Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Don't call me "buddy"

Chichi scanned the shop fronts:
“Presbyterian”, “Lutheran”, “Alimony”, “Pay stubs”, “Masculinity”,
and she peered down at the green dolphins swimming below the crystal surface,
and the rippling images below crawled across her skin,
like fire ants, burning,
shaking her heart and lending a restlessness to her day dreams.
She wanted to leave the market-place, but the dark tress beyond
Could only be reached through an impenetrable barrier of blind crowds
And searing oil frying the day’s catch.
She tried to pry open her mouth with her fingers
To let her escape and run free.
And the sky was a dun-grey shade.
Somebody would have to break the dam and flood the village she mused openly.
And people laughed and breathed in the smog.
Tear-stains from yesterday amplified the crinkles of their upturned mouths.
I would like to be outside of here.

Monday, September 12, 2011

The shaman grasped the spear firmly,
as he stood on the beach this fine moonlit night,
and he waved it aggressively at an angry ocean.
"Stay back," he said,"and be calm.
Your children bid you to hear their mouthpiece,
and soothe your raging temper.
I draw straight lines from the Pole star
to her five sisters
and bind you within their radiant arms."
And their fears were manifest,
a tangible shadow across the night's surface
one that lent conviction to the entranced spirit-keeper,
an enemy known, ethereal,
yet confined to the limits of conscious thought.
On what fine day will he see defeat then?
Are there no bounds to his powers?
Ah, but when he stands on that beach
amidst the ruins of his village,
as age and decay rot away the traditions of his world
and the threads come loose from the fabric of his star-spiced worldview
racked and ravaged by strange, new seasons of smallpox and arrogance,
then he he is forced to sit back down, agape,
the spear slackens in his hand,
and the Fight in him ebbs away,
cowering in dazzled incomprehension.

Friday, September 09, 2011

Slipping away like weakened graphite pressed
between aging pages
the words crumble into shadows,
an osteoporosis of eloquence
and vague shifting gaps in memories,
a dry brook running itself into the hungry earth.
The dawn elicits no light,
the night shelters no sleep,
and thus steeped in the twilight hum
of every day
time steps ahead.
There are hints, taps on the shoulder
slight passing perfumes of muses moving underneath the distant trees
carried on the wind, but
they leave me lonelier still when they stream on by.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

Drum roll, mon Papa!!
A little sky by the wayside,
and sunshine to boot in the new year.
Do you have something to say to the fiery volcano and the cool moon,
that play down the electric sheen of a delicately rendered world?
The sharp salmon softening the horizon
and giving birth to the white phoenix arising in silent fury.
Now that I am alive,
bury me gently in your warm caress,
and let me close myself.