Intervention: Tomorrow, the Kingdom

I am here today because I love you.
You have a disease and this is how it affects me.

I wanted to believe, to be like you and place one
foot one small step in front of another, but I have seen
the body dredged from the waters, the worms that spill
like seeds upon the shore.

What had those eyes seen before they were food
for the crabs? Was it always green fields?
The covenant between a young girl and the flowers,
the animals: to everything a name and we blossom

to fill the space of those words. The soft spray
of the surf nothing more than kiss upon innocent
skin. And then what was first? The mistaken moment
when she uttered the word: riptide? Or did the waves

sing their songs of a home unbounded by shores?
Did she believe standing there with a stranger under
the moon that both could feel at home? But certainly
one or both must be away from home. Exactly who

was whose guest to be worked out over tea. But then
who would make the tea? And who would remark,
“Oh this is lovely. And I do love what you’ve done
with the portico.” Then perhaps she goes to name the sea

and the sea informs her that it has its name. The sea
is not angry. It asks her name. She has never given
herself a name; so, she asks the sea to give her one.
The sea gives her the only other word it knows—

a word with no meaning to the sea: diminishing.
At first the girl is pleased, but as she blossoms, grows
into it, she feels less and less herself. She returns to
find the birds have flown away. The lamb consumed

the clover field, the wolf the lamb, the hunter the wolf,
the industrialist everything else. Soon she finds there
is no place like home. She sheds crocodile tears into the sea.
“What is wrong?” asks the sea. “I am less and less—diminishing.”

The sea is sorry to hear the words, but can offer no relatable
anecdote for with every tear the sea increases. “Can I come
with you? Is there another home that I may enter?” she asks.
“Of course,” the sea says, “for as long as you want and longer.”

But she will always be diminishing. And when she finally
returns home, she is no more. You ask me to have faith
that the waves will hold me. I cannot. My mother, my father
before me were both diminishing. I will remain in the boat

and be tossed by the turbulent waves. Perhaps, in your eyes,
I am diminishing and with me your faith in me.
The others—those who you did not ask to walk with you—
they whisper. I hear their words; they sound strange to me.

They blossom into silence, silence that lingers between us.

Of Covalent and Ionic Bonds

The four-wheel drive Geo Tracker bounds off the road.
Inside of the house, sleeping residents dream
of each other, back-floating in pools of gentler hues;
while outside, rooster tails of topsoil—O & A horizons—

corrupt the atmosphere like a flailing Kraken, besmirching
the geraniums & marigolds, charring the power-washed vinyl siding.
And as if in triumph over a legion of lawn ornaments—old ladies bending
over and away—my brother raises his fist and shouts,
“I am Brummett! Ha, Ha!”

***

Head bowed and not daring
to peek, his mother’s hands clasp
—gently, but as firm as our land & sky cling to each other at night—
as if the prayer contained within them

was a bird; once freed,
it might never return.

A Poem for This Winter

And I,

(yes and

another assumption of an other)

I like

soft powder on roads, pre-[salt and plow]

you casually slip into spinning your tires.

A pastime: going nowhere fast

thousands of revolutions per minute

imagine it:

how quickly we run out of bullets

and causes and tears–

tears like bodies and contracts.

And I like

the moon, full and at midnight,

seems as though it could be a purple shade of day:

a purple son for a purple father.

And the moon is 233,000 some miles away.

I could drive there in 140 days,

if the roads would start rising

and quit falling away towards horizons–

it’s always with these damned horizons,

we’re looking towards.

And I like

it’s so cold even time starts to freeze

and seconds drop like icicles from white gutters

(musical accompaniment: Kitaro).

Blood drops from a deer that’s shot.

It’s running away from death

and I could crawl in between some trees, a cluster of three–

pines–as I pine softly, resting bones, waiting to

watch my breath pixilate, prostrate.

And I like

everything is so silent,

but it’s not muted, just hushed, even the wind

and it’s like we’re all standing here waiting for a sign

the message from God, but we’re meant to be Gestalt

(yes, He’s German, not Nazi, but perhaps from the East).

It’s hard to stand far away (see big pictures, fill in blanks)

but I try, He knows I try.

1,044,437,121/2,520,000,000

I put so little thought into breathing
and the fact that my heart is dying slowly,
not from missed kisses, turned heads,
and whispered nos, but with them,

marching forward into these gray moors
that blur every horizon and i'm made of sand.
Hard packed as it is, i'm still leaving behind
the footprints that, too, in time, will wash away.

It's too late to turn back and i could never find my way out now.

