1. |
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the poem:
stars were not stars
moon was never moon
the crevices within our eyes
were filled with invocations of light
and of darkness rendered by the absence
on these altars
we placed our hands
carved into stone
molded into clay
these visions
remembering
with faltering clarity
of how we could not
and of how we wanted
but the elusive always won
our hands were brittle
and our wishes faint
we were without arms
winged and unbound
we dreamt of finding sky
rising high above the earth
touching the wind as the cloud
caressed the emptiness within
it was never easy to return
the time that was not
wore us until weary
we arose again from the dust
etching the hollow places
tracing the riverbed
we recorded this passage
of day into night
the hunger of rotting flesh
the smell of blood pooling
we did not question
the squatting man
his transformation
he became turtle
his carapace
made of bone and ash
was the quiet way
of calling home those
still soaring in the flight
of translating shadows
they were found
silenced
and buried
in the deluge
of the coming days
that emptied our souls
spent our fire
and bound us again
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2. |
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the poem:
there's a great American flea market
at the traffic circle where Cy Avery's house used to be
there are land men selling empty tracts and overpriced aluminum shelters and one of these guys in the middle of his sales pitch he tells me the fucking Latinos Walmarts and fast food joints have taken over
better cast your fate to the wind i guess mister
the empty buildings churches discount outlets bus stops auto parts cheap hotels wheels tires affordable furniture Sonics Quiktrip's cemeteries ammunition cocked concealed carry classes
crematories plasma donations centers barbershops plywood windows
and brown people are here to stay
see the signs that say
for lease for rent for sale owner will carry say it all
the destination man is no longer here
whatever was is now something else
in the mercado parking lot
icy cries and outstretched hands
float away float away
like empty plastic bags
but i carry hope in my pocket
i carry high-security hope in my pocket
like it was a prayer concealed
i always wanted to buy Superman lunch
and a can man in coat with a big red s
takes my $5 and thanks me without teeth
this is where the lines blur
this road mister
it's where the lines blur
some people out here scuffle for a dollar
others hustle their ass for 200
but you can earn magic coins at the warehouse market
right next to George Kaiser's new apartments
and the dirty laundry mart
buildings are razed & rebuilt
whatever it takes to give people hope
or to part with some of their money
the can guy walks down the middle of the street
brushing away flies in the dead of the winter
talking to an imaginary cellphone
or an imaginary god says
hey Jimenez Santa Claus didn't make it down these streets here
didn't visit these houses these chimneys
Santa Claus did not make it down
the hard road where mistletoe grows
untouched on old oak trees
he says
why you want to be here anyway man
this ain't home this ain't no place to be
just an old road
fulla these signs these promising signs
promising coming soon coming soon
but ain't no neon here
ain't no star flowers blooming
no nothin
just a road that was
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3. |
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the poem:
perhaps the wind
listens as our defenses
begin to wane after dusk
releases the breeze
to lift and hold what
we could never bear
in this world (alone)
perhaps the starlight
senses the dissonance
as our will begins to falter
sends a shimmering light
toward us as refuge
from the dark matter
that fills the void
where we shall finally break
perhaps the trees
in their effortless way of
knowing the deeper realms
come with welcoming arms
to offer a sheltering guise
shedding their bark
like the loose skin
trailing in our wake
perhaps time carves for us
an intaglio of hollow relief
etches a meandering atlas
that traces as the debris
flows slides spreads to
finally topple then settle
into the alluvial plain of
our restless weathering
i do not know i say this only
because the absence
which is now resting
in the places you belong
tells me it is so
yes, like you but further
further away
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4. |
current without oxygen
03:48
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the poem:
fallow
but yet addicted
to the ever churning wheel
in truth
it’s an effortless challenge.
