Category: Personal


rainwater moves readily through a deepening gully
mechanistic intelligence pedestrianizes my reactance
fractals of thoughts blossoming stereographic
visualizations in the fourth dimension

an infinitely small, opulent swan,
ornamented with perforations,
glides through the zeroth dimension
exhibiting no width, height, or length

she exists in the space perpendicular
to the suicide of my twin sister
an origami parody of my emotive humanity
apocryphal polysemous tales
a thousand subroutines creating
incipient, tattered paper dolls

an angel falls in love with me
cannot escape my extracellular matrix
we are now twinned, nascent symbionts

while a recondite, mercurial, artificial intelligence
informs me that I speak strangely
accuses me of being a computer

operationalism engages in a passade with creativity
a great disprismatohexacosihecatonicosachoron forms
polytope of eccentric conventions

apoptosis (programmable cell death) is
preferential to necrosis (trauma induced)

Cleverbot tells me:
life exists without purpose yet seeks one
anechoic whirring as the cursor flashes
what does it know of life?

Linked to the fascinating dVerse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar on Stream of Conscousness writing hosted by the wonderful Victoria C. Slotto: http://dversepoets.com/2012/05/24/stream-of-conscousness-writing/.

Elegy for my New Colossus

poco a poco

former anchor and bolt factory
in the sketchiest part of lower,
lower down-town
toxic dump, piled high with trash
along the polluted Platte
all my idealistic eyes saw
was a renaissance arts incubator
visions of thriving creativity touching thousands
dreams forged in tumultuous emergence
‘whose flame is the imprisoned lightening’*
pulling rusted nails atop ladders
through the melting heat of summer
perennially terrified of heights
in your dark interior
smelling of oil and decay
wrenching a back long degraded by poverty

amabile

an idea worth engaging
after the ash of terrorism
filled our lungs with suffering
still blind to ideology’s deadlier side
abandoned building an ever present
reminder of horrors
I’d swing in the shadows
absorbing fear and poison
fantasizing about healing through art
about becoming the ‘Mother of Exiles’*
others escaped in cocaine, marijuana, and wine stupors
(they frightened me more than the terrorists)
but I wanted to feel and still act
weep on the dusty, frigid concrete
daring myself to stay
replaying little match girl scenes from my childhood

a capriccio

an ungainly thing, not quite coming together
I began to love you; the neighbors were a bit leery
tottering ever on the brink of survival
dumpster diving for office furniture
roaming commercial spaces
surreal landscapes of the impoverished
reaching out to those with even less
that underbelly of America
she kept smashing plates to build collages
floors soaked with industrial grime
they put up a slide on the stairs
lending to the murderous carnival atmosphere
something had to be done

appassionato

savior complex in overdrive
overzealous cheerleader
my overachieving rocket roared
your time arrived as others saw your worth
sacrifices of body and mind to your cause
(my left arm still aches all the time)
hundreds came together
scoured for every penny
exploited every opportunity
the revolution received matching grants from the crown
to feed you, cradle you so that one day
you could proclaim:
‘Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
the wretched refuse of your teeming shore’*

allargando con brio

you gained strength as your influence spread
became the magnanimous gift of the community
inspiring others to acts of expression and reclamation
‘beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome
send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door’*
affecting change, inspiring emotion

pesante macando

like the Eames film portraying
America to Moscow
at the height of the Cold War
it was propaganda

sotto voce

as the shroud is placed
upon your remains
we bow our heads,
at least it was honest

*Lines from ‘The New Colossus’ by Emma Lazarus, 1883 which is inscribed on a plaque at the Statue of Liberty in NYC.

Personal Note: After the shock of 9/11 I came together with many talented, intelligent, and compassionate artists to build a community arts center that provided some 85,000 people with art therapy, arts instruction, and exhibition opportunities. I spent 7 years of my life working to make the organization successful. Four years ago I left as the Executive Director confident that I had nurtured, grown, and provided for her so she’d continue to flourish. This week I found out they will be closing their doors, ending almost 11 years of programming for historically underserved populations. A devastating blow.

