quick update on a Tuesday

another poem from the 1987-1989 era - unsoliticted, unpublished.

again - formatting - centered lines are really just indentations in the original. i suppose i should look into that issue and see if there isn't a simple fix, but this works - and well, it works for now anyway.




NEARLY 20 DEGREES

1
footprints in the sand
emeralds in the surf

Hebe incarnate

to query your heart
i send rockets through the voids
to incinerate

inevitably

mine has all the documentation
you could possibly digest
pavilions in disarray
dreams that soar
for the delicateness of your voice

i am forever
yours

2
tonight it is nearly 20 degrees here
and snow is in the forecast again
there the gulf stream runs through your hair
and the laughter of bottle-nosed dolphins is at your disposal
i suppose you missed my dreams upon your dresser as if decrees from the pontiff demanding penitence for misdirected attention

tonight it is nearly 20 degrees here
and snow is in the forecast once again
there the bay glistens in the slanted sunlight as irish crystal upon your dressing table
and the scent of tropical flowers fills your lungs as an intoxicant
i suppose you have disposed of my aching pleasing poems into drawers full of garments of a former self relegated to haunting dreams and memories that no longer have meaning

2nd post today

a poem about inspiration, or the Muse, or whatever that thing is that gets the imagination in gear. Unpulsihed, unsolicited, in no manuscript, from 1987-1989 time frame. i have literally thousands of poems that i have written over the years, on my shelves - only in typed form - most of which no one has ever seen or read. i intend to share some in this blog. it just means i need time to type (and i will only slightly edit, if at all) and get them into an electronic form ....



THE POET: CONCERNING INSPIRATION

the beer is hot and
flat the sky is sultry and
all the poems i held in
the palm of my hand just
minutes ago are missing

a monday update fer ya'all

Monday update - a day off, and i'll be working on a few poems to add at a later time ...

another poem, published by the small press magazine Struggle, out of Detroit i think, that has not been included in any manuscripts. again, the centering is simply an indentation in the original formatting.... again, support them there small presses!!!



PRIESTS POLITICIANS AND PIMPS

- theyre all pushers
in the name of
one goddamned artifact or another

- all selling some
rat trap or another
as paradise with a framework

of their own greed
- all selling the same commodity
even though appearances vary

: and even if you could wash away your sins
who would want to
in a country as marvelous as this

a couple of days off ...

received a nice comment yesterday from a reader that just stumbled onto this blog ... welcome and thanks to everyone for reading and commenting.

got a couple of days off now, before a rash of overtime at the papermill .... so hopefully a couple of updates will follow.

todays poem was published in Sulphur River Literary Review - their Spring 1998 issue. Another small press that keeps the essence of modern poetry alive. the poem was never included in any manuscript or book. Again, if at all possible, support small presses and their publications.


TOMORROW THE SUN WILL SLICE

will you hold me
as if i were damion
fresh from the lepars
will you drink my blood
knowing it could be magic
in the veins of true believers

tomorrow the sun will slice between heavy rain clouds
rainbows will appear
and pine siskins will chatter beneath the nandinas

tomorrow the sun will slice between heavy rain clouds
the wind will be soft and damp
and life will appear as if on a post card

tomorrow the sun will slice between heavy rain clouds
i will empty the bitterness of amber bottles into my veins
and life will merely be penitence served for the sins of living

will you hold me
as if i were christ
fresh off the cross
will you drink my blood
knowing it could be magic
in the veins of true believers

is there anybody out there?

before getting back to poems accepted by small presses, but not published in any book - here is another from Proverbs For The Initiated - (c) 1999 Cedar Hills Publications. Another mill poem, which has become the core of my background after graduating from Cal-State Stanislaus.

is there anybody out there? most of the numbers on this here counter (to the right) are me making some changes, updates, and viewing the blog to see what they look like. too bad i can't reset it or have it ignore the "poster". guess i could delete it and find another one if the numbers become entirely bogus ...

oh well, i'm headed back to the uncertainty of the paper mill tomorrow (still no contract, still no talks, and still no word on the sale of the paper division, though the mill manager has a meeting scheduled this week with a couple of crews, and i suspect that topic may be brought up ....

anyway- regardling the poems and this blog thingy: comments are accepted. they are lovely, really.


