The Performance Artist

August 18, 2011 § Leave a comment

The Performance Artist

Simple tempered she steppedĀ 
from the limelight
her delicate fingers
dipped in crisp chocolate.

They cracked
like her fingers were cold vanilla ice cream.

Everyone Cried.


This poem Needs work

August 5, 2011 § Leave a comment

When a butterfly flaps its wings…
we say nothing

What I say is never heard through brick walls
covered with plaster.
My voice clogged with decayed leaves
of ancestors I never met,
rules placed before asking
and silence filled with white noise.
It is never quiet.

I thought you said something.

Although we walk together our hands never touch
we placate emotions like mimes in boxes-
ticking to our own clocks
different time, never together-never in unity-we are
the individual!
We believe this-
the moving box with flashing pictures told us-
“this is truth-
the individual only fights for self! Only the self succeeds!”

Hand in fist hits a plastic table rattling
cardboard skies propped up by two-by-fours
and the man in the suit speaks
the truth
because he says it’s truth-
the woman blonde and bubbly
smiles from the box, says
“Some have died today-but it didn’t effect you,
have a nice day.

And seated on stones in our mime boxes
we applaud but no one hears us.
we don’t care
because inside, here, we can’t
feel anything.

beat, beat, a pulse
my heart?
I think, beating, ringing, crying
in my ear
I place my hand to a clear wall
I hope our palms will touch
but you don’t see me
you are applauding at the flashing lights
I say something but I am never heard-
I can barely hear myself-
they trained us well
from the very beginning
on carpeted floors, necks arched
looking toward tele-gods
we are never enough
and we applaud in silent boxes
but I think I heard you speak
and I am afraid
I am forgetting your voice-
your true voice.

Where Am I?

You are currently viewing the archives for August, 2011 at A Chatoyant Fleck.