I Am a Human

 I am a human

raised by a robot

cut loose in the garden

carried on the water

carried on the water

cared for by the winter

and my mind--that's ice

nice nice very nice.

nice nice very nice

making poetry from paper birds

and a magpie in flight

under a fragrant sun

under a fragrant sun

cut loose in a garden grove

where the robot rusts, in time we trust

carried on the water like the rest.

________

for What's Going On? BEING HUMAN

one line is taken from the Ambrosia song.

they stole it from Kurt Vonnegut.

While The Devil Sleeps

 

Even the devil has to sleep some time,

dozing by the inferno, daring a red-lipped smile.

Let's dance, though the downstairs neighbors bang the broomstick.

Let's wear sequins and furs, hats as big as platters,

and take the train with our big brown bags.

Put an air on, try an accent, we're beautiful don't you see?

We will land like birds on a fountain in a square

to sing ourselves as Whitman would, while the devil sleeps. 

--------------

for Sunday Muse #143, where I am hosting. Join us!

The Broken-Necked Swan

The swan with a broken neck

lies half-in, half-out of the water.

Yesterday, hissing, spread-winged,

she ran at a child who stumbled backward and fell.

The bird then returned, stately and gorgeous,

to its pond, calm and fine as Fourth of July morning.

A man wearing wet shoes sits silently nearby.

Someone has already called police.

_________

for my BFF's flash 55 party.

Centering

"Get in the middle," someone said,
but I could not find it. 
The group grew impatient, irritated, 
began chucking stuff at an effigy of the facilitator.

"This is your fault," said an old woman,
waving knitting needles meaningfully at us.
We fell upon her, reading favorite passages
from the handbook to her in Portuguese.

There was a trust exercise.
We pitched each other out the upper windows
until only a few weaklings were left.
"It is finished," we said, and assumed our roles.

Back at work on Monday, we sprouted feathers
from our backs and began assembling in groups.
"The song of my people," you said,
and began barking like an asthmatic. 

Next weekend, paintball 
to mortify the flesh,
exalt the soul, 
and occupy us as smoke rises over the city.
_______

I am starting my April poem-a-day now, because the voices told me to. 

Eclair de Lune

Down boy.
Not yet.
Did you forget that a woman is a work of art?
With maddening plastic packaging
Protecting her heart of hearts?

Toro, toro!
That's just the way it goes;
I knew you'd love this little red number,
And I love the smoke coming out of your nose.

Pffft, tiger, it really means nothing
That you love my pastry, sleek and tan;
You must worship my sweet custard filling
If you want to be my man.
_____

Let's Dialogue

I knew I should be quiet,
But my mouth went on talking without me
And, oh, the things it said.

I didn't know your eyes could go big like that--
2 little shocked stars undressing.
And when your jaw drops and you squint,
I see a locomotive coming down the tracks--
I'm gonna have to think of something
Think of something fast.

I know I should be careful,
But two idle hands can get so bored
And oh, the stuff they pull.

I didn't know a thing could go up like that--
Just from a little drug store lighter.
And when you're really angry and you go so silent,
I know you're gonna kick my ass--
I'm gonna need a really convincing little tap dance
Aren't I, baby?
Wait a second, baby.
Oh sweet Jesus in a pinafore,
I'm gonna need it fast.
_____
art by Eugenio Recuenco (thanks, Kerry!)

This poem was the first one written in my new journal, a gift from the peerless Hedgewitch O' The Wilds. Thank you, dear! I do love it! (journal shown below)

_____

And, a little music to go with the poem...

Candi McIntosh And The Tiger

Candi McIntosh is swallowed by a tiger.
Now, she can compose herself and think what to do
Without his snow and caramel face turning her to goo.

He is the same tiger
Who used to get in trouble for catching the birds off Mrs. Densmore's feeder,
Taking Tweety,
The feeder,
The branch it hung from,
And some of the siding off the house in the effort.


But his parents had hauled their childlessness behind them
For too long,
Like a house trailer filled with bowling balls.
How could they scold him?
In the end,
He received chocolates, not chastisement, for his crimes.

In high school,
He excelled at debate--
A remarkable thing for one who could not speak!
And yet,
Who would argue with him?
Who could mistake his meaning
When faced with his warm breath,
His rough tongue,
Or his basso profundo contented sighs?

Candi McIntosh never had a chance.
From the moment she saw him,
She wished to be the stars
So that when he moved silently across the sky at night,
His great soft paws
With all of their implied and restrained power,
Would touch her at every step.

