Saturday, November 01, 2014

Up From Blue

You hear a hundred voices. You open your eyes. It's a grey dawn in Gotham. It's a day made for skiing, ice fishing and the night will be made of demons and ghosts. You hear even more voices. You open your eyes wider. You keep yourself wide awake for a couple of years. This is how art is made. Just don't tell anyone. No one would ever believe you. Make a poem from graffiti. Keep your eyes open and all things must be counted and never despair as a witness that there is a weary grace comes out from the shadows.

Friday, October 31, 2014

Twilight Jesus

Sister Mary Jean thought it was Twilight Jesus who was being disruptive so she assigned him to wash Monsignor McCarthy's Lincoln Town Car during recess. As he was scrubbing the long car he had a hard time imagining  himself inside someone's mouth, as a wafer no less or a communion tray holding his arms, his hands,  and traces of his head. It blew him away thinking of a fine cloth marker in the hymnal at "What a Friend We Have in Twilight Jesus."

I don't want to cry anymore. I just want the facts. Unknown poets die everyday. Let me tell you a little something about myself. My trouble is that nothing seems to be a loss. I wonder if I suffer from Asperger's. Perhaps I've surrendered or something more, an end to my vanity. To my great amazement, a hole appeared in the clouds, as a searchlight of sun blinded me like it was a sign. I just burst out laughing and singing to myself "soon my happy heart will quiver, soon I'll reach that shining river."

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Halloween Eve

He keeps the whole universe on the top of his head.


When the raven flies through he shoots out of the sky, snake-tailed but with a thousand wings to announce that hell is empty and all the devils are here.




Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Stumbling mind, a ride far inside a whirlwind of a whirlwind in code--no mantra, not even a whisper of poetry inside that golden, sacred pulverized nothing. 

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

More and More Clear Now

O, soul of the underground!

As full of life as life's

big body. Birds shit on your roof too. Termites plot invasion. All of which is not so dark I see.



Monday, October 27, 2014

Through These Etes

Lord knows, I’d give my last sunset to be a poet of laughter and rapture, 
throw intolerable joy in for free.
                         But who wants any of that?

I'm rupture and fissure, shadows in gaps, behind and beneath, dreamer on low streets, jalapeƱos and eggs.

Or am I just afraid?

It's already midnight. I've been born and I've died. And here in this moment, the space in between, the night knows the truth and I manage to watch.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Parallel World

He dreams himself a world, 
his blues gone, 
dawn light over a city of sharp stones. 
Nothing swallows him or grinds his bones.
Nothing but earth his heaven.
The mind and body detached from concrete, decay, 
and the street's deranged looking for a fight.

With his bread of words,
it's his own stories more than food that keep him alive.
Between himself and life out there 
to construct something out of nothing. Like a crazed god himself.