Anticipation of Joy

To know true joy,
You must know sorrow.
I have had enough bad dreams,
To see joy breaking
Like a palette of color,
Like a sunrise

In a child’s eye.

-Eduardo Barbudo from Liberdad de Sueno Libre

Thoughts of a God that crucified His own Son.

I was inspired to pull out an older piece I had written awhile back when I was in a strange place.
Maybe I was channeling e. e cummings.
Maybe I was losing God.
Maybe I was coming off drugs.

Not sure, it was awhile ago.

********************************************************************

Thoughtfully inspired bliss

amiss

Christmas spreading muddy joy (Psst, do you hear the
angels sing?)

I saw His son’s face
bleeding on a button
somewhere.

Did he really just forget?

A man loves to send his son away
to die.
Does he forget?

I have his son’s name written somewhere.

Check my spoon.
(Could you eat without a spoon or would you die like His son?)
(Psst. Look at him squirm…Why are those damn angels singing?)

I am repulsed by their joy.

A sponge reminds us, reminds me of the pain,
in vain,
for dopes
who molt STUPIDITY.

Like a thousand birds,
strung out,

spaced on a wire.
(Pssst, I have been spaced on a wire.)

Shitting on the statue of fleshy cold marble,
“The Boy who Died in Vain.”

Maybe not in vain.
Maybe in Detroit.
(A city dreams do not even venture to go.)

somewhere even hummingbirds sleep

When I should have been writing about a street corner.

*****************************************

The number dwindle
The clock ages almost cross 12
And the radio talks about a bell jar.

The desert is still and warm,
somewhere even hummingbirds sleep.

Your eyes blur
when you think about travel
and if you let it all get away,
somehow you woke up and you had let it get away.

Treasure the warm moments you have remaining,
and try to remember a time, an undertow
a slight fear.

As the room empties, the parties thin
and a slight fear that your words will stay in place
until next time

(whenever that is)

Blurred eyes, a desert waits in the distance
and a Night Ride when you had somewhere to go

Waiting in Parallel

emscrim
Just some mornings

For no reason, Prisms and glass shards

You just feel screaming inside.

Between screams,                                                    Shiny Black Porcelain Doves

little voices, little puzzled voices.

Some mornings, not even if bright, not even if foggy damp

Can’t run far enough away                                     Shelves cluttered by the Past

from everyone.                                                                   Misty dews cover all risk

Like in dreams suite, you run and run and run

Never being able to run far enough away from everyone.

You still hear the voices, you still feel the screams.

I crawled headfirst into a box.                             Statues, painted children unseen

was trapped. Unable to breath

boiled in panic, coffin dark.                              Yet serene fragrant drifts in pastels

I worked my way deep into a jagged tunnel.

Unable to move my arms.                                           breezes smooth. Gentle breath

Useless.

I must have screamed and I woke gasping for air.

We waited on your rainbow pills

to grasp hold our dreams.

Monochrome

**************************************************************

Surrounded by smiles,                                                                    Every thing still

surrounded by knowing how it will be.

Just some mornings                                                          Trees woven nest barren,

or no reason,

You just feel screaming inside.                                                           no movement.

You live in terror, fear, so long

you insult dreams.                                                           Treacherous Felines, silent

Cackle at loss

You miss no one and not even sure                         Fathers taste fear,anger ages

how to cackle.                                                          Evil beauty Queens draw glances

Can’t run far enough away from everyone

And yet still hear the screaming.                                                          Sun etches all

Worrying each day, staring each day                            fading even desert flowers

Wondering each day if you are done

The words stopped coming and you are not done.

Ladle what remains in a ancient pottery jar                Whatever made it squirm

Sealing tight with wax, just to begin again.

Stops.

Pauses to gain control

Chisel stones glazed

Gem Ruby eyes,

an Emperor’s egg golden

glare glazed to hungry victim

**********************

We Wait

                                           and slumber returns peace

As Words Fail

We went to Gaudi last night and the Evil Bunny set her pain aside and let her body dance frantic till after 2 AM. The crowds surrounding us screamed Insane, screamed with Insanity, and danced as if no one watched. They danced as if Morrison himself had told them to dance with abandon.

