green and yellow green and yellow
last night green and yellow streets
made shine by the rain
in green and yellow
to-night the green and yellow
is on the tracks below the train
and too on the train
green and yellow train
green and yellow tracks
green lines and yellow lights
illuminate the cab and create
green lights
yellow lines demand i stand back
and keep hands clear
green doors and boxen at the station
frame green signs and benches on vacation
in the cold hut where is empty
where is
a green sign with white letters spells "centre"
but its still nothing special
"obstructing doors causes delays"
warns a sign coated in green light
it comes in waves
the green and yellow
first green
then yellow
then green and yellow
green and yellow green and yellow
golden green and verdant jaundiced
armadillos armed in golden amarillo
viridian skinned blonde caspian wardikes
hiking and hitching up
brilliant difficult daffodil britches
tossing shining coins all presidential
and green backed cloth through residential
neighborhoods as we ride and vibe
past other tribes, cast diatribes aside
like the trials we hide inside
our yellow raincoats
repelling grassstains
and leaping off trains not reigning in our pain
to feel it and feel sane and not complain
about green and yellow lights.
green and yellow lines adorn pipes painted red
at the station and say something poetic like
G 19 A
they do not say stop.
they say go
they say slow down or caution
but we here go faster
evergreens and yellow double lines
cut through green mountains
and green fences at interchanges
and cloverleafs
where leads
to a room devoid of green and yellow
but the tv is alive with
a green and yellow
uniformed division
absolutely fucking destroying
a blue and silver squad
and after red and blue invade
green and yellow are back again
this time reincarnates us
two trains
green, yellow
joined for 8 brief pauses
as green and yellow
take either green or yellow
or take green and yellow together
take them as they are
colors
divisions of spectrum
spectacular hues that
are similar
but different
not like red and blue
which meet
as purple.
back to me
back to the kitchen
the color of silver
i take a delivery of squash
typically green i receive
but today its green and yellow
and like that it comes back to me
green and yellow
green and yellow
why green and yellow?
why does green swallow me?
why do i swallow yellow
and then go green?
sick to my stomach
from too much green and yellow
back back
to green and yellow
this time in petworth
i wait for the yellow
but all i get is green
and my green bag with yellow trim
is packed brimming
ready to go for the yellow
to take me to the beginning
of green and yellow
...and god damn it
i am 1 am on my birthday
and the prudential is
green and yellow
and you've got to be kidding me
with this green and yellow bullshit
basking in green and yellow
like im not looking.
but now the problem
is that i only see
green and yellow
because thats what im looking for
like as i walk through the fens
which are
all painted green
i see no yellow
until i see that damn yellow light-post
in a sea of green
monsters.
seems everything in this town is
painted green
and trimmed in yellow
because its such a pretty pair.
or because these green and gold
natives still hold a grudge
against orangemen
and sometimes even red and blue
(on the Jack and not the Glory)
which gives me nothing but problems.
because im not in charge
of green and yellow
they act out and misbehave
in church and on the schoolyard
and writhe between dreams
and forgive each other
before theyve even gotten mad.
but its maddening me now because
im wearing a purplish shirt
and riding on a purple train
yet ive no cause nor desire
for poemwriting
no impulse to follow purple
on an a ultraviolent
mauve emotional tangent
seeking cunning criminal crimson or
deep malignant mahogany
marooned between red and blue.
i only see green and yellow.
i see on signs
banners on army barracks
bidding me to serve
or a street sign telling me
when to swerve to avoid
missing my turn
because you cant pass up
a chance with green and yellow.
And I pass rhododendrons
whose leaves are simultaneously
green and yellow
and trod on moss and lichens that
are neither green nor yellow
to my mother's house (from the purple train)
which is olive drab
and coated in christmas lights.
and I wonder
on the white bed
if I will ever be free
Free of envy and cowardice.
Free of revolution and corrupt gold.
Free of queasiness and disease.
Free, my man,
of green and yellow.
