Friday, August 30, 2013

The Lock


This is how
love works. You
become irreplaceable
so there is nowhere
else to go. You become
inescapable. All of you
paid out, used up,
drops of you squeezed out
so that only a dried-out
core left
if you could escape.
You become the
regular schedule of breath,
the meal,
the glass of water.

Monday, August 26, 2013

A Clean and Simple Poem

I wish I could write
a simple poem like the kind
they read in church.
Poems with simple words
"heart," and "soul,"
the kind that
stay written down and chanted.

I wonder
if it's time
for me to go.
It's beckoning harder now,
with all the fear that
cycles on me in waves
as I remember how
erroneous I have been
with only more fear to come.

I am not
a sour puss.
My tear ducts open
just when the sentiment rushes.
I worship.
I just can't write a
clean and simple poem.

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Review of "Four Stories and Their Poems"

http://www.ascentaspirations.ca/fourstories.htm

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

The Dance Novel

While they danced, Frances
visualized her high school days.
She could hear
the 50s music
superimposed on the beats
she was hearing with her ears.

These days, they tell you where the rhythm is,
you don't have to feel it. As they danced,
bumping with the rhythm, they did not touch.
They exercised their own imaginations.

Everything is
programmed these days. They tell you
how to play and organize the moves.
They tell you how to learn and
what to learn and
threaten you with poverty
if you don't follow.

While they danced, time
bunched up at the end point.
The present moved much
slower than the past streamed in.
Her mind terminated the flow of the past
and there was a blockage that filled
the empty cells of memory.

As she moved, gesticulating
seemingly meaninglessly but not meaninglessly,
she carried a wealth in the heaviness of her.

We have to write about
reality, if we are going to write, not theory.
Theory is rarified
even if it's the most important thing.

We spend our few yearning,
hungry years here, with each other,
with our human furniture.
We don't have time
for explanation.

Paul couldn't resist.
He eventually reached out for the woman's hand
and pulled her close.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Gas Bag Loci


Here we are,
gasbag loci.
Visions and wishes flow
through us.
Time terminates
at the point of our eyes.
We are
heavy with circuits,
gravitas like
digital machines.
We don't realize
how much we count.
We draw high prices.
Yet we
revolve around each other
as if we were stones.

While they danced, Frances was visualizing her high school days. She could hear the old 1950s music superimposed on the beats she was hearing with her ears. These days, a quick thought, they tell you where the rhythm is, you don't have to feel it. As they danced, bumping with the rhythm, not touching, exercising their own creative imaginations, the thought continued, everything is programmed these days, they tell you how to play and organize the moves, they tell you how to learn and what to learn and threaten you with poverty if you don't go by their directives.

While they danced time bunched up at the end point. The present moved much slower than the past streamed in. Her mind terminated the flow of the past and there was a blockage that filled the empty cells of memory. As she moved, gesticulating the dance, seemingly meaninglessly but not meaninglessly, she carried a wealth in the heaviness of her encased consciousness.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Cooperative Reality



How frantic
they got when
a citizen
decided to drop out!
They saw
the whole enterprise
weaken. They thought
all they worked for would
disappear in a moment,
the glue would
come loose, the nails would
pop out. It was scary,
much better to think
that the elements
in the chain were
simply securely fixed,
the atoms remained in crystal,
the ice intact.
Once lost, the citizen was nearly
impossible to restore.
They liked predictability.
That made them most happy.
And predictability
came from education.
They made the world real
by inserting it
into the brains of the young.
Those living in the real world,
our real world, they would say,
they knew
would stay.
They liked refrigeration
that drew the energy
out of the young.
They squandered their money
on the fuel to refrigerate,
keep the crystals
clean and sharp.
Stasis was the easiest
form of familiarity.

Wednesday, August 07, 2013

Ants Crawling on the Wall


Today
I'm full of writing.
It's not my heart
nothing as admirable
as my heart, it's my
aspiration, my vain
hope, my fear
of vanishing with no ghost.
Today brings
mizzling silence,
that transforms
in my appetite to
the illusion of heart.
And I sit down
to get something in words.
My readers are
theories and wishes.
I'm supposed to be the child.
You are supposed to
turn an enthusiastic eye,
praise every charming thing,
and be patient.

Tuesday, August 06, 2013

The Other



Real eyes
have shapes
we never really understand.
Are made of
water bags not glass,
we never quite know how.
Real eyes
dance on a platform of moments.