My life is strewn in a light-filled pond,
and I'm swimming to catch the pieces

Like soft glass it slips round
my fingers,
glistens beauty

Remembering now, as I do, about waterfalls,
the reason they're captivating

Is the way that the light plays on breasts
as we stand beneath them

Slipping into someplace where the skin
catches droplets and collects them on lips

There are Those

Murdered in the forest eves,
their bodies strewn about
the underbrush thick with nettles.

Snow falls lightly on the graveless,
graven gray surcoats in tatters.

Souls sublimate in the moonlight.

Thus are we--unmarked.

Winter

One round white face, two/three
Days, ninety. Three months
since summer murdered those
cold tendrils. And now for nine,
resurrected again, she'll ache
down drizzle, ever, ever, ever

reservoir

I've lost the will to do too much,
my creative reservoir drained slowly
over the months, sun parched
by the summer wasted, waiting...

What remains is mud, burnt,
a fetid stream cloudy with
sediment, or maybe sentiment,
in any case yellow as a mortal wound.

Amid the cracked wastes lie fragments,
abandoned foundations from before
the damn trapped every thought,
until the waters rose to bursting.

That great reserve is now lost,
and the forecast forebodes doom,
thirst: aching, fields: fallow,
and a dry tear unmarked by fate.

Tuesday Morning

Wending tomorrow, she
will say that green gibbons
are the wave of yesteryear,
a lunar reservoir tip filled
with blue sand and Feng Shui.

Wending tomorrow, she
will say 'no,' will say this
has been long, this shadow
has grazed too near her spine.

Wending tomorrow, she,
sweet, will tilt or apologize, but
she will mince meaning, and
wending tomorrow she
will take that dignitary
floating in the rocks
like a skinny kitten to bed.

A Holiday

Not yet, not so far.
Left in the cleft betwixt
randy and ruin.
Who left all the shine
and glimmer off the straits?
Run into the stand,
leap through the thorn brush
rasping at the skin left bare.
The cold foot dank
in the stone hollow court,
wind through the mouth
bit low in the dark.
Die there in the meadow,
in the tree shadow wending.
Die in the branch heart,
taught sinews straining.
Die on you feet,
in the salt flat sucking.
Die in the deepness
of the rock spring breath.

Huge difference

final draft:::

"Summer Day"

Bukowski kicks morbid today,
his shoes sporting spurs. He
craves blue pearls and scribes
history, beckons four favors
from the local taxidermist.

Bukowski spills vodka on my couch,
taps out melody on my coffee cups.
I dampen his rhythm:
ba-domp-domp-dmph.
Plumes sprout from our necks;

we are prepared for the next
utilitarian crustacean to arrive.


-----------------------------------


first draft:::

Bukowski hates me morbid today
for craving love or meaning, either
wither, but which? Ballerina history
hates me today because I am too
stubborn to ask my boss for an advance.
Deer hates stale me, but doesn't know
why - he's too far to understand, and
we never seem to change except that
we both get more stubborn. A constant

Summer is fumigation for mildew, but
it's not very effective. So how long are you
doing this? Where are you moving
when you move? I can help you move boxes.

No!!! You torment me. Prick
my finger, and I cut too far, but I feel
something, at least. I know I feel something, and
I'll never live close again. You'll never touch my box, moving or otherwise.

Evasive, I am not. Evasive both, but not I.

Bukowski is sitting in his living room instead
of my room, because I am not good for his craft.
I dampen his rhythm. Badompdompdmmm. . .

He likes me but doesn't - me. Ballerina sits
on the phone, asleep, waiting for a ring to wake her.
Not quite on silent, but not quite on ring, either.

She wants to love me. Deer is away, silent, like he is. He's probably a sociopath. All deer are.

Let me remind you that I hate this coming holiday.

July Blindness

I'm rather out of sorts just now,
bothered, no doubt, by uncertainty.
I cannot see beyond the 30th, June,
as if on that day all things must end.
For as it stands now this just may be.
I've not the purchase to peer o'er
the constricting lip of the world
into the spreading advance of future.

brambles brushing, brimming
against fleshy fruit, I'm
ready to see what's underneath.

