Friday, September 28, 2007

a real day off, before overtime strikes again

another poem from 92-95 era.

my only day off .. well, day and a half (after night shift) before hitting another long stretch of overtime at the for-sale and very management silent paper mill. guess starting next week prospective buyers will be circling the facility. The only certainty is things will be certainly different and nothing for-certain if (when) the sale (merger?) happens. No time tables have been announced but for some reason there is a sense of things are starting to happen fast. well, a sense is all at this time.

now on to the poetry ...


i sent my sorrow
rain danced off your window sill
it was easy enough to ignore the annoyance
i sent my loneliness
the baying of old dogs at the moon
blurred into a forgetful aura by the magic of neon surrounding
i sent my anguish
thunder rattled your precious teacup collection
but no damage was reported & it was an easy memory to erase
i sent my rejection
tornadoes on the radar screen
nuns count rosary beads in the chapel & no one knows how to control the sources

Friday, September 21, 2007

a zombie poem for the upcoming night shift rotation

a poem from 2:94. the poem is unsolicited, unpublished. it's also sort of a grave-yard theme around here, which starts in another day (or night).

not much going on today. a new pup in our house last week, a 12 week old black-lab-mix (call it a mutt). slowly learning the daily stuff like house-training and all that jazz. a bit tiring on us elders.


i tells you, i been visited by zombies, that tell no truths.
the gossip of their lies is merely beautiful rhetoric. i is a dying cow
with no religion. priests come with incense eyes
to sing horrid latin cantos.

i yawns in the face of the living. cold visions of stars. the lisp
of the wind. ha! i was not a bleeding adrienne rich
with the whole dying world at my breast, feeling compassion. i was
dirt under skies of rain, mud - cursed & pissed upon.
no jesus in my veins - just diseases i never learns to pronounce
but lives with.

i tells you, the god of death is about as perfect as they come.
zombies take my soul, scribbles cryptic codes, distributes it
among their own. shakes their heads mostly.
O, the message is not worth saving.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

aberrant hymn

another poem from 92 - July to be exact, written while working at Springfield Forest Product, possibly the worst place i have ever been employed. it was less than 2 months later, i left to work at Weyco papermill .....


Darkness is a state of mind:
we walk upon the dark side of the moon
listening to the whispers of Alexander Komorov
as if it were the wind through tall timber -
which it isnt

& the belief that pain is a viable guage to life
is a profanity echoed here

heretics -such as i- mumble
gazing into the mysteries of her smile
were dark waters tumble down granite mountains
& the perfect dream is offered in her touch

Darkness is an avenue:
we with limp legs & no headlights
stumbling upon the bones of gods
that have no documentation -
gods none the less

& the concept that pain is a legitimate measure of worth
is a holy decree i try not to believe

dissidents -such as i - weep
gazing into the myseries of her eyes
where dark waters tumble down granite mountains
& the perfect dream is offered in her touch

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

updates on the round brown world of kraft liner

another poem only published in Post Amerika. small presses deserve any support you can offer.

on a couple of days off here. still trying to learn a few basic differences between Vista and XP, though for the most part, think the new computer is working out OK.

now that the new contract is in effect (and retro-active to last March), the big concern about the mill is the potential (prfe-destined?) change in ownership. 4 possible buyers are out there at the present, and will start to make the rounds of the various mills late this month and early next month (when our little piece of paradise will be evaluated). that has tons of implications, some good - some not so good, some potentially disastrous and some potentially great. As with everything, it waits to be seen. Anyway - so much for updates on the universe.

now, back to the poetry:


frost on the fog
i face the apparition

my heart is the breeze
broken by the obsidian rock
of that place

where the mountain stumbled
into the aqua-grey of the sea

i face the apparition
of what i was supposed to be
battered & perfect bastard

kelp on the black waters
broken boats moored as promises to be kept
broken boats nothing more
than scrap iron to be disassembled

there is no god i tell the mists
other than that which is truth
there is no truth the frozen fog replies
other than that which is holy

mumbling seals in the dark surf
howl with delight at our discourse
they too waiting for godot
even if they did not know

Thursday, September 13, 2007

new computer blues - sorta

another poem only published in Post Amerika. again - support those small presses, if you can.

got a new PC last week ... sorta on a whim, running Vista, and let's say the transition has been less than smooth, partly because of a bone-head move on my part (transfering files from "D" drive .... don't do that ... well, the software sorta did it for me, and i didn't pay attention to some details) and some spotty documentation didn't help either... well, got the essentials running finally, and am now using the NEW PC, but still have a lot of programs and files to move in the near future.

anyway, that's the reason for no updates so far on these rare days off .... i have tomorrow off, then back to ye-olde-salt mines, inc.


