Outrage #1

Chaos by Matt Wesolowki (2006)

Expectations

Bound in chains too tight

Like rules requiring fourteen lines

I’ve been shoveled my share

Gagged on the stream of bullshit

Other people bludgeon words

Destroy to build their Brave New World

Nothing but a skewed blue ball dotted with tears

Of green fabric frayed at the edges

and blinky baby dolls with no arms

Sinking into the torrents of my mind

At last slammed square against the blazing sun

Frozen forever while crossing the sky

The flesh

Must

Be ripped off.

Two Pie Are

The empty pie tin

Falls off of the counter;

Hitting the floor

In such a way

As to cause it

To spin about upon its edge.

If two pie

Are twice as much as one pie;

And if the pie tin’s circumference,

Is equal to

Two Pie Are;

Then I ask you,

Aristotle;

Why can’t I get two pie

Out of one pie tin?

It bothers me greatly,

That although Pi goes on

For infinity;

My pie tin

Is void.

And how can they say

That the area

Is pie are squared,

When clearly the are

Round?

Thoughts of pie

Are keeping me awake

At night.

Of Sweaters and Socks

A quantum of information
Rolled out as if the cat attacked
a ball of yarn
and dragged it across the floor
from living room through hallway
and into my kitchen
A single line I follow
Through time and space
Each step moves me forward
Though sometimes the yarn
Loops back and crosses over itself.
The same thing
Whether ball or line
Yet somehow totally different.
The sweater may be created
One stitch at a time
Or should it become a pair of socks
Or a cozy blanket for winter?

Sometimes you don’t understand me
Sometimes I blame myself
For failing to unwind the string
And presenting it as something else
That you can comprehend
Sometimes I blame you
For seeing a sweater when I present socks.
Most of the time I lament
Having to unwind at all
A ball of yarn is so complete
So perfect in itself
But in this world
In which I exist
We cannot do without
Sweaters and socks.

I Used to Believe in the Green of Things

The Garden of Eden by Thomas Cole (1828)

I use to believe in the green of things

That there was a hidden place inside

You allowed only me to enter

I used to pretend we’d discovered

Secret lairs unknown but by us

Sacrosanct even in whispers

I used to imagine our wanderings

Were unknown to all but ourselves

Discovering love for the first time

My mountain has been infested

By daisies you scattered there

I can no longer ramble with you

Like tides like moons we travel on

Only fools scorn the forces of change

Shed tears for the end of perfection

When I’m feeble and crippled perhaps

My heart will grow warm with the thought

That once I was the Eve of you

But that was before
When I believed in green

Before the Garden walls fell

And For That . . .

Majdanek Extermination Camp, Lublin, Poland
Photo by Noreen Brand (c) 2005

I am the quiet one.

Obedient.

Young enough.

But not so young

as to attract the cruelest ones.

Once pretty, but not too much so

as to be singled out.

Not muscular,

like the men

like how they were

once.

So many men,

gone.

I am a whisper

that goes unnoticed

in a graveyard of ghosts.

Daily I am led

to this gray place

where death’s scent

lingers forever.

Methodically

Handed my bucket,

and my rag,

I set to work

sanitizing sin.

Soon the dementia sets in.

My bony hands scrub

every corner

every pipe

every flesh infested tile.

If they did not take me away

I would never leave.

For this is all that I have become.

Manically, methodically, meaninglessly.

Except for that singular moment

come late afternoon

shortly before the sun sinks

even further away

than the day before,

and the day before that.

A trickle of light,

And time belongs

to me again.

A sliver slips inside

through a small crack in the slats

where the pipes don’t quite meet

the ceiling exactly right.

Warm and golden,

it pauses here.

And for that,

I endure.

Then I Give Myself to Love

Gustav Klimt, The Kiss (1907-1908)

Then I give myself to love;

To bold imaginings,

Of perfect pleasures yet untold,

Of energies unleashed.