It use to be

I grew up in an age before modern residential "development".
The house I spent most of my childhood in was built by my parents on a new street at the edge of the city.
At the time around here people bought a lot, drew up plans and built their house the way they wanted it.
When you looked at your land you had to imagine the sea of blackberry brambles cleared away and decide which trees to keep.
On a street like our construction happened piecemeal.
Maybe one house a year would go in.
Even when they extended the street up the hill through what had once been a shortcut to school and a playground of dirt paths this slow pace continued.
In the winter houses under construction became the bombed out battlegrounds of our neighborhood snowball wars.
In the summer we'd sneak down to building sites in the evening to play on the idle earth movers.
All year round we'd scavenge for scrap wood and fresh nails for tree forts in the unattended, half built homes.
It was exciting.
These days big developers buy land by the acre.
They scrape the land bare, down to the red mud and throw up line after line of identical houses.
They name the developments "Oakwood Estates" and other tacky names that stand at odds with the rape of the land.
I pine for the before times.

treadmarks

thick red written on the mirror,
lipstick, but strawberries
taking over

warm orange encased by shadow,
construction, but sunlight
of the cliff's face

pile of plums kicked off a balcony,
malevolent, but fun
when the rain stops...

there is no purpose
or closure for treadmarks

dirty shakes

The sky is wrong for this time of year.
I wish someone would do it up nice.
Clear the mess, add some bright lighting...
There's a duck pond in the parking lot,
and those dirty birds don't take no shit.
Not from the cat... or even my truck.
I guess this is my summer break, but
I feel like we've skipped strait to fall.
I need the heater in June? I mean, hell...
The cherry crop's wasted, strawberries late
and four dollars a gallon? Eighty bucks a tank?
'S like prison bars on the city's vague edge.
No where to go, nothin' to do, no job, no friends
and a fine new beginning to life after college.
At least the vicodin's starting to kick in.

Thomas the Cat

Thomas the cat has six toes.
Thomas has a highfalutin nose.

It doesn't stick up, like you might think--
it sticks down and sniffs the drain of my sink

with whiskers and flicks, he falls down the drain
never to judge my dirty sink again...

Never?

I would never deign to operate
under such absolute terms.
I always--always understand
that subtle gradations abound.
It's the only thing right.
To deny such would be wrong.
So keep you black and white,
your highfalutin terms.
I'll stay in the muck with
the sex tainted words.

Two Lines

It is never 'you digress,' but
I digress.

poem from my seat at graduation

I tied my stole in a knot
to guard against the wind.
We are a sea of black,
tassel, polyester and flowers.
Impatient with the process
I write in my program.
Diploma in hand, cake waiting
for the celebration at home.
Strangely, home remains
for me my parents' house...
But I digress. It is weird,
degree achieved at the end,
I cannot acknowledge the change.
Would that I could remain
I would lay down this certificate
and try again for another,
living secretly on campus,
a legend; a phantom; vampiric
in my lust for academia.

Happy Birthday

a song

Don't panic
it's just a tattoo
Don't panic
I thought that you
would like it

Something new
to spice the soup
I am still me
And we're still we
We can still be
what we were
but we are not

So panic
It's not just a tattoo
Oh Panic
I just don't love you, anymore

Let's panic
about this tattoo
Let's fight
about this tattoo
Let's end it
because this tattoo
on my back
means what I meant
when I said
Let's end it
We just can't be
--I mean it
we just aren't we, anymore

Don't panic
there'll be other girls
Don't panic
It's not the end of the world
So, baby-no-more,
eat your cake,
drink your drink

and don't panic

----

audio, complete with the sodo train: http://audio.xanga.com/omgmynameisdiane/1d0f52210419/audio.html

the horror

the tents sank in the drifting billows;
smoke pouring from atop the hill.
a man stood nearby, wavering.
he blinked hard against the fumes.
a single log fumed from the high ground.
he was embarrassed and unsure.
he could not clear the air by hand.
the other campers would soon wake.
would they panic in the blinding drift?

Jose Rizal Bridge

Stripped of humanity
near the green bridge across the city,
the lights the boxes are blinking
Happy Birthday, Baby!
Baby, look up
Baby, look over the edge
of the green bridge over what was a meadow in it's youth

There are tents there now, by the edge of the freeway
where a man and his proverbial dog, loyal, hide
from the rain, lighting butt after butt
of burnt up cigarette, found
in the Jack in the Box parking lot

Devoid of humanity
the city dogs bark, drowned
out by the city sirens, concubines of disaster
caressing Baby to sleep
Look over, look out over the Sound, big sky

Baby shakes to sleep, warm,
asleep to the man and his cold dog
shivering together to the sounds of city sirens
detecting with noses a moment of urine, warmth
of the last cigarette ember falling asleep, big sleep, cold in the hand
that'll never redeem another dirty dream
that'll never be red of another dirty deed
that'll never inch down on the softness of skin
that'll never faux toss towards man's best friend
that'll never caress Baby again

than what?