PDM
Monday, November 28, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Hawk and the Pigeon
"That's just what happens,"
the pigeon stunk
spitting out just what he'd thunk
and not considering more
than brutal truths, dehumanized
'bout death and danger impending:
"everybody decays"
"no, no, no
we must preserve what's become of us"
"and just what is that?
our self-preservation?"
"I've reservations on that proclamation:
to lay waste to honest truths
spoken centuries
would be a sin on centuries,
unacceptable"
"Un Ak Ceptabull!??"
the pigeon was simply sputtering
struggling to form words
which he knew for sure existed.
(In a twisted fashion he resembled
A trembling Lincoln in the pre-beard days,
Hazily reciting crappy campaign promises
without emphasis.
without Umlaut.
But that beard,
it gave attention where it was due:
the chin.
The site of moral origin.)
The hawk,
reasoning with our dear columbiform,
"Palumbo, Palomitas."
He stumbled finding words to say something other than
"Raptor that I am, I ingest only hate."
This was not a well received comment
and the taste it left was not unlike
a cornbread without baking soda
unleavened and chalky from
an impenetrable memory
of clear brothed chicken chili,
made by an immaculate alcoholic
red head mother of a man
loved by doves
but shit upon by pigeons.
And in living a less than perfect life
mum and da'
had finally fucked someone other than themselves.
Baby boys and girls bear in mind
Don't leave the angry past behind.
And the Accipiter, the raptor,
intercepting the transmission from heart and lung
received unto himself a new kind of healing
and forgetting about the old
he flexed and flew further from his initial reality
to the space inhabited by
who no longer can exist
and will not in our world remain.
"There comes a time" he exhaled (the pigeon he did)
"When a dove and a pigeon ain't no different at all.
"and that time is now"
PDM
the pigeon stunk
spitting out just what he'd thunk
and not considering more
than brutal truths, dehumanized
'bout death and danger impending:
"everybody decays"
"no, no, no
we must preserve what's become of us"
"and just what is that?
our self-preservation?"
"I've reservations on that proclamation:
to lay waste to honest truths
spoken centuries
would be a sin on centuries,
unacceptable"
"Un Ak Ceptabull!??"
the pigeon was simply sputtering
struggling to form words
which he knew for sure existed.
(In a twisted fashion he resembled
A trembling Lincoln in the pre-beard days,
Hazily reciting crappy campaign promises
without emphasis.
without Umlaut.
But that beard,
it gave attention where it was due:
the chin.
The site of moral origin.)
The hawk,
reasoning with our dear columbiform,
"Palumbo, Palomitas."
He stumbled finding words to say something other than
"Raptor that I am, I ingest only hate."
This was not a well received comment
and the taste it left was not unlike
a cornbread without baking soda
unleavened and chalky from
an impenetrable memory
of clear brothed chicken chili,
made by an immaculate alcoholic
red head mother of a man
loved by doves
but shit upon by pigeons.
And in living a less than perfect life
mum and da'
had finally fucked someone other than themselves.
Baby boys and girls bear in mind
Don't leave the angry past behind.
And the Accipiter, the raptor,
intercepting the transmission from heart and lung
received unto himself a new kind of healing
and forgetting about the old
he flexed and flew further from his initial reality
to the space inhabited by
who no longer can exist
and will not in our world remain.
"There comes a time" he exhaled (the pigeon he did)
"When a dove and a pigeon ain't no different at all.
"and that time is now"
PDM
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The Gates part I (click for whole poem)
The Gates
I.
There were wrought-iron gates by the riverside-
salvaged bits of a grandeur left untouched,
save for the bloody, hardened frost of untold years of creeping rust-
holding fast to shifting dirt, fascinating urban folk
and adding fuel to village lore, the mystic cause of children lost:
"Bodies pried from off the shores! victims of its demon claws
which wayward men invoked": this is the stuff of fairy tales,
which aging men stuff into tomes like photos into old shoeboxes.
