The bandit

The Bandit

The “A” in the neon sign is blinking

in and out (out and in)

grave digging shoppers shuffle down

overstocked aisles—

of cereal and shaving cream.

Swoosh of pneumatic doors sweeping a sigh across the floor

when the nocturnal omnivore steals—

silently inside.

She’s got the lay-out with mental map at the ready

quick flick of darting eyes and a hungry agenda.

She’s moving between the rows when I spy her dark eyes

ruined make-up or camouflage (black blue)

she knew where to—

wash her paws before eating pilfered cereal bars.

Wild-eyed Mama with fuzzy slippers sagging

sweats (the “Princess”)

startles our foraging friend—

who scrambles next door to aisle 10.

Stock boy Joe acne screaming and teenage despair

spies our midnight marauder (spiked green hair)

He picks up the radio to whisper—

a warning that the rabid vermin

might pocket a plethora of Chinese imports.

The stealth of her gives me pause

I imagine a million years (of evolution)

when the need gave rise to—

instinctual solutions.

Unnaturalness of starvation in stark contrast

to those creatures slower and less adept—

get fatter by the minute. 

Cruelty (Mother of invention)

when called upon—

the nature of our culture evens

the odds with my bold and beautiful bandit of the Mart.

A final moment before

she escapes out the unlocked Garden Center—

pockets bursting (heart shallow)

She turns to look at me—my wanton pillager

for a second I breathe in the forest deep

or maybe it’s car freshener and cheap floor cleaner.

Thick mischief and cunning wild—

She has paid for what we have stolen.

Wallace eye view

Black Cat- Lucky Seven

Straight back and proud

Ears up and glossy backdrop of Parisian nightsky

The black cat speaks French to me alone

Superstitions and crossing paths

So what—I broke a mirror once

Nearly avoided that black cat

Grey and white

Night and Day

Midnight in the alleyway

Only the eyes give you away

Golden abyss of black cat’s peering back

Look at you!  Black cat of mine!

Ready to go?

Ears?  Tail?  Little pink nose?

Treats are in store at each door!

Tricky little feline

Achoo!!

No thanks cat

Black—go away

Black cat rages with fists

Pumping in the air

We shall prevail

Deep in the moon

Chasing mice who eat away the cheese

Leaving giant holes

The sky cat of black shadows

Yawn Yeats

The Honeybee on a Cloudy Day

Why must I toil all day long with

No rest and no reprieve?

Is there never a time for idleness

And the joy of the swaying tree?

Said the buzzing little bee

The sun comes up the sun goes down

Sweet proof of my labor is stolen from me

In cups and jars of golden light

Yet I cannot help but love

The bright petals that beckon to me, softly

So it must be, whispered she

I’ll disappear one day you’ll see!

They’ll wonder what has become of me

Those thieves that smash my home

I’ll renounce making love from stem to stem

Said the buzzing little bee

No more will I light upon blossom

Spreading life from tree to tree

Only in complete darkness

Will my masters be able to see the beauty

Of what I’ve done for them selflessly!

So it must be, whispered she

O'Hara hello

She has to pick up the kids from Little Lukes on First Street at 2:30

And hopefully swing by the Farmer’s Market in the Commons in time for some

Fresh corn and maybe an autumnal squash if it looks good

The radio announces another hot day tomorrow as the Indian Summer seems to

Drone on but she thinks that is a racist term to use and wonders

What the Six Nations might say

The house has no lights on as she pulls in but quickly the smell of simmering

Vegetables and crisp spices fill her nostrils and she is stirring the Martha Stewart

Pot while the kids argue over Spongebob Squarepants

The light changes in the room and for her a black hole of endless nothing appears where the zucchini she is chopping briskly on the wooden block is supposed to be And no sound but a rushing wind while the kitchen floor rises up and goes from

Alabaster to blushing pink…her grandmother—long buried in Oakwood Park Cemetery on County Road 36—calls her to the table for supper and she goes out in the soft white light towards the familiar smell of warm bread.