Life doesn't get easier,
not the way you'd want
or you'd expect.
Who wants an easy life
anyways? Not me,
I assure you.
No, an easy life is one
devoid of all points
of interest.
I myself wouldn't ask
for a life made easier
than mine,

except...

Maybe it'd be nice
if just one thing
could be easy.
Not easier than something,
just easy by itself,
without irony.
Let something arrive
unasked for
once.
Let it slide into life
with liquid
ease.

Conjunctions (collage poem)

Filtered water, I miss. You?
Triple threat. I think. That wrong
soft, between yeses,
honest, I have you. Self-control?
Obviously. Oh, choices to make,
me too, but you too, would
my conjunctions have easier
lives, wrong. I am off with my
imaginary head, life is wrong?
Without you, without conjunctions,
yes, oh, I remember! I know, I know
love, but I meant to say, but
to be okay, but for us to--that's
not what I meant in the least, but

The Dust

Feet dipped slowly
into a cold mountain spring,
washed gently of the
aching accumulation of day.

The water: ancient
flows new from the rock
near freezing and
timid in the filtered light.

Drink of the sun
and carry the dust away.
Tender green shoots
await the gift borne
upon your silver neck.

Local woman longs for shelter after proverbial wind totals her car.

Colorado smells like burnt sage
cleansing and chasing bad spirits away
Arizona smells like burnt sage
cleansing and chasing, cleansing
Arizona smells like burnt rubber
and hospital rooms and flesh to ash

Colorado smells like fresh sky
filling lungs and giving legs strength
Colorado smells like cold snow
brisk and refreshing, stealing strength
Nevada smells like dust

Nevada smells like hot dust, sick wind, dirt
Nevada smells like meth, decay, dirty money
Nevada smells like nuclear waste, rotting carp

Nevada smells like suffocated babies
Oregon smells like trees
Oregon smells like waterfalls and ice
slipping between books and lectures

Oregon smells like sex and whiskey
Oregon smells like old houses that creak
when toe tips scrape across late nights
Oregon smells like anger and apathy
and the bottom of a pool, drowning

Oregon smells like escape from dust
Oregon smells like, no don't go back
Washington smells like the ocean
salty and warm on the skin

Washington smells like aloe vera
after a blistering sun burn
Washington smells like tears
turned into torrents of giggles
Washington smells like very cheap beer

Washington smells like delinquent nights
sneaking from room to room, all smiles
Washington smells like poetry and wine
Washington smells like Excel documents

Washington smells like laughing children
Washington smells like a time machine
oiled and ready to grant the only wish
Washington smells like cigarettes and soap
clinging to tshirts and jackets and scarves

Washington smells like an abundance of apologies,
unnecessary and ultimately amusing
Washington smells like graciousness
Washington smells like home

Given to loss; a wound in the sky

The Angel: androgynous, amoral, apathetic, alight
with the dim memory of what once was and will
never come to pass. Thrown from the white walls into

........................................................................................outer darkness?

No; bourn down by the winds of ruin to that place
of desperation, the stage for the epic of man which
sparked his war. Stripped of grandeur and authority,
left to his wanderlust, burt and broken, a shell.

The Fallen: feeble, flaking, frightened, fleeing
a legacy of fated flaws, intrusive memories of smoke
and the dismemberment of brother and sisters
whose love shone to brightly, the Sun in shadow.

Emily, 162 words

The ashes scatter across the once leavened land. Empty trees hung their harrowed arms beneath an ocean of smoke, drowned small animals and thickened Emily's pale skin. She moaned at the bottom of it, ocean animals swayed into vermin holes around her and she peered orb-eyed at the ozone breaking above her in orange and blue and gray light. Her eyes had glazed over, a monotone affect like *, vivid blue ain't so blue. The alarm sounded, and she broke through, eyes sparked life again and she rose to her feet, galloped toward the slaughterhouse before she could think. Four small children, androgynous, dressed in overalls, ran at her, sapphire gems in hand. Before she could open her thin cracked lips to warn them, the sensors triggered the tiny missiles that pulled them into the quarry. Emily fell to the ground, hit her knees on some sharp black rocks without wincing. Her * silence lingered as she slowly, uncertainly, turned to ash.

*anemic, blanched, cadaverous, colorless, ghastly, gray, leaden, pale, pallid, pasty, sallow, wan, white, depression, downheartedness, dumps, eyes, heaviness of heart, lowness, low spirits, melancholy, peepers, postpartum depression

copter

Twin copter leaves spiral
slowly to the sidewalk
settling in an uneven seam
across the street from a
grade school leavened by
the sounding vibrations
of joy generated by children
like little mirth furnaces.

