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From The Source:

• Veterans Day (11/11/09) [View | Hide]

  I. Our Brother Orwell Defenceless villages Are bombed from the air, Inhabitants driven To the countryside; Cattle machine-gunned, Huts set on fire: This is called pacification. For freedom, for justice, For the American Way. II. On Sale Somewhere in the Homeland, At the Wal-Mart café, She chews on a hamburger That drips mayonnaise. Her jeans are too tight; Her diabetes not slight. Her children have run out of sight. We have all come from far away To catch the sale on Veterans Day. III. Until Tomorrow He stands, listing, in the doorway, Knowing nothing of Orwell. He had enlisted, recalling the day, The travel had been a good sell. Though the journey ended in hell, He was told that he fought very well. Now he makes peace with his sorrow Because, he’s been told, that His check will come in tomorrow. Long live our soldiers, who, every day, Fight to maintain the American Way.

• Dawn (11/3/09) [View | Hide]

  In the pre-dawn light I approach the window And behold the sight Of the empty sidewalks. In that quiet hour I imagine your returning, Filled with a silent power, Up the sidewalks. You are always returning, When the world is asleep – Cracked, worn, and persevering, Like the sidewalks. But dead men don’t walk Except in dreams. And still it seems The sidewalks expect you, Cracked, worn, and persevering – Returning from the long journey With stories, strength, and learning. The sidewalks do not reach you. The dawn deceives. For a while yet I shall expect you Before your memory leaves.

• Halloween (10/28/09) [View | Hide]

  When I got the call That grandfather died, I wore a clown suit, Big and white with Blue and red dots, And a tall clown hat. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Tat-tat-tat. My face was plastered, Clown enamel white, Painted red lips, And a red round nose, Staring at the mirrors In the back of the store. Rip and tore, war and gore. My boss had told me, Go and get some rest. So there I sat, A thousand clowns Staring from the mirrors; Faces laughing, faces crying. Sighing and crying And lying and dying. That night on the news People were dying. Machine guns fired, Rat-tat-tat-tat. Bullets tore, spreading gore. Victims lying, sighing, crying. My grandfather died On Halloween. Sadder news we all have seen. That night, at the party, Nadia laughed. She said, Clowns don't go to parties When their grandfathers pass.

• October Morning (10/27/09) [View | Hide]

  Today - The first cold day; In the pale light, The mixed sensation: Gray sky, cold air, And resignation. Yet the leaves cling Still to the trees; Just a few turned brown, Blown down. Outside - Breezes sting; Newspaper kiosks Through headlines Speak to the sunrise While a bird sings: This week the President, While waging war, Won the Peace Prize. The time is out of joint. O cursed spite That ever I was born To set it right!

• Music (10/26/09) [View | Hide]

  The blending Of the body And sound And thought And feeling And memory That took place Before Either of us knew That we would not hear each other, That we would not see each other, Again.

• Postmodern Mood (10/3/09) [View | Hide]

  The Modern derides The Enlightment, Which, in turn, Derides the Medieval. I'd rather affect The Postmodern: It thinks the derision The evil.

• Haiti (9/25/09) [View | Hide]

  Haiti is an accident; I prefer not to look at it. Mangled parts abound; Nothing astounds. You see, the sun is too bright; The skin and bones too tight. Though Wilson sent Marines To instill a sense of order – The milat, moun andeyo, And all that negritude – Too much, too much, They bust the motor. And all through the years The parts have tumbled Down deforested hills: Estime, Vincent, Magloire, Lescot, and Duvalier. And who will care? Where have you gone, Daniel Fignole? The nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Mesdames et messieurs, Gens de couleur: Start your engines. But they have nowhere to go, Surrounded by the wide, wide sea, Where the sun sets too bright And the skin, bones, too tight.

