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Exit Wound

Protasis

Forensic ruin seeped into my life
Through the doorway to my future
No one was on guard
At the arrival of the dangerous ones
Some were close at hand
Others I never knew would come
Wedging the gate

Tragedy requires back story
A lifetime of striving
By sixteen I was
Working eighty hour weeks
Food service pays in varicose veins
And suicidal ideation
Even in the young
By eighteen I was broken
Poverty lay culpable

Years of struggle and abandonment
That words merely cheapen
Sisyphus my companion
Days blurred by petty change
Nights running down concrete corridors
Out the backdoor of the American mall
Into empty parking lots
Trying to see in the dark

Epitasis

Two years of saving
Promotions, evaluations, and initiations
Got me to the promise
Of higher education
A private school
Where students really mattered
My professors were my peers
The precious, spoiled kids
Their well pressed lives
Well, I didn’t fit in

My senior thesis in college
Liquid nitrogen flash freezing green buds
The mortal and pestle grinding
Separating into its elemental parts
Strands of Deoxyribonucleic Acid
Sent through gel electrophoresis to find
Random Amplified Polymorphic DNA Markers
Refining, comparing, determining genetic relatedness
A taste of things to come
It was a year of upheaval
A year of final tests

Joy ambushed me with an engagement
To the man across the hall
He created space,
Showed up with love
Grateful, besotted, and delirious
I allowed myself to imagine
White dress, black gown
Two rites of passage united
Emanating hope

Our congregation of families darkened
By dysfunction, divorce and illness
Friends devoured themselves
And one another
A poisonous spider struck leaving
Necrotic spots
These were our wedding gifts

We planned to graduate,
Get married, launch careers
Create a home from scraps
Broken but our own
A garden growing out of burnt earth
All these naïve shoots
Were overshadowed
By the advent of murder

Weeks of accusations,
Of horrors and of blood
Stained brown in time
A young woman’s life
Obliterated by greed
Her destiny slaughtered
For only nine hundred dollars
Her legacy so shattered
I can’t even remember her name

We were awfully estranged
No one could be together amidst
Celebration, mourning, and fighting
While the killer fled the nation
Bullet pierced her brow
Eradicating her last thought

Justice demanded a trial
Prejudice tore at the jury
Three days we deliberated, hung,
Through the apathy of one,
In the end the juror
Didn’t want to choose
She caved to watch her soaps
Judgment rendered a life sentence

Catastrophe

Juxtapositions that made no sense
Death/new life; union/dissolution
All chaos conspired
A close range shot
Titrating stress hormones
Each moment hard won

The surreal landscape expanded
Our honeymoon a gift
Spent on a hurricane ravaged
Caribbean island all the time
Knowing we were ruined
Never wanting to leave the
Destroyed place
We felt at home, the aftershock

A breath away from homelessness
With the monsters closing in
We fought each other
Vitriolic words
Directed at the sky

These things I never thought I’d learn
Exposed in graphic detail
The intensity of familial
And societal agony
Writ large
Shrapnel blown into me

The entrance wound looked clean
There was so little blood
It was the exit wound, the obscured one,
That proved the true disaster
Forensic ruin seeped into my life
Through that tiny hole, a portal to my future

Round Numinous Volumes

Photo credit: Neil Alexander

Round Numinous Volumes MP3 (click here to hear poem read)

Satiated pearls ancient upended aluminum cream fastened
to glacial time charting momentary courses thumping hot fuchsia
angles wet sliding grinding mash under hazel skies on atrocities
pouring chai down steppes white irises popping cliff faces sharp
anemones blinding concrete seascapes of kettles steaming oranges
round numinous volumes peddle carrion waters with jellied crevices
transmogrified fossils lie hounding chained gates while mustard powder
gleams on clay surfaces pounded stardust howling water falls linen
canvases to battery charged ants luminescent filigreed dampers climbing
rice fields under cumulous chatter hiding half-life elements unwinding

Sense impressions intermingled
With a coruscant intellect
Create vivid imaginings – connectedness

A thousand flashes of memory
Rest stops, fragments of homes
The smell of mountains
I cede these visages
Imagery sung by loquacious tongues

In the shadowed corners
All the fears, debts, atrocities are piled up
There’s no escape from responsibility
We’re all complicit, culpable

Our wellspring of shame
Familial bonds and human failings
Mythologies reveal the hidden dangers
Of archetypal activism as we lose ourselves in
Over-identification, righteousness, or doubt

