Thursday, November 4, 2004

Uncollected Grace

You see me large on the horizon
before the light dies behind me,
i look to be on fire on top of the dune,
clouds red with last bursts of sun
that turns my outline black, without
face or wrinkles, freeze flamed
on a the cold blue whispers of sky
that remain for mere moments
before my singing reaches your ears
and straightens your spine,
straight as a trapeze wire,
my arms are full of groceries
coming down the steps, my singing
flat like pennies after a train
has passed, there is no fire
this engine needs to be, I say,
handing you a bag, the television is
on the news and the sound is off,
the ocean before us goes black
and even the clouds are dark
with idioms and uncollected grace
as tongues of flame hang onto
their candle wicks just barely
as they bend to an upstart wind,
there is no food in the pantry
but there are cans in the bag,
actors making faces on the screen,
a plane droning over head,
oh those stars and the satellites,
you say
finally
as you turn a key, open a can,
i wonder how much they hear,
what all it is they see...

Monday, October 18, 2004

TED BURKE: writing and more writing

TED BURKE: writing and more writing

Hic Haec Hoc

There is no talk on the sides of book stores about when the pain stops and the living begins.

I breathe long enoughto have all the chess games I refuse toplay when fingers wave in someone's face in the check out line of the drug storeand cars come rare inches from each other when making hard turns at those corners gives new streets to get lost on, looking for something to do as sirens and school bells debate with their shrieks and trills about the stages of life in a city where each high risecomes to a point, a prod,a sharp stick or folded hands,what ever the songs on the corner seduce you with.

There are no songsabout where all the flowers went,we improvise a rosary of latter day insults and even as we speakof when a word meant its meaning,bullets fly faster than lettersin the mailand we leave ourcars at home.

It's the heat of a sun that I makes my brow a shiny and beaded furrow, worries that anticipates her needswith samples from the archive of good answers.

Generic cigarette smoke comesfrom around the corner.

We love our townand life that vanishes to keep the name pushing onbehind a hedge where people just explode as they contemplate buying more things for a house that has more roomsthan family available to live in any of them,a universe that feeds onits best designs, a crushing sameness to the days.

Scream for Heaven

We scream
for heaven

to allow through the gates
even though
we came
as we were,

in our underwear,
wearing funny hats.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Browsing Poem

A phone rings without remorse
from inside a purse tucked
under her arm,

It's a muted hysteria as it drones on,
screams among the cough drops
and used Kleenex,

Ring, chime, digital quotes of
pop tunes and classical clich�s
punch through the air,

Necks strain, eyes blur under the
incandescent light, everything has a price
but no one can sell anything,

She looks at the candle holders,
inspects the diamonds, her fingers
leave prints on the glass,

The phone continues to scream
it's medley of taunts and tones,
mix with the discreet jazz that plays all day,

Her head bobs up and down,
rhythmic, exact, a twitch
for an off beat,

The wires from her headset
goes taut and then relaxes with
each swerve and turn of her head,

Better tunes than what the
store pays for,

Yet the phone screams on and on
as she browses and bops to her
private distractions,

The sales floor is empty,
her prints are on
all the glass she laid a finger on."

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Pass the salt as you would
a hat that passes for a dollar
that keeps the doors open and
the floor swept,

In dangerous years
the salt of our tears
pass through our eyes
while white caps on waves
hear yet another cry for help
just beyond the turn of the coastline
and TV ariels

Saturday, September 4, 2004

Several shy poets rent a room

Who are these scribeshiding under the bedwith their notebooksand pens, coughing up balls of dust each time a floor board creaks underfootor a cat on the porch meows and scratches doors,looking for a family to move in with? Handwriting is a a trail of tears and terror under the singing springs,there are bills to pay,stamps to lick,a metaphor to ponderas fingers stroke pens to remember an address while cramped under a mattress ,

What shall we write about, oh yes,half a bird on the sill,a lone cup on the far table,ankles defacing the knot holes with unforgiving heels,but now, is the coast clear,is there anyone watching?

