Said the Explorer -
“I do not forget the ill affects of such mistakes
I merely let my brain filter out Aztec pitfalls and much
of the year spent with malaria. You see a life is not spent in history
it forsakes plain facts in favor of context and narrative.
The mind makes pilfering into excavation using
the same justification as a priest at an alter;
a still beating heart aloft in his hand. Call it profane
if you must but do not assume you do not do the same
when you lie to your children. At least my adventures are heroic
and their name will spread as fast as its mystery -
that is to say, at least I tell the world my lies.”
to put on or take off. History is neither fact nor narrative
but pedigree and convenience. Lies are only vicious when there is a truth
no matter how you justify. It is a pity that your genius
was so exaggerated. You may know much of nature but nothing of man.
I attribute much of your errors on the misfortune you had
being entrenched in ancient texts devoid of recent advancements.”
Don’t we share things with those ancients -
We’re nothing but clay – free to take shape, no two the same
Dissimilarities can be found among all things
“Do not try to assert yourself as an expert on people because you have
examined the affect they’ve had. Have you explored the brain
have you number the electrons, followed the neurons, and surveyed
the remains of a man long dead. Have you divined how to detect
the quantity and quality of man? Then do not tell me how to weigh
genus, species, and family because they are nothing but convention -
words that would cease to exist if we did so also.”
then we cannot have this discussion. Toward what end
would we continue to pontificate if tomorrow
if we all died and took our words with us.
Such an absurd thoughts brings only sorrow
to anyone with children. What cause would bring
you to this hell? That you would sooner remove
the power of your tongue then admit
to something beyond you – whether the thread of history
the endless grace, timeless nature, or the promise of words?
Why do you even speak? Why offer such grief to those
of us who respect words enough to use them with responsibility
rather than selfish charity – giving away only that which
you wouldn’t keep in your own home.”
to seek the true shape of things.
Then to emerge with it in hand to send to all too weak of mind
to discover the same.
Call it the burden to knock down the wall. Doing
so ensures that our progression from apes was not for nothing.
We have emerged to tare the heavens down and finally unveil
reality for what it is -
a sham the scale of which astounds me
even as I prepare for bed each night. For even in the midst
of my deepest mind the universe still tricks me into thinking
that something is out there.
That my bed is soft, that my wife is happy,
that my children enjoyed that bedtime story.
Such experience doesn’t belong to me no matter
how many times I recall them.
Despite my longing for them to be true.
Memories are just useful fictions to
allow for sleep at night.”
and my refusal to forget them? Why do you
care if I fabricate some details for the sake
of a good story – if all are untrue?”
We are all in this despair together
and what would we be if we didn’t lend
a hand to those less fortunate than us.
Besides I can’t have you spreading such lies
around impressionable children. Heaven forbid
my own children would fall for such a line. I would
further discuss this matter, but we’re out of time.
Perhaps we can continue this later over prime rib and some wine
I know this secluded place down by the docks
perfect for such discussions.
Perhaps I could catch you coming in from another adventure.
Until then, dear explorer, do not forget what I have told you today,
it might serve you well.”
Urban Aristocracy
I
Smoke, like that from a gun,
Ascends from her lip toward
A lazy whirring ceiling fan.
Her hemp colored dreadlocks run
Around giant headphones and forward
over naked breasts. In her hand
The cause: A bone. The scepter of the queen
(she is so because she shares something with beauty)
Like the contrast of her skin and the green
carpet. The gentle wind compliments her nudity.
Her Bishop enters through the fire escape
Having made his way to the seventh floor
A zip lock bag with word secured
He pauses to worship the landscape.
Her stone eyes lie behind resin colored shades
A pile of ash is pooled beneath her finger tips
As if the gravediggers had stayed
to dig their hole beside her hips.
The holy man tossed the bag on to the green
and waited for his silent queen to inbibe the good word.
II
Things were not simple in the kingdom
A battle of black and white replaced
By colors unimagined. A tear pools in her eye.
What unholy movement brought her to this place
A place for fools and pawns to die.
She felt their souls exiting them.
Another inhale, another word – no reply from the muses.
The Delphic signals curled as they rose
with feminine curves and tragic catharsis
that removed every desire save one alone -
the one the muses love the most
She sips from her scepter of bone
and still her hunger grows and grows
her whispers feeble, “send for my drone”.
III
She hasn’t come in so long
Locked in his castle, his prison, his cave
He waits. He waits for her to call.
His thoughts surrounding him,
He wrote them on the wall when she had gone.
