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(for a project in which I was supposed to describe my existential self or who I am in an existential manner or some convoluted thing like that. i sort of preferred not to answer the question)
You’d ask me who I am, and how I’d know.
You’d ask me what material weaves my soul?
There are few depths and lengths to which I’d go;
My mind is not tame yard or shallow shoal.
My lock is not a keyed and open door
For any man to rest his curious eyes.
My stock is not new made in earthly forge;
I am no weapon when the battle flies.
My barrel is not straight and gleaming bright.
I hold myself against no poor man’s head.
Shuttle and loom are my weapons, my pride.
You pierce my peace with loaded balls of lead.
In time, and without deadly mortal tools,
I may discover this, the quest of fools.
I wrote these while using wordperhect.net which is a site which is a sort of parody of word processing programs, which you can choose an “item” to write on such as an old calendar or receipt, etc, and choose a type of handwriting such as messy or tidy. Sometimes I just stare at whatever page and something comes to mind, perhaps a line of music or a certain word, and the strange format in way frees me up to write really random things, which I sometimes end up liking.
Untitled
My day was short and tremoring within the skin of life
A striking flash of melody, vociferous and light.
The wailing boom of crowded ways concealed me with the noise,
And quietly I stole away in company of boys.
Untitled 2
Time is wasted on the shamed and shivering
Here we lie about to die quivering
Hunkered in our bunks of boredom striking deathly poses
And learning how to follow the sniffs of our noses
She was a virtuoso in her brazen composure
Suspicious, the tilt of her head as she bent over the missal
So visible, so vividly volatile
Like a breath of steam straining to be foam
Like sea-foam spray craving to rush
To rush and cry over the very rocks, mired in their steadfast prayers
Wary of watching eyes, she became a sculpture
The lines of her back fluid and clear
Her profile focused, her outline intense
Skimming inquiry through a blurring lens
The wind will soon blow her away.
His hand moves, stealthy and light,
The smoothing tread of his fingers pressing,
Caressing.
Disembodied and far, his eyes wander,
Widening, scanning the scene.
And still his hand moves, inching, creeping,
The black apparatus warming beneath it.
Her face leaps into focus,
Clarity restored to the world.
Funneled behind the little lens,
A trick of perfection.
“Don’t move.” The careful hand withdraws;
He holds his breath, shifts his grip, waits, his heart beats, “this is perfect” he thinks, “this is it” but it is all a shadow of time and really what happens is he blinks and taps the button and the strobe huffs…
She blinks and smiles, shifts her weight…
Sliding out of focus…
The hand comes back up…
“Perfect…”
She gathered up the petals, one by one
Glued them on the stem which they’d come from
Left one on the ground, left it to rot
Began again, whispering “loves me not”
Sketch: Words
Wander ‘cross the page
Pretty little mage
Shining little wizard word
Curt in frame and age.
Sing a tinkling song
Frolicking along
Put a smile on my face
Though your spelling’s wrong.
3/7
Sketch: Fence
Border me, golden field
Swallow me, whipping wheat
Beat me bare, batting breezes
Crack me dry, summer heat
Paint in chips under sunny
Summer skies, arching blue
Over skipping children’s laughter
They play the fence, too.
3/7-3/25
My Room 3/17
Who am I? My soul’s in piles.
A jumbled mess, a sloppy kiss,
Like rumpled blouses on the floor,
Pick ‘em up and find some more-
More socks, more books and wandering pens,
Who knows? What’s lying in wait
Is best left, my mind’s too far
Up high, down low, no care for tangles.
The dust crowding like scattered spangles
Makes no mark on smiles nor pouts.
The floor hidden ‘neath distant shouts
Is only ground. I see a soul.
A tracing hand
Betrays the dust
On cracking sand.
A baking band
Of steaming rust,
A tracing hand
That fights the scan
Of vying lust
On cracking sand.
Leaves you a strand
Of thinnest trust,
A tracing hand.
You’re breathing land,
So sit and cuss
On cracking sand.
No time for fuss,
You flail away.
A tracing hand
On cracking sand.
3/6-3/25/09
I call it the word, he proudly said,
A beam attending the silvered eye.
“Why it’s but stick-scratched ground, dusty and dead!”
Their judgment passed harsh and high.
I call it the word! he called out far.
The sound danced bright between the cliffs.
“Why, it’s river clay, a dust-rock-shard!”
Their judgment passed clean and stiff.
I call it the WORD, he protested,
He pressed the proof into their hands.
“Black blood and reeds!”, they laughed and tested
Their judgment on miraged sand.
I call it… the word, he weakly whispered.
The word, my word, my gift, my own.
But they crept behind, all softly slippered,
And with judging hands slit his throat.
Pressing the cool tiles
Fingers break the ivory geometry
Graying lines, blocked and defiled
By a damp human intrusion
Eyes tight with thought
The heat stings my back
Leaning on knuckles in knots
I still, and watch my skin age.
2/23/09
The Periled Point: A Poetic Journey 