I watched and thought of stories I have written and how some were flat and lifeless. I thought of moments in stories past that cuddled and captured the world I stood in at that moment. I swore to write in words, of what it felt like at that moment and especially the music expression of the Artist Gaudi.

I thought in simile and phases like the confusion of a freight train screaming past you as you stood close the the tracks, in the prior silence of the forest or facing a pride of menacing lions. All I wanted to do was know the words to describe the music, the artist, the people and the scene.

I am trapped in a writer’s anarchy. My brain rains uncontrollable adjectives, describing the moment for later while being in the moment (am I alone?), filled with the fear that the words will fade when my body fails and is forced to rest in quiet resolve and sleep (am I alone/ Do you feel that?).

I wake and wonder what were those words, what was that feeling? Can I translate one artistic media to another? Really. Can I describe Picasso’s Dancers or Munch’s Madness or the music of Segovia in a quiet hall in a mountain village in Spain (taste the nutmeg, smell the scented burning wax as he plays?)

Can we translate; a moment. Sitting here I know that I can write of fear of zombies and the fear of hate and loss, and love and loves lost.

But can we describe a song?

And the dancers and the sweat. I don’t know. It is early in this dark hotel and I wonder and wait to be taken behind an old wooden shed. Could I evevn describe that?

In a Land where even Assassins dance

Some mornings even grilled sweet yams and maple

Remind me of Paris mornings and bridges over silent waters

To return, to stand wrapped snug warm in my leathersfbpiv 011

Alone at the point.

She told me I have to leave it all behind

Focus on my Buddha and leave it all behind.

Leave all behind, the things

Shiny detritus gathered along the road

flashsparkle that snagged my eye

chiseling deep grooves into recollections.

Carved into a sandy beach, a canyon, a soul divide

Gathered now, spread dreamdusty on dusty shelves.

And just go to a snowy hillside where I ate my first valiums,

Or stumblelatedrunk in Soho,

down dark stairs to watch them dance mad

Wrapped in music that scared me.

And I think of every thing Lemon Drop Jacqui muttered

On quiet nights filled with static and her voice and static again.

(even that letting go hurts to think about…where will it go?)

She taught me to let go before I make my first step.

To Paris, to somewhere.107911_f520

To finding my own personal Buddha before I leave.

******************************

Time and waves pass.

A smile.

What seems a quiet place

Metal buzzes deep in your head

even now, the light flashes

When your eyes close.

Some days, a happy place,

All the houses up the hill freshly painted

sand is bright, brushed breeze smooth.

Parrots line the gutter.

Even in this land, the Assassins dance.

It is as you wish

Until you share with an absinthe stranger

that even images of pretty girls skin

wrapped in gossamer silks, wind-blown

in sand caked curves,

Suspended in warm clear pools of water

makes you sad somehow.

And you beg a generous friend to not share and he screams back in love

FUCK YOU! YOU ARE NOT OLD YOU ARE NOT DEAD

I decide where I send love.abby

You can’t refuse. You can’t say no.

‘… even if your love makes you happy warm’,

You still cringe inside, just a cringe, just the tiniest tear seeps from inside

When images on the screen,

showshare a pressed cheek with new love.

Or two sit smiling in a tree branch.

All proclaim the beauty of love

And the tiny tear comes, colored tinge with sadness

And you move on.

Some parrots fly away,

leave the grey vacant hard angle of a concrete gutter.

You know when the last one flies away, you are done

And you walk black heavy coated down streets brown with swirling leaves

And it is done.

And maybe in the morning it will be a room without shadows

Sun brights in every corner…shadows flee unwanted.

Air all fresh ginger and bananas098

That take me to a hillside of the Wye and I stare down at an ancient abbey,

wondering if their prayers were answered.

A friend laments

Maybe this is personal, maybe these are words that anyone might find a way to just pass the time.

A friend laments
or

Memory is not necessarily History

About the time of the turkey bake, about that special time of year when we most feel abandoned by the past and condemned by our future, someone wrote a letter.

Strange that a letter was written. It must have taken many sips of good whiskey or sniffs of unknown white powders. Strange that a letter was written that seemed to care and that a vision of a past was so chained with the heavy mud of I am the victim.

Don’t mourn me. Don’t help me. Don’t correct me. Just read a long letter and accept that I have chosen to remember and the story as I remember it.

This is about me.

