sunday muse #166

 

when i walk on two legs

i feel nothing

intruder blindfolded

fool of the world  

if i crawl like an ancestor

chest to the ground

feel the earthbeat, make it my own

mother’s love flows in these valleys

swimming in shadows

white sapling and raspberry cover

i am thirsty and to find her

wander the blackjack

follow rockweed paths, follow the clover  

tree moss and columbine

into the cold river

i drink

and sunset explodes the sky

white water catches fire

i see it

feel it

but i trade my language for the soul of a wakan

so i can’t speak it

but for the hair of my neck

and growing glow of my eyes

everything

alive

like mist after rain

stars on frozen snow

bluespruce and sage

the way the redtail lands on a tree limb

and folds his wings

song of the summer reeds  

and the taste of the river

posted for the the sunday muse

illegal trombone serenade

 

artwork "when the moon is fake and your mermaids cry"

copyright ziggy zagmyer

jalopy dreams · Illegal Trombone Serenade

个

(heads up! listen to the poem here)

illegal trombone serenade

artificial heartbeats

television flickering endless shades of blue on walls crawling with artless intent and too

many signals crisscross a confection that reeks of evening news and cheap booze and old

shoes that squeak on streets too real spinning forever-cycles of red-yellow-green-red-yellow-

green-red-yellow-green-red-yellow-green

 

but we won’t know what any of that means

until dogs remember their feet

and

 (here we go again)

                                                the moon

the dream compass

the calendar stone

always the poet’s prisoner

always the lover’s lost butterfly

the lunatic’s faithful equation

(because she is a lightning rod of chaos

and my heart is static cling!)

so up we go

up illegal ropes

                up balloon strings of hope           

                                                up-up-up

over the murky dark misery

over the neighborhood pawnshops

over the angry traffic cones, lonely lamp posts

over the big helzberg diamond billboard

                ring finger pointing to the moon

climb up to the roof of the city and leap

                                reach out and grab that glory-glow

by the toe

but the moon is always fake

a riddle, a clay pigeon, a sleepy dreamer-fever

her big fake face reflected in every apartment window

i try to kiss each one

                on the way down

(all the way down thinking maybe next time try a butterfly net

or a magnet)

 

but dogs remember their feet

and when i sneak away, shameless midnight gut-punched retreat

my shoes squeak

maybe just like

playing trombone 

posted for the open mic at: D'verse

30 years of poerty

jalopy dreams · pretty waitress perfect of fools

个

(heads up! listen to the poem here) 

pretty waitress perfect of fools

she’s a lovely cold sculpture, marble nude with her head cut off

a sexartwar reality keeps the rattle snake that bit her

in a peanut butter jar, like voodoo

 

she’s a painting of a painting, a revlon reproduction

venus on the half-shell, phosphorus and effervescent, arms wide like

happy hour and everybody’s glow in the dark expectations

                                                                coming true

 

she wears a uniform of fingerprints, her angels in aprons overshadowed

by dogs playing poker, howling her attention

she cleans up and collects whatever beerbelly heroes will spare

nickels quarter dimes, her rent money jingles

 

she’s a time-traveling daydream, her mind leaping thru wormholes

body serving smiles here, head swimming in future grace

 

on long bus rides she rearranges mental furniture (symbolic sofas

in relation to symbolic windows, grand pianos on top of glass coffee tables

                on top of brass buddha candle holders)

                                acrobats and ballet daredevils   

 

she stuffs her soul into shoes too small, stretches her body into double shifts

overtime in underground nightclubs, basements full of hey-dudes

                                and hey-bros in hey-ho-lets-roll rattlesnake bliss

                licking each syllable- hey girl

                                                                you-wanna-git-wit-thissssssssssssssssssssss?

 

                she’s twenty-seven now, still standing in a doorway, evolving

revolving in and out of fear and doubt and circles of dead inception (sex-

art-war-sex-art-war-sex-art-war-sex-art-war-sex-

art

war)

 

see her scrubbing tables? see her bleaching her reflection?

scratching thru the surface the varnish comes unglued, see her

wash away? the moment splits in two, a small voice becomes urgent like

some twisted edvard munch screaming

                                                                                screwthissceneiwantout!

 

put the wardrobe back on the mannequin

pose it in the kitchen, the display window

                back up on the pastry tray

slip out of her mona lisa cage

where the black earth washes her feet

                 removing miles of bad road

turning stone back to flesh

winter-thawed and summer-bound

                                aprilish

singing reunited gaia-heart

                                (i am universe

                i am

                                universe

                                                i am

                uni

                                                verse)

see her holding the moon in her hands?

perfect

of poets and fools 

posted for the open mic at: D'verse

wild blue yonder

ok, so for the "risk" challenge over at D'verse, i am attempting to write a train wreck, which is not a style of poetry, it's just a train wreck, except with airplanes =)

