Saturday, February 21, 2015

Turkey To Turquoise; Watercolors To Words

Hi Friendlies,

Here are some Vogon Poetries for you to enjoy on your drunken Saturday. 
I know my poems frighten some people because they are about…PEOPLE. And personhood. But I am not, I swear, writing about any specific person or people in my real life (except on rare occasions, and on those rare occasions, you will know without a doubt if a poem is about you.) And that's not necessarily a bad thing…I write because I am curious, confused, amazed, hurt or heartbroken. Not because I know anything about people that you don't know.

To me, people are just NATURE. Fuck sunsets!! Fuck forests, and waterfalls, and sandhill cranes. PEOPLE are the crazy/complex beautiful/ugly specimens that capture my eye & interest. As dull as we all can be, we are also very fascinating. You included/me included.

So please don't be paranoid & self-conscious (like a flower never would). And if you have any complaints, please send them to my publicist (though she has died. R.I.P. Juliet)

This first poem is actually based on a news story from last October. I entered it in the Rattle 'Poets Respond' contest & it didn't win, surprisingly!

********************

A FRIEND LIKE FREIN

I found a quiet corner
In the club

My girlfriend took the stage
W/ ginger charisma & Telecaster

During tuning
My eye drifted to the silent TV

Hung like a neon cobweb
Over buzzing bartenders’ heads

There he was in handcuffs,
Diapered clown

Village terrorist
Most-wanted idiot

Manhunt Ends in Pennsylvania
The cobweb announced

And I half-expected the clown
To somehow wrest

A homemade grenade
From his shit-stained pocket

But he walked & looked
Like a man & a boy at the same time

(approx. 10 hours ago
when the sun still shone

And I made love
with the one onstage)

Now he’s caught on the 
Tangential screen

And smaller cameras
Snap his image

His lifeless whiteness
Punctuated by a bloody nose

But mostly unharmed
As the Marshals lead him

Through the muted celebration
A town without its clown

Can dance & shout & finally
Fall asleep

From behind I get clunked
On the skull & turn around to see

The Ex Boyfriend

My personal terrorist
And village hipster

Doing his best Frein imitation
Still hoping we’ll be friends--

Fricative, grinning,
Hands-on friends

Cuffing me with
Insults and ego

As seven weeks ago
The cuffs around the killer

Were held 
By his executed trooper

10-31-14
Expressionist watercolor kitty vs. ...
...Impressionist watercolor kitty

************

[NERVOUS] BREAKDOWN DURING [EBOLA] OUTBREAK

I used to count dead soldiers
But those numbers ceased to have
Any value as news

Why do I love counting?
It stops me in my tracks
I count everything from death
To socks &
It makes my brain flicker

But that pituitary lightbulb
Falters on weak filaments
When I'm forced to remember
Peoples' names

The compulsion
To count your eye blinks, your
Undisclosed throbs
My greatest pleasure, gone
Even your nude ministrations
Can't ease the gridlock

Now I count hours,
Days, and words
And there's no nudity, just tears
Gender-neutral tears
Too many to count so I just count
Episodes of sorrow

Sometimes feature-length
Sometimes longer
But never a 30-second spot
Between comedies

My memory for numbers 
Is a dystopia, a dysphoric
Dysfunction
My tear ducts cough instead of
Crying
My heart's close-captioned hoof beats
Are allegedly hard to hear
Yet
I'm told
They're way too loud

I'm told,
"Get over it, man
Everyone is hurting
But you don't see them
Counting & crying
Be a man!
Be happy Jack
Not a harsh Jane"

11-07-14

***********
Phone Number w/ middle names

SURVIVING THANKSGIVING

It mattered this year
That your family is carved like a turkey
Strung-out meat held together
By gamey fibers,
Easily torn…

But your worry was 
For nought
There were no tears for 
Thanksgiving

In the end you held strong
To your side of the wishbone--
With or without the hyoid joint
Your truth was fortuitous

You know how temporary
All families
All turkeys
All wishes are
And you can go on…

Through blizzards & riots
Most of America survived
Its 411th Thanksgiving w/ you

You shared yours w/ "girlfriends"
Like you could have all your life
If you'd been born a girl
You had the kind of holiday
You'll try to repeat every year
From now on…

****** THANKSGIVING PART 2

How to follow turkey talk?
With meatier meteors & particle physics?

Launched convo with too-pretty girl 
Behind counter behind too-thick spectacles
She was too busy brooding 
To notice your 
Nerd-in-plain-sight behind nothing
Landing

Should we flow linguistically
From "turkey" to "turquoise"?

Let's do it.

We had a turquoise refrigerator (& stove)
In my childhood home

Turquoise trim on its
Mid-century modern edges,
Concentric turquoise rhombi on the garage door
Where a black cat 
Was almost squeezed to death
When she didn't run underneath
Fast enough

Turquoise & Black
My favorite color combination
On the spectrum or wheel 

I've read/heard/experienced
The walls in asylums
Painted cool pink
(Baker's pink)
To soothe the screams of
Patients

Please paint mine turquoise
If I ever get that lost
Again….

11-30-14
Phone Number w/ middle names II


Holy crap!! Those were very long. I hope you're still with me. And I hope you enjoy the hideous artworks I've shared with you. I know I am a terrible writer, artist & musician, but those are the things that make me feel more like you & less like me. If ya know what I mean...

2 comments:

  1. I love the art work the best. The Blue Kitty is my favorite yet the Black kitty has a distinctive aloofness that is punctuated by the chocolate starfish. The numbers are cool in their warm graphic architecture. Your technique is improving grasshopper. The poetry is most Vogon slices deep into the tenderloin of my soul. I think every news show should have a segment were the news is told in "poem speak" like a kind of sign language for people who only hear poetry. We would all get more out of it I think.

    Surviving Thanksgiving (part one) seems to have a message for everyone yet when read it seems personal to the reader. As always thought provoking.

    Lost in the daily news I turn my page to your inner thoughts that lay cast upon the open page. My heart breaks on every syllable and is caressed by each stanza. I am imprisoned and liberated in each line. At the end I try to see the license plate of the poetry truck that just hit me. I love your Vogon Heart!

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  2. I love so much the paintings. If you ever want to sell any of them I'm serious. I particularly like the handcuffs poetry. Intriguing.

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