Another from the series called (for now) "Corea"
Psalm
Lord High, which way should I go?
Where do seeds grow?
Where can I be sown?
I never once imagined
that I’d be trapped in heaven,
but here I am with ankles in shackles.
Lord tell me please,
I’m begging,
where’s the key?
I’m singing to You,
and I know You know it’s true,
I’m lost, trying to find You.
You know I have no answers
but my, oh my, this place is cancer.
This society is a tumor
spreading like a rumor;
wild fire gossip
and hell-fire gospels;
we’re no longer all people.
We’re Americans and Iranians
Europeans and Africans,
divided under flags,
each waving high above the steeple.
Lord how can I
look all this in the eye
and keep on with this smile?
Lord aren’t you great?
Greater than the state?
So why don’t you placate
these angry men you made?
Or is the task too great
for something that has gone away
and left us here to stay
lost in the dark? You play
with our lives for your own good times.
You’ve pumped us full of lies,
caused religion to divide,
men and women to fight.
You brought about
the battles and drought
and left us here to die,
so Lord, Lord! why’d you make us to cry?
I apologize.
I didn’t mean to criticize.
You are these blue skies
and happy loving sighs
of words whispered by
the lips of True Love.
So whisper to me,
I’m begging on my knees,
what happened to humility?
These people who claim
you, mock your name
in tremendous ways.
They go to church
and watch
the preacher till the clock
strikes 12. Then they can eat,
so they rush home and feast
and praise your name
and pray and pray,
while others lay splayed
on the pavement in the rain,
searching gutters for what may
be their only meal today,
but I know this ain’t good faith,
so Lord, tell me, what’s the way?
Infinite You, what is beyond
this which seems so long,
this place that seems so wrong?
Will it all come back around?
Will kings and peasants play on level ground?
Will the humble become the proud?
O! Lord the politics
of bureaucrats and aristocrats
and church and state
are so far removed
from what You say is so
important.
It’s easy to say
to love and love each day,
but that’s the best praise
of your charm and grace.
I’ll ignore these political games
and monetary gains;
these backward social ways,
the arrogance of religious claims,
the dirty rotten scoundrels
who dare to play me for the fool.
I’ll continue to flounder
and stumble through this mire
until I’m pulled higher
than all these silly trifles;
and am one with the clouds;
and am one with the sea;
and am happy once again
in bowed humility
Lord High, please come down and rescue me!
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
from "Corea"
A poem from sometime past; from a collection of poems written in a number of places.
Hide from the Faces of Clocks
A chair, a table,
a clock ticks the second
hand around its face,
persistent like a baby having nightmares.
An airplane flies outside the window
and mopeds and flash cars
mirr and purr by.
Chatter of walkers
down at the street,
slow passing.
Sirens flash on in the distance,
then off again.
Fluorescent light.
The light glows.
The room is stuffy.
Gnats move in mid-air
and make no sound.
Just the second hand ticking and the night-fallen town.
Eclipsing missionary stars,
the city floods the sky
with neon buzzing
flickering
flash false senses of glam and fortune.
Westward living.
Fly by square currents
on circuit boards.
Flow fast
with other electrodes
going from point A-spend money to point B.
Collide and continue,
with antennae outstretched
so as not to get too close.
Tongue stays tucked behind teeth,
afraid
like a shivering child under bedsheets,
scared to open his eyes,
scared to speak.
Shot glass, Soju, pilsner,
booth for one, snacks for one,
silent in the darkened bar
under black lights
behind the curtain of smoke from his nostrils
he sits alone beneath the sounds of pop culture
and chatter
and falling glass and laughter.
He tries to smile,
but is silent,
noticing that glances ignore what has no chance of understanding.
Language; philosophy; principle; helplessly misunderstood,
so he laughs.
A man can get away with laughing at helplessness
more than he ever could cry.
The ember burns in a damp cloth ashtray.
His lips are moistened by another sip of his boredom.
It comes down to understanding.
Do you understand?
If this was written in Farsi, would you understand?
If this was written about making dinner with a best friend,
about building a fort out of blankets,
about lost love, would you understand?
If this was written about floating down a river,
or about a forest of giant trees,
would you understand?
Will you understand?
The short circuit that blows the neon tube;
the misspelled word to alter doctrine;
the dropped call;
the house on sand;
he has been patronized to death by polyester promises.
In red burning; yellow, pink, blue glowing; stay open late to sell until you drop; buy because you have nothing better to do; or, drink because you can’t afford any more things;
where alcohol plagues men
and hope is blinded by manifest destiny;
in a chair
at a table,
he listens to the second hand,
a baby trapped in nightmares.
Hide from the Faces of Clocks
A chair, a table,
a clock ticks the second
hand around its face,
persistent like a baby having nightmares.
