Author: greenriver

8.1.12 Afternoon

standard rain drops plummet down

the old caress of concrete

embedded in memory

(there is a fire in a park outside the city beneath the bench in the soil)

something emblazoned across the mind,

like a scar buried under legal bound

photocopies

(we fell in love in that flame within the camera you stole)

Coming home

in some way

Movement (Spring)

the heart is torn open

indigo bunting and swallows

tatter the bleeding sky.

shade, slow enveloping;

earth at my feet;

it is winter.

the road is glistening with snow

two days old, stretching out.

I wait by the screen door

drowning memory impatiently

with toes across the carpet.

Crickets gestate in the early dawn,

attending summer.

Music

In the grand scheme of things it is most important to make noise thats what we do  get to come home and scream we make noise noise screaming we make in the glistening grandscheme of things we make noise if you don’t like the noise you make change the noise you are making bleeding spiraling thinking spinning witchcraft noise we are making in the innocent noise of noise

we

begin

to

comprehend

what

those before

have

said

Behold the Majestic Tranquility

Follow the heart beat

learn the movement

the blood taste pulsating

live life

be life

stand. Stand Up

heaven touching earth

fingertips praying;

the space between.

We Are

We Are

WE ARE

baby born reciprocal

stand up

we are

born reciprical: peering into ourselves through epiphany, stardust, the balancd

spiralic planes dancing concentric:balancing light: balancing shade

Behold, Behold the majestic,

majestic tranquility

majestic

of yourself

tranquility

behold

tranquility majestic within

within behold

behold, the majestic tranquility

of of OF

BEHOLD

the majestic tranquility of yourself

the following is rated R

I and the dreams begin,  haphazardly like ramshackle Japanese makeshift cartoon door frames shuttering against each other in the wind of moths.

she awakes, open eyes and breathing like the rain adorning her horns of ivory, lake mountains and cast iron memories. To each their own.

and then the sunrise appears and with it the remembrance; bones pecking at the desert ceiling; holding on to the sand with crab-shell scuttle, the basement of contrition, opening, revealing, pressing onward, boats drifting back again.

she steps out of her oatmeal linen sheets in the morning sun like a melody from childhood and the grass burnt with sun of the newborn. she is light everywhere.

Movement (Autumn)

1. Autumn, and with it the dead fruit bloody with the life of yesterday, spilled over, awake through the leaves, the apples, the fallen piecemeal, people strolling through the yellow memories of childhood; sepia toned against the decayed umber shadows in their complacency. The raw earth, through tones of yellow, red and bone harvest speaks of flesh and the closing rhythm of the sun; staccato of the moon. The air pleads for ice.

2. The young man stands on street corner concrete dreams coercing the pale earth of his heart; aquamarine desert at sunrise. The scabs of the city writhe, scrape by with the blaring of car horn, muffler spoke and wheel; everyone moving. The moon and the ancestral star stare down wide-eyed over the neon emblazoned night; his heart is weeping, peeled back, horn shredded his own hands owning the scraping tool. Concrete dreams covering the pale earth of his heart; ocean over the desert at sunrise.

Art Opening

poems derived from watching the folks at an art opening. could be art or just a shameless excuse for judging and watching people.

1.

two men finely dressed

for each other take their time

stepping past photos of middle america.

on the wall hangs a photo of a man

with no front teeth . his daughter

wipes her eyes in the doorframe of a trailer.

the two men move away considering each other.

their coattails dripping rain water across the floor.

2.

two lovers stand facing away from the walls.

they bicker gently over which room

to enter first. she is much prettier than him.

he must have a heart of gold or pockets lined with it.

there is no other way she could love him, not with all that

bickering.

someone has just farted wearing 200 dollar

cowboy boots in portland.

3.

Every man in this town wears grey.

the women flirt with their eye glasses

like old maid librarians cooking

single meals in single pans

late at night waiting for the phone to ring.

Baltimore.

Not really sure where this piece came from. The title was prompted by one of my friend’s sisters. It kind of grew from there. Hopefully it will continue to grow. Hopefully, you enjoy it.

Baltimore. The sun comes down through the empty raindrops, through the leaves on the main street as the soft cries of children arise up to meet it. Outside the birds’ chirping signals the beginning of a new day. The siren song of the coffee pot down stairs begins its revelry with the sound of erupting steam. My wife has already been up for three hours. Baltimore. Everyday this monotony continues. My blonde wife chortles with laughter as our French bulldog licks her face. The children scream with hilarity, their laughter rippling off the walls in primary colors. The wall-paper shudders beneath it as I do.

I am not of this world; Baltimore. I remember that today is Tuesday.

Tuesday is the day of ties. I work in the research and productions department of a retail clothing store. I research the latest trends among white middle class teens and compare them to the latest trends in Japan. Japan dictates all of our professional decisions. My name is Murphy. I’ve changed it three times now. But, I believe Murphy will stick. Anyway, back to Japan. The teenie boppers of Japan are 5 to 6 years ahead of American teenie boppers. As a result, studying the latest trends of Japan gives our research and development team a heads up on the competition. We must stay ahead of the competition. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. Frank, shit, that used to be one of my other names. Of course, I had to change that one as well. Luckily though, I have never had to change my job.

There is within the course of one’s day an underlying structure of events that dictates the gravity and perhaps, though I have not yet convinced myself of this completely, the meaning of one’s life. My life is shit quite frankly. Frank, shit, that used to be one of my other names. I am, and always have been, completely conscious of this structure within my life. And have worked to keep this structure, as it may be, defining my life as shit, quite frankly. I do enjoy a good shit especially on Friday. Today is not Friday. It is Tuesday.  I will wear the yellow tie. I always wear the yellow tie on Tuesday. It defines my life as shit as it is a part of the underlying structure of my life that I have worked so hard to maintain all these years. Baltimore.

To a Woman You Scarcely Know

Tell her of sunshine always

tell her of how you rushed to find the words

and put the book back on the shelf

and the vicious sanctimony that arose in that moment forever

darkened the shadows of yourself against the emblazoned tomb of the world

Tell her of sunshine and

the juxtaposition of those intrepid words will incite the violence of love within her.

tell her of sunshine

and she will hear within it the sorrowful moans of those in airplanes overhead

begging in silence to the stewardess for water.

tell her of the cracked pebbles beneath the shadows of crows overlooking the stoplights and of the those with the tongues blackened with the questions of tomorrow

tell her of sunshine