Half open books littered his conclave
epics and tragedies, eulogies and hyms.
All tragedies, all eulogies, all hyms.
to keep his mind, to keep his mind in check.
Madness was his only lover now, it was her that built the wall
built the wall around. He was useless when he wasn’t in use
and it sickened him. It bore a pit – a grave – into his stomach.
He would be unimportant – if she didn’t need him. Need him like air, or water.
Yet her need enslaved him. Cut him, shackled him, maddened him.
He longed for the smoky taste of her lips, and her soulful hexagon eyes.
IV
It was then that he felt the Bishop’s hand on his shoulder.
Human contact removed him from his castle
If only to push him down its winding staircase.
His small one bedroom apartment smelt of tobacco
and accepted no light in. It throbbed like a womb
A living breathing cave. Yet its drab wallpaper gave no illusion that it was natural.
The blinding bright light of the queen’s empty room
struck the drone with such unbearable pain
that he was forced to kneel. The green floor was warm from the sun.
Her naked stomach would rise and fall with each breath.
Inhale words. Exhale thoughts. The ceiling fan silently spinning.
The drone blindly crawled the high terrain
toward his prize. A queen desperate for the winning.
V
She drags, she drags, she drags the bone.
He places his lips on hers. Communication
evolves from ashes and breath. Smoke leaks from a kiss
a kiss leaks from the mind. He tastes her philosophy,
and feels the raise and fall that creates it as her bare stomach
shifts between his legs. For a brief moment their is stasis,
a tranquility of sorts, but an uneasy tranquility.
The Bishop removes the drones shirt
allowing his green eyes to observe his scarred back.
Years of being locked within his mind left him pale as a ghost
the same color as the tendrils of smoke.
This meeting had become more intense and more violent than most
the queen had awoken in fury. Her fingernails leave a track
of open flesh on his sides. But the drone continued.
Music pounds through her headphones and into him.
VI
Through closed eyes his fingers groped her coiled hair
eventually stumbling upon a chord, thin and black,
running back, back, back, into the other room. The music.
Sudden anger, jealousy, and weakness surged
as he pulled it from its jack.
Her eyes opened to reveal her hexagonal pupils
and with a single motion the madness, jealous of the new lover
took the chord and wrapped, wrapped, wrapped her neck.
The last smoke rose to be inhaled. All was silence
except the sound of the ceiling fan. Whirring.
Anger so quickly burned became remorse.
“Kill me. I have no more use.”
“Be still my child” The Bishop replied. Having seen the violence
he responded in kind. Taking the chord still around the queen
and tied it tight around his breathing’s source.
VII
“Such is man – an oppressive mystery
with a hunger for flaws. Unworthy of both
love and hate. His achievements know no limits
or goals. Only accepting a chosen slavery,
and who would sooner kill than to envy or want.
Man, the vessel of potential, a natural tool
for both angel and demon.
Pray now for salvation and repent
for desire will strip these thoughts from your mind
until too late comes your piteous prayers.”
Coffee. My Morning Miracle.
The black asphalt leaks steam
as the sun rises. A short run
prolongs my morning caffeine
Long enough for me to travel a mile
of rough natural terrain.
A man, far larger than me, in a gray hoodie
is suddenly labeled a thief, or rapist, or murder…
He smiles and runs by. Perhaps he thought
I was young or pretty. Within time I will learn not to worry.
The air is a transparent mystery that fuels my breathe.
The sun rises over Mr. Patterson and his grocery store
he waves without any doubt that he is a perfect gentlemen
an old man of a different tradition.
He thinks the Sun is a miracle though in reality
it is a giant hostile ball of fire which hasn’t moved
in a million years. Yet it rises every day. Now that’s a miracle -
something appearing even though it never does.
Mr. Patterson often confuses beautiful things as miraculous.
As if nothing natural can be beautiful. He says the same about me
and has persisted in that illusion since I was a young girl.
Which despite its good intentions always made me feel
as though I was a disappointment. Needless to say this is why I run,
even though I should be home drinking coffee.
St. Mary’s church signals halfway – her shadow is a sundial -
I am running late. Though the graveyard is in shadows, as it should be,
the sidewalk is bathed in light. I turn right before Ash street
and head back. Patterson’s is open for business even though nobody
comes until after 8. My joints ache. I persistently tell myself
that the pain resides in my mind and push on.