An airplane flies outside the window
and mopeds and flash cars
mirr and purr by.
Chatter of walkers
down at the street,
slow passing.
Sirens flash on in the distance,
then off again.
Fluorescent light.
The light glows.
The room is stuffy.
Gnats move in mid-air
and make no sound.
Just the second hand ticking and the night-fallen town.
Eclipsing missionary stars,
the city floods the sky
with neon buzzing
flickering
flash false senses of glam and fortune.
Westward living.
Fly by square currents
on circuit boards.
Flow fast
with other electrodes
going from point A-spend money to point B.
Collide and continue,
with antennae outstretched
so as not to get too close.
Tongue stays tucked behind teeth,
afraid
like a shivering child under bedsheets,
scared to open his eyes,
scared to speak.
Shot glass, Soju, pilsner,
booth for one, snacks for one,
silent in the darkened bar
under black lights
behind the curtain of smoke from his nostrils
he sits alone beneath the sounds of pop culture
and chatter
and falling glass and laughter.
He tries to smile,
but is silent,
noticing that glances ignore what has no chance of understanding.
Language; philosophy; principle; helplessly misunderstood,
so he laughs.
A man can get away with laughing at helplessness
more than he ever could cry.
The ember burns in a damp cloth ashtray.
His lips are moistened by another sip of his boredom.
It comes down to understanding.
Do you understand?
If this was written in Farsi, would you understand?
If this was written about making dinner with a best friend,
about building a fort out of blankets,
about lost love, would you understand?
If this was written about floating down a river,
or about a forest of giant trees,
would you understand?
Will you understand?
The short circuit that blows the neon tube;
the misspelled word to alter doctrine;
the dropped call;
the house on sand;
he has been patronized to death by polyester promises.
In red burning; yellow, pink, blue glowing; stay open late to sell until you drop; buy because you have nothing better to do; or, drink because you can’t afford any more things;
where alcohol plagues men
and hope is blinded by manifest destiny;
in a chair
at a table,
he listens to the second hand,
a baby trapped in nightmares.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
from "Corea"
'Here, now'
(after reading Aku Ingin, by Sapardi Djoko Damono)
I wished to tell you;
laced lips with a bow in the middle.
I hoped to show you.
The leaves fell.
(after reading Aku Ingin, by Sapardi Djoko Damono)
I wished to tell you;
laced lips with a bow in the middle.
I hoped to show you.
The leaves fell.
from "Corea"
Going forward with my plan to post, with some kind of discretion, old poems in the next few months so as to develop a sort of online, "bgoing" collection, here is one in a long list. (Specifically posted with friends in mind, this is not about anyone in particular, but was written in a setting similar to what they now experience. More or less dedicated.)
Hard Nights, Dark Curves
The gargoyle’s eyes glow.
His frostbit frame
clutches snow.
He puts me on edge,
but I fall
into his gaze again;
get lost
in this blank space
daze again.
He sweats in puddles,
unforgiving
devil-son;
always tempting me
with loss of mind.
Always ready
to put me on.
Vice alone,
my virtue’s gone.
Pity on me.
He takes no pity on me.
Temptress
in the black light room,
piercing eyes
that eclipse the moon,
asks me what I want.
But she doesn’t care
what I want,
unless it gets her paid.
Her long bare legs
reach stilettos.
Her long dark hair
drapes over
her shoulders,
and I want only to talk.
I want someone
to join me
for a walk.
Happy once,
lonesome vagrant sorrows.
Serpent
in the tree of knowledge,
pandora’s box
was a flask of vodka
and boredom;
one person
with nothing to do
and no one
to do nothing with.
Walks alone
along cobblestone,
away from home,
I haven’t been there
in so long.
Always on the go.
Headed with no
destination known.
Pushing on
cause I got nothin better to do.
Missionary stars
drown in the city’s flood
and constant buzz
of begging
neon lights.
Firestorms
into the night;
glowing gods
in a firefight.
Polyester promises from
flippant tongues,
everyone wants to think
they’re the one
to give me what I need,
but it’s all based on
their own greed.
Here’s my drink
and here’s my problem.
The second hand ticks
like icicles melting –
necessary evils
with no escaping
and the clocks
march on,
reminding me
of all my time
lost.
The sun melts the day
but then it goes away
and the moon
freezes night
and we’re left to pray
until the sun comes back around.
But that’s just
another day.
Pressing like an army,
time overtakes me.
On days
when clouds leave,
the sun beguiles,
I sit
and contemplate life
for a while.
Clocks don’t really exist.
People try
to challenge Life
for their business.
The statues
atop the cathedral
fall into the snow
as the day thaws
and the sun
comes back around,
revealing everything
I’d once lost.
The world’s not collapsing,
but it sure is a struggle.
Hard Nights, Dark Curves
The gargoyle’s eyes glow.
