Raptured Poetics

narrative poetry

2012-05-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

We were all

we were all so damn

tired

sat and looked up at the

ceiling

there was a crack that

ran, from the East corner – at least that was the decided

direction – ragged across to the can light.

the crack did it – broke the bulb –

that is

what was decided.

cold

was what we all were

rapturously

frigid and snorting

all the coke we'd ever want

from off the ceiling.

But the stuff that fell in the crack,

we knew we'd never reach.

Walking on my hands

ran through dewing grass

feet cold, and colder,

and we all jumped and danced and coaxed

the moon

out from behind his mother's clouding apron,

to warm us.

And I would stretch my hands up

and thrust forward,

a pausing solute, to all before me

and march

on my hands, as the moon guided them

under my feet.

I can walk on...on...on...like this

who can best me?

not the bestest ack-ro-bat

or Peter Pan

I could walk...walk...walk...like that

on my hands—when I was young—but now

my feet are warm.

She knew she'd never be that woman

for an hour she had been held in the room

solely of her own

free will

The light began gnawing at her eyes

she felt the humming

hum hum

of the room

around her

lulling her more and more

awake

she was a woman and could stand

on her own two feet,

but didn't feel

like it.

The woman wanted to be a little girl

again, and lay on her bed

and imagine him cascading

towards her on a white horse – definitely white,

but he would have brown hair,

or black

she couldn't decide.

But she was a woman, and could stand

on her own two feet.

So she shut herself in the room

solely of her own locking

to craft something

sure to make

her.

the girl was sitting at the piano,

and felt so small,

so small,

when she thought of the woman

who had won the honors

last year in Moscow.

She knew it would never be her.

she'd never be that woman.

cannibals, drunks, and Freud

2012-05-29T20:28:00.002-07:00

They placed him on the spit

they placed him on the spit

to roast the bones away

turning in and over

over and in he was

turned.

finally a respite

after a breathless morning

the oppressive heat had soothed

like tea drowning out the beggars cough

to singing.

finer meats had lain

before on the king's table

but everyone remarked

on how the bones all were

missed.

policemen on the corning

waving their batons

conducting us in our nightly

calisthenics in the prison yard

to Wesley's

And can it be

that I should gain

no one knew what we stood

to gain, and bent over back

to see the policemen upside

down, between our legs

smirking

and the smell – wavering –

falling down into our arms

left us sickened, drooling

over ourselves

broken.

Canada Dry

Canada Dry had always been his brand.

He was buried face-down in a wheelbarrow

and all we could do was stare,

wet eyes,

as they layered the pavement in around him.

He was a Canada Dry sort of man.

Once he caught the wind in his sail,

and the whiteness brightened his face

as he let go,

Crouching in amongst the rest of the bones.

all he would allow in his house was Canada Dry.

His was a dry county, and a drop never passed his lips

Damn though the man could drink

bleary talk,

followed him down the steps of the church,

jumped in the wheelbarrow next to him.

He had never met his equal

he had never met his equal till he'd met her.

So they were married.

After he divorced his first love,

who'd clung to him at the altar

and smiled up at him till death.

But the yokes were unequal.

And in this age of atheism

intellect was our religion,

so the non-believer had to go –

the priest had declared it inevitable.

So the celebrations were under way

with Freud administering the rite

of passage. And the wine

had stained his beard.

But no one noticed,

they all were washing

their own faces out.

To assimilate more into

the pale afternoon,

old men and Young

were dancing together

as their wives and wives

looked on and laughed.

There was no jealousy any

more among the elite,

everyone drank his own wine

and someone else's.

passing it around,

for that was what the wine loved

best. what it was meant for.

We all laughed at the pining,

hating, passionate houses

down the road,

at allowing themselves

the weakness.

She had taken up a house

along that row,

after their divorce.

She'd understood, because

he'd explained it all to her,

how he missed being drunk,

how he would take to drink again.

So she'd offered him the very

best she had. But it was raw,

strong, bitter, new, peasant wine,

distilled on the mountain,

running in the stream,

and it was unequal to the wine

he'd aged and cultured in the musting

library for all those years,

for he'd been taught by the very best.

He had to put off her peasant drink

and go shopping in the asylum

because as the priest said:

We must not be unequally yoked

with the unbeliever.

When the feasting was underway –

for they were all drunk on the old,

just as the wine they pressed

would get their grandchildren

drunk...

she walked up the lane

and looked into the frosted

windows

to watch the marriage feast.

Freud lifted his arm in a silent

toast.

And she knew that they had been unequally yoked.

