NOT ENOUGH DAY IN THE HOURS

 

   

  migraine 

like possession

brain a madmans mnemonic salad 

      raining now

   on the greenland cap

      & even in its last hours

       precious yesterday

    is near sacred for me

~

    stretched out

   in rainbow halos

angry lion handpainted

  on copper-green brick divider

not enough day in the hours

      for this shit

  tv hills are six weeks old

 seeds & trees 

    mysterious to me

 

MY (MIS)UNDERSTANDING OF THE HAIKU

A SHRIEK OF BIRDS


theres blood 
and thunder

a funeral 
         in 
           the clouds

feather volcano


~

well i used to think haiku were a cheat to shine.  

jam my square western madness roughly into eastern curves.  

it could hide there.  content cloaked by form.  

~

i was first exposed when i was gifted kerouacs book of haikus.  

they freed me.  i laughed.  

'hobos with hard-ons'.  

of course jack.  of course.  i said without sarcasm.

i was living in the garden then and snails came into the tent from round the pond in the evening to climb the tv wires.  and i must have written a hundred haikus that night.

drinking IN nature while drinking in nature.

~

poetry free of established form is openly more naked.  

established form gives emperors new clothes to any refugee sentence.  

i am ok with that.  

clothes are clothes and what is poetry if not the mind knitting itself a hat.

formless poetry is the hand-me-down poncho of the writing world.  

comfort and warmth but heavy with baggage and too theres dangerous worn holes of secret exposure.

and underneath you are more than free.

~

haiku is a small and ancient place where ideas and fragments of ideas can find an acceptable home.   

like the isle of man.  a halfway house of eternity.  

or a worthy lodge for a collapsing mind and really any effort is unknockable.

~

and in arrogance i think i have two killer last lines lined up and itching to become volcano.

but in haiku there is no killer and no filler.  only lines that are right and proper and well yes inevitable too.  

lines with a kind of light.

~

this is no game.  nothing can be more accurately called a pursuit.  tho you can and should play there.  

and ancient warriors would wade in these waters in their downtime.  to prove they are more than death once removed.

and that is very cool.

~


TIME OF THE SEASON


the past is summer

it hangs
   
   framed
   
         on the wall

    of
winter
bedrooms

from pinterest

LAUNDRY VOLCANO

the past 
is
ten days of laundry
sluggish on the carousel
in
the
5 AM
departure hall

~

the past
is 
a 
volcano of gone faces
and
bargain basement red letter days
    p
  u   t
 r      i
e         n
           g 
like photoshop thumbnail confetti

when
you
thought
it
was
a
solid mountain base
you were reclining on

feet up 
book and a brew

~

and these Days 
They hurtle 
thrown thru the prism 
of the Vanishing Now
with anything from laziness
to outright rage

~

and i wonder why
and i wonder how 
and i wonder if
it
would 
be 
disrespectful
to
that sepia flotsam collage

to clear it all away forever
like it was writers-strike tv

when
its
that
what
got
me
here

in the 9 AM hinterland
of another tuesday mornings
typing
jag
illusion

from libelium.com

HUNGRY MORNING

waking from dreams 
of movie close-ups
in side lit bar smoke
i
list
body parts 
automatically

hips
lips
nips
etc

like a surgeon preparing an organic build
or
dr frankenstein doing inventory
before
he
lost
his
mind

and my belly rumbles and turns itself over 
like a brewing volcano 
or 
a 
sewer after a summer downpour

i
wonder
what bothers it
- what weird night of antirest grows such appetite ?

i open the curtains and soft dust dances

out
there
everyone is doing
whatever
they
do

under the morning sun

from theaceblackblog.com