Saturday, September 15, 2012

Staring, Wrote.

The staring of the stranger is what I wrote about a winter morning.
Winter mornings are cold and bitter.  The sea of time stands open.
I am the hash of secrets; the secrets of all secrets.  I am torn between two worlds-
The worlds that drip like unforgotten eyes in the middle of the sea of ghosts.
I don’t remember ghosts.  I remember my mother, like a great ship on the sea.
I remember things shouldn’t come between me and the riddles…me and the rocking
Boat.  A boat is not a smile, I learned in school-I also learned I am nothing but a lamp
Post, a dragon who isn’t remembering anything but herself.  I am not myself.  I am the
Dream within the dream.  Shadows rise out of nothing and the dreaming is warranted.
I sweep the hair out of my eyes and gaze at the stillness around me, in the classroom-
My teacher is sweeping words across a chalkboard, and somewhere far away a child sneezes, in some other classroom like in Jamaica or Spain or Guam and I think to myself
What has become my life and why am I here, the great question, the question of all questions, and the thought of my mother comes into my mind and she is like the stillness of autumn, or like I said before, a ship rising out of the water-and then there are the actors
And they are better than me and there are actors who are taller than me and try to scream obscene words in my ear, above all else, the sound of the cars on the street, and lamps shutting on and off, and my screams ripping through the ear and no one can hear me-
No one will see. 
The staring of strangers exhausts me.  I am bothered by the cold.


The planet is an open mouth.
It yawns and rests-shaking and shivering in the cold.
Your life is not my life.  Your life is a life that is begone,
And not forgotten-your life is written in the pages of the unforeseen,
The computers that do not compute anything but of mice and men.
People are shocked by the sea of faces that span out before us by
Thousands of flowers opening, yawning-you think you know, but you were
One of the first, the first of thousands, of millions that spread before us like
Unforgotten eyes, the eyes of the untold.  I am not who I am.
My mother is a bittersweet taste in the eyes of sight, and the world is like me-
I am trapped in the world that is cold and dark, it is like a cage of nothing.
Where is the old world?  Why are people staring, glaring at me-like the night I can’t see. 
I am shadowy river, I am the dim and the dark and the clouds.  Clouds scurry
Behind me, before me.  My father is not here-he was never here, he was a shadow of himself, a glimmering cloud. 
The dream was something else that glimmers in the dark.  You don’t know that these trees
Are bending,
You don’t know that eyes are staring, like dim forgotten eyes that are breathing and distant as time is distant in this nothingness that I am or what I shall be.  The wind is not my breath; the eyes that will not see.
I am the dark, and the waves are bending…
My mother does not share the same sentiment, and she is lost in the shadow of herself,
Lost as if the tides are lost. 
This is not my life.   

Between the Flame.

Between the sand and sea and sky,
I take the eve and make them dry-
I try to find the past and fame,
And put them out to sea again.
In my heart, and in my eyes,
I make them take me by surprise.
And all the shadows that turn me bare,
Are forgotten for the want and wear-

In the dark, and in the eyes,
My fire shines upon surprise.
From where I am, and where I’ll be,
The night is here and we are free. 

From all the world, and back again,
The leaves turn colors and then they bend-
I don’t know when or where I am,
As I walk this forgotten land-

The trees are bare, the eve is cold,
And in your eyes we are not old,
In this land when we are free,
From where I am, and where I’ll be. 
I’ll sit upon a rock and gaze at sea. 

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Walking in Space.

We are not whirling through space. We are space trapped inside of itself. We are space that is calm, that lingers in time- The rewards are like shadows climbing on walls. Hate is a word wrapped in the dark-it is a hand that shakes my hand. I am not the death that is seen inbetween, and the darkness that seeps Within- When I am at home, I am like a mountain that rises up out of the ashes. I am the night that folds down, down into the nothingness of time. Down into the nothingness of space. I see fame, and it is how I am-it is the space opera of tomorrow, the shadow In the dimness, the dark, the seeing… We have nothing, we see nothing. We are nothing like a light that goes on and off In an empty room. You think you care but you don’t care. You think you see but you can’t see. You trap me like a lion-a lion in the dim and dark and unseen shadows, And we are red flowers, folding like roses…you are greed, and I am not. I am the mountain. I am an empty room.