These abstractions make for poor company,
holding onto lips that i'll never even touch,
witnessing eclipses by shadows cast on ground:
i want to finally see even if i go blind.


But will you hold my wrists still for these railroad spikes
just so I can say I suffered too maybe even more than you?
No.
Don't touch me. I am made of dirt.

Tendering Resignation

Hey, check out my faceplace page
for updated blogs on my fantasy death squad.
I got Dick Cheney, I got inflation
and next year's hurricane season.
I'm willing to trade Osama for Obama,
but am holding onto China for the upcoming match
against the Dalai Lama.

Can you see the joys of democracy?
We are free to choose our very own apocalypse.
Like Capitalism, it's a CapitalOne idea:
My wallet? It's got nothing but debts that I can never repay.
I am broke. My glasses broke,
but i got contacts, got a fave five.

I just spray and pray.
I pull and pray. Give me AIDS. I want
ribbons of red pink yellow and black:
A Wheel of Misfortune.

Bury me softly, just roll me in the hole.
It's how I want to go green.

Sure, I still believe in God. I pray everyday,
just not for teddy bears or fluffy bunnies anymore.
I pray for Jesus in a chariot of fire
with a machine gun in the mall.

Salvation wasn't meant to be the toy in the bottom of the Cracker Jack box.
Yippie-kay-yay.

Dead-on aim and a hair trigger,
I pray to be the victim, not the crazed gunman.

Let this be an epilogue, my epitaph
an obit in the classified ads.
Let it go unwritten and unread.
Let this overshadow everything else.

The Video Bar

The video bar over there on the left of the page are video/poem things I've made. I don't know how well the medium works, but I enjoyed making them.

Teaching Children How to Kill

(a poem from a newspaper)

1.
Start now. Only the strong need apply. Unless the scenery falls down. Meanwhile, I am happier disease free. Look closer. Experiment with the flavors. Reduce the fear of the hole. That's the nature of the game. To keep pounding away.

The patriots failed early.

2.
The approach into a bunker could dissolve. We'll get what they'll get: killing at least eight.
Died Thursday. Died Saturday. Died Sunday. Shame on you, barbed-wire.

Children playing in the streets.

3.
You're invited with certain death looming. I didn't come this far to turn back. All killed separately. Slash the mutilated bodies. Call your local agent. A variety of grief at the petting zoo.

The perfect holiday gift.

4.
Experience the death of a child. Our goal is improving the lives of mothers. Kudos to an evil suicide, lesson learned. Often messy, funeral services: a child snared by voices of addiction, a child loved through death.

Just step back and take a deep breath and you'll realize what a big deal this is.

5.
It's my right to meet my father, he might not be the savior. A side-by-side duel. Cops can be dangerous, passing attack in order. Band together to fend off cease-fire. I killed two cops.
That's the nature of the game. We're one dimensional with a pair of pistols.

Final days to save.

6.
You cannot force your mother to give you the deadliest year on record.
Remove your head. Blasted out beautifully. A pile of smoky rubble. Killing 199 people.

7.
Time to prepare for the election, a special focus dealing with death. Binge eating interested people.
E-Z-Carve. Unhappy with your survivor's support, you will receive domestic abuse and violence.

Campaign to cleanse.

8.
The nineteen year old king. His craving: wanting to die. Gun-fire sucked into his body. Starting a new war. Conditions are hazardous but not intense. Fall-apart 65 feet from the hole.

One shot victory in the children's miracle

9.
I'm still missing a leg. Get rid of a wing and a prayer. The art of making jam:
Burn their mouths off.

10.
The confession of a gypsy: Going to wreck the crash, the victim. I was able to gather gun-fire. My passion to serve is pure black.

11.
Stimulate free expression nailing online predators. Her body was stashed in a window into your soul. Not everyone watches.

Today's hangout is tomorrow's dead zone.

12.
World of war. The logic of this approach: Push her around. Step it up! A social justice issue.
It keeps the playing field fair. It's a very close count. 850 American troops died.

Kill him.
We're just one click away. Venture past the boundaries. Your goal is loving chaos.

Addiction to pain
killers. Collapses and dies. Collapses and dies.

Most of you have heard my name, heavily damaged by smoke, Resident Dies
2 slayings plead, "Strangled! Stabbed! Spur of the moment killings!"

She had been shot as a tool and die. The small caliber rifle didn't know the victims.

13.
The death of a loved one. Grieving parents support education. Raises bleeding. Like a sexual orgasm dropped off a cliff. Conventional battles. A three block war. Troop surge.

What will your miracle sound like?