It was good that she had lost her first love.

Smile, smile. Till death.

three older poems.

2011-12-22T10:58:00.000-08:00

Beating Day out on a Drum.

The sun rose.

we all stood at attention as the trucks

loaded with

my cousin,

his brother,

your friend,

rolled past at three miles an hour.

The bodies, stretched out at attention

side by side.

Five trucks worth.

I got permission to go back behind our lines,

to see if he was alive.

When we started school, we were both six years old

and the building still smelled like shoe blacking and pine,

the doors still laughed on shining hinges,

looking up into the new moon.

“How was it?”

“I couldn't feel the ground.”

He pulled out a photo of Leah.

I whistle low,

for the fiftieth time.

“Hot item right there.”

He laughs, kisses her,

slides her back into his chest pocket

left side.

Five times they charged the hill

before they were called back.

Word is they've given up

on that inflection

on my map.

I wind my trail back towards my naked hill,

ignoring the broken, crying flesh around me.

Dry, cracking tent flaps squeal up into the wind

as the old man looks down and down

from his perch on the sliver of frail light.

I am my own dream

and I will let no man shake me awake

to shrinking reality.

I walk the mile and a half,

the craters in the road forcing the trucks to a crawl.

But still,

to be alone

away from the mob,

to stumble over roots

and curse the emptiness

is welcome.

To stop and rest

on the sawed off trunk

that I sight over every night.

Up and up,

nod to the men leaning back,

hyenas in the trenches.

Nervous, fearing the night.

But the laughter does nothing

to drive the demons from our position.

I drop into the box,

the navel of our hill,

pick up my binoculars.

Scanning the jagged ground

I see a hill a mile,

maybe two,

from me,

and two men.

He slowly lifts the butt of his rifle to strike,

He cowers under an arm,

and both are embraced

in a fuming pire

and fade,

into the sunset.

The Rite.

Something was missing,

and it was there to stay.

He'd left it gnawing

in neatly tuned rows

and it slowly ground

out a melody,

slow,

slow.

In time to the pitter fleeting

ghost that stood and sang

those familiar words -

“It is well

and with his soul

is severed.

How sounding sweet,

is grace amazing.”

And then we all stood,

“Aye, verily, aye.”

And the rite was passed

round,

round.

In time to the vapit, vapit

feet, slaying time.

Laying him to rest.

Carousel.

deciding on whether the wandering is blameless,

can be hypnotizing.

she walked in jagged circles...around...around...around...

an empty carousel.

She was lost. not knowing which horse she had started from.

was killing her.

Every time she completed her turn and moved towards the beach

growing from the feet of a red stallion,

the man with the cane sitting on the blue bench between the giraffe and antelope

tipped his cap towards her.

But she just swallowed hard, pretending not to see, and quickened her step

almost to a jog.

slipping in the sand again, she muttered under her breath, and looked back

at him, hoping hating to see him watching.

but he was turned towards her backwards wheeling footfalls

his hand on the brim of his cap.

she began the circuit for the twelfth time, but as he tipped his cap she lost her courage,

and fell beside the belly of an alligator

the toddlers had ridden him, with a parent on either side, holding their hands

and laughing along.

the teeth were longer than she had thought from a distant glance, discolored and reddening

it was an empty carousel.

But she just swallowed hard, pretending not to see, and quickened her breath

almost cradling her lungs in her mouth

before she saw the cane resting on the mouldering snout.

puncturing the rotten wood.

sun poems

2011-08-20T05:48:00.001-07:00

The Sun Rose (Into the Sunset)

The sun rose.

we all stood at attention as the trucks

loaded with

my cousin,

his brother,

your friend,

rolled past at three miles an hour.

The bodies, stretched out at attention

side by side.

Five trucks worth.

I got permission to go back behind our lines,

to see if he was alive.

When we started school, we were both six years old

and the building still smelled like shoe blacking and pine,

the doors still laughed on shining hinges,

looking up into the new moon.

“How was it?”

“I couldn't feel the ground.”

He pulled out a photo of Leah.

I whistle low,

for the fiftieth time.

“Hot item right there.”

He laughs, kisses her,

slides her back into his chest pocket

left side.

Five times they charged the hill

before they were called back.

Word is they've given up

on that inflection

on my map.

I wind my trail back towards my naked hill,

ignoring the broken, crying flesh around me.

Dry, cracking tent flaps squeal up into the wind

as the old man looks down and down

from his perch on the sliver of frail light.

I am my own dream

and I will let no man shake me awake

to shrinking reality.

I walk the mile and a half,

the craters in the road forcing the trucks to a crawl.