• Around the Block (9/9/09) [View | Hide]

  When I was a boy I used to walk around the block So many times far From the ticking clock. Around the bend there was the house Of our neighbors; the two older boys Who washed their cars, and when wet Their sex showed, hanging, as they’d bend Those tall spindly legs moving awkward, and alien, Like the Martian invaders in War of the Worlds. Around the bend again, there was the house Across the street, across the border, Where lived the brown boy, that other. He was not like us kids, white brown, But from South America, brown brown. And so we launched stones and taunts Like missiles launched from our starship That launched from the tree in our yard Lurching at light speed to escape the dark And the calls for dinner. Around the bend again there was the house Of all those children but we never saw the father Except in stories of drinking and sleeping and jail. But we let one of them play with us; Not the others, though, they were babies, and a girl. Around the bend again there was the house Across the street, an ocean away, Where the woman sat on her porch quiet. They said she was an old Russian lady, A little girl in the Russian Revolution, Though none of us knew where that was. So she was the silent witch from Oz. When the radio played static, When my mother’s shoe caught my brother’s head, When my father bellowed in the living room And my sister cried in her bed, I walked around the block To escape the ticking clock.

• Marketing Call (8/18/09) [View | Hide]

  The person you seek is not here. He was deployed To Afghanistan Last year. So please don’t call me. He is beyond telephones And the twenty-first century. Beyond computers, too, He might be If his body lies In a field of poppies. Afghan shepherds standing By a dusty roadside wait For our troops to come calling With bread for their plates. Then to your customer The shepherds lead our troops. They cannot describe his death, Only saying it was youths, a group. So, before I hang up, I ask How does it feel to peddle Trinkets and frauds to others Who could not prove their mettle By attempting to settle The quarrels of savages Who could scarcely buy bread? You smile, I hear it, you say: Gladly I’ll sell vacations to you instead.

• Locked in Time (8/15/09) [View | Hide]

  To say I will not likely find In the years ahead a being That will appreciate my mind Is to apply the prejudice of time. In the present dwells a certain sadness, The sense that joy will die in future darkness. But if, from the far side of the earth, Your life I fail to note, Then, from a hundred years hence, You remain just as remote. Therein lies the trap of time, Our minds prisoners of the present. From day to day though I may fly, Our meeting – miles, years away – Stays locked beyond this moment.

• Castle (8/13/09) [View | Hide]

  Impregnable Wall of rock Sheer and steep Above a moat Of waters still and deep; Imposing, The yawning keep, That beckons from The drawbridge At my feet. Narrow the way Through the iron gate: Beyond those walls Their world awaits. Nobles, ladies, In finery played Their flutes and dulcimers Round the table well laid: Goblets of wine And meats with cheeses, Candles that swayed In the evening breezes. Blown has the wind of centuries, Gone now the tapestries, luxuries, Silent the courtyards and hallways, Where troubadours once sang their lays. Dance a while yet, I say. Safe within the mind’s walls, Lords, ladies and thralls, As phantoms you may stay.

• To Adversity (8/12/09) [View | Hide]

  In the face of outrage, Facing the brink, It takes great courage Not to drink.

• Knock (8/11/09) [View | Hide]

  I don’t sleep well, torments at night – The soft kind. (small noises, moving, rustling) What can might, What could should. Without sight, grasping, touching in the dream closet: dream silent children playing in dream coats – or smothering? (small noises, scratching, muffling) In sleepdark, always misplaced, the keys I cannot find. The hooded man ate all the light switches, electric smiling, switching back and forth: now lamplight through my window pane, now sleepdark. (small noises, tapping, tapping) In the hallway stands the hooded man waiting for the knock on the door. Am I coming home?

• Sadness (8/10/09) [View | Hide]

  Sadness: it is the force that spurs learning; The shadow of the moon; yearning for relief from light; Nourishing vision and sight with a tear or two.

• Delirium (8/8/09) [View | Hide]

  Never waste a good delirium, A time when Up is Down. You Move your Mouth all Around Open shut – To say nothing; A delirium nothing, Surpassing sweet – unlike The plodding words – The stumbling weight of all those years . . . There was a farmer had a dog, And Bingo was his name-o. I pledge allegiance to the flag. The square root of sixteen is four. Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Dad, I won the game! Paris is the capital of France. Can I have this dance? Buy now: Operators are standing by! That sissy boy; he couldn’t hurt a fly. The square root of four is two. Mark my words: One day you’ll see. They’ll all see. Darling, it’s so good to see you. What is the square root of two? I’m sorry, Ma’am, There was nothing we could do. And when the fever cools, as it will do, And up is up and down is down again, You see the chance is gone to start anew – As reason, restored, confounds the brain.

