Sunday, December 21, 2014

Twilight Jesus

I am alone in a small room. The room is empty except for a dream that won't leave me alone. I wait for the words, each and every one but I receive no answers. I am dancing without movement until I see Twilight Jesus standing by the window. He is a tall, strong man, who lights a cigarette by another. Calmly, he says, "Get a little pissed about something, even me if you can." His eyes are so large they  might pop out. I get up and start looking for an exit. The feeling is very scary. I hear the snow falling outside. I hold tight to the poem and fly my own way away. 


Friday, December 19, 2014

The path is a weeping god and she curves inward.

My heart whispers something but fever makes the words a blurry mess. In a single breath it implies some new universe and each of its molecules, a slow melting wisdom. At town's edge a wild dog is bleeding. It's a black hole that fits in the pocket of the poet.

 


Thursday, December 18, 2014

ART AND THE CENTER OF EVERYTHING

ART AND THE CENTER OF EVERYTHING 

There are places I go to that have no words

E's Blue House of Nails & Suicide
Husband gone and an eldest daughter's three failed attempts

there's no comforting you

but I find the stories of these places is 
like finding flowers in a vacant lot
and that's what I write


Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Twilight Jesus

Coming back to the world I thought I'd like to cheer up. I am strange to these parts but I am made of magic. I can see the mountains from here. I have nothing wise to say only that we bounce back and bounce back. Imagine a world built on mystery, every atom a liar. Jump on the passing hayride, tip your cap to the wind, the ever-parting wind. The dream is always there floating above the ache. 

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

IN THE END

My myth is one of unreachable spaces.

Bones shake one by one until my basket's empty.

(I hope it makes the gates of heaven shake)

My mouth is the nude in the desert. Open it, and a song of the catechism and scorpions pour out.

On the window someone has written
EVERYTHING IS IN THE BLOOD
in crooked letters. A warning bell.

Crazed animals pace behind the closet wall.
The jailer with the long black coat is the artist of my destiny.

This is my extreme labyrinth.                                

open the window and nothing holds me, palms up, roses in hand.
I'm out out of the world.

 


Monday, December 15, 2014

The Barren Turn

I don’t know how it is in normal places but in 
the death business people have a last name. St. Muerte, St. Death, patron saint of drug addicts,
is familiar with the moaning and flailing. From this side, from the other. Bloated skull face. Jail tattoos on her big hot chest, worms waiting patiently beneath.
The seep of formaldehyde is the language she speaks.

A language nobody owns.  




Sunday, December 14, 2014

Misfit Searching

What echoes? 
how you feel…? 
It’s so the world. 
Same story. 
A mosaic of floating thoughts in the brain. 
A new direction, but all things that die. 
Never too clear, peculiar. 
A magic leap forward. 
All the poems. 
Here in a theatrical reality. 
What is really going on? 
How to lose? 
How everybody passes it  up? 
Will truth shine thru? 
Will it be real or just another slide toward heaven? 
Clinging, I cannot speak. Clinging I wish to peak. 

A shiny uncertain moment.  
Can it be curse? 
How will it be found? 
Who will feed the swans? 
Who will wake up?