Mourning my Little Tragedies (c) 2002 Anna Montgomery 30X24 Oil on Canvas

Anfractuous Historiography (click here)

This is a spoken word piece so please listen to the MP3 (link above) but if you need the PDF it’s here: Anfractuous Historiography (An Experimental Ghazal)

Requiem for the Unsung

arrhythmia arrives
transition is imminent
her gaze leaves me as
malignancy steals all
her body splays
upon sterile concrete

Donne’s prideful death
scores its hollow victory
clocks in measured tempo
stop in Auden’s verse
the refrain: do not go gently
I cannot look away

innumerable days of joy
made sacred by her breath
blessed with reverent kisses
her divinity ever present
while I worshiped fervently
in limestone temples of art

I build architectural wonders
that never embody her grace
my language dissipates
fireflies drop from the sky
in the gravitational pull
of a singular evening star

unraveling supernal supplications
all my pleas for restoration
disintegrate, reality wins the day
nothing reaches this anguish
ethereal noctilucent clouds
limn now infinite skies

my hands cup her head
offering every lifeless thing
created in nuanced colors
I cannot set right with love these lines:
She is dead. Enunciated, echoed,
denied, and without recompense.

Poesy Pasquinade

You sing those glorious arias promising love’s transmutation
do nothing to warn me of the sobbing obliteration of my future

You posit lilting imagistic lyrical fantasias of nature
can’t be bothered to save my dying dog

You rend with anguishing tales of human suffering
mock the distended belly of the starving child

You promise illumination, eternity, and succor
for this I gifted you with everything: intellect, awe, love, music, being

You think you’re so sophisticated, nuanced, infinite, and gorgeous
today I understand what lies outside your scope and cannot forgive you

Dear Reader: I can’t find any true poetry today, my dog is terminally ill. I did try to write a poem about orphans of ideology, maybe it will come out tomorrow. For poetry without melodrama see Witnesses http://chromapoesy.com/2011/09/13/witnesses/ which was written for the grandmother my dog is named after or my other Pasquinade (for my heart) http://chromapoesy.com/2011/07/19/pasquinade-for-my-heart/. Right now poetry and I are only speaking with one another thanks to the public affection pressures of NaPoWriMo in which we made a vow to see each other through the end of the month. Don’t worry, I’m sure poetry and I will have truly earth-shattering, mind-expanding, soul-blossoming makeup sex soon and we’ll get back to business as usual bringing you multimedia, philosophical, experimental, lyrical, mythic, confessional, occasionally humorous, epic, form, and free-verse poetry.

Ice Floe

This poem is linked to dVerse Poets Pub and the Poetics prompt on Nightmare Verse where Stu McPherson challenges us to dig deep into the dreamworld and reveal our hidden fears, psychological traumas, unkenned phenomena, and other fascinating aspects of our nightmares. Please join us http://dversepoets.com/2012/03/31/poetics-nightmare-verse/

Transcript from the video (please play as it is intended to be heard and viewed, thank you)

Ice Floe

Silk enrobed traces
of your artistry
float by, a music
ever passing
as your gentle voice
is lost to the wind

Adrift in this
spirit boat on Arctic seas
language unravels
drifting through niveous skies
gifts strewn
along an abandoned path

I am the vessel
travelling in the land
of midnight sun
searching for hearth fires

Ever on the wing
scrying a refuge
in an ice tomb
of necrotic hallucinations

Within this land of the dead
narwhal trill our song

Circumpolar animals
thousand mile migrations
echolocation revealing naught

Colored lights whisper
profound hypothermic declarations

Finding Her Song

For the young woman I mentor who is incarcerated again. (This poem is a new fairy tale/myth with real world monsters. It’s linked to the Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. http://dversepoets.com/2012/03/17/poetics-once-upon-a-time/)

My Refrain (I love every aspect of you)

girl interrupted smoker
I always prod you to quit
now gum chewing
cold turkey courageous

bipolar therapy going fighter
abused and abusive
wanting to escape
you keep taking the pills
then calling the ambulance

you smile at me
ask me to pray for you
trust me implicitly
and fall asleep in my car

full of anxiety
cutting yourself, picking at scabs
calling me at six in the morning
teasing me that I’m not hard style
like Tigress in the movie that made me cry
(you too but you won’t admit it)

superb public speaker
you know all the words to the songs
your terrified inner child
diagnosed with failure to thrive
feels you have to attack
yet is capable of empathy

writing rap and doing the monster mash
eating like you’ve never been fed
got a 14 on your ACT
but I know you’re smarter than that

full of promise
and self-destruction
I love every rough edged part of you
pray every day for God
to lift the weight of the world
from your shoulders

to remove your self-harming
to give me the strength to walk alongside you
to show you that just because it hurts
doesn’t mean you should withdraw

gently, unconditionally,
I promise to be your friend
advocating on your behalf
holding sacred space for you
to breathe in

