Poor Circulation

When left alone I forget
what’s in my veins, what
holds me together inside
this dry, cold skin. I forget
what got me here, the lies
and blackouts, the awkward
errors, the brief episodes of
sun that break through the
passing storm clouds. All
I can warp myself around
is this numbness beyond needles
and pins—everything an
accident waiting to happen
and I'm overdue on the
insurance payment.

2.26.11

One of My Turns

I feel it coming on
hitting me like a
screwdriver to the temple
that spiritual sanctuary
of my own sanity.
I’m withdrawing
back into my eggshell
of concrete and cinder blocks
Back into syndicated sitcoms
buffalo chicken organic corn wild rice
casual touches of affection
that signify much more
my cat crying as she carries
in a stuffed tattered fish,
the other one sacked out
on her sunset afghan from
a thrift store. Yes, this is
where I belong.

2.25.11

This is what Democracy Looks Like

Today I stand
with Fire and Health
Math and Nature
with all the servants

Today I carry
the weight of voice
signs of discontent
burdens of vision

Today I sing
with rhythm of outrage
melody of representation
a taxed throat

Today I fight
with permanent signature
completed procedure
through the system

Today I act.

2/15/11

We're Not Gonna Take It Anymore

I’ve been threatened by
the National Guard
deemed a danger
to local, to state
because I choose
to educate, even
when prohibited.

Brains in the streets.

“Glory, Glory Hallelujah”
plays on piano and brass
amidst a sea of green assembly.
I'm marching on Madison
out there unprotected
reduced confined
dictated. Truth will
march today with
anthemic defiance.

2/15/11


This poem has been published at Verse Wisconsin Online.
http://www.versewisconsin.org/

Do You See What I See?

No matter the disguise
the mask, costume, or
creative light, it comes
through. You can dress
it up, try to hide it,
feather it
bleach it
distort it.
It will still come through.
Some may never notice,
focusing attentions                                         

Elsewhere

Not me. I’m locked in
looking, fixed on what
I can’t ignore, regardless
of how hard I try, how bad
I feel because of it. It still
comes through, piercing.

2/10/11

Connectivity Issues

Urges to reach
for intimacy, to
pull, yank, twist
each other into
connections are
a bitter realization
that we need something
more than keystroke
correspondences or
reflective reality.
Touches must have
temperature. There is
no satisfaction in
static shocks. Feel
how hot my skin runs.

2/8/11

Do Over

They took the world
away from me. No more
nightly news, leaving me
to create anew, become
my own universe.

I don’t know where to start.

Would I recreate what I
know or fill my world
with oddities, hybrids,
chimeras, magic?  No
limits, nothing forbidden.
I’m wise enough to know
there must be conflict,
tumult, predation as much
as flashes of bliss, pleasure.

A world without explanation
so no nothing can blame me
for when it all crumbles down.

2/6/11

Bad Reception

Getting angry over the phone
isn’t as easy anymore. Spiteful
texts or reigning down curses
can only do so much to release,
express the anger of jealousy
or betrayal, or selfishness, or
immaturity. All we have is a
spineless “send” key that we
can only press so hard, a cover
we can only flip down or slide
closed.  I miss the times when
I could slam a receiver down to
an impossible to break mustard
yellow wall mount in the kitchen
hallway or on the putrid olive green
table model with the emergency
poison sticker in the center
of the rotary dial. That crack of
thunder was an expression of real anger—
no weaseling out of that conversation
due to “bad reception” or a dying battery.

2/4/11

Saturated Yellow

A ceramic bowl
that could hold
watermelon, but
is a quarter full
of yellow popcorn
is the only thing
dividing me from
you, there with a
towel too small to
keep anything
under wraps. You
glare out the window
to the outside
saturated with sun
as if I’m not here
and I’m not. We are
both somewhere else,
but full, filled.

2/1/11

Writhing Forms

From below it all
looks alien, a twist
of writhing forms,
appendages, details
that do not belong
bumps lumps
wrinkles dimples
manicured for
refined abstraction
ideas, only ideas
far from natural,
intended. Lick
the lips of deception
dissention, worm
into the dark passages
that call us back
to what we so willfully
avoid and ignore.
Comfort, pleasure
in that.

2/1/11