Friday, February 20, 2015


He's feeling the last throb
Drop drop drop
Blood in his heart
Fingers on fingers
Rasp sighs a whisper
reflection of voice
Heart opens like eyes
He sees what is true
Nothing but love
Tell them I love you
I love you all
Love all of you
Drop drop drop
Fingers lose touch
This is his final

dan majka is famous!

Dan Majka is famous! reads the e-mail subject line-
nearly strain my index finger with a fidget to decline it
and delete it- drowning in his well-wishes-
could spend hours on the phone
finding ways I might compete with-
but I’m rusting in a coffee shop which may as well be home-
just biding time ‘til better ways appear for investment in my life-
generational angst transfigured ‘til it becomes my own.
Dan Majka is famous!; I’m just fulfilling my role-
simply falling apart here, fingers wet from pickle bowl
ears burning from so much baby-talky, Bible-talk treacle-
served up with sociological, heebie-jeebie rock-n-roll.
Dan Majka is famous! and I’m losing control-
cheap coffee shop napkin tears like my resolve.
dedication spent- greasy fingers make holes
tears in descent, I fondle untouched sandwich crusts-
overload for the stomach and for the soul.
Dan Majka is famous; my life is a sitting duck sinecure
I just don’t see the point of debate-
if Dan is famous- what does that make me?
An eavesdropper on strangers’ tales of aftershocks and despair-
proving themselves they’re ok with “a quick prayer, then outta there.”
Could I be ok too- if I dared to believe
in fairy tales and pop-psychology and comfort food?

Dan Majka is famous! Oh, like I really care…

* * *

Written stream-of-conscious listening to several different conversations around me and reading an email. 

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

yule, 2002

Honored mother, honored father.
We feel your presence in this season,
In a story told of a birth in a stable on a silent night,
in stories of antiquity,
of Isis and Horus, Ishtar and Tammuz,
Dionysus and Persephone, Maya and the Buddha.
In these we see the continuation
of the timeless cycle of creation,
of life from death and warmth from cold.

(Written for a Yule Service in 2002.)

* * *

From the twilight
comes the snow;
from the snow
comes the lady
from her womb
to bring light to the world.

From the gloaming
comes the mother;
from the mother
comes rebirth
starts the cycle
to bring light to the world.

From the lady
comes a sigh;
from the sigh
comes release
born a child
to bring light to the world.

From the mother
comes a son;
from her son
comes renewal
joins the cycle
to bring light to the world.

From the frigid
comes a spark;
from the spark,
rise the sun
igniting fire
to bring light to the world.

From the darkness
comes the mother;
from the mother
come we all-
all are children
who bring light to the world!

waking immortal

Dozens of years
dust gathered
on the bridge of my nose
hard skin faded
to pallid from rose
lost atop the sphere.

Ad-hoc creeping
dreaming ceased
long ago lost the heart of life
not to snap the drum
nor toot the fife,
heart lost the will to sing.

Slumber I wept
inside the monster
the heart now pounds
in misery once again resounds
for something that was kept.

Belief in light
scarlet eyes blithely
seek resonance,
to once again shudder
rise and dance
joy unfurls in sight!

Focus returns-
shadow creature stands
bare-chested and wet
impulses fire
without regret
blood to body churns.


Disaffected starry-eyed angel
wears jewels 'neath eyes
to symbolize
her tears.
Walks on toes
to parse the shuffling crowd
of tomorrow's lost
wine glass above
trickles through her hair
turns jaded thoughts
to frost.
Long-neglected steely-eyed strangers
squeeze 'round her frame
mean to defame
her skin.
Mindless drones
set to rhythm
of a sycophantic beat
syncopation strains
their buzzing heads
and lulls their sense to sleep.
Redirected teary-eyed misfit
no fight within
only fear and strain.
Caught in stream
of spangled minds unkempt
slaving for the drums
pulsations throb
indenture mixes
her battle a nil sum.