Saturday, June 02, 2012


COMPUTERS AND MONKEYS The monkey likes to type on computers-maybe he will turn into someone Important, a unified person that lives outside. In the night, the light shines down on you-in the shadow of itself, we are afraid to Be afraid. The night is not dim. I don’t know what will come from this, I don’t know if we will learn. I thought maybe We could learn to be a people. That the heart of the people is missing inside of us, That we are not dim, that things are not warranted-you call people losers, you call them And dismiss them, and the light is dim and you will keep him. Night is remained unseen. That chaos is not what it is, or how we are-and the night is left alone. The monkey is typing on a keyboard, all thoughts are dim. The cops try to pry me from myself, and the insides of myself are born of nothing. Nothing is nothing, and the shallowness…we feel, In the light, we are alone. The monkey types on his computer.


In this time, I won’t find myself looking outside of myself- In the doorway of our lives, my heart rests in my mouth. Inside and outside of time, the birds chirp in their nests- I discovered a way outside the glance of sight. In the inner mind, We weave words of wisdom. Clouds are shot down like a balloon. The words are rhythmic like meadows. I tell people good luck on Their destruction, that the easing of time is many-that the darkness Is not night, and my eyes are not dim-I see the monkeys around me, And thoughts are inside me, glaring like a forest fire, shooting outside of ears. I know some people have to be told to do things, to believe in something They don’t know. This is the willow, the willow is behind the willow. I am inside the ears that are not mine, and we do not speak, we do not find- I wish someone would come along and talk to me, and talk like shadows do. In the nights, the woods are dim, and in the night, creatures hear them… I am willing to do things for money, I am willing to walk home. Time has come without knowing; shadows fade without fear; the hunger inside is growing, And the light is drawing near. The willows are dim and unseeing-the eyes are unseen in dreams. White clouds drift by and I can’t find my way. But the way is not outside of the way. It is here we do not know.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Face In the Water Chapter 1.

