Mom

MOM

 

You carried me, I will carry you.

 

Shared blood circulates outside the womb,

survives the thinning wounds of fledgling cuts, distance, difference.

 

May the love to raise a child grow twofold

to assist a parent bowing back to the Source.

 

We’re born into this hall of mirrors,

yours the first face

out of the oneness.

Bless the struggle to be totally yourself

in the bond of love.

 

In love, all is free. No repayment for such a gift

but giving.

 

It has been said that every person you meet was undoubtedly your mother

in some life or other, and you theirs, over incalculable time.

How grateful can we be for each other, for this life?

 

I bow to the Earth, eons of dust to dust blown free with Spirit—

gather cut flowers for Mom, fragile vase, time-bound moments

forgetting into the clarity of the moments

all no less precious

than a whole creation lost & found in midwifing and becoming

poems written in flesh and love and care

through the endless rounds.

 

Every day is Mother’s Day.

I love you Mom.

/by

My Sweet Valentine

My Sweet Valentine

Six different metallics,

silver, cobalt, copper hue –

piss jars of ethylene art sense –

viper blue, canary yellow, paliochrome orange –

aromatic flayed hood pattern scrambler

ephemeral.

Colors communicate with

mathematical precision,

a matrix model of emotive

stultification varied; the whole

invaded by the determinant;

Constipated sinus

roto-rooter chemical, a hazard –

nerve damage – huffer system

Blown away . . . nerve damage?

 

Multiple layers of subtlety,

a cosmic dance in art space;

courage expressed in crazy leaps

of tonal subset  to cofactor noise – music –

defined by colored multiples, splashes, drips, runs,

and intricately celebrated strokes

of loving tenderness . . .

A logical tautology semantically woven

without regard for syntax.

 

Stultification not stultification becomes raw awareness . . .

by logical default.

 

I have a dream to see,

a hall, sculptural transcendence hewn

from young mountain flesh energy

cry rippling . . .

with integrity.

 

To whom do we owe gratitude?

 

In the end it gets easier but

Sub-self dynamics tells a limited tale.

There are the Others; one mustn’t

neglect the Others. The Others belong

to Self not self if a difference can be shown, maybe . . .

another self-supporting tautology

granted for the sake of mercy.

 

It’s all sublimated message from Outer to Inner;

experience justifies the  lazy lie.

Masochism, schmasochism . . . I

cut for blood sport self-induced deliverance

for the Love of the Other;

the Universal Feminine aspect of Others

sub-divided categorically in true Matrix

fashion.

 

Telepathically words are impotent Eunuchs,

fat, whimpering, bloated, and useless in

straight connectivity psychic pressure –

the message interspecies –

and hounds cry . . .

 

I howl at the Moon like all other

cult members; Pagan Mother-worship

demonstrations ecstatic of secret communities.

Some secrets shall remain . . .

St. Stephen style.

 

Enlightenment is not for

faint of heart nor is artistic

endeavor. I have entities in my

head, a maelstrom of contradiction so I

cut,

puke,

shit,

but celibate I remain!

 

For certain they don’t belong

but I entertain with

wrath a deliverance . . .

 

I will not be held up by a goddamn dog!

Did I mention eggshell blue?

 

Baby food jars? I eat the food not the paint.

Butternut squash and infant formula

keep artists regular, on schedule;

robotic like encapsulated schematics

of internal wiring gone awry – a bird nest grounded

in love; Freud wouldn’t understand.

 

I work in the gutter but one can’t spell

gutter without gut. Bukowski knew:

 

“It takes endurance to be a drunk.”

In the end most all succumb to peace

postal style like circular horses in

latitudes of death screaming and swimming

against insurmountable mediocrity, a small taste of madness:

 

Sellout?

You live in a car parked on random streets for ten years and then call me a sellout.

 

Gibby Gabby, too much acid mixed with

philosophia punk rock Texas bourbon

style leads to nihilistic visions of suicide magic

beatnik dreams. Only the myths save the day.

 

In the end Oedipus is blinded by fate;

a certain testament to the presence of the Universal Other.

 

The fates lead those who will; those who won’t they drag.

 

Magenta? Magenta says so much with cadmium, medium hue,

I scream and cry and lick

pus filled scabbed over innards of

dumpsters just to remind the

craziest . . . I am crazier.

 

I eat trash because I’ve grown

accustomed to liking

daydream fever

hallucinations.

And this is reflected in rambling colors of

fumigated piss jar joviality.

 

Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.