But still,

to be alone

away from the mob,

to stumble over roots

and curse the emptiness

is welcome.

To stop and rest

on the sawed off trunk

that I sight over every night.

Up and up,

nod to the men leaning back,

hyenas in the trenches.

Nervous, fearing the night.

But the laughter does nothing

to drive the demons from our position.

I drop into the box,

the navel of our hill,

pick up my binoculars.

Scanning the jagged ground

I see a hill a mile,

maybe two,

from me,

and two men.

He slowly lifts the butt of his rifle to strike,

He cowers under an arm,

and both are embraced

in a fuming pire

and fade,

into the sunset.

Sun in Hand

Sun in hand and lift up my head

to the sky,

and see before me

scattered, the panes of Light

and pastures of grassy sand

floating, drifting apart

and swaying, swaying

to the rumbling Thunder Drums

Thrum...Thrum...Thrum...Thrum...

Crowns of flowers

wreathe the Sun's halo

as the deer bound for cover

and I lope home,

teeth bared in joy.

I slow to a pant

and let the rain catch me up

in its folds.

I can smell the palmettos burning

and know the Sun has built

His campfire

and He and Polaris and the Centaur

—His brothers—

beat the dirt into straining herds,

horses flying across the plains

and into the eye of the Moon.

Drift, fall into sleep

as the wind coos,

and the rain spells out

its abandoned tale

of when it played in the pussy-willow,

of when it was young and Mother

taught it how to feed the hungry ground.

I lie on the mat

and listen for the coyote's Wail

and answer it from the misery

that sits whittling the kindling wood

I stored away for the winter.

untitled

2011-07-30T05:52:00.000-07:00

Tell your story (to the red-nosed minstrel)

scrape, scratch along

clawing the ground

search for breaks

in the sheen

cobalt armor

layered pattern

back and across

poured out stiff,

insensitive to language

or Alliance

I reach high,

high unseeing

mud coated eyes

I reach high,

high straining

fibers tearing

and knotting

I cannot see

with my face buried

locked down

down, wood

and metal

and clay

and straw

binding

Up,

Up, I reach

streaking flame

igniting my back ablaze

a ritual burning for all to see

My hands fall

they too are blind

and cannot feel,

covered over

week old blisters

hard and hating

crinkling

cracking

in the warmth

find the pink,

living skin

and frozen

blood

Beneath

Curse God

And Die

the soot and soil

welcomes my hands

back home—to the fireside

two chairs

and a scalding embrace

Tell your story

to the red nosed minstrel

so he has a song to sing.

Watch him,

stagger,

trip,

vomit.

Lose yourself in his words.

hey splash around

flaked,

dripping with tobacco juice.

Your Stomach tightens.

In the ash heaps

Ten thousand people lined the streets
to stone me.
They didn't know that I had already climbed
upon my funeral pire and lit the gasoline,
striking the match on the sole
of my foot.
Ten thousand people rushed to the beach—
they heard my singing—
and watched my castles burn
and sink into the ocean.
When it cooled
I could feel them climbing
up and up,
feeling for footholds
in the ash-heaps.
Looking for my bones.
Turning up the black
with spades—
a pickax.
And then, cheering,
they pronounced
that I was dead.
And pushed me
onto the reef.

From the dust

stand at attention and feel the grind
stone at the nape of your neck.
Gradually passing, passing by
you hear the guards roar off
into the night.
And you gasp for air
and recite the assassins
creed
for the benefit
of Mr. Joe Smith
who watched. and waited.
for no one knows.
Kept under the bushel
basket, his eyes
shining.
Blow back petals
across the back of the wind,
feel the rushing, gushing
empathy of the waves...
the pools of light...
Idle back into bed
and.
dream.
of sand castles
and clouded buttresses.
Mr. Joe Smith
sits beside you.
weaving a story
from the dust,
under
your bed.

Poems to wander by.

2011-06-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

Lamentations

Lament oh daughter of Zion
for your kingdom comes
and His will has not be done.
Just walk down 5^th avenue
to see the sites and grab
a cup of coffee.
Breath in deep,
feel the welcome cough
creeping through your chest
and know the mighty
and how they have fallen.
When He comes
He'll expect the grand
tour of your city's soul
will you take Him
to into your heart and show
Him the jumbo-trons
you've posted on every
valve?
Or take Him into your
arteries? to the cars
and trams flying
underneath your skin?
Or are you concerned
that His diagnosis will
confirm the change
in diet, all of your prophets
have decreed?
Have Him walk down
5^th avenue, and view
the gluttony for Himself.
And then, oh daughter of Zion
lament.