1 1600 The assassin stared at King George, his expression stern. “Why do you want me to do that again?” he questioned. King George sighed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was very tired. He had stayed up all night, drinking, and he didn't want to be bothered by this man-he was paying him to do the job, and he had to do it, without complaining. He didn't like all the complaining, and he especially didn't like explaining things he didn't understand. “Because they haven't been paying their taxes. I have no choice but to exile them.” King George rose and stretched, letting his hands dangle at his sides. He shook his shaggy, brown head. He wished he was a blonde. He should steal money from the next blonde guy he saw. It would be interesting. “Do we have a deal?” he demanded. He shrugged tiredly; he was very hungry, and his eyes were sagging, and his skin was sagging, also; he was not a spring chicken any longer. He hadn't even bed a wife; he had many lovers, oh how many there were, he had lovers and he had beautiful maids and servants. None of them were powerful enough for him to wed. None of them were nearly close enough. And then, he realized he was getting low on cash, and left his home-he had to eat, or else he would die. He thought he had enough money saved. All he had was his mother's diamonds, and he didn't want to sell it. It was the only thing in the world. “Okay, we have a deal-now, where's my money?” The king couldn't help but laugh; laughter fell from his lips like waves. * * * “What's wrong with your eyes?” The knight almost wet himself. He stared at the assassin, wearing black clothes, a black hood over his face. “Nothing's wrong with my eyes, boy,” he hissed. “You know you go to give me your treasure.” He looked down at the assassin's hands, and realized they were furry. He was terrified, in shock. His mouth hanging open. “What did you say you're from again?” The assassin gave a shuddery laugh. “Didn't. I'm part Anglo-Saxon, part Spanish.” “Do...most of the Spanish look like you?” He shrugged. He was playing with a blade, wielding it around like it was a toy. Dangling it from his hands. “I was inside a lot. I didn't notice much of the other kids. My mother didn't like talking to strangers.” He scowled. “I'll say,” he replied. “What are you doing in my house?” “I didn't want you to wake up. I thought I could get away getting in and out without you hearing me. I guess I'm not as old as I used to be.” Breaking and entering didn't seem to bother him. Bellinmore Reed wondered if he was a pirate. The knight ran through the trees-his breathing was labored. He looked behind him; the stranger in the shadows was still pursuing him, even though he couldn't see him. “Where'd he go?” he asked himself. He knew the man was somewhere, running along behind him. He could sense him. His extra sensitivity was something he didn't tell a lot of people about, but he still had it, stick as stone, and it was in his mind and heart and body. He was a man, but no one who had to go through something like this. He hadn't done anything wrong. The assassin said it was because he didn't pay his taxes. He was a weird man, and had whiskers, and eyes black as night. The eyes followed him wherever he went, and it made him scream and cry and squirm. It made him shiver. He wanted to go home had he. It was gone. They'd destroyed it, taken everything, and had even taken his family's servants. How could his family owe taxes? He didn't understand any of it. But they blamed him, the last living heir, even though they were the ones who had probably killed them, and blamed the robbery on him, and he was due in court. “I don't know why we have to leave home,” Allister Spencer sniffed. He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to blot out the images of the fire in his mind. The smoldering smoke; the darkness; and the ashes. Bellinmore Reed shook his head. “It seems like the King of Scotland has gone mad,” he answered. “He says the English are fighting farther east-he says we have no way out.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking morose. He didn't know how to tell Allister there were knights in the forest beyond the fortress. “Maybe it has something to do with Church vs. State,” Bellinmore suggested, making a face at him. He hated history stuff; and school. He hadn't been to school in years. He remembered very little about it. “Get your stuff together-we'll be leaving shortly.” He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could cry openly like Allister; he couldn't, and he held still, and he ran back to the campground, and set up a fire. The cook's name was Meadow; he had scraggly blonde hair and blue eyes. His face was longish, and he had a long nose. “What are we having for dinner tonight?” he demanded of the cook. He had found the cook several months ago, wandering alone in the marshes-it seems he had misplaced his home. The knight took him under his wing, and bred him and fed him, and he turned into the glorious creature standing before him. He was learning, oh, how he was learning. The cook hated learning just like Bellinmore, and it suited them both fancy. They were great allies in times of trouble, and good conversationalists.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Stars N Islands

Stars and Islands

I am walking in the morning. The wind moves against the back of my
Neck. I am a habitat, I am moving-I think of all the animals of the world.
Tomorrow is like it is in the morning-and the night is sweet with its song,
Always moving, always in mourning. I don’t have enough money to get what I want to
Get, new clothes, or going on a trip to Ireland.

The airplane flies through the air;
And lands on a runway.
Night is calm, and burdened are we-
I see your face in my dreams.

Finches are on the island where Michaelangelo once lived, moving like shadows
In the dark. Stars come out to play. It is night, and the stars shine down.
It is darkness, and we are in the darkness, and we are like shadows in the dark.
That is glowing.

I want to go on a trip to see my friend. I want to see his silhouette marching down
The dark street, eyes like sparklers, moving in the dark.
The streets are lined with both darkness and sorrow; the street lights are lit with bright stars.

Stranger Things.

Stranger Things

He asked me why I didn’t come.
He didn’t see me walking ahead, my eyes looking backwards.
Some people claim they don’t know what I’m talking
About; I am a stranger in the mist.

We are a lot like apes in the jungle. We are clouds
In the mist of time. Some things are better than in your eyes.
We are like the lions that roar down the mountains.

I think, therefore, I am. I am missing, I wander down the road,
And look right and left for things unheard. This is destiny,
It is not my friend. I try to be friends. No one wants to be friends.

I try to turn things around. I look up and down. The snakes
Are curled in their dens. Most animals are hibernating, now.
I am not hibernating. I am new, as stuck as glue. Some people wake up
Much too late. Some people see what they want in their dreams.

There’s a child who doesn’t understand what we see. Who aches to be someone
In his dreams. He dreams of tall buildings, and time that marches on,
Up and over waters. And still as stone.

When Lightning Flashed.

Lightning flashed through the midnight sky-
On the evening I called you my love.
Against the fall of midnight eyes,
I dreamt of me and you in distant skies.