And even if I speak of the pain of death of others, of suicide of others, of separation from others, of being deserted by others, this is still just about me.

Strange that a letter was written. Strange that a letter was written to whom you chose to receive the letter. A letter, an epistolary memory. A recap of your world as you peer back into the murk.

Maybe the letter would have best been written to yourself, so that you would understand and it would truly be for and about you. Maybe there could have been time better spent at a barstool, in a quiet corner of a quiet bar. Maybe a mumbled call made from a darkened room and comforted by a sip and brought back by a sniff.

Memory is funny. Memory is told though our eyes and memories are sometime muddled by times. Memories are sometimes muddled by drugs or other memories or tears or dark rooms. Even if you are corrected and told that your memory is a dream of a past, is a hope of a dream of a past. It is still just your dream of the past. A Remembrance of Things Past as surfaced by eating your own Madeline or seeing a photograph or just listening to a song play out in the echo of a distant room.

Maybe a memory is made while laying naked in a bed while the images of those reflected by the light at our back, play out on the bare walls that surround our view. In a cave, a memory created where we have no way to spin around to find out what really was the dynamic of what happened or why a man is killed in Sarajevo like thousands are but only one man brought a world to war.

Memory is funny. Maybe the difference between a memory and history is singularity and when we base the revolution on one memory we find ourselves standing in a muddy field, surrounded by the bloodied dead who followed us into our battle. They followed our memory and were trapped and now lay dead in the mud. But a memory is personal True History. A memory is true singularity and if we follow it, we end up dead in the mud and really there was no purpose to our sacrifice.

History is universal. It is a mélange of memory not swayed by a single perception.

As you recount your memory, you tend to forgive your actions, forget your motivations and remember how you were moved. But your memory was a compellation of many events, of time, of environment, of other memories of others, of others. Your memories are rarely singular, rarely born in isolation. They are just captured, swaddled in our imperfection that way. They are flawed in their creation and difficult to be used to move forward.

Fool me once, shame, on you; fool me twice, shame on me. And you continue to be fooled and to this day you are the fool surrounded by the fools. And you are shamed and you sip again and just one more sniff.

Well friend as you lament the failures of the past, as you wallow in the sips and sniff of past memories, of the pain that others brought to your door, or pain you welcomed with arms spread wide as you stood at your door and shrieked and bellowed and screamed to capture their attention so that they would join you and drink your wine and share your bread. You continue to this moment to fall victim to your same lamentations. You continue to allow those who so addled your memories to re-enter your space in other shapes and forms and manifestation and continue to fill your past with pain, your present with confusion and your future with false determination.

Those who fail to recognize history are cursed to repeat it.

I look to readers to tell me advise me, to warn me of demons and devils who would smile and take forms to eat my soul. I look to their words and like an alchemist, I swirl the words to make gold rather than just swilling the sand I bring to my magic vessel. They talk to me of Gods, they talk to me of Men and words and views into valleys and from mountaintop where my answer can be found. They talk to me of a burning plain where I might seek answer. Few remember my memories and fewer still send me back to the isolation of my past to find the paths to my future.

***

On Knocking on the Wrong Door, Three a.m.

by Stuart Welch

People were continuously bumping him on the street. His piano was once again out of tune and the hamburger had turned a dark, inedible brown. She darned his socks, but since she had lost the use of her hands in the explosion of her neighbor’s lawn mower, his socks remained holey.
A picture of two boys staring into a glass of obviously purified water had hung in the darkest corner of his living room. He recently replaced it with a tiny crucifix he found the last time he woke up lost (and hung over) in the park. The picture of the two boys bothered him for no reason but enough he thought to affect his digestion.
They stood there blankly staring into the glass of water.
Behind them was also a picture, but not of them.
Today he had hoped to find a new place to hide or hang the crucifix since the space it occupied on the wall was less, considerably less disconcerting, than the picture of the two boys.
But he had nothing to replace the crucifix with so he decided to leave it in this undesirable place until something else turned up that would adequately cover the space left by the picture of the two boys.
Searching for something to replace the crucifix also gave him indigestion and he vowed not to look too hard. On the wall opposite the crucifix that had replaced the picture of the two boys staring blankly into a glass of obviously purified water, hung a ripped portion of a map. It was a foreign map with street names he did not recognize.
Before she lost her hands she had thought it was a map of Zurich. But he did not know Zurich any better than the town where he was presently living or for that matter any town that he had lived in. She was trying to impress him. The map had been ripped in such a way that he could not tell what way it was supposed to be read. Several times in the past he had changed the position, but never knew which way he was moving the ripped map.