• Suicide (8/5/09) [View | Hide]

  Of all life on this planet, Only Man Can see his death – And plan it . . . Socially unacceptable, Financially impossible – Yet morally defensible. Mother was saying on the phone One Saturday afternoon – “I’ve fixed your room. We can have your favorite beans and rice. Just wait until you see the garden; The new plantings are so nice.” All those years spent howling In the black box, in the office. But no one ever hears: Just sign here, and here, and here. And we need that revised report To include the budget cuts next year. The books show me all the things I will never live to see: The heroes yet to greet, That princess kiss, so sweet, The castles left to climb. Silent the symphonies of the mind, My days laid out to mine A life for deeper meaning. But the truth bubbles up, streaming: I was really mostly dreaming. Never played the piano, Never sang in choir, Always saying I was This or That; Drawing breath like any liar. Never married, Hardly tarried Over sunsets past a certain age – Now I know that all the rage Is to die screeching, laughing. But pardon me, if in my passing, I sit and tell the truth – for I did so love the dancing. I did so love your silly looks And the passages from certain books That we read, as if romancing.

• Faucet (8/4/09) [View | Hide]

  Water dripping, Drops plop, plop Into that pot In the kitchen sink. And I can hear me think. I want to sink Into the couch. He sits there, slouched. This silence forlorn, Stretches the length of the room, Like a railroad platform. We have arrived at the end of words. Drip, plop, Drip, plop. I smile. The tea is drained. Our minds and our teeth Are stained With the knowledge That, at least, we two strangers Failed to cross the breach.

• Palestinian Boy (8/2/09) [View | Hide]

  Today yesterday Lama was not in class Because her house fell down on her. That is what Reda said Last week yesterday before yesterday. But Mother says Tonight now That Lama moved far away, Maybe to Bethlehem. I don’t know, Maybe to Israel. That is where the Devil lives. So says Reda Sometimes.

• Rainbows (8/1/09) [View | Hide]

  Don’t go chasing rainbows In the middle of the night Because you’ll not find them. The rainbows were last seen Flying over Belgium in 1917. But other townsfolk say it was An American jet patrol Shot down a rainbow over the desert Near Alamogordo. Only they didn’t shoot; there was no fire, And it wasn’t the desert. Still others say the rainbows Have little to eat and less to see, Kept in a camp with barbed wire Down the road a few miles out. These reports you just can’t doubt. As for our town these days, We light the sky at night With giant lightpoles far too bright: The mutant children of gas lamps Whose contribution to pollution Blinds the turtles, the birds, The bleary-eyed office worker In his tower of glass. Upward, higher, flies the light until From their space orbit the rainbows see: The signals, flares, fires, and flashes – The searing heat that turns glass to ashes. Silently the rainbows turn And return to their home planet, Flying through the dark of night, Guided by the light of the stars.

• Birthday (7/22/09) [View | Hide]

  Happy Birthday To me, Happy Birthday To me, Happy Birthday – I’m one year closer to death so I’d best turn from the wayward path leading me through the wasteland of entangling briars, so base my desires, and find my way to the one true path that ends in authenticity, my own felicity, only I can’t because I’m lost, no map, and my compass fell into the bay where my future stretches away, tossing among the waves, though perhaps my ship will come – To me!

• Hemingway (7/21/09) [View | Hide]

  Today is Hemingway’s birthday; He would have been 110 years old. Rain today, we are told. Out the window, The dry grass is gold In the noontime heat. Across the street, A black man in shirt sleeves Beneath a tree, standing, Waiting. A stray dog lopes along, Sniffs, and moves along. His coat is bright in the Dappling light. Out of sight, a cicada Screeches and is silent. Then another screech, slight. Then the air is quiet. It is hot and dry and Waiting. Everything waits. But nothing comes. No rain.