In dawn, I woke up to the sound,
Of heathen and the curled dreams,
And burdened of monkeys and other things,
I wake and see you in my dreams.

The dawn has come, and we are gone-
And night is over and time is done.
We are going upward to the sun-
But, this time, I went alone.

On the season of the sin,
We’ve known to become one within,
Our heart and mind that beats like rain,
And tender we move over the bend-

In this season, that does not end,
We are not burdened by the sky-
In our heart, we have not won,
But I see the passion in his eyes.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Today is Charles Darwin’s Birthday, and I am walking-

Kroger’s stands tall like a sentinel in the distance.
The yellow sun rises.
It is morning and I am walking to work, my hands swaying
At my sides-they sway to everything, the rising sun, the moon,
And I think about the distance from here to there.

I think about bacteria and how it was formed. I think about Charles Darwin on his
Birthday, he was born over three hundred years ago, and how he recorded
A sparrow’s song.

This song is for Charles Darwin, and his fascination, and his notes that he left
On his mother’s dresser. She was the one who found them, you know, not
The sailors, or the ones who seemed to think they were his colleagues.

I am walking, and thinking, and I think when I walk and the thinking is in the grandness of walking,
And I think about all the people who have work, and who walk, and who think great things
And change the sorrows of the world. This is more for Charles Darwin, because it is his birthday,

And I am waiting for my birthday to arrive and how the flowers bloom on walls-
And how the bacteria moves, and how poetry is moving, and finches are singing.

The Face In the Water-CHAPTER 1.

