Domestic Paradise

January 14, 2018 § 2 Comments

Through the window pane I watch them eating.
I see them through the sliver of silver curtains
that sweep the floor like ball gowns.
Everything is perfectly color coordinated,
and new born babies coo like doves.

I stand here day and night
through every season
Frost bitten in deep bitter snow
or sunk into hot August mud.
I can barely blink at the life
in front of me.

I watch their children grow,
the new and old marriages,
vacations planned, bought, and taken,
baseballs tossed, ballet slippers worn,
baking and sewing, building and crafting,
visits from their relatives, in-laws, divorce and death,
(not necessarily in that order)
the family life.

Through the ages I’m watching
other peoples’ lives.
If only I could turn around,
toss my envy into the compost
beside the perfect houses, and turn around
to see the many roads that reach out into my own horizon.

There are other paths
I know because I can feel the sun
on my shoulders, urging me to move,
and turn to face an uncharted future, but
my eyes are glued to the Norman Rockwells, and the
American Dream:
The instagram of domestic paradise

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A Video for one of my poems

November 17, 2010 § Leave a comment

This was made as part of a collaborative effort for a Showcase I put on in November, this was the media part of the art and performance show.


Poets can seduce
with big words like dystopia,
metaphors like
fern sword, fern
sword.
Aural body licking,
words talk dirty or clean,
deep like the best lover,
even if they are
singing to a wine glass
filled with dirty dishwater,
They are seducing you
simple red wheelbarrows,
ball turret gunners,
and dancing on daddy’s feet,
wipe the tears as the meaning hits,
or doesn’t. We don’t get it.
They are seducing you,
they get better looking as they read.
Average men and women
turn to perfumed demigods,
not gods, not goddesses,
not humans, not immortals,
half-breeds.
That is the power of performance.
Intoxicated by the
language,
The gaze shifts from
love to lust.
Away you poets!
Do not  speak to me
crafted words strung
like colored popcorn
on the poor man’s
tree dripping
tinsel, and bread made ornaments.
Vocabulary curled like the petal of the
deepest part of the red, red rose,
that is language.
Taste the muse, see the
spirit,
then set the poet free
to be men and women
who die like the rest of us.

Poetry Re-writes

November 4, 2010 § Leave a comment

I’ve been working on a couple of poems to get ready for a reading and because I am collaborating with other artists on their projects. I’ve gone through some of my earlier poems and have re-worked them and I’ll be posting the re-writes for the next few posts. You can read the original here.

Remain Seated

Please, Remain seated.
Do not raise up your arms

Do not lift the bar.
The warning signs
Are bright, red, white,
old, old, and old.

The ride
Is about
To begin:

I’ll tell you a story
A boardwalk tale
The Great Dipper,
The oldest roller coaster
(On the West coast)
White planks of wood
Arched lattice

The kind used in June Weddings.
What
A
Beauty.

The time: the forties.
There was a sailor and his girl.
They rode that Great coaster.
It roared like a 1908 earthquake,
Spitting like a Chinese dragon
Crimson train shuddering the white tracks.

To impress his girl,
To show how brave,
To prove,
To give,
To love,
So she would know, 

Just how far he was willing to go,
He stood up.
Arms high, exuberant, free, and
He surrendered.

The train dropped,
Dipped and turned
(Like they do)

SNAP! WHIRL!
Under a lattice arch and
Fwump!

His head popped,
Like a bottle of cheap champagne

On a hot day, and
Soared into the air, like
A bride’s bouquets
Of coordinated flowers,
His smile still pressed to his face,
And landed in the lap of a lady
Sitting in the last car
(the head always lands in the

Laps’ of ladies in the last car).

Oh how I feel when loving you

Like this Great Dipper rattling. 

The entire world shaking.
Put your arms down
There will always be some
Fool that wants to impress.
Love is blind
Unable to read
The red, white, old, old and old signs.
You’d think by now
They’d write the warnings in Braille. 

Let’s keep our heads.

Of course, I can’t help
But feel bad for the
Schmuck
in the last seat
All alone,
And covered in a mess.

 

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