Friday, May 27, 2011

Digging around in pockets

Reaching into your pocket,
searching for clues
not wanting the answers,
not really, but fishing anyway,
I find a handful of fear and
alot of uncertainty.
No surprises there, I think.
I compare it to all of mine and drop it in the trash.

in that little pocket in front,
I find a ball of hatred,
so hard and intense
It was too hot to handle,
and better left alone.

finding many holes
where assorted dreams
and hollow promises dropped out,
left strewn about in the wake
of your stumbling steps.
I find harpoons of reality and
disappointments among the debris.

And in a back pocket I find what I am looking for.
I knew it had to be somewhere, after all.
In that back pocket i find a small packet of crushed spirit,
balled up tight like a cigarette package.
Gently I pull it out and fluff it a bit, giving it air.
It gives a little chirp when touched, a bright hopeful sound.
It trembles in my hand.
Weak and misshapen from lack of attention.
Malnourished, contractured.

I feed it drops of my blood, and it laps hungrily, tongue lolling for more.
It looks up with puppy dog eyes and nuzzles my hand.

The other things I put back into pockets.
This I keep to feed.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Party of the century

This is from the workshop of Memphis Writers Ensemble. It is a group effort of several authors. A very interesting exercise with very interesting results....Thanks Valentine!!

Ah, the cultivation of virtue, of rotational motion executed.
Instantaneous changes in store for the soiree attendee
Man's nature, inborn, fraught with assumption
and conundrum.
The voice of the body, a spiritual being,
coincides with freedom and security-
like an escapee of known matter.

This shindig, this bacchanalia
with vibrational patterns in a fixed exchange rate.
Imbeciles! The truth is before the eyes.

An acceleration, like rivers rushing to the sea,
it has become a spinning and nihilistic object de art-
confederacies of ladies in serpent skirts, their pointed toes dipped in white milk.
Private excitations of rushing pheromones, like rivers rushing and hushed and whispery.
Transvestite-like, five-star, clown suited generals worshiping man
while dancing the cha-cha with
within every primal garden
where Juntas of erect stems
constantly shed blue blood.
like breathable air around gaudified innocence.
The cannibals chomp through pubic hair.


Sunday, May 8, 2011

Bittersweet day
Hope peeps her precious head up
Enamel coated heart unconcerned
Another days useless energy spent
Shambling through the stickers
Wading into the ever thicker muck
But that damn hope comes back
Like a desperate stray dog
With nice eyes and big paws.