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Summer NightsSummer Nights

We slam our shotglasses into the low wooden table,
Ties loose about our necks,
Shirts drenched with sweat
And the floral scent of the dancer
Writhing around on our loose change
And currency bills that have zero value;

Work cut deep into our energies,
Turning our brains to bread
Our legs to butter
Sharpening stakes and spears
Tightening our leather boots
And rushing through the yellow grass
At the bounding elk;

We slam our shotglasses into the low wooden table,
Slapping each others' backs
Like we are part of the same business family, yeah
Our cubicles are as wide as grazing plains
Our fax machines shimmer with s
the sea salty sweet with
birdcry (the sea salty sweet with)

I.

the sea was his womb;
the salt the waves the sea
the boy, he counted waves:
three, three-hundred
and said: I'll live to be that--

-- old man drowning & crow-
birds cawing &

                            let's pretend he is deaf:
       and the waves have number but not
       the sound of rushing past quickly. the
       old man doesn't stop drowning, though
       a croak, silent & open-mouthed desperation,
       carries him under.

                                      let's pretend he is blind:
               and he counts the wishy-wash against
               his toes, the sou
Art of the Onward March
And here you are, perched on the eaves
of your fathers' understanding,
ripening in folly as the chorus swells.
Like an heir to Babylon you meditate
on the melting of peoples
sloughed into your flaming voice and hands.

This is your manifesto, artist of broken
lampposts and husks of homes, streets
where metal whines like
mangled mongrel dogs still limping
roads emptied behind the
crackling gravel of your many, many brushes.

Your calligraphy is stroked in slanted reds
and browns, ink leaning from the force of your
latest, brightest work.
SirensThe house empty, midnight,
and we are alone with the crickets and
firetrucks singing us to sleep.

Fire sounds have howled all my life,
from the mist-heavy whistle of my
small New England town to
This siren wailing in
Deadcenter, TX.

The sounds are an unexpected comfort:
misfortune-herding shepherds
nipping the heels of
flabbergasted homelessness through my town to
some Other St.

Not like last year,
when eleven hundred miles of driving brought us home
to broken windows,
half a blackened roof,
and not a single sound, except
the now-what beating of our hearts
at midnight, in the empty house.
BehaviorismThere is a
science experiment
happening in Kumasi -
psychology in motion,
robotic mouths moving in unison,
asking me to heal
A black ocean
of old veins-
Asking “please, what is your name?”
But, here in the lab
I am nameless
and the world is sad and slow.
The master weaver melts
with age,
hunger festers with yellowed eyes,
brain waves vomit mud and flies
And I have nothing to give
I have nothing in my heart to give.
Cetus
a seething crop of whales in the distance: our sirens
and underneath it all the ebb and swell of a sick wind
have you ever felt stranger than when you said that word; 'wound'?

the stars were our panic buttons. we fanned our fingers like that
and morse-coded the bear, his daughter and the painter’s easel.
“In ten years we will call our son Cetus” -- I can’t pretend to understand

how we could have been so stupid.
how through chapped lips we forced our words to rhyme, as if
somehow, that would save us.
how we even first learned to use that language.

I have never felt stranger than when you said that word; ‘soon
Circumvention
Rip a spoke from your routine, dip it in
your heart and ink, siphon words that hibernate
between morning drives and rush hour eyes
searching tinted glass in front and behind for
someone, anyone, to show a sign of life.

It was lost somewhere
in conditioned air and squares of quasi-
privacy, a circulatory thump of hardening
arteries and congested highways all dead-ending
in logoff screens and red lights.

Sit. Wait. Sigh as you bleed the tanks and wells dry.

It's whiplash, all pumps and stops,
and I WANT A SIGN. Not in front or behind
but beside; a smile painted as a mural
of the outside - the whites, blues and greens of seas
Five Versions of Sadness
One

There are two types of murderers. The simple murderer knifes his ex-girlfriend roughly two to five days after the break-up. The complex murderer leaves a mark. Perhaps they murder only between the hours of 10-11pm, within a one-mile radius of a church, and only on Sundays. This leaves the police maddeningly close. They guard the nearby park, the local school. They set up checkpoints at every third street corner and rotate at random, avoiding patterns. A quarter of their force is undercover. And yet the complex murderer takes two polaroids: one with the victim alive, with vigilant police in the background (labeled 10:22); another with the
They'll Be Back In Summer
The boats pull in
Pull out
Like clockwork
By months
Every year breaks open
On the edge of the seasonal bowl
Its fiery orange yolk
Dawning
Giving the extras their cue
The camera reels
Behind my eyelids
Record this summer at-home vacation
The aural thump
Of their midnight parties
Permeating the walls
Of concrete
And bone alike
Until the role of ambient silence
Is recast
Till fall
Issues With Eight A.M.
A white van skids past,
spins slush inward, then rattles down Ninth.
Leaves shiver in little pendulum arcs,
bled dry and brittle.
Afraid to leap, they opt
to stare down spans of barren ground

as I walk to work.
The briefcase man turns green
and I grimace, plod the last block.
Wednesday might as well be Monday
as the door clicks closed.
The Expected Part 1 of 4—Preface—

1372 AD

This is a walnut.