His frostbit frame
clutches snow.
He puts me on edge,
but I fall
into his gaze again;
get lost
in this blank space
daze again.
He sweats in puddles,
unforgiving
devil-son;
always tempting me
with loss of mind.
Always ready
to put me on.
Vice alone,
my virtue’s gone.
Pity on me.
He takes no pity on me.
Temptress
in the black light room,
piercing eyes
that eclipse the moon,
asks me what I want.
But she doesn’t care
what I want,
unless it gets her paid.
Her long bare legs
reach stilettos.
Her long dark hair
drapes over
her shoulders,
and I want only to talk.
I want someone
to join me
for a walk.
Happy once,
lonesome vagrant sorrows.
Serpent
in the tree of knowledge,
pandora’s box
was a flask of vodka
and boredom;
one person
with nothing to do
and no one
to do nothing with.
Walks alone
along cobblestone,
away from home,
I haven’t been there
in so long.
Always on the go.
Headed with no
destination known.
Pushing on
cause I got nothin better to do.
Missionary stars
drown in the city’s flood
and constant buzz
of begging
neon lights.
Firestorms
into the night;
glowing gods
in a firefight.
Polyester promises from
flippant tongues,
everyone wants to think
they’re the one
to give me what I need,
but it’s all based on
their own greed.
Here’s my drink
and here’s my problem.
The second hand ticks
like icicles melting –
necessary evils
with no escaping
and the clocks
march on,
reminding me
of all my time
lost.
The sun melts the day
but then it goes away
and the moon
freezes night
and we’re left to pray
until the sun comes back around.
But that’s just
another day.
Pressing like an army,
time overtakes me.
On days
when clouds leave,
the sun beguiles,
I sit
and contemplate life
for a while.
Clocks don’t really exist.
People try
to challenge Life
for their business.
The statues
atop the cathedral
fall into the snow
as the day thaws
and the sun
comes back around,
revealing everything
I’d once lost.
The world’s not collapsing,
but it sure is a struggle.
Friday, January 13, 2012
The Warm Blanket Nostalgia Winter
Stars glistening in the frosty belt Milky Way streak
the sky like an ever-whirling comet’s tail;
like the sparkle of crisp leaves; and frozen damp streets
wind up and down the mountain side - the
animals hide and spiders greet me inside -
we brace for another cold night.
Friends join me for wine in a large house lit
in four candles. We play music and together step
out to fill our warm lungs
with satisfying smoke of cigarettes and green-tips we
shiver through - and the cold nights
press against the walls and bare on the ceiling of my home with
candle-light lamps, acoustic guitars, and jokes wine as
stars glisten and frozen roads sparkle up and down
New Mexico’s pitch dark shivering mountain night.
the sky like an ever-whirling comet’s tail;
like the sparkle of crisp leaves; and frozen damp streets
wind up and down the mountain side - the
animals hide and spiders greet me inside -
we brace for another cold night.
Friends join me for wine in a large house lit
in four candles. We play music and together step
out to fill our warm lungs
with satisfying smoke of cigarettes and green-tips we
shiver through - and the cold nights
press against the walls and bare on the ceiling of my home with
candle-light lamps, acoustic guitars, and jokes wine as
stars glisten and frozen roads sparkle up and down
New Mexico’s pitch dark shivering mountain night.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Can Someone Make Sense of This?
Decimal says where to place the zeros, until his counterpart, Wait, arrives to dictate to Decimal where he now stands. By this time, Cents is out of the picture, unless dealing with Awkward Prices. At any rate, the collective We now sees Wait is first, but after Dollars. Dollars stands above All: Wait, Decimal, and especially Cents. Now that Cents is all but out of the picture completely, the collective We increasingly ignore him. We now looks for Wait, and then Dollars.
At some point, Dollars is off talking to Car about something, but Wait, and the color of the poster-board upon which Wait is written, don't need Dollars anyway. In this present circumstance, the collective We don't need Dollars to know what Wait is getting at,
But we need Bills to get in good with Car, to whom Dollars is still speaking.
The collective We splits at this point. Some inquires further. Others passes by uninterested.
Eventually, Some and Others realize they are different. They each see Separate and keep their distance. Grudge grows big and strong and Envy festers in the dirt. Others is upset that Some has Dollars in her pocket. Some disagrees with Others hanging out so much with Cents.
Cents tries to beat up Dollars, but gets pummeled.
Now, Others hates Dollars. Dollars is already furious because of how much time Others spent with Cents, so he gets together with Grudge and they agree to refuse to speak to Others.
Some starts to hang out with Envy now that Dollars is preoccupied with Grudge.
The swarm of characters, like an electron cloud, flurry around each other without touching. Nobody gets along anymore except Decimal and Wait, as always, but they keep their usual distance of three and more Digits.