John Shubbard remembered the first time he saw someone else’s face in the water. It was nearing the end of August in 1978, and he was out fishing with some friends. He had just caught the end of a net and was bragging to James how many trout he was going to catch-James, getting angry as he always did, almost pushed him into the water; he stumbled, and righted himself; his ankle throbbed with pain. He twirled around to face him, his expression one of anger-the anger on his face was intense, and it made John cringe inside. He wasn’t used to the anger he saw on his face. James was usually a very mellow guy.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” he spluttered. “I could have fallen into the water! Don’t push me in!”
James Wilcox laughed-he guffawed and slapped his leg. “You’re such a wuss, sprout!” he declared. His grandma always called him sprout. John shoved him. James glared at him, his nostrils flared.
He looked like a fish who had jumped out of water and was having trouble breathing.
“Don’t talk like that about me!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know why you’re being so rude! We’re supposed to be friends!”
“Friends is as friends does.”
“What are you talking about?”
James winked at him. “You know what I’m talking about,” he gloated.
He glanced down into the water. He thought he saw the shimmer of something just beyond his reach, but he wasn’t sure. He shook his head, and frowned. Maybe it was nothing. John had a tendency to turn a lot of nothings into something. Scott Morrow put a hand on John’s shoulder, as if to steady him.
“It’s how he is,” Scott said softly. “Remember his sister? He ain’t right adder the car addident.” Scott had a little lisp and didn’t pronounce certain words correctly-d’s, and f’s, were always difficult for him. Jim’s parents abandoned him when he was a baby. John got a feeling it traumatized him to this day and he didn’t like to talk about it, but he knew how to relate.
Scott was lucky. His aunt took him in. John had gone to his cousin and then to foster care. It was a tricky passage. His relatives didn’t like him and he didn’t want to sound like a baby and ask for help. He had been homeless as a teenager. John’s parents used to hate him to death, and wish he were dead-they’d said so on many occasions. John nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
He narrowed his eyes, in remembrance. He didn’t like it, though. He especially hated the remembering part. How he was always to blame for the problems. How his parents hated him and wanted money to go on a vacation and how they didn’t have enough money and this and that.
He glanced into the water again-something strange shimmered on the surface of the ocean, then it was gone, like a flash of lightning or a piece of string that had drowned. He needed to get laid, but his mind was playing tricks on him again-he must be tired because it looked like a woman’s face had been in the water.
He was thirsty. He needed to get something to drink.
He said goodbye to his friends-they were fishing again, and James had calmed himself down, that’s how it always happened and James was calm again and able to think rationally.
James didn’t have any problems in his family and John wondered why he acted like that but he did anyway and it wasn’t anybody’s fault but his own-he jumped into his car and drove downtown to a bar called Sherman’s. It was an Irish/Country bar. He didn’t have many friends there, but there was a woman named Hope Peppersen who was always flirting with him and he enjoyed the attention. He wanted to sleep with her, but she confessed she was married and although she liked John, she thought it was unnecessary.
“Maybe I’ll see you outside of the bar,” he’d said, winking at her.
She’d nodded happily, laughed and tossed her hair in his direction. He’d winked back. That was how it always was when they were in the bar together. The bartender laughed at him about it. John’s mind drifted back to reality. He had walked at the bar and was sitting down at the booth and looking at a large menu. The stools were red and brown. He pushed his hair back behind his face and sighed. He was tired. He didn’t realize how late it was. He should have gone home, but he wanted to see if there were any women tonight and to get a few drinks inside him. Maybe he would get laid tonight. Maybe he wouldn’t. He was hoping for the best. He looked around for Hope. He didn’t see her at the bar tonight. At least not yet. It was still early. He thought she said she still worked, but he wasn’t sure. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers and the bartender waddled over happily. He was an overweight, balding man and had beady eyes and curly hair. He was married.
John sneered at him. The man was pitiful. He needed a weight loss program and some dentures-his teeth were yellow and crooked. John knew he was married because he had a ring on his finger. He thought the woman must be very fat and desperate in order to marry someone like that. John fantasized about marrying for money, but it didn’t please him. He could make his own money. He was going to marry a supermodel and live in a large house and have 12 sports cars. He wanted 12 sports cars because he saw a comedian with 12 sports cars on television and thought it might please him if he had some, too.
“What do you want, man?” the bartender asked him in a slow, slurred speech. John thought he had learning problems.
“I want a slice of pizza and a glass of Diet soda,” he told him.
The bartender raised his eyebrow. “Soda? In a bar?” he said.
“I’m waiting for someone. I can’t drink when I’m irritated.”
“Irritated?” he’d said, and laughed.
John didn’t know the bartender’s name and wasn’t about to ask-he just called him the bartender. John waited, tapping his hands on the table. It was brown and made from plastic. The chairs were plastic, too. This was a high-scale place.
Hope came in and sat down next to him. “Hey, guy,” she said pleasantly. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” John replied. He eyed her skimpy pink dress. “You’re wearing pink.” He sounded sarcastic but he was pleased.
She tossed her hair in his direction. “Yeah, so?”
“I thought you hated pink.”
“I like it, now,” she laughed.
“Because my husband and I are going on our second honeymoon.” She winked at him. “No imaginary sex for awhile, I’m afraid.”
John smiled at her and didn’t respond. That was when John realized he didn’t like Hope anymore. But, he still wanted her and it made him even more angry than he was before and he didn’t know why. He suddenly realized he got angry-a lot. And he liked it. He put her out of his mind and decided to concentrate on work. Work didn’t have heartache in it. Work didn’t have pain. He barely glanced at his female coworkers. It was for the best. He was going to have to get used to it.
* * *

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The Singing Woman.

The woman sings in an open doorway.
Jealous is round like a key. The skeleton clatters to the floor;
A clock chimes. The government is shaken about anything.
We don’t know where we will go. Only that some houses
Have stairs, and others don’t. I thought everything was round
In the middle, and sometimes, the yellow daisy breathes-
I don’t care about the gentleness. I only care about the stiffness,
And the shadow that crawls on the table. She thinks she owns everything,
The world, and her children are in moldy, brown colors.
The rules are made from everything. She loses sight of everything.

She sings in an open doorway. Her hand is rotted, like flesh. She thinks
Things are getting broken again; and a man is walking on a roof. There are windows
In the house, and the house folds over, down-like caskets falling from the sky,
And landing on a blade of grass. The grass is like the cold in winter. The winter
Is swift. Everything is dry.

She has the pages of her book in front of her. She likes to sit still and count the craters
In her hand. Everyone stares, including the gold lion.

The woman is singing, she doesn’t sing.