The walnut has no name. Its Latin appellation, however, is juglans, short for jovis glans. Jovis is what Zeus was called when the Romans saw him and decided they wanted one of those too; glans means nuts. Jupiter's nuts. It is highly probable that, back when this name was chosen, people meant to say walnuts were nuts fit for the gods. Funny, what the evolution of language can do to nuts.

This walnut is lying on the wooden floor of a monastery, a monastery beautifully situated in the middle of a seemingly endless forest.

This is Friar Mattheus. In a moment, Friar Mattheus will step on the walnut, slip,
Coffee Mugs
It's a man's world,
you can tell
from the dirty coffee mugs,
huddled together on the table.

The lone water bottle stands above them,
imposing, clear and tall, as its owner,
Her pregnant belly precedes her like a shield:
a neon sign flashing "here I am".

In the elevator, two people dare a smile
while they talk of things they know
no-one else cares about.
They wear glasses and awkward clothes.

In this place time hangs like tepid air,
which no fresh wind can ever disperse.
Happily Ever After
I want my world
in its entirety
to become what
I believe to be
a fairy tale.

I will rush
to your side
pressing my lips
to yours.

Years later,
you will be leaving,
I will run after you
only to be swept back
by the croud,
my love drown out
by the roar.

You will return,
appearing at my door.
Stop me before I speak
with a finger to my lips.
Hush now,
my darling.
Everything will be alright

In your warm embrace,
tears are shed,
and kissed away.
Happily ever after.
AriZona Tee
Diet AriZona
Green tea
Ginseng
100% all natural
Ireland
With green fields
And a soaring phoenix
AriZona
Melting
Bunny
Ears
And a clickity
Clicking bottle cap.
A subtly resounding
Buzz
From outside
That glass
Coming to take me to
AriZona with
Diet green tea
With ginseng and honey
And melting bunny rabbits
Where the men in white coats
Take me off
Down the rabbit hole
To hunt for psychedelic
Easter eggs
On Britsweek.
Shopping in an
AriZona bottle mall
With Orli, Dom and
That one Guy
In the tie dye
Earrings.
Come on now,
Let's all hop on this
Cat-like
Bus and fly away,
Fly, fly away
Off to AriZona
Browse More Like This
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More from ~altruisticlies

The Winter Philosopher v2
He doesn't feel strong
Anymore,   an
Ache in his face
  and giddy laughing
Muddle the soliloquy.

Back bent, watching that spiral -
  talent infallible
  which failed to reach past confusion
Seize a signal and grope
the bottle
Of success.

On hollow excess he would relate the tale,
 two mice in a clock,
    and winking
Slyly skip the metaphor completely.

He spends days in the cafe, sipping
  water.
The cutest girls escape notice,
      eyes      too wide,
White and guilty
For a past slinger of hopeful hate
  and wicked truth.

Day ticks by,
His bones feel weaker at night.
The Winter PhilosopherHe doesn\'t feel strong
Anymore,   an
Ache in his face
And giddy laughing
Meddle the soliquy.

Back bent, watching that spiral -
  Talent infallible -
  Which failed to reach past confusion
Seize a signal and grope
the bottle
Of success.

He spends days in the cafe, sipping
  water.
The cutest girls escape notice
      eyes      too wide,
White and guilty
For a past slinger of hopeful hate
  and wicked truth.

Day ticks by,
His bones feel weaker at night.
Boardwalk ShuffleShadows fade, fall, topple inward like
  Bent oligarchies -
Or the way light traveled in grooves along the floor
With no real point, no meditative focus.
And the buzzing overheard, unnoticed
Until I had time to waste, reflect,
Shine like polish on a well-washed car.

The choice between a losing hand - fourteen -
  Or the pretty girl at my shoulder; svelte black open
  Maneater stamped in noir lettering all over
And a smile
For me.