 

flight seven seventy seven destination

                                                       side-of-mountain 

 

as the flight attendances take their break in the baggage hold playing dice games

the pilot performs stand-up in first class and the last green olive on earth swims

in his

very dry

mar

tin

i

meanwhile

 

                                (the strike-ready snake will not hesitate

 

the headlights of the tracker-trailer will not blink

 

                                political pundits scream theater in a crowded fire

 

                and all the hamsters trade their hamster wheels for happy meals)

 

the inflight meal was a can of worms

the inflight movie was a documentary on the opiate effects of inflight movies

meanwhile

all the corporate risk managers travelling to the annual security convention

block the airplane emergency doors wearing parachutes half-eaten from last year’s

                                                                                           plague of miller

                                                                                           moths  

 

and the traffic courts paved the road to hell with endless debate over the insignificance

of seven hundred and seventy seven good intentions but can’t remember where they

                                                                              put their 

                                                                    prayer beads                                                                     

meanwhile

all the doctor’s doctor their doctrines of the dying patient’s last rite to self-righteousness

 

                (righteousness (noun) a highly volatile substance manufactured in the mind

                dirty burning no alternative fuel always blowing up in someone’s face)

 

meanwhile

a mountain looms

big

purple

majestic

with big purple arms open wide beckoning come to daddy

come to gravity, drop your f bombs over denver and set your engines

on fire

hurry back to earth, a big dumb rock, but also a mother

suddenly scolding us: if you can’t solve your problems yourself, then i will

                                                                               solve them

for you

which is great news for the cockroach dreaming of opposable thumbs

  

the sunday muse #163

 

life so far is recital

posture

finger positions

her mind so far, precomposed

                cello lessons

                formal arrangements 

                smile and curtsey

she is young and can’t quite feel strings ring under tender fingertips

pedantic to the process

                silent to the soul

suddenly hits a wrong note

a sour thing (but… it… feels… so… sweet)

another blunder

a deep note, from a deep place

                                                and now she knows for sure

she’s not making mistakes

                                she’s making choices 

she is young and this is her first rebellion

 

presto change-o this is her song now

                                breaking notes chained together crawling like caterpillars

lightning racing up and down the spine arching high exploding butterflies 

joy fills her face spills out her eyes thrills the fingers teasing tangled strings

            presto into the strange-o she tests her range and finds no

                                walls nothing to stop her

nothing to stain her rearrange her she can shape herself into herself

                confess each flaw spirit-rich flesh-raw dialog with god

she tames the beast she brings the boogie everything spinning spinning dizzy

 

she is young, and dizzy is the gift she gives the world, gives herself, that and

                permission 

                to be

 

for "meeting the bar" Symploce – the combined use of anaphora and epiphora

 

night is always blessed with regret

and blake street is quiet 

no traffic crashing into puddled potholes

steam vents breathing only smoky ghosts

alleys are quiet

storefronts are silent, sleep washing the windows

 

discarded newspapers are quiet

no wind pushing them into corners, no one mugging them for answers

horoscopes, weather reports, peace on earth

 

dumpsters are quiet, but thoughtful

a filthy history fermenting

lampshades, old sweaters, soup cans and beer bottles (bad novels)

((broken pencils))

plastic bags full of plastic scraps, soon dump trucks will come

take it all to rust farms

 

soon milk trucks will come

 

buses and trains will come

people will fill them with heavy shoes, warm coats, a shiny business 

caffeine static, morning panic and small talk

 

sunrise will come

and any object that casts a shadow will feel it

all daydreams will seek it and eat it 

apple raw

all visions, all missions

all real and doomed to live

 

sunday muse #162

posted for the sunday muse #162, i missed the deadline i think, sorry, i write slow

flatfooted

one stuck in a puddle, one tripping over curbs

                i stubble

                                she slips across a window and around the corner

streets are wet and busy

                everything splashes

my imagination

                her misbehavior

it is daylight and she should be sleeping  

I travel by the power of bone and muscle and want

                she moves like water thru shadow

                                                                thru myth thru my head and

                                                                                                one step ahead

she sneaks in-between the ripples of the puddles of my marching feet

                                                                                         ties my shoelaces together

i am clumsy, she is clever

she is magnetic north for all the glowing creatures

                                                                i am day labor

she hides in the corner of a crow’s eye

                i search the thrift store lost and found

she hides between the credit card logo and no smoking decal on the café window

                i play the shell game                      

flatfooted we dance

its noon and her head is in the clouds, pale smile of the plotting

                and two steps ahead

my eyes turn everything over, make a mess

                i want meaning, measurement, understanding

                                i want photographs and facts and maps

she can only be revealed with a blacklight and slice of lemon

                (and reads the same forwards as backwards)

she sleeps naked in cloudless lakes

                                draped only in loose gravity and thin veils of chaos theory

and i don’t dare wake her

                                i don’t dare try to take her because

                                                                                                i don’t want to make her

                                                                                                                change

                                                                                                                the way she

                                                                                                                                plays

                                            this game

 

a waltz poem

 posted for D'verse meeting the bar

let us play

                in the fray

                                in the wake

                                                                in overflowing lakes

                let us make

                                for the break

                                                (last one there eats mud and gets no love)

let us go running, slapdashingly, head first crashing 

bodysplashing

                heartlaughing  

bayonets

                banging  

life

                hanging

like

                night things

with

                                long fangs and a halo of animal radar

                                                                (there’s always a party somewhere)       

because all work no play makes my mind blind searching for sunlight thru a peephole

because  

sidhartha never sat in traffic

only under mango trees

                soft malaysian breeze

                                cleo on the nile

                                                or blue caribbean

                                                                that easy green feeling (you know what I mean?)

