Thursday, July 10, 2014

Breakfast for the Business of You

Breakfast for the Business of You

You cancel all appointments,
except for the ringing in your ears.
You accept those calls and continue
to mull over the details.
You decide the tidy business of you
is a mess, a heap, a supply
of slop incessantly in stock
of which you incessantly keep stock.
Its stock never rises
or falls, as its tied to you
so the view is always the same.
You stick a spoon into a situation
requiring a fork, and notice
the elapsing of life as you stab
without bluntness, your mouth
mimicking the movements
of a mouth it once saw chewing
in a mirror in a dream, in which
nourishment reached
beyond any known definition of rich.
Did it satiate?
You can't remember.
You wipe your mouth of nothing.
Your face falls in your plate.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

The Words I Said

The Words I Said

Forever ago is frequently weeks,
because we speak like it's a dream.
A full day takes place in a minute,
and a minute from now it’s years ago.
I re-read the transcription of the words I said
several dozen times, like rotten eggs
I didn’t put to use by consuming
or cooking for someone else to consume.
It’s a crime not to say what you mean.
Detectives often deal with the word exhume,
and never uncover all the other
words gone missing.
Flip me over just in time
to find the blood
before it gets combined
into this sentence.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Where Has Everyone Been?

Where Has Everyone Been?

The doll has been recalled due to flammability risk
because the circuit board can overheat.
Do you understand the discipline it takes
to be polite on an empty stomach?
When the angels come down they will ask you
questions similar to this.

Where has everyone been?
Continuously emptying the recycling bin
because it remains full.
You can’t rearrange the objects quick enough
to stay ahead of brain-mapping projects
and the tyranny of smarter smart phones.

You spent the night in an alternate dimension,
breathing rapid mouse breaths and seeing
how incredibly contorted a body needs to be
to hold a soul in any other sort of atmosphere.
When you reach for the back scratcher you miss
by several important inches, and your itches
remain unscratched.

I’m unattached to you, untethered
because our end was rough but then
I cauterized it.  And now
we feel much smoother, better.
I bring to disasters my capacity for refinery,
the finishing school for the business of fire.

Saturday, May 31, 2014

Recorded

Recorded

I'm up at night, day dreaming
while the library is destroyed.
A bullet grazes
my chin and misses
my heart by a country.
I QC my memories of certain events,
notice how when I outsource the data entry
the foreign workers forget to enter
the figure numbers in the appropriate fields.
All of my memories should be capitalized.
All of my memories should have the same rightsholder.
Even the cassette tape of two voices,
because it was guarded in a box beneath my bed.
You might not have been thirsty, but I was motherly
because I have always been dehydrated,
always run out of water,
run out for water,
run back to the middle of a conversation,
missing the key point, the cool part.
But I keep myself well.
The wells down into which I lower buckets
are underestimated in relevance
until posthumous books are published
and someone says
I would like to say a few words.
May I say a few words?

Monday, May 12, 2014

Say It Through The Walls

Say It Through The Walls

The man who has been trained his whole life 
to see shapes in clouds instead of himself
-needing to be a composer-
will wait for weeks for a package to arrive,
a box of clouds tied by a storm string.
And all that comes is the road,
a worm emerging from its hole,
the person he isn’t,
the night, the millennium,
the unaffordable water filtration system,
the spokes of the bike wheels
of the kid going by, waving.

Hello looks like goodbye.

He spoke to the sky, 
trying to pull something
like the worm from its hole,
but it would not be pulled.

You ought to help the man
who is also a fundamental part of the mix tape.
His prose is not him. It hangs
and has no time for healing.

At first it was overheard tidbits
regarding not having the right
to make these associations.
Opinions became standardized
like green products.
But the Laws stay in motion 
with pre-set intentions,
regardless of being charged a hardy fee
when they pass through us.

Let it be said that a baby's first point
is a computer proficiency test,
proving that we promise
not to exist in more than three dimensions.
Train a tiny finger to press on the error,
identify the deviance,
shout it out without a sound.
Good job.
And during the compilation of reports
please (you have no choice) standby.
Standby for further directions.


