Hunger is not my middle name
You are not my face, my brother-
You are etched in my dreams
Eyes are burdened by colors
You tell tales and spin wreckless dreams
I fear not the face of anger
I fear not the face of redemption
Torn apart by weathered hands,
Hands are aching and bleeding,
Red and golden as dreams.
We fear not, the corn,
The hunger is temptation.
The temptation is greed.
Greed is unified.
Unified in our grace.
The stem from the rosebud
Glows downward,
Empties out into the world.
Hunger is not me.
I followed the woman down
The stairs,
She hisses at me like a snake-
Her eyes are bloodred,
Mouth is twisted.
I model myself after JFK,
The man who was destroyed.
He said, Fear not the temptation;
The eating of chicken.
Fear not destruction.
The commerce of it.
The letting down of it.
The letting down is easy.
Everything is destroyed.
We were all in the middle.
Showing posts with label woman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label woman. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Monday, April 05, 2010
Things Etched in Stone.
Hunger is not my middle name
You are not my face, my brother-
You are etched in my dreams
Eyes are burdened by colors
You tell tales and spin wreckless dreams
I fear not the face of anger
I fear not the face of redemption
Torn apart by weathered hands,
Hands are aching and bleeding,
Red and golden as dreams.
We fear not, the corn,
The hunger is temptation.
The temptation is greed.
Greed is unified.
Unified in our grace.
The stem from the rosebud
Glows downward,
Empties out into the world.
Hunger is not me.
I followed the woman down
The stairs,
She hisses at me like a snake-
Her eyes are bloodred,
Mouth is twisted.
I model myself after JFK,
The man who was destroyed.
He said, Fear not the temptation;
The eating of chicken.
Fear not destruction.
The commerce of it.
The letting down of it.
The letting down is easy.
Everything is destroyed.
We were all in the middle.
You are not my face, my brother-
You are etched in my dreams
Eyes are burdened by colors
You tell tales and spin wreckless dreams
I fear not the face of anger
I fear not the face of redemption
Torn apart by weathered hands,
Hands are aching and bleeding,
Red and golden as dreams.
We fear not, the corn,
The hunger is temptation.
The temptation is greed.
Greed is unified.
Unified in our grace.
The stem from the rosebud
Glows downward,
Empties out into the world.
Hunger is not me.
I followed the woman down
The stairs,
She hisses at me like a snake-
Her eyes are bloodred,
Mouth is twisted.
I model myself after JFK,
The man who was destroyed.
He said, Fear not the temptation;
The eating of chicken.
Fear not destruction.
The commerce of it.
The letting down of it.
The letting down is easy.
Everything is destroyed.
We were all in the middle.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Chronicles.
We are not miners. We are 49ers. My friend mentions the 49ers every time conversation
is awkward, every time a truck goes by on the freeway. I am tired. My mind is quiet, is steady. The beat of my heart is stilled, willed. The flower is wilted. My love for you blooms eternally in gardens; my love for you is in a book, the symbol written in words. I haven't slept in weeks. The night falls. The waves break on the ocean. You tell me nothing. You tell me, "I see things bigger than myself!" I tell you know this. I try to get another job, but I can't speak past your eyes. Your eyes like stars. The woman with the red shirt works at the gas station. She sleeps at night without a pillow, thinking of her mother, her father, her sister, her brother. If they will be able to eat the next day. The television tells me no one is hungry, not in words, but in images. I can't afford cable. A pigeon poops in the garden. In the winter, my landlord drains the pool. It looks half-naked.
is awkward, every time a truck goes by on the freeway. I am tired. My mind is quiet, is steady. The beat of my heart is stilled, willed. The flower is wilted. My love for you blooms eternally in gardens; my love for you is in a book, the symbol written in words. I haven't slept in weeks. The night falls. The waves break on the ocean. You tell me nothing. You tell me, "I see things bigger than myself!" I tell you know this. I try to get another job, but I can't speak past your eyes. Your eyes like stars. The woman with the red shirt works at the gas station. She sleeps at night without a pillow, thinking of her mother, her father, her sister, her brother. If they will be able to eat the next day. The television tells me no one is hungry, not in words, but in images. I can't afford cable. A pigeon poops in the garden. In the winter, my landlord drains the pool. It looks half-naked.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Cars on Freeways.
Soiled sheets drifting like barren coins in names of
Dreams that focus on seeing eyeglasses
I said I wasn’t back in Kentucky I wasn’t
Back home where you melted the hole
In the wall and I crept on my hands and knees
And spoke to the dead.
Trees gloat at me from the shadows
And my father drives a silver Mercedes he
Got at the local dealership and when he spoke
To me last Thursday night his mind was somewhere
Else,
On fucking a blonde woman he met at the bar,
On the work he was supposed to do and didn’t.
He was the man who got cancer from a doctor
In Ohio and angered my mother,
She broke a vase and threw it out the window
And onto the ground,
All tired out she went to sleep on the couch
And the tiredness is still there, still unseeing,
Still within the sight of mind.