it’s a-flee, it’s a-flu, it’s how-do-you-do

                it’s two cheeseburgers and an order of fries

                                it’s midnight matinee and the moon in your eyes   

                (it’s whatever sets your face on fire)

o insane

acrobat

o Chinese

finger trap

mandolin

                finger slap

play the last blast of your song racing like a hot limerick in a gimmick spitting competition  

                bah-bah, bah-bah, bah-bah

                                                bah!

                                                                bah!

                                                                                Bah!

and the last one there

has gum in their hair

something new

 1st d

little rusty bottlecap

i found you today

here on the curb

where i sat and smoked

fixing a broken shoelace

 

and i thought, you must be a miracle

some kind of precious metal

magnetic and stuck to my thumb

                ugly but lucky

the missing element in my mojo

                                (rock, paper, scissor, bottlecap)

 

like you

i was born in a factory

i cut my teeth in a fuckery

pop my top and pour myself out

everywhere i go

 

                                                                                like you

i would never call myself a silver dollar

                slide into a jukebox and sing a song

never claim myself a prince

but perhaps

crown myself with jewels anyway

                                                                                because

                                                i can make a necklace   

with you

and a broken shoelace 

 

 

 

end of the world (as seen by a stray dog who doesn’t it’s the end of the world)

jalopy dreams · end of the world (as seen by a stray dog who doesn't know it's the end of the world)

 个

(heads up! listen to the poem here)

 (for my friend and teacher Wayne Gilbert)

 

perhaps this is a poem

                or ancient prophecy echoing thru the ether

                or page three hundred and three of the g.e.

                refrigerator repair manual

                                or too much caffeine

                too much ambition

perhaps i’m walking the block

in high tech shoes of direction and destination

or maybe i’m just spinning the earth with my feet

this might be september

                                and the moon is shaped like a riddle

                too big to smash with a hammer

this might be a fishbowl

                and i’m just another fishy citizen

                working in a fish stick factory

                                i eat and shit and work

                work and shit and eat

                and then pray for god to come and clean the water

this might be the sticky afterbirth

                or the moment of climax, or the wink

                of spanish fly in a young woman’s eye

                                and a new spirit hovering over

a faded blue buick with steamed up windows

                                young spirit waiting to enter

                the motel called mother

this might be the right circumstance

                in a misfit context

this might be a daytime tv talk show

this might be a keystone cops movie

                or maybe both

                                grainy black and white

                                big hat, billy club

                                                rescue of the whispering

whimpering mr and ms damsel

                tongue tied to the railroad tracks

                                of tv guru voodoo

this might be a snow globe

                 and i should feel foolish

                for not believing in fairytales

this might be candy-hopscotch-doo-dah- mountain

                where happiness glows like a crack-pipe cherry

                where catfish swim with dog packs of dolphin

                                grapevines sing songs of festival wine

                and all the spy satellites hold hands and twinkle

                                                                                together

this might be a motor-home graveyard

                flat hills of empty shells and grey weather

                                dead center of humdrum

                where hummingbirds forget how to hum

                and drop dead

this might be trick photography

or the rare occurrence of natural magic

                behold the mighty onion

                                a gallery of curtains

                unwarp the mummy from the mummy and wah-lah

no more universe

perhaps there’s another universe next door

                that looks and smells and shakes just like this one

                except no one there sings songs

                                  about onions (let’s go!)

this might be leap year

                and all the leap frogs are leaving this world

                to orbit some other mud puddle

                                bum around in limbo

snuggle up in candy-colored god clusters

                get too heavy with philosophy and fall down

tomorrow it will rain frogs

this may seem crazy

                but this might be someone else’s fever dream

                and i’m sleeping in the wrong head

this might be the day before i die

                and i’m here to cast the first stone

                                to fill my coffin with novocain

                comic books and last minute field goals

perhaps this the end of the world

                                                                as we know it and

                ʆi… ʆfeel… ʆfine

perhaps all of this could be or should

be or once was

                                long ago

                                                                all i know is

                i misspoke, tried to sing a choked

                bit my tongue so hard it made me cry

and i can’t see anything very clear

                perhaps 

                this is a poem

 

 some new poems from my old friend wayne gilbert

poets for poests and stories tellers united writers pantry