Then I give myself to love;

First sweet moist kisses,

Hands caressing, teasing, wanting,

And bodies – soft and hard.

Then I give myself to love;

To lips on breasts,

And tongues exploring

Hot, secret places,

And finding,

Flesh on flesh.

Bottomless Well

The Rosetta Stone

A fishing pole
The line
connecting point "A" to point "B"
A boy broke the code
and I touched the Rosetta
Late one afternoon
In the British Museum
I extend into the depth
I search for phantoms
I hunt nightmares
With an unloaded gun
I am at the mercy
Of the Righteous
Who talk to God
over a beer and peanut brittle
They care not a wit
For the singular plurality
That comes with True Love
Is it all Theater of the Absurd?
The sum was once greater
Than our parts
But breasts, pussy and a full mouth,
Rearranged, courtesy of Picasso,
Trumped solving for Pi
At least this go around
And the kaleidoscope
Now makes me nauseous
Longing for loam and worms
and last autumn's decay.

Falling remains constant
It is the only truth
To be unraveled
In the shadowlands
And I feel a cold breeze
In this Verne-ian space
Unknown to cartographer
And Zen monk alike
My begging bowl lays empty
All I possess now
Is the memory
Of the pleasure felt
Of the pain endured
These are real
And I claim them
I will testify
Bring out your Bible
I show you the passage
In Joshua, it is always
Those shards of pottery
Even the Cursed
Arrive in Hell
Eventually . . .

I learned a secret
I no longer fear
So simple
Only faith
Is needed
Just the belief
Or perhaps,
it was something else,
Perhaps I already knew
the answer to the question
Perhaps I cheated.
I tested it once
In a dream
as I fell fell fell
At long last discovering
Myself safely
At the bottom
Looking upwards
At the open window
Far above.


The trick, you see,
Is knowing deep down
it's not real. 

Time Capsule

Buried in Skull Valley
surrounded by low level nuclear waste
near the Dugway proving ground where my father was sent by the military
to engage in symposiums designed to facilitate
preparation and medical response for nuclear holocaust
Not far from what today is a chemical weapons stockpile
My capsule waits to be discovered.

Who will care what lies inside?
No one even remotely related to me or with a sincere interest in who I am today.
A vial, a vessel, a capsule of evidence, of something that has passed
To be retrieved by persons unknown
Archaeologist? Treasure hunter? Forager? or Thief?

My life has been about the journey, not about the prize.
So I hide my capsule in this place fraught with danger
designed to intrigue and entice the seeker
by the difficulty that removing it will entail
But before so hiding, I place inside the sleeping box . . .
nothing.

Someday I will visit India
sit beneath the Bodhi tree
and smile quietly.

Dreams

Pablo Picasso, The Dream (1932)

As they lowered my coffin
Someone coughed, not from grief,
But from dust kicked up in the wind.
I am not responsible.
This is not my dream.

I rode the elevator down
Deep into the earth where
They hid the missiles
And experimented with death.
Freely I walked naked
Into the room with the green walls
Because this was my dream
And naked I have power
To change everything.

I rise higher
Sometimes above treetops
At night and with the breeze
I flow and watch the earth below
I never want to descend
Because this is my dream.

Someday I will be placed
Into a chamber of fire
And reduced to ash
Later to be scattered
In desert or sea
This is my dream
When the dreams end.

Black Line

Franz Kline, Painting 1952

A single black line

length undefined

A silhouette

against a backdrop

of boundless light

This single black line

interrupts

separates

defines

north south

east west

up down

and the center

sealed for all time

henceforth

in the perception

of the self

the fringe

is to be avoided

lest the edges slice

lest you fall off the rim

There is no God

In the absent

Like a wave

this one black line

Reverberating

in some cosmic orchestration

point and counterpoint

split infinity

andante allegro

two black lines

It no longer plays alone

This and that

Me and the other

Alike and different

Together in this space

From whence first sprung

In the circle the black

spills into the white

the white invades the black

and each is accented

by a small single spot

borrowed from the other

And so united

they seem to spin

timelessly in time

around in flat space

When did the lines

learn to make shapes?