So when young eyes were shied away in houses,
and hunchbacked trees bent about these gates-
in the days of dying that define the autumn;
the opaque days of winters lost to the beating down
of uncouth weathers-
shuttered sunlight rolling down past leaves
blasted flakes of those gates' splintering red metal
to soothe over churning riverbed sediment,
crumbling into metallic stones smoothed over
from the glancing graces of thousands upon thousands of watery hands;
and cracking crayfish on the bellies of otters did these old relics sink
into blue Egyptian silt with the bones of their old possessors---
stirred in and bellowing with the riverside tides
of the earth's foreign sentiments,
where tumble and glide the endless confessors
of the silent and placid seas.
(and thus so it went,
that in the every minute which from it followed came a minute more, one...
two...
...and three hundred years would slowly pass
as the great ambitions of great-souled men
with all the wears of work and wine
would acquiesce to their too many days
let by them fly as purely wasted;
with altogether too many dreams,
expectations and aspirations
let slowly simmer to smoldering regret.)
TSE
for parts II-IV
follow this link or click title above
http://www.box.net/shared/oxfsya3j5d
I.
There were wrought-iron gates by the riverside-
salvaged bits of a grandeur left untouched,
save for the bloody, hardened frost of untold years of creeping rust-
holding fast to shifting dirt, fascinating urban folk
and adding fuel to village lore, the mystic cause of children lost:
"Bodies pried from off the shores! victims of its demon claws
which wayward men invoked": this is the stuff of fairy tales,
which aging men stuff into tomes like photos into old shoeboxes.
So when young eyes were shied away in houses,
and hunchbacked trees bent about these gates-
in the days of dying that define the autumn;
the opaque days of winters lost to the beating down
of uncouth weathers-
shuttered sunlight rolling down past leaves
blasted flakes of those gates' splintering red metal
to soothe over churning riverbed sediment,
crumbling into metallic stones smoothed over
from the glancing graces of thousands upon thousands of watery hands;
and cracking crayfish on the bellies of otters did these old relics sink
into blue Egyptian silt with the bones of their old possessors---
stirred in and bellowing with the riverside tides
of the earth's foreign sentiments,
where tumble and glide the endless confessors
of the silent and placid seas.
(and thus so it went,
that in the every minute which from it followed came a minute more, one...
two...
...and three hundred years would slowly pass
as the great ambitions of great-souled men
with all the wears of work and wine
would acquiesce to their too many days
let by them fly as purely wasted;
with altogether too many dreams,
expectations and aspirations
let slowly simmer to smoldering regret.)
TSE
for parts II-IV
follow this link or click title above
http://www.box.net/shared/oxfsya3j5d
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
for raymond carver
he waited with his toes out from under the covers,
and muttered "bon nuit", rum-laced, heart blank,
his poems written and unwritten and at last forgotten.
he lost them in wispy clouds of catalogue lovers,
in bathrooms and neon motels without thanks,
with carnivorous fervor unleashed in peruvian cotton.
and without affection for his daughter's mother,
whispered, "you are nothing", tiger-like, frank
as cleopatra slept, forgetting the rotten.
JHS
and muttered "bon nuit", rum-laced, heart blank,
his poems written and unwritten and at last forgotten.
he lost them in wispy clouds of catalogue lovers,
in bathrooms and neon motels without thanks,
with carnivorous fervor unleashed in peruvian cotton.
and without affection for his daughter's mother,
whispered, "you are nothing", tiger-like, frank
as cleopatra slept, forgetting the rotten.
JHS
Friday, February 11, 2011
Jesserae
Jesserae
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
inevitably predicting the impossible
all night
with two french girls
and their gay escorts
forming a Nuvaring 'round ye
preventing my would-be assailing
of a most unlikely virginihood
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
I am too drunk to remember your name
moments after you tells me
So I forget. So I ask again
So I forget. I ask your friends.