Still,
The wedding was marred
By his insistence upon marking all the pews
And by his repeated lunging at the minister,
So that the vows were delayed
And disrupted
Again and again.

Now, after seven years together,
And so may beefsteaks and band-aids between them,
He has swallowed her.
Curled inside of him,
If her phone is ringing somewhere, she can't get to it;
If someone has rung the doorbell,
She can't come.
In the darkness of him,
She is eclipsed.

It is always true, however,
That a woman has her ways.
No matter what he may believe,
Or how sure and complacent he may have become,
She can stroke him
Or stagger him
As she chooses,
From within,
And there is nothing he can do about it now
But to tread softly
And--a little confused--
Sit center ring
To await his Mistress's command.


_____


for dverse OLN 7

Nihilists, Naturalism, & The Use Of Negative Space

The inside of an egg shell is bland,
Blank,
And nearly always done in beige's dull cousin
"Eggshell white."

Neo-cubist art breaks the monotony and makes a statement--
Hip coolness with a leaven of irony.

The occupant of the egg floats in thick suspension,
Dreaming of the day when she will have
Fangs,
Wings,
Terrible claws,
And a Louis Vuitton bag.

Then comes the sharp crack,
The fall,
The griddle,
And a return to white.
Remember all of this the next time you sop up yolk with an edge of toast...

You slayer of dreams,
Destroyer of art,
Murderer.

_____

Dr. Midnight

Dr. Midnight, I know,

I know that you're the one--

Because when you look at me

Your lenses seem

To reflect and become a bright double sun.

Shine on me,

Dr. Midnight

Shine.



Those other girls

Those calculating cats will grow snappish and fat--

You don't need them,

They don't know you,

Come, let me show you my repeatable data

One at a time

Dr. Midnight

Divine.



See, darling?

In your office, I will place angels in every drawer--

Your waiting room will fill with more feebs

Than you could possibly see in a lifetime

Infirm and on time,

Dr. Midnight

*sigh*



Those other girls

Those gold-digging bitches just want your prescriptions--

But what do they know?

Tell them to go

And leave us to our bliss and insurable procedures

Punking the reaper,

Dr. Midnight

Mine.

______

The Rise And Fall Of Mystical Artist Tyrus Walker

Mystical artist Tyrus Walker begins working feverishly on his latest creation,

His crowning achievement,

The defining product of his singular vision,

And culmination of his life to date.

He licks his fingers and consults the yellow pages.

Soon, two enormous weather balloons are tied down in his front yard!

Next, trembling with the beauty of it, Tyrus begins constructing a colossal snow and ice replica of his manhood.

It towers!

It blocks the noonday sun as it stretches toward the Heavens!

Mystical artist Tyrus Walker gasps as he gazes upon the finished work, then weeps openly in overwhelmed triumph.



"What the fuck is that?" ask his neighbors.

An artist, especially a genius, is never understood.

Tyrus installs floodlights, so that his masterwork may be seen twenty-four hours a day, from as far away as Portland!

In fact, it is probably visible from outer space.

Neighborhood children draw smiley faces on the weather balloons, and run away laughing as Tyrus hurries outside to scatter them.

Woe!

Their markers have pierced the weather balloons' delicate outer layers, and they slowly begin to go lopsided in wrinkly ruin.

The smiles turn to straight lines and then turn down as the balloons edges droop, to become frowns.

The eyes appear Asian, but upside down.

This was not mystical artist Tyrus Walker's vision at all!



But that is not the worst of it.

The sun comes out, like a jealous god, and as the temperature of the air rises, Tyrus's immense tower begins to list to one side!

The right side.

Why?

Soon, it is looking bowed and sad, like a depressed elephant.

It loses height.

It loses girth.

It loses majesty.

Mystical artist Tyrus Walker is distraught!

In all his years of creating similar works, this is an unprecedented disaster.

"This has never happened before!" he insists in a shocked voice.

Neighborhood wives laugh, and the sound wounds Tyrus!

He is about to rebuke them, when his magnificent sculpture falls in half, like a dying slushee.

It is too much.

Midgets and small boys strut around him, making jokes at Tyrus Walker's expense.

He dies a broken man, his ultimate achievement reduced to nothing.



Someone puts up a latticework arbor on the site.

It is modest, but beautiful, arching gracefully with a statue of the Virgin standing within it.

Each year, red roses bloom,

Their appearance and fragrance simple yet matchless in all the neighborhood.