Dickinson doodle

Soft Whistle of the boiling—

kettle as Nature demands an audience

The walls of water rise higher with

An escaping shoreline—fleeing fast

There is not time to pack

So soon is the call of Neptune to—

enter the living room and

The Whales will dance and ask for biscuits

While the tea stews—

In salty ocean rooms

Floating duvets look like well dressed ladies—

Who have just come to gossip with starfish

And sip from porcelain—

cups that hold back the mighty ocean

and conch shells will sound the—

Whistle of kettles instead of tides

Mayakovsky moment

You cannot stay here!  My walls no longer refrain from screaming at your piled high plates and soiled pants—littering the bedroom floor.  A war torn field full of sprawling corpses—stinking and sticking to the bare floor

The frost of a thousands winters spreads across my face like a glacier jutting into the side of the fated Titanic and no one is King of the World—as bodies fly like a circus trapeze and our ship sinks into the frigid black water with a silent song as you depart below.  Celine’s melancholy voice across miles of Dark Ocean, for you.

No love is left in this ice castle and no fish in the hole—only nothingness and the occasional tug on the line as you smile at me in the hallway hoping for a crack to appear in the stone of my face, an etched edifice of cold marble the arms wrenched away and the breasts forever erect nipples but never soft no never again.

For you there is only a foul taste left in your mouth as you drink the stale milk and it curdles underneath your tongue, opaque chunks like soft chewed food sliding out an old man’s mouth as he gums it to a slow death. 

A river of lost love, our love, winds down the twisting tunnels under the city streets mixed with all the muck and unlucky goldfish who go to a heaven fit for dime store pets—the water treatment plant recycles what it can so that we can love again.  Recycled passion flows from kitchen taps and spills out onto the floor making a wet carpet of new kisses and whispered promises.

Stars and smoke—choking breathe but I will be gone when you awake and the pillow will hold the shape while you call your mother to say that everyone is fine but

Hello? Oh no Mrs. Thorne we are not quarrelling, it is just the sound of the television and not your dear ones, those you know whose lives have been shattered.  Can you hear me?  I promise you he is fine and we are keeping warm in this unseasonable cold weather.   I still love this boy of yours of course I do but how can you understand that it’s complicated by that open window where the winter wind gusts through and I feel like sled dog tied to a post in the deep Antarctic exposed to raw cold so biting.  They will have to amputate this limb you see, it is black and dead and must go before the infection spreads.  You must know how necessary it is to cut away that which is dead.

But why?  Because my tears are hanging from my cheek like little knives making frozen cuts and the dark red flows past my lips to stain the dress you bought me in New York when the towers fell and we burned and they burned.  Cold fire.

Faux Gnews- Redux

Talking Heads

Pontificating

Postulating

Pouncing on words

Ricochets of sound

Haze and stench of pompous

Pointless

Pounding syllables

Silly fools

Droning on and on like—the baffled bumblebees (no more trees)

The buzzing is just a low-key noise to be

Drowned out by Mad Men selling snake oil and penis enhancement

These chattering heads with plastic hair

No escape from the high def pixel priesthood or maybe

It’s just a POW camp with tall stockades of bullshit

My brain sits in the horizontal shadows watching—waiting

Bouncing the ball against the wall—impatiently patient

They have to build that damn bridge sooner or later

Box of light illuminates blank faces—in stasis

Ingratiating our spoon fed nation with delicious lies

Puppetry—this

Proudly perched peacock

Sins of the faithless paraded into the spaces between consumptive embraces

Shackled below the maelstrom of stocks falling—frogs for the Pharaoh

And now the weather

Panic at the disco—Play it again Sam

Love songs for my capitalist daydreamer—or maybe a socialist demon weaver

As the heretics hang crucified to money trees and the monotone heads turn away—

Pontius wash your hands

Where has Authenticity gone at this time of night?

Curfew at 9 pm so into the bushes hides King Rhetoric the Reasonable

We laugh at the rude dance of the Jester—Alas poor Verity I knew him well!

Revolutions ring a decaying bell

Their tolling tells me nothing

For the pundits peel away

The soft flesh of meaning

Leaving bones of bitterness

Bodies piled high

Atlas groans

No one can hear him (press mute)

We know best

Too bold! Too bold!

They shout from—Leaning

Crumbling towers of

Hot glass—Frozen

Faces cast glowering glances—Judgment

Reproach from the—Blistered

Mothers hell bent on smothering—Minds

Small children this—Invisible

Poison!

