star filled night

the milky way

Peter Doig, the Milky Way, 1989

in the absolutely dark sea i have birds that
land on me and go inside me
let me go near you to touch you
let me put my birds
exactly in your mouth
what can i do with your moon lighted and
bare knees
what is there now
every thing on you i want
you are somthing softer than star filled night
open up my
cranes in you
open up my cranes

steve roggenbuck from i am like october when i am dead, 2013 reprint


Mother Earth

Andy Curlowe, Adam. . .Let's go to Colorado, 2013

Andy Curlowe, Adam. . .Let’s go to Colorado, 2013

I went to a Millennial poetry reading last night literally sitting on the train tracks. I peed in a bathroom lit only by a black light and watched the torn pieces of toilet paper scattered-squat on the floor, glowing bits of paper eyes. I heard poetry like this.

earth body

imagine trees growing out of your arm

people walking all over you

cars and trains polluting the air you breathe

octopuses spraying bad tasting ink in your mouth

nuclear bombs going off around your neck

oil rigs digging under your skin

kimono dragons fighting each other in your hand

polar bears swimming in your eyes

a dad dropping a plate of hotdogs on your knee

meteors from space hitting you in the head

the inside of your body molten hot

and you cant escape any of it

this is what is feels like to be mother earth

daniel alexander  from slime dog you are my friend

And I remembered again that I am not young anymore. I am old as dirt.


Sardines and Oranges

Michael Goldberg, Sardines, 1955, Smithsonian

Michael Goldberg, Sardines, 1955, Smithsonian

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

 Frank O’Hara

(1926-1966)

 


Monday Monday

Franz Kline, Mycenae, 1958

Franz Kline, Mycenae, 1958

Oh you Monday. With your redrush urgent,

your orange streak, next-in-line, get-it-done-before-lunch.

I’m yellow drifting in a little late, weekend hung over

deskchair heaped, haven’t checked emails yet.

your high hot list, citadel efficiency

Getting there,

Soon enough.

Staff mtg doesn’t start for another 5 min.


this is a stroke

James Nares

James Nares

This is a stroke

This is a stroke of good luck

A wrinkle in time

the angel of death

melted marshmallows indigo night

This is a stroke

of muteness syllables whole swallowed

foam on a wave

This is Tom Cruise on a wire

but better


Talisman

Paul Serusier, the Talisman, 1888

Paul Serusier, the Talisman, 1888

If I could find myself here today, it would be a talisman. To protect me from evil. From my greed to be something more than what I am.

If I could walk this path of yellow it would surround me with its bright shield. A place of refuge to look upon the water and see the reflection of the sky. Of me.  Of the things that were and the things that were not.

To divine between solid and spirit and find somewhere a sign. A chill breeze brushes my skin. The haunting loveliness of life. Gold leaves fall around my fingers and summer’s memory washes away.

Come Fall with your earth-bound wand and sweep away the summer. Fold me into your apron crisp and cool. Bury me in leaves.