Posted on by EAT

The Terrible Truth

I have been marginally involved (as in marginalized) with the poetry scene in the Mendocino County area since about 2000. It’s strange how self-proclaimed anti-elitists tend to form their own little elitist circles. And their only bragging rights, really, are that they had enough money to be able to self-publish through a vanity press. Wow. Hmm. How impressive.

Several members of the anti-elitist circle of elites here in the area have tried to pin me to a particular school or discipline, which I’ve felt ambivalent about. On the one hand, this indicates that they’re at least aware of me and perhaps even respect some of my efforts. On the other hand this illustrates that they see my work as beneath theirs because it does not conform to their idea of what poetry should be.

Ah well. Reflecting on all this recently sparked this small write.

The Terrible Truth

Try not to confuse me
   with the Formalist
       the Classicist
           the Structuralist
               the Neo-something

                       I am merely an explorer
                   a piece of yourself left
               beneath the rain-soaked coals
           of a distant childhood
       campfire

Posted on by EAT

Father

I found myself writing this after dreaming about an encounter with my father’s ghost, I spent that day reflecting on his suicide—when I was ten—and its far reaching impact on my life.

Father

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.
Posted on by EAT

To the Postmodernist

To my mind, postmodernism represents, above all, the birth of modern mediocrity, especially with regard to poetry. It has its points of interest, which I take and use in my own way and for my own purposes; but the rest I happily leave.

To the Postmodernist

your hands wave
       in a sea of swaying hands
   through cold dark waters
       kelp shifting under swells
lost in formation

your voice howls out
       against rocky cliffs
   drowned in the crashing parade
       of white-noise waves
lost in the drone

your words flash
       briefly into view
   on the tops of curling waves
       a moments notice
lost in the tide

Posted on by EAT

Hush

Residential homes and psych wards aren’t always the best place for a child, no matter how out of control he or she may seem. No, many of these places, with the Nurse Ratchets that work there, are little more than psychiatric death camps.

Hush

i remember silence
 walls made of glass
   mattresses of chain-linked steel
 even dreams were impenetrable
cemented in concrete

you dared tell me
 this is all i would ever know
   poison in my veins
 mold across my eyes
brittle cracked nostrils

one day strapped to a bed-frame
 i saw when i closed my eyes
   that you weren’t so formidable
 your skin fell off in ribbons
and you choked bubbling blood

years passed
 but i learned to quell your violence
   to relish the scent of tea leaves
 as i sit with the world
your silence only half remembered

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

Posted on by EAT

Dreamscape

Reflecting on samsara, dukkha, impermanence, maya, and a recent dream, I found myself writing this rather abstract poem.

Dreamscape

splinters of lightning split the dark
   a billion thundering flashes
       lifetimes come and gone

       death has swallowed
   how many times
with its gaping fine-toothed maw

a suck of water
   a rush of loss
       oblivion

       don’t question me
   i have no answers
but i sense a certain permanence

the shape of lost lives
   enters into me
       splitting my sleep

       silhouettes flash in moments
   five shiny black claws tear past my ribs
and i wake bleeding anguish

did i know that loss
   those claws have taken something essential
       why can’t i name the sobs

       tissues harden around the tear
   even the wound is blurred with doubt
by midday

though the memory is lost
   the feeling remains
       swirling in blood-mist

       i know i am dead
   i know i am living
i sense they are inseparable

Posted on by EAT

The Man with the Scanner

There is an unusual personality who frequents one of the coffee houses I like to go to. His presence is always disruptive—Not just to myself, but in general. He brings a police scanner with him, sets it on the table while he drinks his coffee, and plays it very loudly so that everyone can hear from all parts of the store.

The Man with the Scanner

His face is smug, arrogant
    Ghoulish and gray against the high-backed café chair
He watches rain drool down picture windows
    Listens to the popping drone of a scanner

His features are fixed in a cold state of rage
    Bitter malcontent gouges grooves in his skin
This seems to make sense
    For one who brings a scanner to a public café

What tragedy has scarred his mind?
    No-one sits near him
Avoiding his belligerent gaze
    The harsh sound of his scanner

License plate numbers fight their way in
    To darken this bright little café
Calls to dispatch for ID checks
    Shoulder their way into the room

He is alone in this place
    His only companion a little black box
Hollow voices churned in darkness
    Poured like cement into the frame of his soul

Posted on by EAT

A Christmas Poem

I spent Christmas Eve alone this year. A month ago I was direct witness to a tragic, ringing loss that had eerie parallels to my own father’s suicide when I was ten. This makes it difficult not to feel pensive, reflective, and melancholy.

A Christmas Poem

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

Posted on by EAT

not finding

Reading about Chan Buddhist perspectives and philosophies affects people in different ways. As I explored one such text, I found myself writing this.

    not finding

“what is it?”
        i ask a gray-haired man

without opening his eyes
        he holds up a broom
    i walk away shaking my head

“what is it?”
        i ask a bearded sage

without saying a word
        he points to the sky
    i kick the dust from my heals

“what is it?”
        i ask a balding elder

without any warning
        he raps me on the head with a stick
    i wander off rubbing a welt

“what is it?”
        i ask the cold abyss

without a moment’s pause
        something rustles in the dark
    startling my heart

Posted on by EAT

a simple prayer

A friend was telling me about some of her personal challenges. This imagery came to mind as I pondered them and her faith. This is an acrostic of one of her pen-names.

a simple prayer

for Jenna Joslyn

boldly she walks into the mist—the cold gray mist
entrapped and overwhelmed she prays, “please save my soul…”
zephyrs with reverent care brush past her kneeling thoughts
only the grasses sense the weight, her heavy heart
above she sees a few faint stars burn through the haze
riven from heaven’s depthless shores, one parts and falls

Posted on by EAT

dichotomy

As a friend told me about some of her personal challenges, this imagery came to mind. This is an acrostic of one of her pen-names.

dichotomy

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.