Watching buildings burn

Watching buildings burn.
Watching babies cry.
Heart only crawls,
...up...up...
kicking your adam's apple,
clawing at your tongue
if it is your own.
Long ago, were
we still unable
to weep?
Before we needed
a thousand friends
a thousand friends
to reassure our worth?
to damn us if more convenient?
The old berate us for forgetting
family.
Fathers.
Mothers.
Brothers.
Sisters.
But how can we forget?
Something that never was...

Mourn. Mourn!

The tribe has gathered round
and we all walk the Appalachian
in order to find each our lonely peak
in the Rockies
were we dance
until we fall
and the leaves
cover our eyes.

The movies have taught us
that to give away the heart
is weak.
Two can never be one.
We must follow our nightmarish
anonymity to its end.
Only in that nightmare,
can we truly be happy.

Be strong and courageous.

Poems written under the influence of airsickness and heavy doses of Dramamine.

2011-06-03T07:38:00.000-07:00

nowhere to go -

today the bedclothes were pulled back and stared up at me
I turned my face away from the furious assault
and just took the beating across my back

yesterday it was overcast and rained.

Oh Rain!

and still I couldn't take enough in to satisfy.

A plate of grouper.
I eat alone.
Spare the crumbs.
and the knife and fork and buttered toast
with jelly off to the side.
there.
just past.
three o-clock in the afternoon
of the morning after

spin
spin
SPIN!

around...around...around...

till we can't anymore,
but that's just the way it has always been.

green and sparkling in the rain.
tilt your head into the clouds
coughing, because you did it too quickly
laughing, because you can't see
for the rain in your eyes.

I feel I must turn away before the rain melts my skin,
rushes down through my blood and settles in my stomach,
curl back up in bed

then I remember
and cough up the rainwater
gurgling

desperately...desperately...desperately...

lose myself for I have nowhere to go,
and if I can only disappear, then I will have nothing to worry me.

Foreign Shores -

And you'd like to be alone with the walking dead

speaking their incomprehensible language.

Quietly.

Soft mumbles.

For then you are swallowed up.

For then you are swallowed wholly...

Empty of circumstance and sheephood

following an endless, passionately drab

stuttering.

Loving

To be alone.

With only the sputterings of your mind as companion.

Walk on foreign beaches,

foreign streets.

Drink foreign beer

and wine.

An imbecilic existence

following an endless, passionless brilliance.

Wander, wander, wander free—for they cannot understand

the broken tremors and meatless tongue.

Kneel and pray.

Incomprehensible in its passion.

While we were yet sinners.

Free to hate and purge and wrestle

with our humanity.

Kneel and pray.

Washed up on foreign shores

you wander, wander, wander free

you around, around, around free

Do you understand now the ineptitude of riches?

Now that you lie panting for putrified air?

Now that you lie panting for purified air?

On foreign shores.

From the rooftop -

From the rooftop,

a mountain

clapped with snow

dirt slides like a comet's tail

flowing down and down

from the sides

branching off,

still and smooth

like a beachcomber

seen from a distance

Stoop towards the street

last week's paper fluttering

perversely between a tram

and an old man, unaware

of the squealing

the paper is caught

flat against the grill

the old man turns

on the curb—

he feels the wind

snap at his coat

as death rushes by

paper screaming

its agony.

The sun, the Sun!

but blotted out

by the satellite dish

overhead

scorched a rusty gray.

Rain in its acidic glory

tramples out the dust

of the goats

and dissolves the

drum

of their bells

on the hillside

and dissolves the

clang!

of the bells

in the steeple.

As I leapt from the rooftop.

Weightless -

We store away our souls in the overhead compartment and take our seats.

Fasten our seat-belts.

Breath in the whir of the engines.

Abandon ourselves to the rolling...rolling...rolling...and then SSSSSSHHHHhhhhhaaahhhhHHHHH...

Weightless.

Moment by moment.

Grow in closer contact with the sky as the stars laugh at our weakness.

How long have we been trying to lasso the sun?

Over and over again: failure. Putrid failure. Incandescent failure.

We are all overtly polite and bow and kiss the hand and kneel and bow again. But we fail, fail, fail, in every way.

Why?

And the hollow still fills up the chest in an agonized pounding. Resound down every corridor in stifling misery, crouching behind every door, behind everyone.

behind...behind...behind...behind...behind...behind...

We have always been panting, panting to catch up, but just as we sling our lasso the plane hits an downdraft and we drift

Weightless.

And our aim is shattered.