Monday, December 27, 2010

The Stolen Imagination

My mind, contumaciously,
Won't be adorned in tapestry
No frills or bows of fantasy
Left naked near reality,
Imagination torn away and stolen
-- no word on its return.

Plotted once, fame on you
Plotted twice, shame on me
-- fool!-- as though the shallow curls of my
Unprecedented finger prints, the mossy ink of insolence,
Could grow anything, anew, but mildew anymore
-- My hand's skin, spare to burn.

Ay, the offers to be made at cost
For what I have proposed I've lost
A short description should suffice:
I'll trade my virtue, sink to vice,
Upon the safe return of what
Gave meaning to my life.

Too much Together.

This pinched man and his bulk, black reflection with breasts.
We were too much together.
Our reconnaissance failed me, last we saw us.
What eye for your eyes, and my wrists for your last attempt to end it?

If we were not you, we'd be thriving.
We are a tall caucasian with an apple in our throat and
Hair that never finds a comfortable distance from the scalp.
We are still in pain from finding four other limbs our body rejected for being too positive, all the same. Too much the same. No chemical could change this, no syringe could dull the shame.

Stop your hate of all things us. We are trying over here.

What are you doing with your life?
When will you move on to better blackness? We are still waiting, together
While apart.
When we become two entities -- a body and its heart --
I'll pump, you feel, I'll beat, you hum, I'll break

Us soon,
to shards.

New

Ennui over all that is not new
A fetus is recycled genes,
We know what x and y are apt to do.

Surfeit inside the prism, ranging red to blue.
I need no confirmation: yes,
I see colour differently then you
(Whoop di doo.)

When Jesus comes
I hope he brings something sparkling and unheard of
I want see beyond sliced bread, past the internet: Go-go gadget, God's love.

For water parted, fire started or sea food multiplied
is innovation unevolved for such Jurrassic times.

Dreams of Paralysis

I do not speak His language.
Somewhere along the way things get muddled up between my murmurs and His miracles.
When I heard how prayer can work with such clear
results, I was turned on to prayer -- perhaps arousal is the right way to ruin whispers of this sort.

I asked for a sign, for some direction. No more than a footprint's start on a path I'd forge alone then on.

No exit, and I'd already passed into deep REM by then.
I dreamt of paralysis on a stair case. Familiar faces ascended as I begged, static, for explanation. They apologized as to the homeless man, while fingering change for coffee in their pockets. They felt so entitled to their limber liberties, and figured I was lying about where I wished to walk to.

I also dreamt of feces, expelled in all the wrong places. The panic, at having been so near to where is right to let them loose, but not near enough to hide there having been lost at all.

If I spoke His language, this dream would be a sign of no good things, and no good way to go. So, I'll say He's foreign to me and pretend then, I do not know.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

The Lonely Tree that Lit them All.

Today I bowed my head and wiped a drip drop on one sleeve.
I felt so strangely light and crisp; a papery pile; dry, brown leaves.

Willing for you all to rain,to fall, to roll down to my roots

Tomorrow when I feel not full of water, or of life
I'll will myself to self ignite, and all

of me
will
come
to
all
of
you