Pouring Concrete
Writing poetry is hard, like pouring concrete
(and as intense as making love),
first one has to frame the body
of the poem, this takes more than hands
it takes the eyes, the mouth and the feet.
It takes the whole weight of the body
to press down on the mortar of alphabet.
It takes warm blood to forge the memories into bars of reinforcement, bars that will hold the words in place, that will provide the shape, bars that will hear the moans ("I want to make you moan", I tell the poem) as the words shudder gripping their bones ("I want to make you shudder", I tell the poem) and slowy harden into a poem... ("Take me in", I tell the poem, "and shatter me under your dome")
Like this.
2003:02:04 14:00 Atlanta
My Poems
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Thoughts at a traffic light
Rain at the window again,
is tapping in morse code
to this moorse day, signals
I can barely decode even after
so much living:
why is this woman willfully inviting death smoking?
why water(tears) attempts to take the shape of grief it can't ever fill?
Questions indicate that everything is a little off balance. Sons are doing in their moms: Soapranos style, in mid-winter. It must this heat someome just forgot to turn the knob to freeze, so anger spills and blazes.
All along the road a wall of flashing neon, drive-ins to drive into. Everything now is served at the window, time is money and on this road so is sex. We live in absurd times
A live drive-in nativity scene, (somewhere in the Arizona desert for just $4.99), a defunct drive-in funeral parlor here,(drop off your dead here for just $49.99): all these have become the ways we now live (few other reasons still remain: love and humid air).
The wiper oscillates: red had turned to green.
My Poems
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Attention on a rainy morning
Mourning doves coo out
their hidden sorrow.
On the ground a flock of robins
scavenge, each breast red.
Were they born, shot and shattered,
to be my winged brothers?
Leaves relay water, the travel downwards is in multiple legs. At each transition, a falling is followed by a shattering. And somewhere in between as water is becoming air I am becoming these words.
At the window a constancy of bark and vine, a Pollock's canvas done with seemingly great ease. But to hear those pigments move with great delibrate slowness I place the ear next to the ground.
I hear life kicking under the membrane. I hear our milky way falling away from other milky wayes? I hear earth and the sun whizzing away from one another.
And admist all this great noise,sometimes I hear myself.
My Poems
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