A Field
New Piece (to be featured in the upcoming WVVY Silent Auction 9/15/11):
And here are the stream of consciousness poems I wrote to fill the image:
standing
teeth bared in
a wooded alcove under
the mud wriggling between
toes feet soaked and hair sweaty
all things amplified by wrought
forces, under and over within without
so simplified for a union of me and
you never questioning devotion
alpine raced and floating
happily defined by
motion
—–
solder and
coils of fed fish
frightened but not afraid
for long with so many right
filled requests and no hard
money to take and rebuke what
is so underexposed reasoned with
and copulating why try to prevent
the best things are saved for last
where ever you can
float and dry your
eyes
————–
i can almost
taste the
wounded
soldiers
one by
one
———-
that’s a
good way
to go just
like that
don’t stop
keep pushing
go on
——
a thought you
couldn’t be without
within over told and magnified
so questionable and undersold
mischievous rationalization
whatever words you speak they
will always love you but better
not to know the passive ways
of avant garde pop syncopation
told rather infatuatedly
could you even read the
words printed under
foot prints and tray
tables in full upright
locked position
———-
be well cold
dinosaur and fruitfully
multiply without haste and
division, silly things will not
prevent you from taking what
is yours, from opening the wounds
and spotting the passive fighter
in the window of the doorway
hope you can defeat your
prisons without mutual
disgust and frayed edge
meals on wheels over
under everywhere you
go hard in the paint ninja
———
we remember doing sordid things with passionate night time stabs in the dark cove red in roses and stamina, charging the passive with criminal acts and flooding our basements together in solid unrest, the hopeful methods with which we acted were all but ravenous for the flying underscored changes in our minds, happenstance and copious amounts of liquor kept us alive and kicking, feeding out egos and selling so many souls for the cost of a bottle, wrestling our happy faces into the ground with little more than a beacon to see in the sky right as rain and left as something to seethe over. welcome back to the cottage of the sainted and stolen candy wrappers all blown sideways by the sound of the implosion, no confused messengers to stifle our riding our hunting, our freedom it was not a dream it was as real as the painted sky glowing with the water in the sun not questioning where we came from or where we were going to go next. holy and unfathomable so pure so wet with glory, trusting in all who came before and all who would come after. the tessellations brewing their own good features and getting ready to eat hungry wafers of grey cardboard flavored mouthpieces all lined up and looking the same as any other day never confused and never disordered but ever questioning the mettle of the few who reached for them in this state constricting and cordial whilst stuffing faces full of crackers and cheese hopeful for a reunion of sorts so soon
——–
it got to be in those days that you were always looking for a way out, the crimes you
dreamt but never committed would be staring you in the face and you’d have to confess
to sins you didn’t commit. hardly a way for a man, woman, or child to live, but circumstance
had it’s plans for us and we had no say in the matter, it would all go as planned. so
many of us tried to escape only to be caught by the guards and beaten within an inch
of our lives, holding on with nothing more than a thread and the light in our eyes we
tried and tried to see the good in our captors but they could be so cruel and
heartless that we found we had to just lay down and take it, there was
no recourse. eventually, some of the men came to us with a plan to
break loose, and we entertained it seriously, it looked
like a viable option at the time they wanted to blow a hole
in the prison wall with some home made explosives
and they were confident that this would work. we said
we were in and from there we waited, all the while
trading cigarettes and favors for each other nobody wanted to be the first one
through the hole, it was a terrifying prospect but eventually we settled on little
steven, he could move quickly and quietly and so he seemed to
be the best choice when he scouted out the scene and came
back with good news we all rejoiced and readied ourselves
for the escape, soon we’d be free to drink and eat and
be merry, all at our own bloody free will. rejoice! we said.