A man’s hands

in spotlight

white gloves

against a black backdrop

forms take on meaning

and spring to life

in the mind of the seer

Don’t speak

Not even in whisper

When the spotlight goes out

and the applause begins

the spell is over

This is your canvas

Take your pen and ink

Blotch smudge smear

Just leave your mark

Then leave it behind

Disappear back

into the no-place

from whence you were born.

El Dorado

Mexican Free-tail bats emerge

From a cave in southern Texas

The sky is fractured – black against

The deep blue-gray of an aging day

That won’t come again.

I climb back into the baby blue

Cadillac convertible, sixty-five,

Ignite the engine and settle in,

Another long haul ahead of me

In a world that isn’t round.

Crystalline deposits smother

All memories of a life once

Experienced in reds and oregano.

No details, only patterns,

Repetition ad nauseum.

I have been the only constant

Enslaved in karmic chains

Remembering Anne, who sang

Eagles tunes, even as she rolled

pizza dough and lies about her past.

“Don’t Mess With Texas”

passes me again, and the clock

reads two forty seven. Steak and steer,

and beer and brawling. Above in the heavens,

the stars collapse instantly.

Monday morning, awake in my bed,

That moment your brain knows

Just before the alarm captures you.

No bats, no beer, I remain,

the constant in the Hell

Of my own choosing.

still life with a chicago piano

Tommy Gun aka "Chicago Piano"

her strand of pearls
his suspenders and spats
an empty flask of bootlegged booze
and a handful of crumpled sawbucks
abandoned on her chinz carpet
his tommy gun lending itself as centerpiece


the lieutenant
with no eye for composition
directed the photographer
to point his speed graphic camera
at the blood stained sheets
the shattered window
and her battered face.

Comfort Food

Mountains
On my plate
I raise them here
Erode them there
with my fork
Gash out a crater
which becomes a lake
of chicken gravy
Dotted by little
peppery boats

Untitled

Captive by Paul Klee (1940)
oil on burlap

Rain falls

Or not, no matter

Your plans to plant

Remain ideas not executed

Because the Metrolink jumped

The tracks killing Johnny

On his way to your house

That spring afternoon

Was there a downpour?

Flow of traffic

A misnomer this scorching

Summer morning

The coffee hasn’t even

Been consumed.

A scream

Formed someplace

Maybe the Earth’s core

Or inside your bones

Jerk of the brakes

And the coffee’s now

Burning your skin

Along with your mind.

I can’t hear you.

Window up.

Radio blaring.

Thoughts consumed

Mortgage payment

Infidelity

That lost key

And the weird gurgle

In your stomach.

That peace.

That clarity

As if seeing far

Across the ocean

Or from high atop

Some sacred mountain

A time when after love

Satiated, and the circle whole,

When the warm breeze lingers,

Not long enough

That peace was shattered

By words and no words

Children for All Time

(c) 2003, David K.Nightengale

Ava, the beauty;
Mary, the teacher;
Carrie, the mischevious;
Karla, the adoring;
Donna, the chum;
And Michael, who bled spaghetti;
The army took
my friends away
A speeding car
took my brother's
Michael was with us
in Heidelberg
and again on Nicholson Road
But one eve he crossed
Forty-three
not making it
to the other side.

In memories
they remain
children for all time.

Black Saturday

Yellowstone National Park 08/20/1988

I've never traversed great Yellowstone Park
Except in the story you told
Of the wildfire that burst across
the land during one of your hikes.

Your camera captured this hell upon earth
The envy of all journalists
So you believed until you discovered
That somehow the film was destroyed.

It matters not; though the wolves still recall
The night that their home was destroyed
When meadows were scarred; and buffalos fled
When the fires refused to die.

