SWEATING IT OUT

RWP#113


SWEATING IT OUT

Welcome to our sauna
the home of many bums
there is plenty of room
to sit around naked
sweating in silence
discussing the facts of nothing
forgetting the lost days never found
and the dark nights of nowhere
without headaches or snapped minds
reading Huxley, Kerouac and Marx
watching the medieval tombstones
floating down the silvering creek
towards a tidal wave of water
where nuns and monks dance
and tiny fish swim
in a torquoise sea of light
where no one has invented ownership
or discovered hate
we sit silent with our breath
disolved in our space
sweating it out.

ROOM OF DREAMS

RWP#112....prompt..something inspired by wallpaper.....my bedroom as a kid.

ROOM OF DREAMS

It was a sanctuary

the walls were special

plastered with baseball cards

the whiz kids playing pepper

a catcher in the grass

the splendid splinter swinging his bat

where the real world was a diamond

my room of dreams

lying on my bed every night

staring, dreaming

at the bums of Flatbush roosting

Newk, Duke, Campy

Jackie dancing some jitterbug number

before stealing second base

always the centre of the diamond

my wall of dreams

with the moon sliding through the shades

staring at those cards

I became that gangling black kid from Mobile

Hank hammerin another out of the park

Willie making another basket catch

a kid from Spavinaw called Mick

doing it all

in my room of dreams

unable to pull up the covers or sleep

summer always in my bones

playing suburban stickball

where the season is forever

travelling with suitcase Simpson and Satchel

I became Minnie Minoso

and all those cards on the wall

my world of dreams.

TALKING TO THE CHAIR

RWP#111...inspired by this photo...credited to Milad Gheisari

TALKING TO THE CHAIR

Don't be afraid of me

I just escaped from Essondale

some vortex beyond city limits

a mental hospital

where they think everyone

has mood disorders

where nobody understands sanity

giving brain creasing operations

when I only wanted a sex change

experiencing moments

of my mothers sexuality

dipping downwards

to the lady of death

with a scar on my head

from the lobotomy of menopause

I was a lonely transexual

standing on a bed of thorns

playing a persian piano and bamboo flute

whirling, singing and sufi dancing

a colorful pastiche of gypsy sounds

taking me to some heightened state

looking for the spiritual genius of Buddha

reading Rumi and slurping words

from my bowl of ambrosia

expressing lost thoughts while crying

for the love of a lost mother

inspired by conspiracy theories

and last years nightmare

of the blind locust with a carving knife

when they captured me

taking me to some sanctuary of deprivation

where the wind doesn't blow

amongst the conversations

about squash and onions with no memories

constantly agitiated

jumping, dancing doing push ups

tangled up in delirium

preaching cheap propaganda

I refused to become a slave

of conventional ways of thinking

where ideas get lost in the universe of senses

battered graves with blind vision

and muscular ghosts of sanity

hanging from the burning fire escapes

with lost souls on three legs

wobbly, squeaky not broken

I took my axe to the bughouse square

walking out without my insanity

or black dress

I quickly stood still

putting up my hood to hide my face

to escape the ravages of my mind

and the shivers of terror

looking for the road to Vlychos

to play my flute

or maybe a taste of Bombay

I started the journey

towards the spiritual light of Buddha

and your silence that's not broken

don't be afraid of me.

PORT-au-PRINCE BURNING

RWP#110..not a transliteration. Port-au-Prince-Burning was inspired by four lines of a longer poem by Rainer Maria Rilke..that I translated. Poem tries to express feelings and pain for what has been done to Haiti and its people. Four lines I used are italicized in red.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange, Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blatter treiben.


whoever has no house now will never have one
whoever is alone will stay alone
sit,read, write long poems through the night.
and wander on the streets, up and down.
translated from Autumn Day by Rainier Maria Rilke



PORT-au-PRINCE BURNING

There is dye everywhere
the sharp air
of early afternoon
is now the color of blood
a once smooth monument
burned by the brittle sun
busted by the gods
with sunset appearing like a thief
for children, daylight has gone
whoever has no house now will never have one.

Around fires everyone sings
a good time in the worst of time.
brocaded windows crushed
it is safer on the street
the other world is a basket full of bread
ours a cup of stone
cooked by the summer sun
some dead or nearly dead
everything a broken bone
whoever is alone will stay alone.

Nothing left nothing but us
nothing to eat nowhere to sleep
just a crushed kettle boiling dry
crushed windows crushed doors
hiding the dog on the wrong side of the street
wherever she hides
with her scruff and braided tail
avoiding the face of fire
she barks at us
sit, read, write long poems through the night.

Even though there is nothing, no basket
the cool ocean stained air
is reserved for those sipping through a straw
that sing to their gods
dancing around their cups of stone
celebrating the brocaded windows
with those smooth monuments of satin
covering the pale-covered pebbles
burning the basket of fool's gold
and wander on the streets, up and down.

WALKING THE RIO PECOS

RWP#109 using some of the words (in BOLD)

WALKING THE RIO PECOS

Walking along the Rio Pecos

with some shaman poet

our bodies reverbrating

to the drummed earth below

enthusiasts for the words of truth

unknown pagans asking questions

from the ghost riders

and the black shouldered ravens

that fly in the energy washed skies

moving to the mysteries

of the fertile celestial world

with the guilded monuments of marble

and simple stones

gargling froth from our lungs

corrupted with mescaline

drunk on water and sundered hearts

searching for chaos of the mind

from some Krishna volcano

that surrendered open

listening to buddhist monks

playing jazz with Coltrane

under sundered skies of the Mescalero

walking

walking

along the Rio Pecos.

SPIRITUAL MYSTERY

RWP#108

SPIRITUAL MYSTERY

cold winter morning

crunching snowshoes in mountain air

begging for sunshine and new words

at high noon

or some midnight dance

with the naked trees that shiver

surrounded by the silent mountains

and three black ravens overhead

chasing the parting clouds

and some lost poem

burried beneath the quilt we walk on

protruding from some dark coffin

the lost sylabbles remain

waiting for the sunlight

as the words of a dead poet

announces the resurecction of a poem

another spiritual mystery.

RWP#107...inspired from this photo "shotgun blast" by Shane Gorski

SHOOTING GALLERY

There was no light

only darkness and tattooed graffito

in the shadows of the dark horse

shooting junk

in the empty church loft

above the back alley of filth

below the street of lost hope

lossing their minds

and collapsed veins

a place to fix

with hollow sounds and silent shots

the mistress of of burnt spoons and dirty needles

took them to the pusher of death

Ken the keeper saw a glow

and remained

knowing that darkness comes before the light

he weathered the storm

of junk and dirty needles

when the ghost of himself appeared

on a tightrope of broken eggshells

and led him to the light

beyond the shadow of who he once was

emerging into the light

like a phoenix

his soul rose from the ashes

awakened with clarity

he made this his home

the shooting gallery of light.