 

—Wes Hansen

 

/by

Flashlight Men

Flashlights

On a night of restlessness
Cans of Cobra and 4 loko spill down a dirty white wooden stare case
Friends and strangers passed out in a living room
moans and thoughtful whispers reverberate in the hallways of motels

A brightness in a darkend car
the error screen of a brand new gps blinks alien language
Plexiglass is weak,radios are valuable
theft is survival

Soft dark leather,plastic protected
a beach tree snaps in half by the river
nobody is around to prove it
the scene shifts to the rail yard,plastic breaks the sound barrier
sucking itself in and billowing out
white noise before an early morning of destruction

The gentle ambience of sand stone
a dark blue hockey bag
the scene of a crime,the click of a cheap lighter
the smell of melting fabric.

In the middle of the night during an apathetic drunken house party
two strangers like ships in the night
one a pirates galleon the other a stranded row boat
two strangers with sparring intentions
left without worry

They toasted to new love
when there was no love at all
there was nothing but impulse running the show
—————————————————————————

The car was black as polished leather
It wheezed hydraulically with predatory lust

A shadow on wheels
traveling after midnight on quiet streets
under jackolantern flames

The driver wore gloves that matched their jacket
carmel leather.
The seats were protected with plastic
sanitary wipes saluted the dashboard

It was quiet enough to hear a strange liquid slashing around
in the back seat
there was little evidence of any passing

An expensive black BMW drove in circles
with little sound and no interaction
it sat dormant on the side of the crossing bridge
by the neighborhood pub
=–=-
The view from inside

Rough love
how to describe the strength it takes
to kick through the wiring

A chainlink fence reinforced with a diamond plastic lining
do not cross tape
it shouldn’t be yellow it needs to be red

Danger beware
high voltage

The wandering spider is wrestless with anger
holding onto every conflict
it stops breathing,without love it should have no heart beat
-=
The pub is sweating
a floor slick with hard alcohol and vomit

A pulp machine pushes out dust
the paper mill stinks

through the trunk of a car
it smells like an unplugged freezers
just like every wrong move

Vaccuum sealed and wood burned
an indention holds the spare tire
if there was a spare tire

The space is occupied by an assortment of scalpels and knives
surgical tools worth more than the car itself
worth a life
–
–
The driver
circled past the roundabout and out towards
the far far mountains
to an old wharehouse

Ships in the night
harbinger of endings
in a bmw. Unassuming they drive through the moonlit trees
into a place where suple hands do not often visit

The driver stuck to the speed limit
Passed out in the backseat
a young college student from great money
believes he will awaken on a couch somewhere strange again

In the backseat He doesn’t dream
he awakens and prays for an escape
he doesn’t pray for long
god has spoken

This is the fate that you have been given
god always has a plan they say

What happened next is up to the coroner to explain
So many missing pieces,so many years to wonder
if the Wandering spider ever curled up on its back
or if its still driving around with sinister urges

The pieces of the young college student were found by the BLM
in a hockey bag within an abandoned quary…
There are no names and few if any witnesses

 

 

 

 

/by

Beware the Silent Places

Beware the silent places

Conversing about the little things
sharing my day with every stranger
I encounter
They don’t always like what I have to say
when will they figure it out
The quiet places are haunting grounds
agonies garnet
ring
of copper
sits in a velvet box

The ring is known to feed
on the hearts of lovers
It is the great rejection

We live in a society obsessed with the strictest
of laws, we speak of our feelings
we share our lives with strangers

Detaching overtime
our latches always snap
Mental door kicked down
I’ve tried to sell the ring before
it came back to me dirty and heavy
The silent places will suck away
our voices, it is an entity unlike
the gods we pray to

The silence is a leech among life
it removes our options
we nod or shake our heads
we wave and it is always unseen
Silence is deaths beginning
it traps us in a never-ending monologue
of self-awareness
within my closet is a top hat
that was once owned by the baron child
of some unknown factory

He lost everything
including his name
Top hats cannot speak
as people bark
or as dogs converse
A top hat with an emptiness
filled only by coins and rejection
The owner of the hat
gave away his life of luxury
in search of a looser life on the ground
as an entertainer
The hat sat empty on a sidewalk
fortune slipped through the crack in the bottom
as it were
the owner chased his coin
into an empty alley
Misfortune rained eroded pennies
across windshields from hell
Unworn, the hat remained in fine shape

I tried the top hat on
it nearly sucked me in
Now it lives high above my head
on a shelf with a color to match

I’m telling you this
because the silence must be broken
we must have music, conversation,
noise
all things to protect our souls
from an unending contagion

