dance with decay

From a CUUPS rite I wrote, "Walking with Eris & Coyote" & published in a pagan literary journal in 2003- that's why the fool is king & not the basketball player... This is meant to be a chant- has a cool rhythm if you hear it performed. Intro from the ritual:

"American archetype Mark Twain said “Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense.“ When facing certain destruction, one may find it necessary to skip into the fray with a stupid grin pasted upon one’s lips, tooting a melody on the kazoo.

We live together in a world that scarcely makes the sense Twain desired, that is poised on the edge of oblivion from so many different angles . A world of smokestacks, starvation and soldiers being killed; a world of AIDS and cancer and SARS; a world where the ultra-rich increase their wealth and the poor are left to fend for themselves.

We live in a world where the fool has been crowned king; where chaos has taken the battle and reigns supreme. Like the kitten on the bedroom poster, its claws clamping desperately around the branch of a tree, we must remember to “hang in there, baby!”

To quote that great American sage once again, “When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries of life disappear and life stands explained.” From all chaos comes order and back and forth and again. The cycle will continue and something new shall rise from that which has fallen."

* * *

For every ending, there must be a beginning
For every beginning there must come an end
A completion of the cycle Than dance ‘round again!

We’ve got to dance with decay
Cut the tow ropes away
From desecration comes creation
Every dawn disarray.

Dance with decay
Says the crone, says the sage
Fallen walls can be foundation
Blow the wind! Fall the rain!

To see the light of the stars
The earth must bathe in midnight
Must have a shrouded earth
To see starlight in the sky,
Strike a balance in between
Of a cheer and a sigh.

We’ve got to dance with decay
We come to celebrate
An induction from destruction
Every birth comes with pain.

Dance with decay
From the womb till we’re gray
From commencement to completion
Our selves to ascertain.

For all feeling sorrow we’ll make mirth and laughter
In every burst of laughter we’ll mourn for a friend.
A completion of the cycle Than dance ‘round again!

A completion of the cycle
Than dance ‘round again! (We come to celebrate!)

A completion of the cycle
Than dance ‘round again! (We come to celebrate!)

A completion of the cycle
Than dance ‘round again! (We come to celebrate!)

eighty-five degrees in january

A little intro for today's entry... this is the #1 requested poem I do at readings. Most of the time I have to adjust the language, as there are some not-safe-for-everywhere words. This may be the only work in which I've used a mid-fix. Enjoy!

* * *

It’s eighty-five degrees in January!

Sweat drips down my forehead
hanging gently like a princess
in some fairy tale story
climbing down from a tower
yet afraid to drop-pulled out of the pocked-up
parking lot-cursing my putrid luck-

can’t make the sell-

can’t spend the cash-

can’t seem content with
the tent under which I’ve crawled
on this Canterbury-esque trip to camp
in an unconquerable crevasse so cramped-
a canyon for my crying mind.

Bought Diamond Shamrock at
a dollar-one and it failed to quench
even the slightest inch
of my car’s ravenous yearnings-
fifteen dollars down to once more be empty-
depleting my meager earnings.

Tank vacated and wasted in a vast expanse in
a state where nobody strives to advance-
like Utah maybe or Idaho-
who the hell goes there anyhow? God knows!
Vapid excuses for vacation rendezvous!

My spent vehicle’s prostrations vehement-
please pardon me again as I vent-

it’s eighty-five degrees in fucking January!

What is it with the weather in this place?

Who the hell loosed the devil so early?

That loser- that Lucifer-and clued him into my location?
Could swallow forty pills a night-
twice that at morning’s light-
and still there’s no tow in sight to airlift my listless body-
cackling like a lush as I’m taken aloft-
eyes alight for a destination-or a sacred duty.

I’m searching for something
around which to bend my soul-
sequential to a vehicle contrived
to eschew this void’s control-liberated from probation
in this polyester tent any longer than I have to be pent

and it’s eighty-fucking-five degrees in January!



arrangements for the gathering

Your doorbell rings
I wring hands I’ve
been sitting on
God knows how long
more feet tread the carpet
more eyes study my face
looking for a trace of you
or maybe an inkling of
some long-lost solace
deep-set in brown-black eyes
we improvise conversation
all the while gazing down
the darkened hallway my
thoughts lost on spent medicines
and floral bouquets
and making arrangements
for the gathering and
how to make it one you’d praise.
I stand around people shaped
the same as you and I
they reminisce, shifting sorrows
into long, writhing sighs
while I cannot do a thing but smile-
think about throwing balls
and fishing songs
and swimming pools long ago-
your hand guiding my shoulder
steering me surely down the sidewalk
the jubilation in your voice
when I’d call- your “Hey, Bo!”-
that may be the thing I’ll miss most
I’ll take your spot, though
in the recliner chair, remember
I’m only there to keep it warm,
for you.

* * *

This poem was written for Pa- Dudley Lee Tankersley. My grandfather, my role model of fatherhood. We got to be with him during the last few years of his life, and they were great years. I'm so thankful for that time. PUBLISHED in the August 2013 Edition of The Rag, Albuquerque, NM.

main street, looking west

This was main street in Moshiem-town
many moons ago splashing in the swimming hole,
shivering to ask neighbor-girl to barn dance
Saturday night tucking in shirt and up pants
and holding our breath.

This was main street in Moshiem-town
and we ignored the shades looming like reapers
from the cotton fields where all us kids worked
hands grimy with blackest earth
eyes gazing into bluest skies for the hope of a rain cloud-
afternoon surprise.

This was main street in Moshiem-town
where the gin was shut down, moved to Valley Mills
and the filling stations died alongside their old men
who played chickenfoot under the wooden eaves
'til the shadows came for them.

This was main street in Moshiem-town
today our shadows are the only ones 'round
and the ol' school sits overgrown,
ruthless Texas summer sun bleaching walls and desks
Time, a reaper taking all us kids,
tucking us down and stealing our breath.

This is main street in Moshiem-town-
we're the only witnesses to mourn its death.

5 seconds to detonation

Time stands,

still, staccato

a diseased heart beating its last

all volume evacuates all sound dies-

we stare numbly into the blast

no plans no options left (real or stock)

last commute we’ll see

the radio’s gone dead

last curse and finger at the jerk who cut us off

last cell phone call to a lover who shouldn’t be

last blown kiss to the woman driving the Benz

what’s coming is the shockwave, 

the inevitable cleanse

of urban decay and human wastes

so time stands,

still, staccato

etched forever in that one moment-

in those long shadows-

gods never pondered, stories never told

the twilight of the human soul,

its terrible entwining with destiny unleashed.

same as it ever was

Why does the world need another blog? Answer- it doesn’t. OK, I can do better than that. I used to be the owner of my own domain, the first Fly-By-Night Lighthouse. On it I would post poetry I had written, mostly for myself so I could have the text available if I happened across an open-mic & decided to inflict the poor audience with my rambling verse. Then a lot of things happened in my life, including the loss of two jobs in one year, economic issues for my family & a major move. I lost my domain, which sucked but it seems that domains are rather passe these days anyway.

I plan to utilize this blog the same way, posting poetry every once in a blue moon, perhaps taking a reader through my writing process by posting drafts & asking for feedback. I may even write a real blog entry (like this one) about any variety of subjects. Who knows, the sky’s the limit.

* * *

By the way, I started a group called Poetry Array on Facebook (poetryarray@groups.facebook.com) This was in honor of the old & very missed Poetry Array site where a group of us used to post, review & workshop. It is a open group, so feel free to join if you would like to participate.

MBT