A map is hard to read and a ripped map without a legend was even harder.

He was glad that the two boys staring blankly into a glass of water were standing and not in a position that would be hard to determine which way the picture was to be hung. His deteriorating indigestion found solace with that picture which gave him no trouble. She, since the accident, was too embarrassed to visit him in the evenings anymore. It became a bothersome chore to manipulate coins into the coin box on the bus.
The bus she took to visit him was 154 North. While she was still in the hospital, he reassured her that the bus driver, if he was Christian, would reach into her purse for the coins she needed for the ride. She had tried to convince the driver that she was unable to manipulate the tiny coins and that it was necessary if she were to ride the bus for him to retrieve the coins which she kept conveniently in a clear plastic pouch.
The bus driver usually became enraged and told her to sit. It was always embarrassing.

She no longer came at night.

Many of their nights had been spent with puzzles. They laughed late into the night, keeping many of their neighbors awake, while they assembled the complicated jigsaw puzzles. The puzzles pictured snowy scenes in the country or foreign cities with strange buildings.
They preferred puzzles of foreign cities and would laugh nervously as they neared the completion of a puzzle. After the puzzle was finished, they would lift themselves from the table and stand back admiring their accomplishment. Sometimes tears would run down his cheeks.
Completion was never met with the satisfaction of the first step.
He was upset that one more puzzle had been completed and all of its once individual and separated pieces no longer offered a challenge. She would comfort him and promise to find a new even harder puzzle the very next day. But there were no new puzzles for him to construct since she no longer came to visit in the evening.
He spent more time in the evenings now rearranging the pictures and articles he had hung on the walls of his apartment. His room now offered the challenge of the puzzle.
By rearranging the items hanging on his walls, the room was somewhat different, and all he would have to do was sit in a different chair and see a new scene. But the crucifix bothered him, even though it was hung in the darkest spot in the room. No matter where he sat in the room it always stood out. A tiny tormented dying mannequin, stretched out on a cross, its hands painfully trying to pull away from the nails that bound it.
This was probably the greatest upset to his indigestion.
Once, while deciding where to hang a brass horn that had been given to him by a former friend, his phone rang. She was on the phone and carefully explained how she had talked her sister into dialing a number for her. He did not like her sister. Her sister rarely assisted her since the accident and frequently flew into rages because of this handicap.
Had she left her flowered scarf there?
It was no longer in her closet and she was concerned. It had been the last present given to her by her aunt before she had passed away. Yes, the scarf was there. It was safely hanging on the wall by the door. Its flowery colors had considerably brightened the space on the wall by the door. At one time he had considered draping the naked tortured body on the crucifix with the flowered scarf. But that would only hide the body and he would then always try to remember what it looked like.
Anyway, it looked nice by the door. Hold on, someone is at the door. Yes? Yes; who is it? Who could it be?

No one had knocked on his door since her accident. No, this is apartment #38g. The numbers to his door had been down for some time. He had hung them near the window because he liked their shiny brassy look. You should try upstairs. I’m not really sure. He was very excited that not only had someone called him on the phone, but on the same day, someone had knocked on his door. He was so excited that he forgot about the phone. When he returned to the phone all he heard in response to his explanation of who had been at the door was a dull drone.
He thought she was like the drone. She did not have a name either.
After hanging up the droning phone, he decided that the very next day he would go to the music shop on the corner and buy a piano stool, so he could always look at different parts of the room without having to change chairs.

*****************************

As I turned and walked away from the apartment, I heard its inhabitant mumbling to himself. It had not been my intention to disturb him but the numbers from the door were missing. When I had originally approached the numberless door, I had heard talking but as I neared the stairs to try another apartment, I thought I heard a man crying softly against the door. I never had known about the man or his room or the crucifix he had wanted to hide or the picture of the two boys staring blankly into a glass of purified water, all I heard or knew, was that someone, someone on the other side of the door cried softly as I walked away.

I may have awakened him from a sleep of fits or the freedom of dreams.