This May

Hoola? Hulah? No. Hula skirt,
scattering wild from her hips.
Fire-fire-fire in waves
spin high in the eve.
Half-coconut bras and
pink neck-rings in bloom
and the stomping and
thunder of drums.
The sand rebounds in
peaks like the sea;
heard, but hidden from sight.

Summer Girl

Ticky tacky, ticky tacky,
swivel up like river wracky,
hippy left / pippy right,
hoola, hoola hoopy sight.

Homework due Tuesday

My mind is flush with tacky ideas
for an assignment on documentary poetry.
I think I'm boned.
Zeitgeistally cock blocked.
Dammit all to hell and back.
I hate this crap.
Maybe that's what I'll do...
The haiku defense!
A documentary poem about hating documentary poets!!!

Pub, his shoe is lost

His waist is not dainty like a lovely girl should.
But his eyes sparkle about politics, and
it might be the 1.50 beer, or humility speaking,
but the extrovert reaps disappointment...
too high of expectations, too many errors
in spelling, convictions too much, and jealousy
rises to neck, pink, and her waist is not dainty,
but neither is his, and all lovely girls should not
care. Imagination and questions flood, wish,
and talk of poets are memories, turned flush.

Tales of Winter

The trees: naked, tall
in the cold, rasping wind
bend slight at the waist
as the story begins.
A bird: timid, cold
flits from branch to branch;
silent words pecked
into the deadwood.
The message is plain.

Day One

Константѝн: Cheerfully, she opens the door, and pulls NORTON in by his wrist. Здравствулте! Welcome to Россия, where we will drink водочка and bulldoze our inhibitions while we play hours of шахмат! Yes, yes, it is too cold to go outside, so here we are: жизнерадостно over шахмат... Masters! Let me show you around. Meet Фёдор!

Фёдор: Здравствулте! It is wonderful to see you! Your uncle said you were getting tall! Where is your куртка? You must be freezing! Norton shakes his head and smiles.

Константѝн: Фёдор, Фёдор! Leave our friend alone. Pulling NORTON by the wrist, she leads him across the room to sit. Come, friend, sit down here by the fire. Would you like some водочка? I'll find you a glass! NORTON sits silently by the fire, examining the contents of his purse.

Фёдор: Don't let her skimp you. He winks.

Константѝн: What was that, Фёдор? I can here you out there!

Фёдор: Bah! Успокойтесь! NORTON drops his purse near his feet and stares into the fire.

Genocidal Valentine

a Time Warp Dandies original song:

I’d kill a billion people just to see you smile.

I’d bulldoze a trillion trees, though it might take me a while.

I’d blow up a whole star system if you’d be my girl.

But first things first, I’ll conquer the Earth so we can rule the world…

With our lo---ove

With our love-love-lovey-love

With our lo---ove

With our crazy, bloody love.

I’d hunt down the last white rhino in case you want his horn.

I’d bankrupt a starving nation, though that’s probably the norm.

I’d tear down the Sistine Chapel if I think you need a laugh.

We’ll make a lot of noise with our nuclear toys as we can rule the world…

With our lo---ove

With our love-love-lovey-love

With our lo---ove

With our crazy, bloody love.

I’d firebomb a hundred cities to liven up your night.

I’d strangle a box of kittens, though they won’t put up a fight.

I’d alter your dental records so you can disappear.

Your name’ll die, thanks to a clever lie so we can rule the world…

With our lo---ove

With our love-love-lovey-love

With our lo---ove

With our crazy, bloody love.

So I made you my girl

and we destroyed mankind.

All that’s left are the stars

and the races we may find.

So I built us a ship

and a giant arsenal.

We can search through space

and one by one they’ll fall…

To our lo---ove

To our love-love-lovey-love

To our lo---ove

To our crazy, bloody love.

winter haiku

Life would be easy
if I could steal medical,
dental and husbands.

Light a Candle for me

...make it two or three
and let them burn out.
Let them steal the oxygen
from my fluid-filled lungs
and transform the room

with light.

Leaves flake off / " " "

1:Like leaves flaking off, I am your... what!? No, really! Repeat that?
2:'New Year's Resolution,' the words: enunciated well .

1:I didn't think you made those.
2:I make candles too.

1:Wow... great.
2:I know.

1:Sigh,
2:Oh.

1:
2:

Community

Community

they fade into one another.

gradients; tonal miscegenation,

pigments squeezed from a tube,

pressed from living flesh,

drawn from the soil,

mixed as blood is mixed

(violence and love)

to be shared and named

and celebrated; reverenced.

aging. fading, flaking, again

restored, repurposed, reborn.