Funneled light, buzzing and my own rictus grin
  Maintained to ward off jackals
Who may sense blood or an absent cold desire
  Which sent me postcards once from Paris,
     And informed me subtl
Shadows On LightI tongue the door.
The rhythm, bent - curved against tuning forks
Of justified anger.

Melodramatic. Melodious, to split shells on air.
To dance, they spun in fine webs and he always giggled,
Avoided being a man at all. Wandered.

Rebounded jabs.
Split - join - Exist in the act of chaos.
The time is indecision.

Beat slows, hangs down drapes, dragging along
And over. She is beauteous light spindled, mashed against
random colorings.

And I
Only shadow
Huddled over the wishing well.
The Crossworld Walk
I heard tell
Of a man in the East.
I heard that with eyes like glass, shattered and falling,
Sharp and unfettered of society,
He strangled a man in Cairo
And left a trail behind him through Sudan.

He had a rusted
Self, who claw-equipped and bestial
Hated me for existing.

I heard the man coming
And it was not far off.

He traveled too far
To know, to speak, to be enlightened
On Western ideology, or numb
Religious practice.

I heard him step, always one
Behind.
And then I heard his laugh.

They say he was murdered
Twice
Outside of Guam, where fireflies
Illuminate scenes of gross mentality
When locals are branded or beaten
N
To Breathe In TimeShe is the burden
He held down, heart against a shutter kill urge.
And it

Was to be remarked on lazily.
Ladies who, in fair-haired days had mooed placidly
On trim heels, to achieve normal heights,
And in shopped market halls.

They are
Keepers of an undead religion; missed
Forlorn, I did not forget though

Vertiginous and goggled to escape wind
I couldn\'t laugh at heights too deep to measure.

He held the score,
Would forget marks, wards or to notice the dirt I
--- had under my fingernails.
Again
She was to blame, the fight between males
In eternal and too soon afterbirthed melodic sighs.

Feeling sick, the world reels,
While

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March 8, 2004
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He Thinks By Fire

:iconaltruisticlies:

Castles
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.

Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Rocky cobblestone.

Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.

She says tell
us something
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
Sighs, speaks:

Contracts
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken

Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.

And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!



He breathes.
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.

She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
:iconaltruisticlies:
A revision of The Man In Thought.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2004-03-16
He Thinks By Fire by ~altruisticlies --- This piece by :devaltruisticlies: evokes the cinematic storytelling style of Fellini with a dash of Hemingway for good measure. Immerse yourself in the setting and seek out the wisdom hidden within. ( Featured by `ndifference )
:iconeverylittlesake:
~everylittlesake Aug 16, 2004
wow...don't know what else to say...just...wow
:+fav:
Reply
:iconcinderellacomplex:
~cinderellacomplex Apr 10, 2004
great!!!!!!
Reply
:iconspinning-plates:
~spinning-plates Apr 1, 2004   Writer
It doesn't seem in the beginning what it eventually turns out to be. I enjoy that aspect of it more than anything, even the fantastical visual images of European cities it paints in my head.

good job, much deserved dd
Reply
:iconminstrel-of-munifice:
~Minstrel-of-Munifice Mar 16, 2004
Reading the other comments first really helped my understanding of this, but now that I get it, the visual imagery of the poem really is astounding! :+fav:
Reply
:icon4-strings:
~4-Strings Mar 16, 2004   Digital Artist
i can picture it all in my head, and it is magically written! very very good, you are a true poet!
Reply
:iconkaujot:
~kaujot Mar 16, 2004
Word, yo.
Reply
:iconaverlee:
~Averlee Mar 16, 2004   Writer
Awesome imagery. A real piece of art.
Reply
:iconvesiculae:
~Vesiculae Mar 16, 2004
This is certainly a poem that you should in your portfolio throughout your career. This is what praiseworthy poetry is made of.

And now the rightful renter to this intellectual property (did I mention I WROTE MY SENIOR THESIS ON THIS POEM?) shall fave it.
Reply
:iconwernstrum:
`wernstrum Mar 16, 2004
You have still got those two lines at the end. ewe.
This is a great revision.
*hands you a microscope* sympbolic of the approach.
Reply
:iconcatching:
~catching Mar 16, 2004
This is quite cinematic, a very good write.

I enjoyed the "voi"s of the "voi- voi- Void." The effect overall went well, and the actual semi-word "voi" reminded me of Veii for some reason, the old Roman city.

I'm also a fan of "the sun curve / Of a day," although it stumpted me at first (I was bent on the idea that sun should have been possessive, but this works out wonderfully).

Good job, then. And congrats on the DD. :clap: I'm off to check out the rest of your gallery.
Reply
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