———-
we fell
in our
holes no
answers
to our
questions
all just
over and
under
and sold
to the
wind this
time I
asked and
wondered
if it could
come true
for all of
us today
and it could
they said
it could
so we rejoiced
and held hands
and sang out
to the wind
to the sky
where it
would come
next
——–
the liars
know what
is coming
for us
for them
for the
rest of
things
they turn
so easily
without
question
without
seeking
the answer
or anything
but their
own concoction
spread thin
we try to
expose them
but it is no
use their lies
are comedy
to the rest
of the world
to all free
souls
———-
so many
breaths
always
trying to
free
themselves
———-
skin of the
night all
red with
exposure
combed
lightly
over
——-
the
earth
moving
underfoot
birthing trees
their limbs
rise high
to the sky
without
questioning
their
meaning
only being
as they should
be with a silent shout
to their own to
their young
————
start
asking
for
what
you want
start
taking what
you need
don’t
settle
for
what is
given or what
you are told to
require it is within
your means
to take more
————-
the office
in which i work is housed
in a tall, slender skyscraper in the
middle of new york city and we routinely
head to the rooftops to throw papers
into the sky and watch them flutter
down to the streets below. our parties
are spectacular, like nothing you’ve ever
witnessed, raunchy sex and strobe lights
no one leaves unaccosted, no one escapes
unscathed. ready yourself for the event
we run down the halls with abandon
completely ready to escape our day to
day lives and do something unprecedented
and joyful, blissful, unattainable by
normal standards. ready yourself for
the flood, the water of humans building
up behind the doors ready to explode
outward in a crashing spectacle
of glory and light and
power
——-
something
tells me you’re ready for
the next step, to dive off this cliff together
and fall into the ocean and swim until
you reach dry land somewhere a million
miles away from here. we won’t stop
until we get there and we won’t get there
until we’re ready and we won’t be ready
until we’ve defeated the evil, all the demons
that hide in the lamp lit caverns under
our dirty feet. sweat beads on my fore
head as i think about the next step to
take the next leap to make and i’m now
disassembling my thoughts and turning
them inwards until they can be seen
like a beacon in the sky like a flare
shot into the wind and blowing back
to shore and it all escapes me freely
without a notion of intensity
with free falling guiltless pleasure
———
downward
we travel
south into the open sea
boarding our boats and
feeding our cattle preparing
for the oncoming floods
the vast sea looks ominous
and i fight my mind to
comprehend it’s ferocity
it’s facility. i wash my
feet in the water and
dip my hands in the
sand building castles
from the drippings and
taking my time to understand
the methods of the water
the folds and creases
in the sea all facing me
like an origami motorcade
——-
hold
tight
to your every day ocean
to your snow globe full
of fresh blood and passing
fears they will not open
you or spread you on
the rocks without your
permission you must
comply and keep the
engines running so we
can make our escape
tunneling through the
skyscraper visions and
stopping for no one
and nothing except our
best and brightest cascading
lights in the skies alone
——–
the jocular passion of the night watchmen who
tell us tales of preening children overwrought with frenzy
about the latest toys and cold brothers who took our greatest lessons
from us and spread them thinly across the floors of our school
gymnasium, we never leapt from our places for fear of the headmaster’s
ruler slapping, or a trip to the dark room in which she kept the
fearful dolls. holding hands we chased salamanders through
the rotting logs in the schoolyard and we knew, just knew, that
we had it better than those kids in third world countries that
they could never even see the light of day compared to us
we towered above the younger children and pretended we were
videogame characters, end bosses for them to battle and lose to
and their tokens would be taken and spent at the game room
we’d rent them beta tapes of home movies they’d already seen
or even starred in but we wouldn’t tell them beforehand, they were
so gullible and we were so ready to take advantage of that not
like now where all we want to do is help and give a little bit of life
to little bitty lives for all we can do is stare on at their beauty and wonder
how much of it could have been ours if we tried a little harder and washed
ourselves in the fountains the way the birds do. oh what a life to be a bird
to lift one’s self into the air with only the will of the wings, to hunt prey
from above and swoop down to capture your dinner before the others could get
it. our metal skyward monstrosities are so bulky and confusing in comparison
we might as well have fists made of wrecking balls for all the good it does us
why our eyes were placed only in the front of our heads, good question might
it not suit us better to have panoramic views of all we survey, or maybe that
would get in the way of our enjoyment of these moments we share together
it gets so confusing at times, this language of twenty six alphabet symbols all
placed in different orders trying to describe a way of life there must be a simpler
or more complex way of describing things. with numbers perhaps, pi, algorithms, geometry?
