Like Bricks

Like Bricks

I like to put words to images.  
To make noise is to vibrate is to create
A family crossing the street
I assign their thoughts to my head
accent on the usual. within my vacuum
footsteps fall silently.
Shadows burst
into fantasy.
Black and White become bullet casings and
spattered targets. Lifting the truth like a
burden or maybe
the bumblebee coming to rest on the sacred.
Resistance lives in all things, carves a night in your chest where
hangs a sign and leaves a broom.
Real courage is found
in the not resisting resistance. Traffic sounds are no longer
buried in the trees

brambles of branches tumbleweed through thin winter air.

varicose skies wonder why

mental vibration strung up a cataclysm of
moth balls like bricks through your window

I Have Seen

It’s here in these early morning nighttime silences under shadows of abandoned office buildings— solitary light in the window, computer screens waiting to be wakened; in the silent shudders of trees and passing cyclists; here in the promise of the day that we must come to terms with the howling cries of death and hunger.

And I have seen a future of abandoned corporate office parks. I have seen parking lots deserted save for staggered cars parked with windows busted and garbage bag taped over. It is there that I have seen a future wherein the word hope has been replaced by neighbor. Longing, by community.

Where the sun-rise from the west behind thread-bare quilted blanket lies the bosom of a new day.

A Special Thanks

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

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?   

All of these

All of these receptors are also transmitters

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.

The Whip Cracks

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.