We've been acting
like a glimpse of the door is something ludicrous.
Content to do happy hour and listen
to a team of devils tell a top notch joke.
We all take part in tucking the twisted
into a box labeled merely bizarre.

This new business relationship is normal.
It is not disappointed at the garbage,
or the garbage can shelters,
or being tossed out like garbage.
It is not shaking its fist at what you'd expect.
It is disappointed in you for pointing it out.
It is not considering external applicants
for the position of heart monitor.
And none of this leaks from the poem unintentionally.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Sleep well.

Sleep well.

It’s just that the images don’t translate to paper,
or do so unpredictably or so poorly.
A glowing light source that is not just orange
becomes just orange and it puts me in a clamp.
I don’t want it to become even tighter,
but the more I write about it that’s what happens.

I was warming up with a dream,
wondering if I should get my eyes treated with lasers,
for blurriness to be defeated
by someone who studied the science of it.
It would be some kind of new fact about me,
replacing the original fact.
And because my life is not depending on it,
it worries me to make that decision.

In retrospect, I wake up only to locate the moon,
to navigate away from the dismay of unconscious incisions.
I cough up someone in my life, illustrating
the contents of my chest, displayed 
to be reviewed at the biweekly meeting.
By then they’ve changed.

Most moments dissolve just as rapidly as the fruits bared
by an employer’s supposed attempts to avoid stepping on anyone.
They quickly Powerpoint commercials
advertising their password creation skills,
their candid displays of puerile preferences, dressed
as a conformist dressed as a nonconformist dressed as a conformist,
and sign off on professional correspondence as
Rainmaker.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

The Facade

The Facade

Many people root
for metal protrusions to appear
right down the street from the school.
Brought to you by so on and so forth,
hot and erect and unabashed,
the public branding of the backside of the sky.
Then they press ear to pavement,
sonic scanning for something to appreciate.
Democracy is impossible
if it is defined as nothing to worry about,
if nothing to worry about is defined as
nothing to see here.
It is impossible to travel back and prevent the blues
and still want jazz to play (in the background
while you stir your straw).
Men have tried to buy the memory of an adventure,
which is what a revolution isn’t.
Men have strapped on something that simulates labor contractions
and laugh/cried/laugh/cried and then taken the thing off.
They poke fun at themselves for a long time
before it penetrates.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Balancing Act

Balancing Act

When acid reflux pain reaches your scalp,
you know you are somewhat alone.
Otherwise non-pugilistic locations
have become war zones, follicle by follicle.
My friends say “only you” and
“of course you”, “you would be the one
to have digestive difficulties in your head."

When I am sandwiched between strangers,
I feel too much. Literally, figuratively,
figures littering the floor with frank acceptance. 
Body parts press against body parts,
wishing themselves luck at delusional privacy attempts.

Between shoulders, necks, backs, breasts,
I find a sliver to peer through and see a letter.
I meditate on the "Y" of a poster,
imagine it is the option of three rivers,
or a person raising their arms to herald
something far too large for this train car to hold.

I am so smashed between bodies that I am floating,
floating so against my control that I am drowning.
I count the quantity of crises that aren’t occurring,
the piles of people who aren't passing out
or pulling out weapons or worse.

There is an expression about ripping out
one’s own hair out of frustration,
biting off one’s own nose
to spite one’s own face.
Self-inflicted injurious behavior
is a common form of tantrum among infants,
a seeking of stress relief.

On the other hand, a woman applying makeup
to her face while sitting on a crowded train,
her surrounding space a veritable cubicle in comparison,
is a performance piece about bumps and stability,
voyeurism and dismissal, masks
and the breaking down of the fourth wall.

These are all aspects of going to my job,
the location of the work that pays
the money it takes to get on and off
day after day after day.
This is the way we ride
until we rise a different way.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Thin Air

Thin Air

Allergic to magic and without hope for boredom,
I collage the place beyond where wings go.
Symbols never bite their tongues,
the window never just a window.
My mind is a nest.
Births and departures,
assemblage and impermanence.
I huddle with a team of twigs, listening
to the strokes of clock feathers.
To emerge sounds so slow.
Emergence.
Emerging.
And then
the emergency: the quick
tick tock and the disappearance of a leg
beneath a stocking of sky.
In my dream, I climb the periphery of a planet,
possess an impossible perspective.
Face against ground,
I see the whole sphere.