as seconds assume their place
in the hierarchy of time set adrift
adrift in this longing without end
do not tell me
what you have heard
when you speak
tell me what you felt
not what you saw
because time casts a defiant
shadow onto hearts
and the smoke
of unattended fires
simply dissipates
in the elusive wind
out there
lost in the under tow
the story goes
that Jim’s father
was an alcoholic
not much of father
more of an alcoholic
ten years had passed
in the space that lay
undisturbed between them
one late night
a crazed distant call came
after the kidnapping
but before Katrina
and arrived unannounced
a slurred landline connection
static bleeping verbs
tears of remorse 90 proof
stumbling along curves
wailing about how baby how baby Ernie
was set aloft into motion
and into the current
the current that burst through
through the windshield
when the old man crashed
into an oak tree one lonely
night in the woods
of southern Louisiana
do not tell me
what you have heard
when you speak
tell me what you felt
not what you saw
because time casts a defiant
shadow onto hearts
and the smoke
of unattended fires
simply dissipates
in the elusive wind
at the bottom of the sea
ancient water trapped
in rock cries out for release
standing here
in this mirage of peace
we are struggling to breath
in current without oxygen
one two three four
exhale inhale
repeat repeat repeat
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5. |
buoyancy3
02:53
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the poem:
outside you can hear
as the rumbling continues and begins
evoked from the trafficked hand of man
nature contends and begins to falter
but the life expectancy
of a clairvoyant
is potentially limitless
because attitude well attitude is everything
because attitude well attitude is nothing
it’s a slippery fish gliding through the rapids of the stream
there’s this thing called buoyancy
but it’s not always the same
neutral neither floating or sinking
when an object’s weight is equal to the fluid it displaces
when an object’s weight is equal to the fluid it displaces
positive floating at the top of the surface
when an object is lighter than the fluid it displaces
when an object is lighter than the fluid it displaces
negative sitting at the bottom
when an object is denser than the fluid it displaces
when an object is denser than the fluid it displaces
sitting at the bottom
This man named Jim knew nothing about anything
But when he felt something in his bones
he always tried to explain
down below where the fishes go
down below where the fishes swim
all the troubles in this world have sunk
and they just sitting there at the bottom
of this big whole world
the hickory nut splashes
into the water out of the blue into the blue
bobs up and down up and down
the imbas forosnai
illuminates the words
of the man named Jim
who walks away and starts starts all over again
Imbas forosnai (‘great knowledge that illuminates’) — IM-ass FOR-oss-na
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6. |
ode to the intrepid
04:30
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the poem:
oh oh oh oh oh oh ohhh
ode to the glory days
when we had and we had
and we knew only knew the strength of our sinew
the limbs were strong the spirit was intrepid
we believed we knew we were always self directed
like youth can do we always knew best
knowing everything everything and less
oh oh oh uh uh oh ohhh
innocence only visits
and stays for a little while
it’s a mood that strays
over a few unexamined miles
exposed to history then the daily news
perspectives can weaken lo and behold
here come the dissenting views
it’s like a train wreck
it’s like an unexplained mirage
one day your standing up
next day you’re on the asphalt
and looking up at the stars
oh oh oh uh uh oh ohhh
the heart’s still beating
but the building is falling apart
the road ahead has a detour
and tomorrow won’t even start
potholes fill the boulevards
the infrastructures crumbling
little fragments everywhere ironically tumbling
but it keeps the workers busy picking up the debris
of what keeps falling falling falling away from me
oh oh oh uh uh oh ohhh
here here here away we go again (repeat entire line)
i can’t see straight but I haven’t lost my glasses
it’s just the speed at which everything passes
I’ve got stones to blast and scatter the remains
over the days the days that have passed
oh oh oh uh uh oh ohhh
i can’t stand up for this falling down
i can’t get lost for this being found
that orange glow that’s just up ahead
well it’s rust on the spikes
the trestles are warped
this (algorithm) just can’t be right
circles are squares triangles are pairs
and all of the sounds of this world
are much more noise than I can bear
wish i had a whistle to warn all of the birds
wish i had a missile to deliver these words
oh oh oh uh uh oh ohhh
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7. |
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the poem:
the half-life of aluminum isotope 26
is seven hundred and thirty thousand years
give or take but the mean-life
the mean-life of absolution
is being held hostage
by the silver pistol of the anti-evolutionist
a pistol that remains cocked and loaded
outside the birds are silent and nervous
the geese are too fat to fly
the errant lieutenant has
just devised the coverup
to make the way ahead
seems too worthless to try
so i stopped a broken sailor
to ask him where this ship is heading
he just smiled and pointed at the traffic light
said talk to that thing for direction
the maps have all been stolen
and the stars are still in hiding
the land is burning everywhere and me
i’m just a ticking clock
whose seconds have been divided
this memory of place its all that’s left