My mother was a redheaded woman who did not
Like alcoholics or parallel parking,
Who worked at a nine to five job and
Quit because the manager was obese and looked
Like he needed good home cooking
And Tennessee Williams. His uncle was a famous writer
Whose last novel bombed and he went to work at a
Dealership instead,
Living off of food stamps and angry words.
Dreams that focus on seeing eyeglasses
I said I wasn’t back in Kentucky I wasn’t
Back home where you melted the hole
In the wall and I crept on my hands and knees
And spoke to the dead.
Trees gloat at me from the shadows
And my father drives a silver Mercedes he
Got at the local dealership and when he spoke
To me last Thursday night his mind was somewhere
Else,
On fucking a blonde woman he met at the bar,
On the work he was supposed to do and didn’t.
He was the man who got cancer from a doctor
In Ohio and angered my mother,
She broke a vase and threw it out the window
And onto the ground,
All tired out she went to sleep on the couch
And the tiredness is still there, still unseeing,
Still within the sight of mind.
My mother was a redheaded woman who did not
Like alcoholics or parallel parking,
Who worked at a nine to five job and
Quit because the manager was obese and looked
Like he needed good home cooking
And Tennessee Williams. His uncle was a famous writer
Whose last novel bombed and he went to work at a
Dealership instead,
Living off of food stamps and angry words.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
All the Good Deeds in the World.
All the good deeds in the world have been done-cashed in
Like a check, I am using the pen my grandfather gave me,
Blue with a flashlight on the end of it. Saturday you came
And we went to the grocery store and ordered salami from
A red-headed hooker whose mind was somewhere else,
Probably on fucking a man in a yellow suit, who can’t sing
With a damn.
At a J. Geil’s concert, my aunt sits between an old woman
Who looks like a duck and has a bad hair perm, ignoring
The stench of too much perfume. I am calm in my mannerism,
Trying not to become one of the faceless voids in the crowd,
Trying to be polite, trying not to cast myself out.
People act like
Zombies without an original thought in their head. I wonder if
They like it. I wonder if their moods change from day to day,
If they are happy about their life, if they are proud of what they
Have done.
I am not proud, I am disgusted, self-loathing, and insecure,
Wallowing in my own self-pity of acceptance. I try to fit in and give
Up, force myself to do good deeds. You say I am ridiculous,
That I can’t see past a brick wall.
Like a check, I am using the pen my grandfather gave me,
Blue with a flashlight on the end of it. Saturday you came
And we went to the grocery store and ordered salami from
A red-headed hooker whose mind was somewhere else,
Probably on fucking a man in a yellow suit, who can’t sing
With a damn.
At a J. Geil’s concert, my aunt sits between an old woman
Who looks like a duck and has a bad hair perm, ignoring
The stench of too much perfume. I am calm in my mannerism,
Trying not to become one of the faceless voids in the crowd,
Trying to be polite, trying not to cast myself out.
People act like
Zombies without an original thought in their head. I wonder if
They like it. I wonder if their moods change from day to day,
If they are happy about their life, if they are proud of what they
Have done.
I am not proud, I am disgusted, self-loathing, and insecure,
Wallowing in my own self-pity of acceptance. I try to fit in and give
Up, force myself to do good deeds. You say I am ridiculous,
That I can’t see past a brick wall.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Losing Faith.
He laughs at things that are intelligent.
He thinks the whole world owes him something.
I tell him they don't.
He insists they do-and decides to take it further
by having a baby with a dark-haired woman
with too much lip, whose intelligence is sub-par,
and whose tattoos are jaded, at best; she was
trying to impress him when they first met,
she wanted a husband, she says, not a lover.
She does not have faith in the system.
I, myself, prefer a lover, not a husband.
I prefer long walks on the
beach, talking about sweet sorrows and the
horrible killing of the whales
and the mating of the elephants
in long exhausted Africa, where the Rwandans and
Congolese people are trying to survive on little
or nothing at all.
I prefer making dinner at home to going out.
I prefer movies at the theater to a DVD player.
I prefer a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I’m
going to get it. I’m not loud, or boisterous,
or rude; that’s what men prefer nowadays.
At least that's what I read in an article in The New York Times.
I am a quiet woman in a room full of light and color
and the darkness is prominent. Nothing can be done
about this. No one says anything about anything.
He thinks the whole world owes him something.
I tell him they don't.
He insists they do-and decides to take it further
by having a baby with a dark-haired woman
with too much lip, whose intelligence is sub-par,
and whose tattoos are jaded, at best; she was
trying to impress him when they first met,
she wanted a husband, she says, not a lover.
She does not have faith in the system.
I, myself, prefer a lover, not a husband.
I prefer long walks on the
beach, talking about sweet sorrows and the
horrible killing of the whales
and the mating of the elephants
in long exhausted Africa, where the Rwandans and
Congolese people are trying to survive on little
or nothing at all.
I prefer making dinner at home to going out.
I prefer movies at the theater to a DVD player.
I prefer a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I’m
going to get it. I’m not loud, or boisterous,
or rude; that’s what men prefer nowadays.
At least that's what I read in an article in The New York Times.
I am a quiet woman in a room full of light and color
and the darkness is prominent. Nothing can be done
about this. No one says anything about anything.
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