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Precisely

Precisely

Pre-set preferences are coming undone.
Presentations on how to give presentations
on examples of atrophy.
They echo, briefly, as they burn toward the sun.
Things are luxuriously quiet enough,
for a moment,
for a moment of sincere apathy.
You reflect on the telegram you never got to get.
A less insidious message,
not worthy of secret. You, briefly,
are thankful for the use of your thumbs.
Then you make note of the spacebar,
its waning usage, your regrets.
It seems stupid to say that something stupid is dumb,
when the volume is up louder than the planet hums.
Courting collision courses, quotes of the day.
Current vernacular writes its own approvals,
comments on itself, bearing its gums.
Umbrellas and blinders guide the way.
Here, some more
not so interesting facets of the sorry situation.
Strumming the song of bitter dregs,
melodious aggravation having its say.
The snow is laden with half-eaten notes,
obsolete headphones, too big for the future.
Things that are tiny beg for sutures to appear,
to swallow the computers that take up whole rooms.
You bundle up for the storm, pull up your hood.
I’ve always loved the smell of burning wood,
and it would pain me precisely.
And it pains me precisely that if I were cold enough, 
I would sacrifice a violin.
There is evidence pointing, 
predicting, no need for my hands.
And the need to stand only worthy of a spine,
binding turnable, burnable pages,
tasked not to bend.
Remember how you once stood,
applauding the orchestra,
now qualified as live.
What is the definition of survive?
If it is truly astounding, it is
undoubtedly the end.


Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Several Missed Calls

Several Missed Calls

You click and descend further
and you are offered assistance
in descending further,
and you are offered distractions
while parts of you are displaced.
It is so normal, like a monster car event.

Your friendliness feels
like a factor, but it isn’t.
You might not feel like an actor,
but you are.  And you are
good and awful.

Your hard drive is not interested
in pharmaceutical interventions
and your friends are not interested in you.
They are mesmerized by photographs of missiles
and they forget that they miss you.

Scopes are set on a maze
of dazed and hurrying heads.
Unlimited buttons prove problematic.
There is always something to make fun of.
Children try to tell you that they are more than
an unwritten email, more than
a blinking cursor awaiting instruction.
But patterns form quickly
and they are aesthetically pleasing.

Please. Please do not contort yourself
in order to respond.
Please do not post that you are grouchy about
being nailed to it.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Recapitulation

Recapitulation

It was this exact temperature,
this exact dimness, illumination
the last time.
And this exact wind speed,
this exact degree of fahrenheit
smears its signature in my face,
blurring my current vantage point.
It points at an old me.
Over and over again,
so it is never over.
I keep hearing that line about the penitent man:
Only the penitent man will pass.
The penitent man.
The penitent man.
His parched lips repeat the phrase,
the letter P punching
its way out of his mouth,
the cool air revealing each pronouncement,
making his effort visible.

Friday, November 29, 2013

A Long List

A Long List

I.
Fingers covered in ink
are road signs,
attached to our own hands,
burrowed in winter pockets.
There is a long list of celestial phenomena
I want to see. 
Some comfort can be found in a copy
if it is the only option.
It is helpful if it has no public caption.
I will draw in the sand
what I want to remember
if I find myself stranded without.
The imagination is an attached contortionist. 
I will look at the drawing and allow
acceptance
and say This is the something that I have here.
I have a long list of marketable skills,
but the business I want to go into with myself
requires the actual sky, not published strangulation.
Sometimes people submit to themselves
and they are not accepted for publication.
Sometimes people punish themselves
and accept it.

II.
The public has a long list.
Fingers draw themselves a celestial caption.
But sometimes people require covered phenomena.
This is actual ink,
and see, I want in the sky what I want.
Look, I will say, I am helpful.  I remember myself.
This is the option I go to.
Comfort is a borrowed copy I find,
a burrowed road sign in some sand,
something that is here.
If my contortionist skills are stranded
they punish me,
and go by themselves in the winter publication.
Published hands, imagination,
long lists, the business of pockets and acceptance.
Attached people are marketable.
They want themselves
to submit, allow
strangulation.

