Clash

 “This is not a time to be dismayed, this is punk rock time. This is what Joe Strummer trained you for.” Henry Rollins

the little koan, placed 

strategically for a moment’s foot fall

a crumbling brick to polish, a hand

clapping in a forest of downed trees 

that no one heard, dig your heels

in the puzzle of a rice paper barrack

you can’t stay here, just charge  

your eyes for a few thoughts

then rage on, the rage your

mother’s egg knew, the rage

of your face before your parents

were born, the rage circles 

the revolution drain

the mystery rages on

like the mosquito 

that bit Jesus, the blood

buzzing amok, everlasting, breaking 

rocks in the hot sun / I fought the law 

and the law won, rage, chew 

through the chains, think not 

that I am come to destroy the law 

or the prophets: I am not come to 

destroy, but to fulfil, at least for now

until all Buddhas are destroyed

and new koans emerge: a bullet

flying through the drywall 

screams for justice, but no one 

heard it, did it scream or collapse

like a lung

only Joe Strummer knows

your next step

_______________

Weekly Scribblings #38: A Helping String

dVerse poets: MTB Protest Poetry

Mechanics

tucked away, in the labyrinthine
canals of the brain, a hat inside

a veritable garden of plentiful strange
the meep gaw of a scared swan skips
and longs for the one touch

you are afraid to give, spending long days
on greasy differentials, an oily Miller Lite

trucker cap to mask the receding hairline a cuss and shove because the brake line
erupted, you are not her

the scars of threaded cuts does not render
your smooth touch, not one fit for the swan

what is to be done with the crumbled
hat inside, are you man enough

to take it out, to wield the torque wrench
like a wand, in the crush

of that velvet hat
you are the fairy, you are

the best girl to comfort
a shivering swan

______________________

dVerse ~ Poets Pub: Let Your Words Be Your Paintbrush!

Image by Catrin Welz-Stein

Vocalization Perchance Mammal

being gone, the human art 

of the guitar inside gone quiet

a deep summertime carol fading

off some brackish beach, the poverty

of legs wrapping up a dance, bending

taking you down, just enough fade

to pluck the string of enemy death, but

before you punch the last card, sweetheart

say quintessential bridal lizard, let the combination

pour over your teeth, hear the first caveborn syllable

obliterate the prophylactic bubble 

of sound and sense, take a bow and drown

typical candle predator spurreth, metropolitan

cartoon cemetery, population cough prey

let it go, what incantations 

in a last gasp, grabbing words, pushing them

together, making an infamous tongue constellation

making a wave that floats on long after the collapse

______________________________________

Weekly Scribblings #37: Last Messages

Listen

 with injured eyes, I read 

your unreadable mouth, jealous

of the mug’s careless Ruby 

Citrus lipstick smear, phone

intimate against your

ear, eavesdropping...not really 

just occupying

a common ground, being first person 

omniscient, inserting

the words I dare 

knowing where 

the conversation goes

Sky Harbor Lifting

the phoenix, that feather-punk 

clockwork of a bird, doesn’t rise 

from ashes, it rises from meat 

it’s a thousand-year spit roast 

dripping fat like disappearing stars 

irrigating the riverbed of immortality

its bones fashion a worn-rib bridge

for a parade of springtime myths

the flock of charred tribes warm

their knuckles in its steam

stirring in the warm roost, matter is not 

destroyed, but constantly changing outfits 

getting a nip and tuck in an open arterial system 

to be born again, powering up the simian tendons

a fire crests at 6 a.m., ready to burn, pumping caloric

output, that phoenix burns again

stitching a hint of rain 

to the next fiery apocalypse

_______________________

Weekly Scribblings #36: “a phoenix first must burn”

E-Prime

 

I cannot say I am 

or any conjugation

of to be, so I say 

a withered archer draws 

his bow, sets his sites 

on a child camouflaged 

in a gray beard, he lowers

his arm and lifts his finger

—only a cold hair’s distance 

between the pointing

and the object—you little shit

thunder will erupt in your brow

you will twist in exile, get vulgar

and hard, after you bury your son

you will try to say he is or he will be

but presence and possibility

seizes your throat, wrings

you so goddam dry you have no

choice but to storm the gateway

crash the fence, throw yourself 

on the salty mound, laugh and say  

that is me, there I am

________________________

dVerse: Come and take a selfie!

Anniversary

your body, a distant horizon 

revealed its form upon closer inspection

gladly, I have trekked those scrapes 

surveyed the erosion and shifting surface

the tarns, creeks, and scars

so familiar they are almost my own

even in sleep, I hear your muscles foxing 

over the timber, your pattering

rhythm and creaking floorboards 

I still hold room for the hidden and untouched 

paws and hums in my imagination, such a soft 

morning opera opening above 

us, two thirsty kestrels 

circling and diving 

like curious fingers 

tracing a heaving cloud

pregnant with mist

tomorrow, we will bake in the heat

of a quarter century, two wild 

and unfinished maps

overlaid for so long

our distinct features

superimpose to create 

this fantastic moment 

under a canopy of honeyed light 

speaking in tongues, pressed

against each other, engraved

in a brittle, silver leaf, waiting 

our final engraving 

in that strange terrain

Archaeology of Rest

a shard of pottery

sits in stillness

weathered, smooth

carbon burns speak

of its utility

once

after the tumult 

of kiln and corn

this is what 

the artifact knows

that it's not enough

to quietly negotiate

a patch of dirt

in a calm before the storm

but to navigate the calmness

while the storms hurl 

their tempers off the cliff

the lost antlers are agitated

reminiscing their rutting days

as bone-mounted swords

the way rusty ploughshares

weep their rust in soft rains 

remembering old glories 

of battled blood

lost antlers would be better

served by observing the 

silent polygon of discarded clay

who has let it all go 

and sets an example 

of the patient art of discovery

_______________________

Weekly Scribblings #35: The Joy of Rest