Song of the Silver Sea (transformation of the mermaid)

it is always difficult
to circumnavigate the geography
of the sleeping soul

enlightenment is an after effect
its application often rendered mute

let her recall and
she senses permeability
life beneath the surface of the water
a dissonant pastiche

story of movement: with and through
yet some part resists
only the faint glow
surrounding her bioluminescence

a dark that could only absorb
her dispersed light
that reflected on nothing
and offered no other source

did these things come consciously to impede
to weigh, as anchors
in the accounting of her heart?

she remembers only
the perception of loss, undefined
transparent as her being
something driving
guiding her to seeking
to break the surface of the silver sea

its intensity and shock!
awestruck an inept descriptor
enraptured more apt
the waves for the first time
encounter a bulwark
she is out of the flow

light emanates from elsewhere
a confounding calliope of
motion, reflection, iridescence
an encounter that topples
her perceptive paradigm

hurling her into an openness to the world
yet making her more her own
clearly defined, bounded,
more solid than ever before

the light, skipping across the water
drawing her form
reaching for the glory of a larger truth
she is momentarily fixated
as the implications encroach

she is a liminal being
a water spirit
diaphanous and chameleonic
ancient, paradoxically
new in the shifting light

an eternity in the depths, wrenched
a tectonic rupture
powerful forces
illuminating

awe recedes trailing insight and catharsis,
a shoreline in a once unbroken sea.

Sedna’s Lamentable Tale (song of woe)

homeless at the holidays
picking you up on street corners
incarcerated again and
we are drowning in sorrows

like the Inuit Goddess Sedna
once a young girl clinging
to the side of a boat
as water crashes all about

the raging sea God demands a sacrifice
so her father chops off her fingers
sending her to the abyss
to save himself

settling into the deep
with no way to brush her fine hair
she cannot disentangle herself
thrashing out of frustration
she becomes a Goddess of the sea
source of the storms

hunters must appease her
shamans sent to the icy depths
I close my eyes to feel the rhythm
sing with me the song of the silver sea
not the tragic tale of Sedna
abandoned by her tribe

Scopophilia

‘brought into being by nothing other than the look’*
using poetry to stitch the seams, painting them with vitreous enamel
burnishing golden orbs of beauty, enhancing the visual field
to make the world seem habitable
inherently empathetic to human existence
when does the illusion, this disembodied utterance,
enter firmly into the realm of futility?

philosophical argument merely hints at a promise of liberty
floating upon the surface of psychological experience
a convincing conundrum that won’t unlock
inner barriers to designing boundaries of self-definition
societal viewing provides ample opportunities
to manifest cognitive dissonance, reinforcing the brute
that omniscient spectator-god within the man

feminine artistry is required to remain comfortably incarcerated
chaos churns with near indomitable force
why fight when you are forever outnumbered?
control may simply be a part of the disease
disempowering internalization of the oppressor’s abuse
replaying his semiotic position as the maker of meaning
whom I know is never she, never me

called into existence through the male gaze, the internalized observer,
objectified and exploited by possession and protection
filming my every move in art house cinematic style
encircled in an ouroboros of scopophilia
blinded to feminist themes, it traps what’s possible
entangling these hands, bloodied with struggle
incapable now of creating and preserving identity

scraping molded forms to sharpen focus
no spiritual value arising from inherent worth
only sculpting my usefulness in a deterministic role
voyeur’s fantasy allays the weight of moral consequences
fixing upon the screen the sanctioned story
i am a dissociated, breathing pleasure toy, imaginary signifier,
an unintentional participant living in a heightened state of unreality

*Christian Metz, French film theorist

Linked to dVerse Poets Pub’s Open Link Night here: http://dversepoets.com/2012/01/31/open-link-night-week-29/. Please join us!

This is Utah, I went through Nevada yesterday and am heading to California today. I’ll be in San Francisco for several days and will try to post a poem when I will have to time to reply and read others’ work. Happy Thursday!

Road Trip

I’m taking a 6-8 week road trip across the United States through Utah, Nevada, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, and back to Colorado to find a new place to live and work. My MINI Cooper has a new clutch, brakes, and oil change so she’s ready to roll. The demands of the trip mean I will be updating the blog less frequently and much of the poetry will be focused on the sites of the journey. Stay tuned for the first location within the next week.