Bruise

E-legan t, ve-ry, ve......... .......ry, v-ery strait teeth,
^^^^^^t-........his is -how you k no...w he-'s a politician,
^^^^^^^^^^^-wor...ds pu-rl into the au...dien-ces, into the
^^^^^^^^^^^c-ame..ra , e-xplaining t hat,...Am-ericans, like
^^^^^^^^^^^a-ny ot.he r -human set i n o...ne p-lace, alone,
^^^^^^^^to-o lon..g.. . -ar searchin for some-thing lost...
^^^^^^^^^^Bab-ies d....ie -when not gi. ven love-, Americans
^^^^^^^^are s-o wr...ap -ped in me, ... me, me -ethics, with
^^^^^^^copin-g me..ch -anisms in...... ... black- and white,
^^^^witho-ut se.ein- g diversity.... ....... as -a blessing.
^^Bloate-d boo-b- oo, and app... ............-...le pie... !
^^Americ-ans, bab- y, like all hu ma.......-.............ns,
^^^^^^^^^^^^^crave o-ne anot-h er, crave community,.........
crave fa-mil-y, th- ese famil-ies are bro-.......ken,$$$$$$$
because- they are- built wrong, alas, th.-..e poet$$$$$$$$$$
has injec-ted a sta-t ement of opi nion th-at is off$$$$$$$$
the topic-, but not- r eallyWeneed yes, in- italics,$$$$$$$$
need sma-ler com-mu nities, univs l healt-h care,$$$$$$$$$$$
homes for- every1-or a t least land f or eve-ryone$$$$$$$$$$
to make a -choice,- men tal health se rvces,- food$$$$$$$$$$
AIDs preve-ntion! -Canc er research.. .. Am-erica$$$$$$$$$$$
is dying, on- top of -the w orld, a......... nd ki-lling$$$$
off its enem-ies wit-hout k no............... wing -who$$$$$
or why they- are fig-hting .. ................... anym-ore$$
than before -they st-arte....... ............. .......d-. It
takes a more- tactic-............... ............ .... th-an
this... to deci-de.......-..... ................... .. wh-at
is OK to sacr-if.........-.. ................... .....ic-e--

Writing

I was feeling something tonight. Restless. Lonely. Lonelier than usual. I went for a drive at midnight. Driving in the dark helps me relax. I have a few regular routes I take, each a lonely stretch of country road wanting for affection. The asphalt was damp; darker than usual but without the rain slick glare. The fleeting shadows of the world streamed past like dark water; like thought. In the distance the city lit the low clouds. They glowed ominously—the sickly color of a bruise. I should buy some vodka.

For emergencies.

“Imbibe in case of disillusion.”

Tomorrow night…

Fruit

The censors have warned me... that writing about fruit after drinking a great deal of scotch and a tiny bit of wine is ill-advised... and since it seems I'll be in this state for a couple of days, it'll save us time if we smooth-move to a new topic, one less juicy, ripe, sensuous as this one...

Amigos/Amigas

Left in the winter.

Splitting like fruit, over-ripe.

Drawn off with the storm waters.

Astray, astray, the searchers astray.

Warm my hand in your pocket? I will.

And so,

As if,

To say:

“…”

"If I asked you to marry me in five months, what would you say?" ; "U--Yes." ; He panics.

sloppily dedicated to the stupid moon of bed tales

Delirous drink, I
Ran without thought
And sipped the well
Not to spicy / chili, hot
Kaleidoscope venture

&

Dreams that night
Ripped righteous
Antidotes into
Naught, like road-
Kill kangaroos

&

Dippity, fourteen
Rare stars, friends,
Amigos drift above
Naughty night slumber
Knowing these drinks

the coast

About three I parked the car and walked to the safety rail. The earth fell away before me, gnawed away by the crashing waves. I stared into the tumult. The water was black, the sky gray and my breath a wispy white. The sound of the sea grinding at the land filled my ears. I sat in the dust in a daze. I thought and gazed and drank of the scene until I forgot what these tears were about. My face stung from the wind. About four it started to rain. About five a landslide swept me into the ocean.

Lyrical

            Lined like a lyrical flip flop, or something, she blinks, twice. Empty between toes, and this old woman is singing about end times, but she is sparkling while. Her lyrics, about boxes, swinging, I'm not allowed to mention. The question about her hands will have to wait. The train is her pet, on time. Water slooshes on by like ice regurgitating its lunches. Do you not get tired here? Snow flags wave like lyrical flip flops, or something, she waves, like a flag. Songs about end times make me migraine. Buzz killer. Songs about forever times do the same thing.





[S'pose, we could keep having one word be the prompt, regardless of authors choice of poetry / prose.]