* * *

I was in Las Vegas at a vodka bar/dance club when I wrote this in my head. An interesting little world, the club scene... perhaps a microcosm of life. While everybody should be having fun, some are there to look good, others to wander aimlessly and others just to screw people. Then there are the people who are there to work, who nobody really
notices. I sound like fun at parties, eh?

to butterfly wing, tether my soul

To butterfly wing,
tether my soul-
face-to-face with multieyed foes
travel is maelstrom
past orb-weavers' weblines-
I'm a tattletale taught a new-fashioned role.
Heart-to-heart with the vaporous din
enter the passage and view my kin
beckon forth and free,
past martyrs expired-
reconcile my yore to absolve any sin.
Land in a flesh-filled lounge plenteous-
eye-to-eye with the umbra inside us
descending is bliss, to cognizance hie
call the crooners of paeans
to continuance callous
On butterfly wing
I lose inhibition-
mystically coupled in cryptic union
traveling paths to dwellings sonorous
soul-to-soul with my confederate won.

time off

She gyrates astride the stage
arms like feathers tossed in the wind
as the harsh lights gleam
off the fine sheen-
perspiration on her tired body.
Muscles quiver taut
with expectation of excitement
and reward when it is soothed.
She greets me with a dove-coo,
all rhinestone eyes
and half-tossed hair,
grazes the side of my face
with her breasts bared
and the smell of floral nectar.
I crane my head in anticipation
smelling her sweet curve of neck
where it meets the ear-
she giggles girlish-
the motion swaying
her breasts as I leer.
She squats like an indian before me
an awkward alien in
high-heeled boots and naked flesh.
I step aside and halfway wave
pondering myself, embarrassed.
But even then,
even then my brain
tricks my nose into sniffing
the sweet scent of her skin
and I hangdog to the table
to sit among my sin.

stinging on wing

Bright trees ahead
don't make me traverse
that road again
I'll wander beyond
this tangled strand
my synapses sing
ready for your command.
I am a scorpion
stinging on wing
like a fire in the trees
reality I defy-
fortuitous tidings-
into frays I fly
trill the voices of waters
raging catastrophe
contaminant disease
my plague is born
whisk flower to flower
snap seed unshorn
pollen kingdom before me
I would be in ecstasy
but honey of harmony
dollops out of reach
automaton smile
hovers just below eyes
not meeting nor moving
a drone's dull trial.

the phoenix in decline

falling, falling
down in a spiral
to the heat-beaten streets
from a sky so blue it burns the eyes
hypnotic gyrations from
a star-spangled nightmare
called justice or truth
and we cry for you
lost in a fugue-like cohesion
a semi-solid malady of being
a wounded scavenger
scraping the basement
of reeking desert valleys
where carcasses lie
bleached bones on which it dined
juxtaposed right and left
now shining in triumph
receiving their due
with the remains
of their destroyer.

garron opens the door

Boy pauses,
hand on a doorknob,
puzzling mind
awash with possibility,
alight for discovery,
hardly aware of
what he’s achieved.
The hinges squeak,
o perfect harmony!
A fitting anthem,
curiosity his creed.
He spies a sliver of
backyard daylight,-
tempted, he peeks
a squeal of glee
escapes his lips,
upturned for adventure,
twenty-month-old tumult
and ambition his lure.
The glint in his eyes
matches sun in a
triumphant June-
he’s grasped what eluded-
not much
will stop him soon!

* * *

Note- Garron is pictured quite a bit older in the photo than when he first discovered the doorknob principle. This is the oldest photo I could find of him online, and I love it anyhow because he's with Lucky Girl.

room, time & space

Cracked plaster ceiling
brooding, gloomy
over my position
in this empty room that's
tempting me to sin.
Wails of phantom sirens
slowly descend
and ring like the drops
of condensation off the windowpane
north of the dusty table.
Trace a finger in
the fine gray haze-
patterns and stars
and things not meant to fly
scraped raw in smut I
raise head and growl reply.
Fat humidity drops
spoil the dirty canvass
extinguishing my stars
with hushed and anguished plops
makeshift bed merely
receptacle for my rebellious
drunken head-
more satisfied to sit and watch
then save the ashen asterisks
now scorchmarks
pithy sorrows etched
indelibly on wood.
Window painted shut-
see only gray shadows
ingrained where visitors stood-
trail clumsy fingers on
sludgy table full of grime
that colors lungs and
souls filthy hues
and seethes of crime.
I scratch at cracked plaster
revealing however slight
through fingernail trails
resounding rays of starlight-
oh to pierce this dull abyss
to surge over tonight
the desolate precipice.

old hands

Old wrinkled hands held me up
helped me from the water
coughing, frightened
new naked soul.