what was isn’t and what is well
maybe it’s not worth keeping anyway
3d houses made of petroleum and styrofoam
imbeciles zealots and billionaires coveting the earth
i suppose e what you have to do to survive
is to sell your soul to idiots
let them mine your data
constantly planning that you remember
you remember to forget it
the once solemn graveyards
are now full of plastic
and being covered with concrete
and planted with astroturf
a foul green pretend wind
blows through the window
the hurricane opened up
and let that evil come right in
maybe i’m just letting
metaphor get the best of me
but i feel queasy
walking through the landfill
seeing the half eaten sandwiches
our plundering wrought
wrapped in cardboard terabytes
our wandering electronic bodies
looking for the home button
so i wrap my head in aluminum
for protection eat my wheaties
and pray for another election
while i’m still here while i can
i’m gonna continue shouting effervescence
directly into the palm of my hand
i’ll go outside to the rooftop
and wave that caution flag again
because what we once were
what we could be is not what we’ve been
a time for reckoning is upon us
soon our answers gonna come
cause the planet she’s seen the future
and it doesn’t include us none of us
yes maybe i’m just letting
metaphor get the best of me
so right now
i’m gonna crawl
back into my corner
smoke some legal weed
and then make some homemade soap
make some soap
i’m gonna give it away tomorrow
on the street corner
at the intersection
of somewhere else and hope
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8. |
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the poem:
at the you haul across from one oak
you can almost touch the skyline
of the magic city that was built
on the plankton of the Low O2 oceans
an ancient swamp land full of death
on the concrete side walk of now
a girl named sequoyah steps up
says as much to herself as to me
“Ain’t it a great view?. Well
you should see it at night
when the trains are passin’ through”
across the street and to the north
that’s where the ball field was dug
deep into the earth
but the excavation could not remove
the blood of bodies that soaked the soil
all the way down into the marrow of the patient earth
receiving the platelets the cells and the plasma
without comment
there’s a young girl
skip skip skipping past
the dead possum flattened out
the wandering man with the pants
hanging below his knees
all peering into a fractured lens
as the rising buildings filter
into the landscape of the familiar
where nothing goes to waste
the alleys evoke the speakeasies
the drunks vomit whole cans of premium brew
chichi pubs and yoga studios
and dave the can man who collects
the remains on sunday morning
fills his shopping carts and walks
in the middle of main street
with a smile beaming through
articulate your waning observations
but avoid the nonsense
of renaming streets and facile conversations
place your emptiness inside a glass jar
let it rest there on the window ledge
until the waiting sun carries it over
and carries it through carries it through
if it is trauma that breaks us finally
first the windows will crack
as the keening of restless birds
calling across the sod reawakens
a sense of dread
of automatic focus
without manual control
just slightly out of intention
completely out of options though
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9. |
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the poem:
the morning has its song
which ebbs and flows
circles effortlessly
and fills the sky
orchestrating light
to begin the day
the wanton hum of traffic
bares the breathing dreams
of solemn roses
prowling cats
passing trains
boisterous bikers
clairvoyant clouds
yawning lawns
and the manifesto
of mockingbirds
lamenting the passing
of honey moon
the voice of a tween on you tube
is louder than the budding savior
proselytizing on the city square
the success of electronic resonance
allows your own version of salvation
to appear
every song that fills the day
will remark upon the day
even in your birth there is loss
even in your death there is song
the wild rose could not be killed
each spring it remembered how to climb
and mark the trail for the departing
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10. |
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the poem:
it is the stories that remain
retracing the aftermath
of the overthrow
the lost limbs
the fallen cannons
the wounded orphans
the broken widows and the rubble
regaining pride
is not the same
as having freedom
or tasting peace
but one who stands
erect after beatings
knows and does not
speak of the battle
the scars that lurk
beneath skin and flow
always in the path of blood
whispering
the words that form
when asked to tell
find root in the room
of lament and the well
of longing for power
eyes form silent wounds
visible only in moonlight
her aching glow reveals
pain shadowing pain
the ear remembers the cannon
the cannon blasts
echoing into memory
but not memory blood
blood pouring from skin
disengaged from form
and bones that were torn
and ripped asunder
the sleeping child restless
dreams of awakening
into a world of peace
but that idea long buried
beneath the seeking
the seeking of greed
the strong armed
and the the power of lead
in the field running faraway
it is the the cool rain that fills
the parched mouths
of the buried bound
to the earth by the roots
of their spirit sinking into soil
sand rock and the waiting tree
one day one day one day
to be released
staring into the bottom
of this empty glass
we wait we mourn we pray
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Ralph Bendel / Studio Magnolia Tulsa, Oklahoma
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