as you reach for the remote to switch
to a more comfortable channel.
consumers are a commodity, just something else
that is ultimately consumed.
autumn is here, the children locked in schools,
men and women locked in jobs
where fake fall foliage is decking their stalls,
a failed attempt at levity in a place
where the counting of heavy metals
only increases the gravity,
and the moon is getting closer every night,
but the coyotes are blind
and only the poets can howl.

New Poem: Ascension

Ascension
***
perilous elements sublimated,
crucibled in a bone bowl;
rare earths birthed from base metals,
composition of a greater Whole.
Master Alchemist applies the flame
to His students' craft, the purifier
that burns away the dulling dross
revealing the vessels' higher.
Forged in golden sunset wonder,
sharpened by onerous toil,
we become gifts to give the Giver
in bodies no longer born of soil.


----------------


This is one i just wrote tonight. Not sure how good it is . . . it needs work, but i'm fairly happy with the result.

The First Poem I've Written Since NYC: Lane's End

Lane's End
***
the lights don't penetrate, here
where grapevines yellowing in the cooling September
cast their kraken-shadows
over a fire-scar.
a femur protrudes from the carpet
of tree-shed tapestry, other
bones no doubt lying deeper.
Micheloeb, Bud Ice, Southpaw, Miller Lite
glitter like cheap armor in the gravel;
Philly Blunts have spilled their guts,
a torrid adolescence read in these remains.
it's haunted, whatever
they said or did still hangs in the air,
the way the smells of cigarettes and sex
are caught in the curtains
of cheap hotels.
spearmint, motherwort, vetch,
yarrow, goldenrod, and rot
of blackberry-vince tangles
work their own magic. something
is caught, snarled
in these brambles
and empty bottles.
it was like this seven years ago;
now, only the names and faces
have changed, hanging
like ghost-mask lanterns.
here at the heron's bend of the creek,
the sleepers wake
to walk in the green dark
and search for what's left here
by those who've gone before
and left their mark
on the soul of this place.

***************************
This is the first poem i've written since i returned from NYC . . . it's about a place down at the end of a gravel side-road here in Bonsack. Not sure what i was getting at here.