All is convoluted. Some flickers. Others pulses. But they both keep going away and coming back, having still never spoken, except for when they discovered they were different. The collective We can be regathered - and renamed. Clustered Bunch, then, goes on, recognizing more and more the nuances that make each other different,
And as soon as Gravity arrives, Bits and Chunks of Clustered Bunch take off high-thrill. Bits is stepped on. Chunks dissolved in a river. Their siblings and cousins similarly disperse. Clustered Bunch has broken and parted into infinite individuals. These regroup and create Greater Whole. At this point, Dollars and Cents are no longer important to anybody. However, there follows the extended family, who arrive like Erosion (who slowly slips in and takes a little bit of Whole as she leaves) and Landslides (who loves Spontaneous Change and a leisurely stroll down a steady hillside). Even Dollars and Cents suffer from these. Wait may at some point move, but Decimal will survive and stick around. Greater Whole keeps on truckin' of course,
Bits, Chunks, and all the Clustered Bunch forget about each other,
But the collective We has always been friends with Greater Whole. Clustered Bunch and Bits, Chunks and Cents, Digits, even Dollars - even Decimal and Wait - are slight, compared to the companionship of the collective We and Greater Whole.
At some point, Dollars is off talking to Car about something, but Wait, and the color of the poster-board upon which Wait is written, don't need Dollars anyway. In this present circumstance, the collective We don't need Dollars to know what Wait is getting at,
But we need Bills to get in good with Car, to whom Dollars is still speaking.
The collective We splits at this point. Some inquires further. Others passes by uninterested.
Eventually, Some and Others realize they are different. They each see Separate and keep their distance. Grudge grows big and strong and Envy festers in the dirt. Others is upset that Some has Dollars in her pocket. Some disagrees with Others hanging out so much with Cents.
Cents tries to beat up Dollars, but gets pummeled.
Now, Others hates Dollars. Dollars is already furious because of how much time Others spent with Cents, so he gets together with Grudge and they agree to refuse to speak to Others.
Some starts to hang out with Envy now that Dollars is preoccupied with Grudge.
The swarm of characters, like an electron cloud, flurry around each other without touching. Nobody gets along anymore except Decimal and Wait, as always, but they keep their usual distance of three and more Digits.
All is convoluted. Some flickers. Others pulses. But they both keep going away and coming back, having still never spoken, except for when they discovered they were different. The collective We can be regathered - and renamed. Clustered Bunch, then, goes on, recognizing more and more the nuances that make each other different,
And as soon as Gravity arrives, Bits and Chunks of Clustered Bunch take off high-thrill. Bits is stepped on. Chunks dissolved in a river. Their siblings and cousins similarly disperse. Clustered Bunch has broken and parted into infinite individuals. These regroup and create Greater Whole. At this point, Dollars and Cents are no longer important to anybody. However, there follows the extended family, who arrive like Erosion (who slowly slips in and takes a little bit of Whole as she leaves) and Landslides (who loves Spontaneous Change and a leisurely stroll down a steady hillside). Even Dollars and Cents suffer from these. Wait may at some point move, but Decimal will survive and stick around. Greater Whole keeps on truckin' of course,
Bits, Chunks, and all the Clustered Bunch forget about each other,
But the collective We has always been friends with Greater Whole. Clustered Bunch and Bits, Chunks and Cents, Digits, even Dollars - even Decimal and Wait - are slight, compared to the companionship of the collective We and Greater Whole.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Mega
You are the silicon of leaking breast implants. True faith offers no reward like the cash you earn through false hope. Harangue falsity. Create Babel. Your office has space enough for two; for high-value wooden floors draped with a Bear Rug, leather couches, and 50 starving orphans. However, the orphans are missing.
Your sermons are Your sermons. And You spoke to a million people. And Your church needed 130 thousand more square feet. God must be Huge! although I didn’t find God there in Your church. I didn’t see God in the felt of Your pool tables – nor the two dead turkeys in Your office. I couldn’t see God on the banner behind Your stage nor in the prayer You said. My eye must be blind because I didn’t see God in Your gold-framed Diploma or the Ivory dagger or jeweled Indian sandals. I cried to see God in Your gold jewelry and gloating, but couldn't. You must have given him the day off.
Your sermons are Your sermons. And You spoke to a million people. And Your church needed 130 thousand more square feet. God must be Huge! although I didn’t find God there in Your church. I didn’t see God in the felt of Your pool tables – nor the two dead turkeys in Your office. I couldn’t see God on the banner behind Your stage nor in the prayer You said. My eye must be blind because I didn’t see God in Your gold-framed Diploma or the Ivory dagger or jeweled Indian sandals. I cried to see God in Your gold jewelry and gloating, but couldn't. You must have given him the day off.
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