Last chance to view my poem Morning Commute live at Prometheus Dreaming. Thanks to David van den Berg for giving me the chance
From the website…
Prometheus Dreaming is an online cultural journal dedicated to those things that make his sacrifice worthwhile. The depths of the soul. The oddities of life. Those things that live at the boundaries of human experience, and the downright weird. This is the place for the knowledge of dreams and the terror of the dark.
We are dedicated to publishing both established and aspiring writers. We believe in encouraging creativity in all forms, and strive to create an artistic community built on inclusion and mutual support.
Hope pervades in all things. There is hope that things will work out the way we want, hope that things will be different. There is hope in the satiating of addiction and hope that the cravings will end.
Sometime overnight a black van parked on the side of the road outside of work.
With the hood up they stumble in and out of the side door. A vacuum of silence howling from within. They sit in the front seats under phone glow and frosted windows.
Before the morning’s light a man scrambles under and around the front bumper, back and forth, then back into the van. A battery charger lies on the ground under the van. Inside the cab of the van a lighter flickers.
In a few days time you’ll show up for work and the van is gone, in its place scattered needles and trash. Off to continue the search.
—If hope is an ever available commodity, why then is it so valued?
I only want to write on an empty stomach, so to feel the urgency of hunger. I will sit with only five minutes left on the clock and write ceaselessly to see what it is that’s important to me. To know the pains clearly. To feel the heart beating.
Wave after wave lapping at this molecular shore wishing to be dust. We’re gathered on this family bed playing at making each other laugh— her joy and his excitement have no lampshade. We watch each other learn from each other, still these voices echo into some distant future where caves have not yet been painted. I’m gathering all of my attention in order to try to give it to them, yet the best I can do is tell myself it’s not enough, and they don’t think so, but they do think something is missing. They know it and show it in there timidness which is just questioning acceptance. Self-righteousness is innocence refracted. In my head the next morning the scene is something like the end of the world and we’re bunkered in a cave instead of the bed and I’ve got my arms wrapped around them trying desperately to apologize, to make amends, to comfort them and I’m singing in my head but crying while rocking back and forth while plump, fat raindrops smack the windshield and I realize that all of these receptors are also transmitters all that receives also gives.
This time of year leaves are nearly done flaking I see faces in the streets lining the gutters piled and on the sidewalk faces smashed and pasted. In a stream belly-high nearly topping his waders Indiana Jones looks up to see leeches drop like catkins against a blood-red sky. His quest is not for the Sankara stone, this time he searches for the most precious of wild rice. At the foot of the Himalayas the passenger elephants absorb the attack, as do the branches and bushes, grass, stone, and water. Halfway across the globe I shudder as the whip cracks like lightning; Mother is once again demanded to produce more. Sons and daughters cannot afford to consume less and this the most urgent kind of fuel source. As the lash rings out feathered over the land the sky opens and rains potatoes, lentils and chickpeas on the populations below. Indi smirks as Mother is once again brought to her knees at the hands of man. This time of year the frost begins to harden on the ground. Faces in the pines, in pearls of dew hanging on grass blades, faces in the passing clouds. I look up as a sycamore thunders overhead. We produce answers at an astonishing rate, and yet here we sit on the side of the road, hood up, and nowhere to go.
If seeing clearly is the goal, why is it then that every time I see my conditioning clearly I muddy it in the days that follow.
Muddied by thought, by my search to know more, until its nearly forgotten. If it wasn’t for this ground that holds all activity the insight wouldn’t bubble back to the surface in time. And the process of muddying can start all over again.
To be able to write poetry successfully I have to do two things: give in to the experience. And give up assigning value to words; stay true to the story; give in to the music within the word. By giving in to the experience of course I mean the experience that gives rise to poetry, which is, of course, a poem in and of itself. I can write a poem about an experience while I’m living the experience, but I can far better write the poem, later, (or perhaps write a far better poem) if I’ve fully invested in the experience.
I woke up this morning to a wrinkled face in the sheets staring back at me, mouth open in sleep. I thought maybe it is the sheets memory of you, and this its performing art. Or is it my performing art and the sheet my stage? I like the way you look when you’re sleeping, because I know you won’t be asking me for something, at least not anything that I’m not already willing to give. If I try to whisper into your ear, or where your ear should be, would the words animate the bedspread, get it to do a little jig? at least that’s what comes to mind in this morning reverie. I haven’t gone outside yet, but I know its likely to be peppermint and whiskers. Like in a dream that’s a memory of a dream, I slide further into the covers and wonder at what it might be like to stay in bed all day. Blanketed by crow haws and blind-filtered light, and the answer comes by the way of cramps and a runny nose. And I sneeze and the sheet- face is covered in snot and spit and now it really starts to get real, I’ve got to jump out of bed, otherwise the day, like this poem, would have no point.