• Sight and Sound (7/19/09) [View | Hide]

  How can I make you see me, Not you, but me? You have fixed me with your stare – My words in mid air – And have trapped me in amber. A practical paperweight, amber, It can be hurled against windows, And, finally, the cries of anguish Can escape into air With the pleas to reason; Perhaps – to you – all rubbish. And though the caged bird sings, Still its song is not heard elsewhere. Silent is the vast landscape Where a new soul grows in the wooded grove And the words fly to the trees, feeding, at night. Oh, what a sight! The multitude that is me, Cresting that moonlit hill, Without a sound, they cannot fight. They stand, waiting, For your surrender of me.

• Passenger (7/17/09) [View | Hide]

  When I was a young man, I was an old man, Watching the world with wary eyes, Though not yet capable of sighs. Backstage I curled up in solace With ancient tales of a golden chalice, While the other dancers with silly stares In laughing poses brandished their hair. In summer sitting beneath a tree My father explained divorce, Returning home to my room to flee Where I found my childhood corpse. Years of tragedy sundering Family, friends, like lightning a tree, Over a cup of tea last week wondering: What became of you? What became of me? A ship on the horizon dwindling, Headed God knows but I know not – While I on the sand sit mingling What I could have done with what I did not.

• Wretched Summer (7/14/09) [View | Hide]

  Any moment Could, perhaps, Be a wretched moment, Like walking home alone In sultry heat, The moonlight on the street - Indifferent the cobblestone - The same moon shines on you Wherever you are.

• Martin and Hope (7/12/09) [View | Hide]

  “Everything that is done in the world is done by hope,” said Martin Luther King, Jr. Boy, I tell you, This girl Hope, she is one busy gal. Matter of fact, Just the other day, A fine morning, I was walking to work. And there was Hope! All passed out, poor thing, On that bench, In a state of exquisite, Senses-shattering, World-saving, Stinky exhaustion. Come to find out, That very night, Sure as I breathed, I was walking home. And Hope was gone! Sure enough moved on, Her work is never done. Poor thing, still pushing That cart with everything, And no time to settle down. I wish she’d Just one time slow down To tell her about her friend Martin – How he praised all around Before he got shot.

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Comments

(196)

RatamaNZ

Comment left on: 11/14/09 3:26 PM so i read it n had some random feelings i have never felt before...

gimmelove

Comment left on: 11/12/09 4:28 PM thank you F that was very sweet.

Con_DeGarcon

Comment left on: 10/24/09 8:18 AM Thanks for sharing the piece. I sense a sensitivity and feeling of responsibility in the tone of your writing. Autumn has a tendency to cause us to turn inwards. Keep your head up! :)

Bam__Bam

Comment left on: 10/22/09 11:06 AM Your brain is magnificent =) I'm glad I found you sir ~_~

Con_DeGarcon

Comment left on: 10/18/09 5:52 PM Hey Mr. Man! Hopefully you're on the mend and having a fabulous Fall. Take care.

gimmelove

Comment left on: 10/15/09 10:16 PM i figured. i was saying i hadn't forgotten & yes, i have your message with it :)

gimmelove

Comment left on: 10/14/09 9:14 PM hi F argh well.. i went back to my letter to you (haha) and it's so much basically i was making two points not frequently discussed.. one: that HIV is manmade and two: if we do indeed experience what we call reincarnation it makes sense to me some people may be homosexual due to experiencing life as the opposite gender in other lifetimes.

julien3

Comment left on: 10/13/09 1:01 PM Et un petit coucou d'ici aussi, je t'ai envoye un mail et un 2e suit bientot !...

Briancho83

Comment left on: 10/11/09 9:14 AM Juste un coucou en passant, je t'ai envoyé un mail. bisous

julien3

Comment left on: 10/4/09 11:50 PM Content aussi de t'avoir reparle ; tres bonne semaine !