Each moment of conjunction
Reciprocity – when my embodied self
Ameliorated the suffering of another
Or my own is a gift
This rare moment of communion

Intertwining insights
Deeply held convictions
Passions of the mind
Emotive effusions of art
Papered meanings
Visual striving, resolution
Melodic companions
I weep, overwhelmed by sheer beauty

These offerings, sacrifices pointing toward
Divine grace and awe
Genuflections and contrition
All lead to promises of an immortal soul

“If they’re so holy,
where are their books?” *
She said
biting and frustrated
after too much coffee
Wrestling with the perfect sentence on an empty stomach

I say, dogs don’t have books because
They don’t need time and space
To separate them from experience
To manipulate their emotions
Feed their addictions

We’re caught up in yesterday
or a string of tomorrows –
Avoiding our psychology
sublimating our desires
curbing our impulses

“Moralistic” animals
Live, sleep, feel, act
Without the labyrinthine intellect
the tangled threads of suffering.
In the here and now

They have little call for nostalgic recollection
But to live life anew
Each morning is cause for celebration
Each breath a blessing

Only we have fallen
Requiring crutches to walk in this world

Now she says, “we shouldn’t feed
moralistic poets!”

Never fear, we cannot earn our bread.

* From The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/2011/07/poetry-potluck-week-43-life-in-free.html

Lamp Bearer

Lamp bearer, have you been ahead
into the recesses of the night?
Have you seen beyond the veil?

Your vision of our imploding star
inescapable causality in an infinite universe
share it with me so I may
rehearse loss, practice terror

I want to feel the anguish
to savor it, anticipating
an inoculation against the flood
of unbearable and horrific scenes

About the pain –
you must burn me
a bit with your lantern
here in the night so sparing me
consumption by fire in the coming encounter

Stay close, but always in front
I pray for you to feel before me
relay your scarred wisdom
that I may walk under the illusion
of seeing the encroaching void

Help me feign naïveté
to believe I’m never alone
not truly alone
within the small circumscribing glow
of your beacon
a shadow but breathing just the same.

Variegated

Eternity imprinted in the spiraling twist
Heritage of pain and love
Your unique expression
Dark flowers in winter

Half glimpsed illuminations
Survivor of the crucible
Soul polished by hard rock

The patterns the same
Look closely
Deep into the variegated petals
The glory of its art revealed

Yes, mother, I will seek to understand
You have given me sight-
Breath-
A living heart…

Liminal Spaces

Crossing the threshold
Between dream and reality
A hypnopompic state
Orienting to a more stable country
Yet still present to resonant images
Of the internal space

The artist is a liminal being
Caught between the muse and a self
Venturing out even in daylight
An avatar in a virtual world
Disoriented by its double life

Artists require apotropaic magic
To make it back intact
Whole and capable of translation
Dangers faced by mystics,
Long lost in ecstasies –
A logorrheic tongue
The dreamer never wakes

Phantom Rendezvous

We set a time and place
Compass points in
an unending universe

It seems an easy thing
Finding you
Finding anything

The key is to be specific
Terra Firma
Objects in space
An embodied individual

But perception tilts,
The round world spins
What if string theory is only a beginning?

The shifting known
The ever present unknown

I believe in this future
One event after another
To keep a fragile mind fixed somewhere

They tell me there is no central intelligence
No consciousness observing,
overseeing the multifaceted psyche

No woman in the theater of the mind
Watching the movie of my life

So limited by my senses –
On second thought, it may be a miracle to meet you
On any road, anywhere, at any time

If I rejoice you’ll forgive me
These simple, containable plans
Go marching into the wild
To the deepest unknowns.

Protostellar Phase

We were standing in the
San Francisco Museum of Modern Art
Here are painters who want to communicate
They show up on their canvases
Emotive, sensual, engaging,
Pouring over the edges with ideas

They are Hydrogen, capable
Of the complex chain of reactions
Required to fuel a galaxy
Rauschenberg, Mitchell, de Kooning
All Hydrogen molecules
Dancing, spinning, arguing
Contrasting the inert gasses across the hall
Nonreactive as Krypton,
From kryptos, “the hidden one”

It is actually a skill,
This art of invitation
Creating works capable of fusion
Viewer, artist, and painting,
Conspiring toward explosions
A dangerous, naked,
And frightening proposition
Can you blame the countless artists,
Hiding behind flat surfaces,
Incapable of combustion,
Unable to make the invitation?