Long did the cruel decimation linger
'Til at last came the rains of fall
And the cool moist air that hinted of snow
Defeating the devilish beast.

I imagine a snow-covered valley
And a frozen solid clear lake
Peaks painted white, pines standing firm
I can taste the flakes on my tongue.

04/10/2009

Just Rain

Rainfall in Ghana

I watched

A steady downpour of rain

The other day.

A good rain,

All the smog

Was washed away.

A bad rain,

Kept my children

From outdoor play.

I watched

A steady downpour of rain

Fall on the ground.

A good rain,

A rhythmic pound

A poetry sound.

A bad rain,

Mud tracked inside

By my wet hound.

I watched

A steady downpour of rain

Beyond the glass.

A good rain

Filled lakes and streams

For trout and bass.

A bad rain,

Great mudslides flowed

Down through the pass.

I watched

A steady downpour of rain

Fall from the sky.

A good rain,

Gene Kelly danced

Umbrella high.

A bad rain,

Cashelle got soaked

As she ran by.

I watched

A steady downpour of rain

The other day.

Not a good rain,

Not a bad rain,

Just rain.

Poems at a Zen Retreat

Kyoto Meditation Center, photo by Joi Ito (2003)

Leaves decayed gather in the corner
with dustballs and last summer's grass
ignored by the straw broom
lazy man sweeps only the open and obvious
yesterday's uneaten seeds
and the dirt that dropped off brother's shoes
earlier in the pre-dawn after he had trudged across
the wet ground to the pen where the rabbits are kept

when i first arrived
it was the undone i saw
and his yellow teeth

Silently they prepare the meal
and serve plain brown rice in plain brown wood bowls
they wear thin slippers and black pants that reveal their ankles
all except for the red headed girl who is tinier than the rest
and has more freckles than there are stars in the night sky
caught staring; I fiddle with my chopsticks as my face becomes warm
someplace else a cat howls
and I take my place with the rest at the long table
wondering what the cat will eat

my mind travels wide
clouds helpless against the wind
i cannot be leashed

The Age of Chivalry

La Belle Dam Sans Merci, by Frank Cadogan Calper (1926)

Courtly love was an experience between erotic desire and spiritual attainment that now seems contradictory, "a love at once illicit and morally elevating, passionate and disciplined, humiliating and exalting, human and transcendant," - Francis X.Newman (1968) The Meaning of Courtly Love

It seems ages now
since I visited
walked upon a land
dotted with castles
small villages and a mill
beside a faithful stream
Ages since I believed
you capable of slaying dragons
Laying beside you
I revealed myself
my nakedness was not just
bare skin pleasured by your
hands, your mouth
your maleness.
I opened up my secrets
my weaknesses and fears
my dreams and hopes
I knew the Lover's strength
in having One to open to
uniting in orgasm
strength and bliss
in my surrender

Did she laugh when you shared
our secrets with her?
Did it make you more of a man
in her eyes?
Did she feel more loved
more special
every time you betrayed
my secrets to her?
Did you woo her upon
the back of our lovemaking?

Boast of your prowess and skill?

No matter.
The fault is mine,
so you said.
You are blameless,
So you protested.

I myself, so you said,

Are steeped in sin,

Deserving no man’s trust or loyalty.
Accepted, I turned and walked away
Built a tower, a turret,
and locked my heart away.

I have played the Lover
I have played the woman betrayed.
I shall not allow myself
to play the fool; not twice,
you played me well enough
the first time.

I try to understand
how I deceived myself
Thinking you were a Knight
When in fact you were a Wizard.
What I believed was courtship
was nothing but a powerful charm
used to manipulate my heart
into believing an illusion
I was desperate to believe.

Like a troubadour you came
caressing me
opening me
making music
Or the written words
you arrogantly displayed
while feigning modesty
I was such a silly fool
I believed words carved
from your passion for her
had been meant for me

I believed games were real

When in truth reality was all game.