Wet coupling that bears no—Fruit

Labors long but until now it aged quietly—Old

As time this sinful union of  bodies so—Alike

Behold!

The unnaturalness of Nature’s—Vision

We see the dolphins—Raping

And yet

This cannot be so—Love

Panacea!

Epilogue

That the bleeding man weeps but passes no judgment least

not that we can hear the

lying mold on the pages seeps into the eyes of blind Justice

is tearing ripping away the crusty filth but still it remains a

poxy stain that sits on the lap of the preacher who is diseased

(Child of a confused translator)

This sin is washed clean by the putrid river Jordan but it

smells like heaven is rotting in the hot

summer moon but the cold glass

keeps them safe and away from our judging windows

The Ride Home

Music:  “The Orion Nebula” by Project Skyward

The sky shines

Bright pulsating

Powerful lights

Beckon and tantalize

Holding out possibilities

For weary travelers

And lonely pilgrims

This way

Shifting sands

Prairie lands

Fascinating flora

Painted fields of purple and gold

Roll away

Outside my moving window

Bouncing beats and

Shimmering sideways

The sounds of humming engine

Hemmed in by towering rock walls and deep shadows

We roll on

Destination known

Yet beyond this film of flimsy reality my mind can roam

To places I’ve never known

In dreams

Lips I’ve never kissed

Hovering so near to my face

(Music:  “Who are You” by Astralasia)

The intangible lover

Touching myself

On the arm

A tactile reminder

(Where am I?)

On the road, Homeward bound

(What is home?)

Solace and solitude

Interrupted by life’s demands

You must attend

Defending my kingdom, of space and time

Out of body experience, so much clearer than real life

Keep rolling

Dreaming

Don’t stop

I’m not ready for reality

To stop my mind’s drifting

Face forward

The inevitable

But not yet

Roll on

City sleeping

Who are you and what do you dream?

(Is he with you?)

I am coming

Moving closer

And the stars wink just for me

Dawn

She greets the morning fresh

And

New Sun warms her                             bare 

Legs                                                       her

Sex slick with                                     sweat

She despite 

The crisp morning                               chill

She 

Breathes in and

Out and

Her heart                                             beats

Steady

And 

                                                            Sure

Today is a                                         (New Day)

A day for golden promises

And 

bright                                                revelations

Not
Even the stench 

Of 

The city can 

Sway her                                            resolve

To 

See things clearly

For

She must ignore the                                 fog

Of 

The city that (threatens) to strangle          her

In 

a cloud of                                           progress

Unasked for

And

It’s out                                                 there

Just beyond her reach

But 

Today she will seize it

Slippery                                           tail

The 

Dreams that 

only last                                          night

Swam in a sea 

Of

                                                  (Unconsciousness)

Today is the day

To 

Catch a                                                fish

And 

Harness the sunlight

That 

Shoots out of her

fingers                             and                     toes

And 

Warms the cities heart

That 

Beats in time

With                                                           hers

Praying

The statue of the sad son of a carpenter

Stares down

Pierced your soul—if you had one to spare

Spires shred the clouds that bleed grey

Sanguine sanctuary of sickly Saints

Light bends round prostrate disciples

Colors unite on the bare floor—to sing silently

Pews groan

Shivering black curtain begs to forgive

Flickering flames light the way

Ragged rituals rasped out by rotting corpses

No longer are they men but like cloth washed too many times

Color has bled away to white and the linen pulls free from the thread

The altar boys of time slink down aisles

No more song from the choir of melting candles

For the once cheerful organ is like a

Starved child belly swollen

No food (hungry)

No alms (poor)

No salve (wounded)

The Virgin is the Whore of

Babylon striding across the empty

Tomb of lost children

Shuts the door behind her

(No more—no more)

Eat the Rich

It’s not your money that I envy the most it is your piece of mind

Easy for you to brag and boast “but we left no child behind”

The sweating masses of the working classes weaving life’s tapestry

It’s true they do not make a sound falling like philosophical trees

“We’re not to blame!” the high priests shout whilst staring at their shuffling feet

Meanwhile the liberal fools are dragged in chains from the temple upon Wall Street