We leave them their food on white plates with clean silverware,paper napkins at best,and then leave room where we can hear all their furious scribbling about the truncated view proceed as if it were a race,the tips of pens and assorted quills tearing across pages of journals and the lines of otherwise blank pages,riots of images of strange sights,a world espied through mail slots and around the corners of doors left ajar,

We leave them their food and then leave,closing the door,and suddenly there is laughter up and down the hall,cartoon soundtracks, sound effects of things bouncing and springing from wall to wall,pies in the face,Splat!We walk awayand mind our own business because the rent check cleared and that's all that matters on day full of sunshine

Tuesday, August 31, 2004

page not found

not the voice that comes
from the steam
nor the tide that turns
at the drop of dime
into a newspaper machine.
not a name that fades in the ear
when you turn a corner
nor a name that comes through the
ear peace of your phone that
rings at the dinner hour.
not a lover who misses you
after all the years in jobs
on a far coast where time zones and
temperatures are closer and hotter
that the hotel sheets
are to the mattress where you stare
at the door to the hallway,
the shadows of feet passing in
the middle of the night,
you wonder what your lover
has too say,
not about this meal you're eating
or by what you're reading
but instead about how you're living
in this world when
nothing seems real enough to
count on as if life itself mattered,
i say all these things come back to us
always in the moments when
we're required to be
the selves we've always rehearsed in
mirrors, at home, imagining interviews
and interrogations,
i think of the way your lips grew puffy
the first time i made you cry,
the way your hand traced the words of
the book you were reading
before setting it down
to dress for openings, dinner,
where ever we might be going,
the masks cracks and falls to the floor
when some meaningless phrase is said
and suddenly, powerfully
it’s clenched fists in public places,
the world is removed just then and too loud as well,
it's all those things after all,
every last cough and bottle of beer we balanced
on the fire place, there's nothing i ever had
that i don't miss, you were everything
in front of me, passing by and gone
like a road sign that couldn’t be read.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

Some things get said
that ruin the taste
of the tacos even
as they hit the roof
of my mouth,
and it's the same damn thing
like it was in the day
when ballparks were for
cheering the good guys,
the ones in the white uniforms

Thursday, August 12, 2004

at these prices

at these prices
you would expect
the bread to be
sliced by Christ himself,

under these ceilings
a heart might stop
in awe as the neck
cranes back for
a view of arches
detailed with angels
and their bosses
with nary a cobweb to
disturb their conference,

with names like these
on plates this ornate,
you aren't sure if your
about to eat a meal
or commit some crime
against decorum,

in a city whose ills
slip under the
short circuiting radar,
it's easy to dream
with eyes wide upon,
sitting straight up
in your chair
in amazing taverns
overlooking a Pacific Ocean
that is black
as secret ink when
there's no sun to shine
on the coast
that's been carved up
and built upon
and otherwise carted away
in trucks to landfills
where nothing grows
but resentments and
gun registration,

every newspaper sold
from corner machines
tells you what day this is,
every email asks you
to get thinner, richer,
bigger than lumberjacks in drag,

at these prices
who could afford
not to spend
a little more, scrape
some more shavings from
the credit card
and dampen the
scream
under the lamp
by the pier
on a night
when clouds and sunsets
riot in swirls that
make this city
tremble and quake
under the boots
you wore to work?

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Remote Control Dynamite

All these pieces of tape on index cards, getting shallow by degrees of heat,
dragged, smoked and fried to the numb where the brand name surrenders to the burn, crisp in their knowledge of magic candles that don’t blow out, rubber candy, remote control dynamite.

Sections of the body lend their pours for a sweat against poverty, but who could think of such things now?

Perhaps it’s being too dense against the sham of identity that we take objects that don’t return hellos and give them homes as though it’s the beginning of something beautiful

Back at ~home base, the slugger tightens his belt, gets mad at the ball, dreams of monies and hosannas and a confetti rain if he’d only hit his boss.

These leave only the inevitable: thrice the chance of unions coming apart, a management of soured excuses.

Big stick, small dick, that’s what he said.

To a pal who found repast in the silence ‘til he spoke up.

Why bring that up now? Sweet honey in the rock is a hard course to go.

Big talk, small wonders, he replied, you’ve denied the parenthesis of disease, imagined or real.

It catches with you, says TAG! you’re IT, the fruit of my labors.

Rubber necking with you was a big mistake, my thorax is on leave of its senses, who do I turn to?

Not you, or they, or anything or anyone remaining with a thirst.
Duty calls, and it’s the nature of things to expel the bottled vile.

Call me airmail, or call me anytime.
Little bits of glass cling to my brow.
Small animals make nests in my mistakes.

A package arrives in the mail. Lots of wires, a battery, a clock, something packed in aluminum: A send off to write home about.