III.
To be burrowed is a winter acceptance,
a punished contortionist.
To borrow is no comfort to the imagination.
This is the long list I remember.
I say a road sign is ink
and it is something actual, public.
It is strangulation business.
Marketable is not what I want.
The sky is a long list, helpful.
Sometimes. If I look. I find.
They publish a copy of sand,
see only themselves.
Fingers require celestial skills
to caption phenomena, 
but they are attached, stranded here.
I do not submit for publication the option of drawing myself.



Monday, November 18, 2013

We Are Right Beneath Our Feet

We Are Right Beneath Our Feet

We can't help but turn
every time we hear it.
The garbled voice of a huge understatement
submerged in a puddle on the street,
gasping for breath as we continue our pace,
the persistent cause of those looks on our faces.

And you, son of the sidewalk,
caress of iron,
sacred disguised as lowly,
shoot me
a look, a fast hit
as we continue past it.
And I, daughter of dilapidated miracles,
shoot you, too.
This is what we do,
psychic hand holds,
never walking slowly,
but taking in everything,
glancing with intensity,
dancing the dance of silent immensity.

Barely discernable
twitch of an eyebrow, I know
you are really screaming.
Cerulean windows widen
the thinnest width, I discern
a strand of fur from the coat of a lynx,
the distance between A and Z
bent into oblivion,
folded to meet.

There, those lines forming
above the bridge of my nose,
asymmetry programmed
into my genetic code.
Each time they appear,
the slanted syllables pronounced,
you know if their origin
is the sun or concern
or concentration on concrete.

Psychic arm entanglement,
our links are time and ink.
Sometimes our grip slips,
and lines get smeared by sleepy palms.
Sometimes we fall up the stares we've drawn,
glare at the ground with a cross look.
We grab another sheet
and cover our heads with what we think.
But we know with acuity
the huge understatement
will never stop struggling,
will never be freed,
will never finally sink.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Loss

Loss

Do you remember when we
walked past a fleet of sleeping trucks
and it seemed that we were a part
of a dream that the trucks were having?
I tried and failed to locate the moon,
unlike the millions of stars
we would never attempt to count,
unlike the prevalence of
inappropriately placed commas
we can’t help
but see everywhere.
But the moon --singular, large 
entity-- we wanted to see.
Why haven’t you written me?

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Of All Tyrannies

Of All Tyrannies

Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. - C.S. Lewis

The child in the photo is
all grown up,
minding her own business,
her own business being minded.
She minds.
Her mind still mostly her own
terrain,
her mind still mostly more
than just a brain.
She keeps her voice from leaving
too big a stain,
quietly releasing
utterances from veins.

Is she
unattended to
but by trespassers,
untracked
but by GPS,
unsupervised
but by the IRS?

In the future that they claim they claim
she will remain,
but not among them.
There is a plane
where a soul need not a brain
in any sense a human might name.

They tell her
she will evolve
and that her evolution
need not involve
her input,
and that her evolution
will revolve
like a string
tied around a finger
(powerful, prominent, pointer)
--but not as a reminder--
that her evolution
must be mandated
legislated,
monitored,
for her own good.

Why so taciturn,
while the planets spin
no thanks to human scripted policies?

They say the gap
between the train and the platform
is too far
to overcome,
though the one big step
is the size of a crumb.
They tell her
she will never depart
until her heart is torn apart
with more gratitude
than any birthday wish fulfilled
could ever provide.

Oh tyranny,
how sincerely
you are exercised
for our own good,
how sincerely
you execute
because we agree,
tacitly,
that you know best.

Oh tyranny,
she has already expressed gratitude
in another direction:
Heart stitched by light,
stitches of light
unachievable with hands,
unachievable with time, knowledge, age;
Unrippable stitches of light,
unrippable by hands,
unrippable by time, knowledge, age.

The light is lit
in remembrance of light,
always remembering
always remaining
bright.