When it’s time to set the evening meal and no food can be found for the plate

It’s clear to me that the fattest of we should be the first from whom we take

Untitled

Barn doors

Swing Wide

Fetchingly

Then violently

Lusting after the wind

They pitch and buckle

The howling is a Siren call

Demanding a reaction

Swift and without hesitation

Squealing metal as the rails

Give way

Wood splinters

Peeling layers

Folding onto itself

In a dance of desire

Self-fulfilling

Melting together

To answer the summons

The Howling Wind’s Fury

No latch can defend

This wicked end

Up Up Up

Higher they rise

Like red petals in flight

Stripped from the solitude

Of their lonely vigil

To house the farmer’s pride

The smell of hay whirling

Dust devils join the fray

Anxious mewing from frightened animals

Helplessly exposed

Their protectors have the battle lost

The Mother Storm

Cannot subside

Until the tribute is paid

In full

Wood, stone, brick and mortar

Crumble at Her feet

The tranquility will descend

Once again

But the hallowed gates

Will be no more

Faux Gnews

Pontificating

Postulating

Pouncing on words

A ricochet of sound

The haze and stench of pompous

Pointless

Pounding syllables

Silly fools

Droning on and on

The flies buzz with low-key noise

Locking in my brain

A prison of bullshit

Inside

The box with light illuminating my face

The disgrace of lies

Pontificating proudly

Pontius wash your hands

Cleanse us if you can

I need to be truth

Forsooth

Explain the pain

To me

Revolutions ring a decaying bell

The tolling tells me nothing

For the pundits peel away

The soft flesh of meaning

Leaving bones of bitterness

The bodies piled high

Weighing down the world

Atlas groans

But not that you can hear

Just press mute

Taking Back My Night

Taking Back My Night

I didn’t forgive you

I just forgot

There was pain

Humiliation

But the memory receded

Like a wave

From the shore of my mind

I remember saying “No

I have to go”

But you insisted

While I resisted

And the rest

Is a haze

In the morning there was blood

And disease

It was my fault

It never happened

It was your fault

I won’t forgive

And I can’t forget

Feminisms

Feminisms

I see you- Woman

See your smile

See your style

See you struggle with life for a while

I see the color of your skin

I see the shape you’re in

Fat or thin

I see the places you go

The people you know

I see you grow

Fast or slow

In the know

I see what others ignore

The roles we love to abhor

The Madonna or the Whore

I see the box they put you in

Living in sin

The labels they place on you

A Dyke

A Jew

Your love life askew

“Have I got a man for you!”

I see you change the mode

See you crack the code

I see you learn to love

See you rise above

I see you see me

Sometimes we do not agree

But we rail against the hypocrisy

Until there is no you

And there is no me

There is only we

Open our minds to see

Women

Clothes Shopping

Clothes Shopping

My pants are too tight

And it’s not all right

That my pants are too tight

I looked around at other bellies and I found

Pants On The Ground!

Flat and firm

The waistline can squirm

Like a worm on a

Hook

I’m scared to look

At your waist

Not your face

I feel a disgrace

What is this misconception?

I feel the need for redemption

My belly is round my breasts are full

I feel the tidal pull

The moon swells

I swell

This is the rule

Life grows in that small space

Stretch

Pull

Deface

I’m not a glutton

It’s just a button

Why all this emphasis on size!!

Reprise

Demise

Skip the fries

I feel the need to disguise

My thighs

Surprise!!!

A word to the wise

This is not about my size

It’s pride

Inside

Not to hide

But to love

Me

Fuck you button!!!!

You cannot define me

Confine me

Design me

Re-align me

Let me un-do

Change the view

Release

The beast

---Breathe---

---Sigh---

This is all of me

Free

Can you see?

Just be.

Scrutiny mutiny

Ooooo poetry is fun.  Whoever said that was on drugs or lying or both.  It's hard work sometimes and feels like giving birth to a pineapple upside down but maybe now and again the word "fun" might qualify.  Case in point...beat poetry.  That is fun stuff!  Just bounce along to the sounds.  I'm going to start this blog off with some stuff I wrote before I took an actual class on poetry.  Simple and silly on paper but there is a dance that goes along so try to imagine if you can. Then I'll post some things I've written that is called "muse work" by my professor, some complete shit and some slightly interesting.  That being said it is truly terrifying to open oneself up in this way so anyone reading this I say "have mercy" and thank you.