While we walked down
a periwinkle street in a picture
from your past, a message-
never be afraid to fall
you will stand without a waver
with the hands beneath your feet.

And took did I their strength of age.
The wrinkles hills of green
fertile with hope of growth
of a grandson's dreams.
And there I planted
to grow from the hands
ascending to the heavens.

The soul that smiled
and the eyes that laughed
as a child in the treetops
now says to them:

Rest tired hands
you have earned your reprise.
Withered, shriveled under my feet
your ground I have swallowed
but still strong you held
like the era that colors your wonder,

Beautiful old wrinkled hands!
Talk to me with wavering voices
tell of your stories, your secrets
your heroes, your desires. I'll sit.
Hours are nothing when hearing from you.

Maybe then some strong young hands
fresh as a bright summer moon
orange in a foggy sky
can lift you to the height
you lofted me long ago.

indian song

Their spirit lives inside
though invisible on the surface
I feel a warrior- all pride and honor
keep a stoic gaze on the mountain above
as water falls and great men shout-
chests ripped open by buffalo skull-
but never give these stalwart men
from which my blood flows
albeit a trickle
I feel a kinship with them
as life hangs me by buffalo skull-
I bellow to the wind
but never surrender.

new colonial

Newspaper flash
On the screen, fascination
Might be a hero,
might be a villain.
A steamroller crash
and the world is forgotten-
the voices of reason,
they fade and they hoarsen.
With newfound panache
nonchalant explanation
reasons variegated like
the roots of a banyan.
A homicide cache
the words chosen maudlin,
the future foreshadowed;
conclusion forgone.
A mendacious gnash,
grievous conflagration;
ethics and ambition
in haughty combustion.
Now lamentable ash
Brown powder like pollen
lauds victory, and beckons,
spread on newspaper fallen

brings the thunder,

brings a new colonial.

natural flavors

Winds take me away from here,
drop me in a grove somewhere
beneath a cypress that's old enough
to recall ancestors deceased,
proceeding my birth.
Take me to a tranquil stream
float me quietly among
the gentle water lilies
to an unknown destination
so my mind might flow and
be at ease beyond its station.
Let my hair grow wild, fall about my neck,
Like the swarthy mane of a lion-
to adjourn from garb I wear when
enveloped by asphalt and simply go bare.
Let the scent transpose my body
smell the fragrant air
let it capture me through mystery
penetrate the confines of skin and veins
let my ears hear the bay of wolves
as the witching hour reigns.
Let my reply be a rasping yowl,
view Orion overhead and full-
spirit one with this land, on the prowl.
It feels what I feel
and when I kill it howls in excited fashion-
immaculate air filling my lungs
with an unbridled passion!
Satisfied I curl in repose
needing no blanket or covering;
Let my breath be your nocturnal breeze-
our silver-throated serenade notes
sighing in air, softly hovering.
Let them light then slowly fade
lifting our dreams in contented slumber.


Like left versus right on a metronome.
It's true your view is monochrome.
Plutocratic, pallid, aristocratic whore.

Organizing curt opinions for your microphone.
Harboring deep genetic code in your chromosomes-
the fount from which your kitchy ramblings flow.

When state-supported succor's scheduled to be excised.
But no ferocity to generosity Mr. Pennywise,
with your expenses drained on defense campaigns abroad.

Your agenda past constituents' you've superimposed.
And what flag-waving flagrancies are predisposed?
Jingoistic deeds; your materialistic war.

Like left versus right on a metronome.
It's true your view is monochrome.
Uncharismatic, invalid, achromatic bore.

just rewards

On white lace she lies, a victim
like on the night I first touched her.
Wettened by the
perspiration of my body,
locked into tumultuous
throes of passion,
excited by the perilous motions
of lust under the stars.
Lady underneath whore's mask
fingernails slice through
my false merriment.
Underneath the skin is a gawking child
confused by the stir caused by her,
enraptured by her saliva
drying in the wind,
insatiably pleading his case to
her obstinate ears,
searching for escape even while
arriving at his destination.

Next morning coffee slowly perks
alarm rambles on and on and I feel weak.
Covers stained, jumbled up and she is gone.
I struggle to convince myself I felt her touch
if only for that one night.