The trees on either side of School street bend over the road
sheltering it from the sun. Light barely breaks through
allowing a runner some mercy. But I havn’t come for that
I have come to atone. So I turn up Old Hickory road
whose houses have displaced the hanging trees
and whose stone walls make the road almost cave-like
and foreign. Both roads intersect the road where I live
but Old Hickory Hill only breaks the flat earth
at this one point.
The ascent is the toughest part of the trip
and always appears as a giant gray wave
approaching from the horizon.
It is of the heritage of mythology
its titanic ancestor imprisoned Sisyphus
increasing the weight he must bear until, at its zenith,
it became impossible to move forward. Only back.
But I am not a Sisyphus, the burden is not on my back
I am a descendant of a different class
the fire wielders, born in caves, and emerged to conquer the earth.
The hill comes and goes. Its passing signifies a quiet victory.
No more a miracle than the sun. Just feet and steaming black tar.
In The End of Things… We’d Do It Again. Even If Its Because We Must.
Today a long drive didn’t cure my fear
Nor the insomnia it breeds.
A round trip ticket across the universe to here
Gave me more dreams to leave
To those with enough doubt to sleep.
A shaking hand sifts through pills
The treasure map said there would be answers there.
My hands marked with an x. Silence kills.
I wish I could accept that questions don’t have answers.
But they do – so silence kills – and sleep is rare.
The bartender, with the pirate’s patch
Asks what’s good with such worries
While passing another drink, no strings attached,
He’ll get a sainthood if he hurries.
It’s crowded, but at least it’s not silent.
Despite having nothing to say, I beg her to talk,
The bar gets empty after three.
She moves like a puppet whose master is gone
She drinks and then walks.
Reflecting on the night, she’ll never remember me.
My scurvied mind begs for something more substantive
than anemic moments without wonder.
Adrift in a silent ocean, a universe to give,
stars that mean nothing, an empty horizon yonder
Too vast to be caught. Too silent to brave.
But doesn’t all this torment beg the question?
I’d prefer a mirage to nothing,
An explorer to a master,
Countless sand to one giant rock,
Falling as opposed to hovering,
So why doesn’t my heart beat faster?
But it beats slow, and between beats
only silence, blood, and sickness.
Until we die.
My Answer is This
I woke up this morning
Even though Renee said
This could all be a dream
and that all this supposed learning
would be undone in bed
He thought my coffee didn’t taste as it seems.
My answer is this…
She told me about forever,
A future later determined
as July 1rst, a day she called forever.
That independence day was never
(I guess) the fireworks gave a sermon
on love as reality. She told me about forever
My answer is this…
They always said be yourself -
As if I could, as If I couldn’t
Thats when I learned truth was a paradox
and paradoxes are real
Despite what they say, truth shouldn’t
be in our reach – unless there is no self.
My answer is this…
I was once told I’d never make it
(who hasn’t) I often wonder if he was right
and if I’ll ever know.
I was once taught “If you can’t, then fake it”
Life doesn’t work like that, atleast not for long
So I guess he was wrong. But I’ll never know.
My answer is this.
Scrawled on a Bathroom Wall
On the contrary, dear friend, with the assumptive brow
this is not merely the mouth of the sewer, not merely a road-side pit stop
it is the human experience. A metaphor which goes to show
the grotesqueness of an imagination not unlike the image itself
composed by an image within an image with a mind.
Sorry to interrupt you wasting your time, perhaps you can thank
Heideggar, or Husserl, or Hume for this break in reality.
I speak in nothing but lies, if lies are what you call things with
no reflection, no taste, no smell, and no size. Truth is for fire,
for electrons, and for monarch butterflies.
Did you ever stop to reflect on how words consume
your thoughts to excrete black lines. Like waste thrown
against a canvas of white. What purity isn’t worth such a delight?
Perhaps these lies are worth more than the purity of truth
A world opposed to the world we have imagined for ourselves.
Gods and bacteria…
Sound Waves
The prospect of silence frightens me
Stone, upon stone, upon stone
Human beings are opposed to tranquility.
A man, having lost the wind, dies at sea
waves crash, bringing his body home
The prospect of silence frightens me
In the garden cave we were all free
Left unshackled by the unknown
Human beings are opposed to tranquility.
A feast of ash leaves me hungry
Fire having removed the spirit grown
The prospect of silence frightens me.
Perfection is another form of heresy
to worship something we cannot own
Human beings are opposed to tranquility.
The fate lies in the seed, well before the tree
bone upon bone upon bone upon bone
The prospect of silence frightens me
Human beings are opposed to tranquility.
