Archive for ‘Prose’

November 16, 2015

This is how it is…

when verbose people
hiding behind screens
say this
is how it is,
and thunder
beyond the windows
speak more
wisdom in meaning.

when a gut reaction
is examined
as hard “fact” meaning,
our degrees
and letters
and intuitions have
been burnt to ash.

stream of conscious thought
is the next
judge waiting patient,
wanting for
one more line,
one more guess,
for one more anything
contemporary to tell it
how it is–
besides them.

some existence merely
depends on
the expressions of
others, and
how there is no
fact in feeling,
no definitions exact,
only words and thought
to a person,
telling this is right
and this is wrong,
like they fucking “know”
the difference anyway.

November 14, 2015

Three Colors with One (of Paris)

There is solidarity abroad
while a nation is divided.
There is difference assigned,
as senseless tragedies occur.

There are three colors shown
with pictures of broken glass.
There are groups crossing lines
with lists & scores outdated.

There is talk of how and why
and who and what, unknown.
There is confusion on screens
and some parts of the whole.

And we really wonder about us.
And we really wonder who that is.

November 13, 2015

Bulimic Cannibal

A pain where
the cut came thru,
I was near
the sitting keyboard
at the desk,

reminding myself of social constraints,
my proxy to this place,

(I eat flesh.)

of the levity of my heavy chains,
the idea remains—

(Though I am invisible
and so easily described.

This is laughable.)

concepts to
contend or consent,

I can’t forget…
Though I try;

you see my given name,
my round face,
my old age,
my manifested gender,
my fast race,
and my American weight,

but not me—not what goes
in me or thru me.

(One can only guess.)

It’s something else that you see.
Let’s have lunch.

November 11, 2015

1 part coffee, 1 part jazz, 1 part broken

i may be these broken
parts on the floor
watching steam rise

as a radio is
sounding thru-out the kitchen
with jazz and ads.

louis armstrong
is my close-knit
companion with
the trumpet, the band.

silence from the cat,
hum from the patchwork streets,
this is most likely
waking up in Southeast.

here is chemistry:
water steamed,
a rich coffee aroma;
a cracked door cold;
oatmeal, raisins,
and brown sugar, hot.

i am making this easy, poignant,
simple, needed, necessary

still sitting lazy style,
legs in a pile,
on the hard
wooden floor,

recounting when to
pour it all together
to that sound,
to that feel.

November 9, 2015

Vetsch Park

cutting through
the wet knoll,
green and heavy,
here let white
steamed breath.
a blanket of
fallen leaves
under foot with
stones and sand,
droppings of
the night, unknown,
as forms and figures
danced in shadows.
at midday this
lone foraged trail
at Vetsch Park;
start to go, climb to
god’s seeing eye,
climb to Stoney Point,
back to the cross, to
the christmas star,
back around to town,
back around on
this familiar ground.

November 7, 2015

sight from the sidewalk in a small town

sun up where
feet walk bare,

a leashed dog sniffs
at frosted ground.

gun shots pop softly
in a valley afar,

and barks from
down the block.

outside a paper
rests rolled, and banded.

here waving hands
move light behind

a pickup truck’s
clear windshield view.

chores and thoughts
in crab apple view;

what broke the day
gave back tenfold whole,

what chance had Chica
to have her piss.

November 5, 2015

because I look like this

Things that concern me
more than anything else
stem as the thick roots
of a century old oak

grown through barbwire fencing
and around hardened stones,
immense on a hillside,

entrenched in pastoral lands
so deep and so bloodied, with its past,
it would be hard to tear out entirely,

even if uprooted
we could never forget.

It comes from death stares
so sharp your heart beats faster
and you sweat,

heads turn in a snap on the neck
at the question you just asked—

one which you just simply can’t,
and where,

in a place of research and academia,
a place where words like “fact”, “objective” and “truth”

float up as shit in
a waste facilities plant.

Even with air quotes in inquiry
a person couldn’t truly
reflect, safely,

couldn’t say a “group” idea
had nothing to do with
the individual raising a pale hand,

posing a pure question,
asking of a device with logic

and understanding
used so precisely daily—

an openness that did not come to conclusions,
in ways that would affect me
up the street on the walk,
being called a “devil’s advocate”
and “wrong”.

See, I was bothered because I don’t
believe in the devil… or any Other god.

I pointed at my face and said,
“Just because I look like this?”

They answered with a nodding “yes”.
I told them it was nice
to have this conversation

and walked across the street
dreaming of epiphanies.

November 3, 2015

constant reminder

i supposed
i’d rather listen
to the room’s
pipes bang,
& put the kettle
to the rang,
and have
a clear mind,
than think
about why
i woke up
late last night.
they say the
artist will
starve, but the
cat, and the
bills, and the
debt, and the
truck, and the human
food, and the rent,
all those things
are enough to do
you in. but
i’d rather not
think about that,
those things are
just moments,
and most things
do change.
seems i am
reminded when
the colors fade,
and the bare
nude trees,
and the cold
chill in
foreign winds of
new seasons.

November 1, 2015

Taking in the Forest

Leave colors inexplicable
Roots simply acquiesced
Bark came torn to forcibly
Counting the rings within

October 29, 2015

those things we miss

big days
defined by
little things,

and lungs
full of
a million breaths.

pieces away,
pieces to take,

life collecting
smallest content.


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