1 in my superman underwear i confront the gods of disorder
2 tell them it is the dawning of the new age of reason
3 they resist & beat me with fists of kryptonite
4 i stumble out of the temple of darkness
5 & search the cupboards for my wheaties
6 certain they will bring back my courage
7 open the frayed box only to find it (as my life) is full of flakes

Friday, September 7, 2007

back into the zombie week

news flash: contract passed with 85% yes-sir votes ... wonder how many actual votes they had. not that it mattered. no idea as of now when it goes into effect, or when we'll get a new contract book. Only took them 5 years last time ....

back on night shift starting tonight .... so no updates for a bit, as i stroll into what is known here as "the zombie week" ...

another from 1992, published in Muse Of Fire in 1997, another small magazine venue. support them small presses folks. they need and deserve it, really.


i spent five days writing a letter
tore my soul into syllables
& offered them as scripture
five days & ten pages
before the fog & ice
shivering - examining the texture
tore my soul into syllables
& placed it all in the fires of refusal

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

prose poem and contract chatter

another poem only published in 1998 - Post Amerika. a prose poem. it seems i have been sharing poems from the 92-98 time period .... when i first began soliciting poems. it was also one of my most prolific periods, as well as a time when i began to define the type of voice i have used since then...

here's a hint for future tests: support small presses if at all possible.

update: visited with "Bruce" last evening and discussed (among other things) the contract proposal. Since you had to be present and sign in to get a data sheet (and i wasn't there), he let me borrow his to look over. Contract isn't all that exciting, and really not all that different, except for they now have testing for jobs in the contract (though it's been sort of in practice for a while) and start times have changed to an hour earlier, when in practice most people started their shift anyway. A few other changes in insurance and language ... but nothing earth shattering i could see at first glance. 7 year contract with no raises in two of the years (this being one of the years).... and it's just not quite long enough for me to be able to retire under this contract. So i'll have to wait and see what happens after 7 years .... and i see no reason it won't pass, though officially the votes can't be tallied until after tonight.


forget that i have stood before the wind. forget that it was my bones that broke the earth for your pretty garden. let the radishes grow for your salads forever. & i will be there, part of the opened earth that you carelessly walk upon.

forget that i have opened doors to the mountains. the rivers will off gold & nickel. forget that my bones were used to harness the troubled waters as you dip your toes & sip the crystal was if it champagne.

forget that i have frozen upon glaciated passes. forget that i have fallen into foaming rivers that gnaw at the very root of mountains. i will be in the warm air of your electrical furnaces. i will be in the laughter of intoxicated company.

forget that i have learned the language of depression, that i have learned the songs of desperation. forget that i have learned the chatter of wildflowers & the song of the eagle, that i have spoken with the gods of the wind & stone. i will be there in your books gathering dust. i will be there in the schools, in the museums. & i will be in the eyes of the children you do not even recognize.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

a poem for BJS

another poem only published in a small 'zine - this one 1998 - the 'zine - Post Amerika. the indentations are the result of my inability to format (and space) correctly in this blog ... but you get the idea, i hope. and the mantra is? Oh come on - it's support small presses if you can. (there won't be a test on the subject today, but who knows about tomorrow ...

voting on the new work contract is today and tomorrow .... it'll pass i am certain, as no one is willing to go on strike as in 2001 and suffer the possible consequences, which could be a complete mill closure. understanding my high regard of former union officials (and the union in general) it's a fair gamble i may miss attending informational sessions at the sacred hall. but to be fair, my regard for the management isn't too much higher ....


glacier cut valley
osprey on an occluded updraft
the sound of gold in your pocket
you are the laughter
the laughter i hear
in the aching of bones
the smell of morning glory
& alabaster rivers shouting
down the face of ancient mountains
certain to be worn away
you are the laughter
the laughter i feel
in the aching of bones

Monday, September 3, 2007

still alive n kickin

today's poem was published in June 1997 - by Studio One, another small press 'zine. again - support those small presses in any way you can. the poem is much older than '97, written in the 80's sometime, but can't recall when anymore.

some updates - just finished a lovely 11 out of 12 day/night run at the olde papermill ... burnt out and tired ... and they weren't exactly the best days - production wise. LOADS of problems, but in a couple of weeks we have a major outage, where lots of repair work is scheduled, so maybe the machine will run better (and oh joy - faster!).

and we have a contract offer. very strange that no union official will talk about it at all. it is required to go to the union hall on one of two days this week (Tuesday and Wednesday) and hear the Union Rep that negotiated the deal before we even get informational packets. i have no doubt the package will be to accepted, based on the fiasco of the last 6+ years after the last negotiations and strike of 2001. so, as of now, all we know is we have an offer .... absolutely no details. swell.

anyway - onto some old poetry ....


Lazerus i whispered Lazerus it is time.
His eyes were hard, cold as stone.
His flesh was hard and smelled of death.
Lazerus i whispered Lazerus, Jesus is here.
There was no pulse.
There was no breath.
He looked impatient.
Well, is he coming around or not, he asked.
i looked at Jesus and said
It doesn't look like it.
Lazerus i whispered Lazerus.
Jesus looked at his hands.
I don't understand it he whispered
It worked last time
and he walked off into a fog of doubt.