Tongues for Days


purling this timidity into

cities translated by clouds

as forever rests

on gossipers’ tongues.

*

gulls been fending for

and fending off

longer than this shyness

ever existed.

 

electricity’s been static

fingertips

discovered nothing

but an experience.

*

didn’t go / didn’t get

mad

but took in a tear

on receiving news.

 

sheltered sadness

fostered it

for sake of something.

 

parrots had nothing to repeat.

mockingbirds eased of mimicry.

 

quieted, calmed –

reflecting on the essentiality

of being

another animal.

*

instinctively,

descent comes closer to home

to find the core –

bypass wounds, scars, sore spots

to dismay of symptoms

distracting the cure

*

in fear, death rises again

within

 

breaking out

heaven from hell

fury from fate

injustice amused

*

with a distaste being mutual between

needle and cloth

thread – the only common friend –

binds both until

the job is through.

*

aloof

crammed into the corners of the mind –

holding up the walls of theories never to be

a fly holding back the boulder

telling Sisyphus

give up the task

 

what worse could possibly come?

*

rain hungers for a face

tongues for a drop

 

Overcast


“… can never forget

Once every wall was water…”

Mary Oliver

Goals were never stated

for tears

set free

for overcast

brought about

by and for

some unknown

bend of shame,

regret.

 

Dampened consequences

bringing to rot

an idea

someone else

would

die for.

Could Be Competition


“can you make it rain harder”

(Prince – before the Super Bowl)

the world don’t behave

and why not

what else is there to be

but transformed?

*

nothing compares

diamonds/pearls

pressure applied/mounting

couldn’t make anything

else

*

when the lakes rose, doves found higher ground. there are tiers. places to rise to.

*

it’s not all symbols,

symbolic, symbolism

but maybe it is. if so, own it. that’s how freedom works. it’s how bats become bigger than the night. how an echo becomes the cave. how in and out transcend placement.

*

and how does an elevator

have the strength to

carry on?

*

what will it take to coax a cessation out of death?

*

as if life

ever had a choice

there’s no other king in town

*

ain’t got no money

working part-time

pretending the rest

.

a little much

. . .

what’s the other?

*

the max,

the morning papers,

the moonlight

who can’t be asked

anything anymore the way it used to when it was cherry

and only a red corvette could be

competition.

Planning


As so on a by-passed day

when the self

so willed

to find a sharp

and 90 degree meeting

and rest there

a bit

facing away

from the room

it also created

when action

overpowered

planning

(inspired by Luis Cernuda)

Now And Again


Our heart. Yes, ours. If only ever. What a want to share one with someone/everyone else.

 

All is lost but we’ll find it again. I promise if you promise too.

*

I’ll never wish for sleep. I only ever want to be awake. I don’t want to miss a minute of when things get good. Get great. Become what they could always have been.

I wan to witness equality. All I need to see is consistency then I can rest in peace.

*

I’m trying to keep a little laughter in me but it’s getting hard to do. Somebody told me what to do. Dig into your half of a heart and give me some sound advice. A sound. A lyric to sing to myself when I’m feeling lonely. A verse to hold onto for the uphills when my legs are burning. Give me the song that’ll have me begging to meet the sirens. The sirens here to help us. The sounds of emergencies averted. The sound of a miracle worker’s footfall.

*

Justice isn’t blind. It’s bound and gagged and I don’t know who’s getting off but I know it didn’t come cheap.

*

Don’t trust me with your money I’ll bet the house on us. We have to win. We didn’t come this far to lose even if we’re losing now. Now and again.

New Work at Queen Mob’s Teahouse


New Work is up at Queen Mob’s Teahouse

Expand

. . .

how did we grow up into this place?
what trades landed us here?

I was busy being a bookmark earlier, stuck in the middle of the story. I was a paperweight trying to keep the plot pinned down. I was not made for conversation. or I was but I lost my destiny getting here.

. . .

http://queenmobs.com/2015/10/poem-kenyatta-jean-paul-garcia/