Showing posts with label Palm Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Palm Poetry. Show all posts

26 October, 2011

Two More From ArtWĂ«rks


The streets have been full for centuries.
Even if the buildings were to disappear
tomorrow, these streets would remain
filled end to end and side to side
with memories and with ghosts
and with the specters of memories.
In the dirt between the bricks
there is a memory
locked in stone and pebble
rubble and rabble
memory that filters down
and into the water
and from the water
into the dirt
and from the dirt,
it is rubbed into the soles of our shoes
and we remember again
all the things we didn't know
that we didn't know – comes to us
in dreams and in visions
and in visitations that,
if we're paying attention
will tell us the way
we are to go.


So sit down here
and tell me a story
and make it a good 'un
like the one you told me
yesterday. Tell me
about one of the places
you frequented when you were
young, and fresh the fruit was
and how the women were sweet and ripe 
and how clear and how cool
the water was and what it
felt like to really sleep,
to sleep out in the open
under the stars and what it felt like
to feel safe and to feel free
to feel something different
before all the fences and wires
and wireless was all built up
back before there were gate keepers
and invisible gates
back when you were my age
and the world was something more
beautiful than it seems today.

06 June, 2011

[Scratch]: Palm Poem #7

Palm Poem #7

I've had my gutful of somber
And my heart can't take it anymore.
My heart beats in common time
And when I close my eyes
I feel the Earth move symmetrical
And when I breathe
It comes out my lungs
Hot like coal fire
Cool like the wind
From a late Spring storm.
All the words are my words;
None of the blessings belong to me.
In the beginning of the words
I found the beginning of me,
Moving symmetrical,
Lumbering over the thin skin of this tired world,
Seeing the new world coming
Popping up through the dead dirt
Plate tectonics, igneous shoulder blades
Born into the Sisyphus stone.

14 March, 2011

You could drive yourself crazy looking for a reason

The world is wobbling on its axis and ice caps are
melting and we're punching holes in the ozone
so we can have cars that will give us Facebook updates
and satellite radio and heated seats to keep our flabby
asses warm. Once, I heard the atom described as mostly
empty space that holds the power of the universe. We
are made of atoms. I am made of atoms. This desk
is made of atoms. This computer, my coffee mug, the coffee in it,
my scotch glass – all made of atoms vibrating so fast that they,
that we all give off the illusion of being solid. Once
I wrote a poem in ink that disappeared as I wrote it
and it was the best poem I have ever written. That I can
no longer read it, takes none of this away from me –
though I wish I could remember just one line. The lines
were made of ink strokes that were made of atoms,
and I knew the poem was good because it had no choice
but to vibrate differently. The bombs we make are made
of atoms, too, and we think they are destroying things –
houses, families, men, women, children, tanks, guns, soldiers
– when in fact it simply shocks them, makes them vibrate
different –the illusion of death and of destruction. Which
is to say, one could say that the only difference between
an effective bomb and an effective poem is the carnage
left behind – or the illusion of carnage. The world is
wobbling on its axis and the ice caps are melting and we
are punching holes in the ozone so that coal companies
can exploit workers in the mines and be able to breathe
the filtered air found in executive office buildings
and vacation retreats in Dubai. I love Beethoven, I think
because there's something in the vibration of his compositions
that matches the vibrations of my soul. I dislike Handel
for the exact same reason. Earthquakes in New Zealand
and Japan on the news in between updates on coked out
megalomaniacs, political sex scandals, and Reality TV.
The world is wobbling on it's axis and the religiholics
scream that the end of the world is near... not realizing
our end was in the beginning, and that all of this
has happened before. (And it will happen again.)
We lost our sense memory – an altered vibration, nothing
more – in the same way we now lose emails in spam filters.

The only difference is we notice the emails are missing.  

09 February, 2011


The man wearing the bright green
bib overalls, he told me two lefts
and half a mile past
where the barn burned down
and all those pigs died. Then I’ll see
a sign pointing the way back
to the intersection where
I should’ve stopped and
asked for directions
but was being too stubborn
in my insistence that we follow
the path of the waning sun
to our next destination.