I found a book of secrets
printed on leather from an unknown animal
I read the book out loud
when I am by myself
to sustain the stream of survival

I sleep with music playing
at all times
the noise police came one day
to damn me to a world of mute observation
I told them very quickly
if they wish to continue on as an enforcer
of petty laws
to turn on the radio
and listen in on the static

Put your ear real close
and you might yet hear
your very spirit leaves your body
As usual I found myself in handcuffs
led on a cart to a padded room
I chewed through my restraints
and escaped into the night
if not for the clump of my foot fall
I would have become another locus in the static
beckoning for a listening ear

This world is full of invisible rules
between my jumbled sentences
you will find the truth
perhaps you will make it through this night
as I have

Perhaps

/by

Concrete Nouns

by Call Me Cross

Concreteness, nouns,
How do I beat this?
Have to write this poem, lots of things to write down.
You build a poem with nouns,
And a house with concrete.
Just hope the lines don’t collapse like last week’s weak concreteness,
Nouns, falling apart like brick upon brick upon brick.
How he makes them fall like the little piggies’ house made of sticks.
How he huffs and puffs, notoriously B.I.G and tricky,
It’s the piggies’ big deal, the wolf has so much to steal.
Biggies, biggie smalls really just too damn tall!
74 inches of rhymes meant to rap in a hall,
Christopher Wallace, please crouch!
I can’t see, how fun 87 missed calls.
From the tax man? Relax man, Superman. Superfan.
But what was the name of the game?

Concreteness, nouns,
Clowns with Shao Lin swords,
Fighting for completeness,
Complacently finalizing the ups and the downs,
Until syllables become incomprehensible,
Indispensable, unreputable,
Criminals, lock your doors!
And don’t trip at the terminal, right by over the turtle.
She’ll use the shell,
To use words like spells,
Holy Hell, like a magicians mortician,
Using oxymorons with no permission.

Concreteness, nouns,
Images of a town make their frown, remain 18 pounds,
Heavier, up your set, up your test, up your,
Yup, you guessed it,
Palabras, chupacabras,
And whatever silly dress she wears instead of the gown.

Concreteness, nouns,
Duplicating evidence, putting on a pound.
As poets get heart disease,
Pretty please, stop eating all the cheese.
Your heart will ache from all the times,
He tried to rhyme oranges, using syringes.
The door hinges on whether
He can use concrete nouns,
For his deadbeat house,
I built this poem its own outhouse!

Shh!!! Don’t speak!
Delete, end the fed, look at Ed,
Look at me, look at him, look again.

/by

Commune à Tea

by Jeff Southwick

Tea leaf, fragments swimming, in my cup, you cannot, just make this stuff up, but- perhaps using a better filter will- clear up, this problem with my extracted product.

Pondering, tealeaf fragments, in my cup, I fail to see, how these fragments could- bring harm to me, though- if this brew encountered, some electricity- could new life come to be? Tea leaf fragments, in my cup, talking to me, as once did a shell- washed up from the sea seemingly, an epiphany of transparency- for how did this mollusk, come to be- a resident of the sea, instead of someone- like me?

Tea and mollusk- though not certain, just assumed, to lack adequate sentient aptitude-so either one, or both together, should not be competent to thrust their questions, upon me, thus causing such disturbance of my countenance. My tea, as I ponder our perceived difference where did this spirit begin, in me was it in some distant common ancestry, shared not with you tea, but by the chimpanzee- and me?

So my tea, could we- then, also share some common, memory beyond, what these dry bones have to tell me- for what has not, already, been pondered by the professor, of philosophy- so much more wordy- than, any fragmentary leaves in, a cup of tea.

So- if my spirituality should exceed, that, of a cup of tea- expanding exponentially, as time goes by and, erupting up beyond the sky- then is that, what, compels me, to examine the nature of this travesty, and- ask these questions- why? Then, if my cup of tea determines, my capacity to conceive of some -infinity for prose- but, when our identity is surely, measured by our clothes, then- who really knows, how to comprehend what it is we are drinking, from this fire hose when, the fire in our belly- ever larger grows?

So my tea, we- seem to be fragments, one in the same, you and me, together –forever- throughout the galaxy, passing on through, eternity, as I drink to you, and- you assimilate me- as an endless loop, of conscience consistency.

My tea has cooled, and I have consumed, thoughts uncoupled- by a spoon, too soon- my muse has ceased to sing, so I bereft am left, pondering- in the bottom of my cup- a brown debris ring, with a feeling, of uncertainty.

/by