So I forget. I ask my friends
to ask your friend
I am may be too drunk,
but your name is too dumb to remember
so my phone does it for me.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
I will siege your walls daily
with sexual trumpets
or by the minute
'til you hand over your self control
and the keys to your Peugeot
to me.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
Queen of the infinite gyro biscuit wheel
Dutchess of touches
Earlette of the lemon wedge
Saviour of the battle of the Dancefloor
take me to your industrial palace
of wrecked fantasy
and show me, O great nymph
your secular world.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
I want to put my hand on your ass
and squeeze your cheeks
not because I think you are attractive
but because I'm sure I am
in my warped haze
losing traction and detracted
but not attracted
to you, sweet Jesserae.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
mon petit chou
I will miss your cold eyes
made cold by eye shadow
and running mascara
and horrible accent
and the smell of one hundred armpits
waving in the wind.
PDM
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
inevitably predicting the impossible
all night
with two french girls
and their gay escorts
forming a Nuvaring 'round ye
preventing my would-be assailing
of a most unlikely virginihood
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
I am too drunk to remember your name
moments after you tells me
So I forget. So I ask again
So I forget. I ask your friends.
So I forget. I ask my friends
to ask your friend
I am may be too drunk,
but your name is too dumb to remember
so my phone does it for me.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
I will siege your walls daily
with sexual trumpets
or by the minute
'til you hand over your self control
and the keys to your Peugeot
to me.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
Queen of the infinite gyro biscuit wheel
Dutchess of touches
Earlette of the lemon wedge
Saviour of the battle of the Dancefloor
take me to your industrial palace
of wrecked fantasy
and show me, O great nymph
your secular world.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
I want to put my hand on your ass
and squeeze your cheeks
not because I think you are attractive
but because I'm sure I am
in my warped haze
losing traction and detracted
but not attracted
to you, sweet Jesserae.
Jesserae, O Jesserae:
mon petit chou
I will miss your cold eyes
made cold by eye shadow
and running mascara
and horrible accent
and the smell of one hundred armpits
waving in the wind.
PDM
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Move!
O!, move me,
Great Speakers.
Move me across the room
to where I oughtta be.
"moved by soundwaves
crashing on foreheads"
O!, destroy me,
Great bass-god
and rectifier of left turns
(and wrongs)
O!, caress my soundwave
with your soundwave
and promise
not to let up
'til I retire
Great Speakers.
Move me across the room
to where I oughtta be.
"moved by soundwaves
crashing on foreheads"
O!, destroy me,
Great bass-god
and rectifier of left turns
(and wrongs)
O!, caress my soundwave
with your soundwave
and promise
not to let up
'til I retire
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Poios-Sabe (Manger) [click to download]
eros, aeros
swim higher, allow devour.
Be that unattainable comfortness
Syncopate it -
Heterophonic phenomena shall emerge,
through the soul aperture of truth
- .
(∞)
swim higher, allow devour.
Be that unattainable comfortness
Syncopate it -
Heterophonic phenomena shall emerge,
through the soul aperture of truth
- .
(∞)
Friday, December 3, 2010
"thank you& now is not the time"
foul wasteland, nestled between my heaven & clocks
themselves speckled with old failures, thin metal veins;
back toward their blank abyss you beckon,
with old sevens to grandfather nascent plans.
heaving silence in momentous nothings,
back and forth between my heaven & clocks,
you sling a senseless sort of small remembrance
snatched from somewhere in the distance.
'neath one wispy strand of old times you stand,
siren, and the ticking and tocking never ceases.
it only drones onward, ever onward, grating on my heaven.
all the while old clocks march in line, keeping time.
JHS
themselves speckled with old failures, thin metal veins;
back toward their blank abyss you beckon,
with old sevens to grandfather nascent plans.
heaving silence in momentous nothings,
back and forth between my heaven & clocks,
you sling a senseless sort of small remembrance
snatched from somewhere in the distance.
'neath one wispy strand of old times you stand,
siren, and the ticking and tocking never ceases.
it only drones onward, ever onward, grating on my heaven.
all the while old clocks march in line, keeping time.
JHS
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