Later, you came,
to my walls
and hurled rocks
the walls withstood

Though each one bruised

My skin beneath

I became enemy

Unreasonable and unfeeling

Crazy hateful green-eyed beast

You remained Prince Valiant

Pure as the driven snow

Twisting my every word

Until they became a witch’s curse.

Tonight the prophecy complete

You are abandoned in the dark wood

I am after all, La Belle Dam Sans Merci,

For every tale needs a hero

And it is all about you.

Chivalry is Dead.

Snake Dance

"The Priestess Snake Dance" Art by Vasilis Zikos

See the serpent wide its way
around your pumping heart
Feel her now constricting
Your life is torn apart

Soon you will be empty
And then she’ll slink away
She slithers, yellow eyes alert
Stalking her next prey

While on the dirt you struggle
For one more final breath
Your lover will be charming
Another marked for death.

Wildflowers

I don’t know the names of all the wildflowers I’ve seen.

Oh, I know the poppy;

And the buttercup and daisy.

I can recognize the California Iris.

And you taught me the difference

Between wild celery and poison hemlock.

I thrilled at discovering Indian paintbrush

And I know wild radish, be it purple or white.

Each day I see more and more old friends;

And if I’m very watchful,

Something new I’ve never focused on before.

We may consult one another, or look in a book;

But deep inside I know what is true:

I’ll never be able to know them all.

Inevitability

Harold Lloyd in Safety Last (1923)

Shorter

days. Betrayed,

my spirit waits only

for escape. Fools pretend, and turn

clocks back.

I Just Wanted to Tell You

"Universe of Particles"at the LHC Particle Accelerator  at
Cern, Geneva, Switzerland

I just wanted to tell you. . .

That nine times eight is seventy-two

And yesterday a little dog was killed

on the Pennsylvania Turnpike

Rainbows bleed infrared

And balloons can only hold

A finite amount

of a little boy’s breath

My mind screamed suddenly

At the realization that its

Imprisonment meant

It could not fly

off to that space

I was dreaming

distant spiral galaxy

And thirty-seven decades ago

Imagination could not even mate

With the brilliant golden leaf

That twisted seductively

On that maple tree standing

Just ten feet away

I am so incurably

Primitive

And consciousness

A nymphomaniac

Locked inside a nunnery

Disgusted at the triviality

That calls itself my existence.

I just wanted to tell you. . .

That this is but an electron

Slammed at speeds beyond reason

In some cavern beneath the Alps

While the rest of me

Went to sleep.

Blues

Shag, Kind of Blue (c) 2002

The blues are playin'
Midnight scrutinizes me
From across the room

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Pork Roast

With apologies to Wallace Stevens, whose

Thirteen Ways

of Looking at a Blackbird is one of my favorite poems.

I.

Surrounded on all sides

By an army of red potatoes

Pork roast still manages to dominate.

II.

Pork roast sits

In a white bag

Awaiting the time for its appearance.

III.

Slice into a hot roast;

All the juices flow out.

IV.

A man and a woman

Are hungry.

A man, a woman and their dog

Are hungry.

V.

Once you played

Happily in the mud

With your brothers and sisters.

Your squeals of delight shattered

With that one final squeal.

VI.

There in the market

All lined up together

In the icy meat case;

The food morgue is open

Twenty-four hours a day.

VII.

I do not know which to prefer

The doing

Or the savoring.

Eating the pork roast,

Or just after.

VIII.

Eat all your pork roast.

Children are starving in India.

IX.

The other white meat.

X.

The dog leaps;

Its paws atop the table,

Its jaws at one with the roast.

Now the two fly

Into the garden;

By the time I arrive,

There is only the dog.

XI.

Bits of fat and drippings

Have crusted dry on the pan.

Memory of a pork roast.

XII.

You melt in my mouth,

Succulent pig.

XIII.

The kind-hearted vegetarian weeps for you,

Little roast.