WE WATCHED THE LOG DECK BURN

we watched the log deck burn,
even as we held hoses that were as effective as pissing.
we laughed, even as we took rakes & shovels
to piles of bark, burning as briquettes.
we chased down flaming embers, just like keystone cops.
it did not matter.
the flames were too magnificent for efforts as ours to subdue.
the fire-fighters came, eventually,
with real hoses, real water.
in the end, it was only laughter & comics,
chasing down flaming embers half the night.
the deck, as expected, was severely damaged
but salvageable, just like everything in that damned old mill.

another of the poems accepted

another of the poems accepted by a small press magazine - Half Tones To Jubilee in December of 1995. It never was included in any manuscript. Small presses come and go - but they need support for however long they manage to survive, for they are the very life blood of the arts.

today i added a visitor counter ... but it'll probably be a bit bogus, as it adds a visit each time i go to the page to check for comments or update & view the blog. Oh well, i think it will help me know if anyone else is viewing these pages ....

also worked up a dozen or so more posts to be added from time to time, mostly things that never appeared in any of my books, but not exclusively, and poems accepted by small press magazines, also not in any of my books ... so at least for the time being, this blog will continue.


THE SINS OF AN ENTIRE GENERATION

we washed the sins of an entire generation from our souls in the dark california fog
upon the black rocks of the little sur we memorized the flight pattern of the speckled gull
it was a time for living
we were believers in dreams

we were hawks waiting for wings as we waltzed down the dusty salinas valley lettuce fields
in the ever shadows of the sugar refinery we hunted for secrets that had no formula
it was a time for living
we were inventors of dreams

another unpublished bit of life

another unpublished poem. once in a manuscript Shared Dreams, that was never submitted, and has long been discarded, reworked and/or absorbed by other attempts - i think most of the poems ended up in the Humbly .... or Hobo Dreams, manuscripts, but this was not one of them.
.
union and company announced Thursday they will start talking again in mid-June regarding our lack of a contract - 4 months after the old one expired. And a day before the sale of containerboard division was announced, so the talks may or may not even happen before a possible sale, and who knows what that will bring - stability, closure, or ...... ? stay tuned, boys and girls, and i guess we'll find out together.


THE FATMAN IN THE MIRROR SMILES

the fatman in the mirror smiles
as if he were nearly famous
five poems in print
as if someone really gave a shit

oh the joys of uncertainty and inevibility

this poem was accepted/published by Inevibility Press in July 1995. Another small magazine press - which is the lifeblood of poetry, really. be certain to check the archives, if ya wanna get to some of the other poems i've posted here ... any sort of comments are welcome (and appreciated - it's the only way i know if anyone has read any of this stuff).
.
still no contract at the mill, and now the news that the entire containerboard side of the Weyco is for sale ... who knows if our mill will continue to operate much beyond the immediate future ... oh the joys of corporate America ruled by a whimsy called The Dow Jones ....




UNSHAVEN I TURN THE NIGHT

unshaven i turn the night on an uneven axis
work the dust of industry into garbage bins
that will be certainly empty by morning

the worker i relieve is old
walks with an angry limp
tells me he is god, fallen upon hard times

& god, having lost his national grant, works the swing shift
on a lathe that performs no real miracles
but he collects the shavings
& in the deepest darkness of night he melts them
in a pot as black as despair
molds them into figurines that gather upon a dusty shelf

he tells me when he has amazed a perfect army
(dormant angels, he calls them)
he will free himself from the chains of this slavery
& build himself a perfect paradise in the night skies
beyond the corrupting fingers of this thing called man,
this the worst of all his creations,
man that discovered it all too possible to create (to take) life

unshaven i turn the night into little pieces of dreams
that fly (between the broken castles of industrial giants)
as bats seeking open fields & survival

a post before i head back to night shift

another one from The Fatman In The Mirror (c) 1997 - Pygmy Forest Press (Leonard Cirino, editor and great poet). you should get to know Cirino's work. it is wonderful, diverse, often challenging and uncomfortable - and that in itself makes it worth understanding. But beyond that - it is often brilliant and important. his work is available directly from him. i can pass his address (either postal or email) if you are interested. this will probably be the last post for this week, as i am headed to night shift. i will most likely be in the zombie-mode, which is merely doing essentials and trying to survive.


SPIDER BITES ME

spider bites me & my wrists swells & i dreams
incredible death things or i dies actually
& my death is so unpure
i returns, beaded in sweat, to this hell
until i again be holy sacred

a cluesless Sister Leo

from The Fatman In The Mirror (c) 1997 - Pygmy Forest Press (Leonard Cirino, editor) comes todays poem .... one i wrote after reading Paul Zimmer ... he is a wonderful poet, well worth your time in discovering. This and next update will be from published books. Then, as i mentioned in an earlier post, i will go into some poems published only in small press magazines, before getting back to unsolicitied and unpublished stuff again .... anyway - such is the plan ....



EVEN SISTER LEO HAD NO IDEA

even Sister Leo had no idea how dismal
her dreams of salvation appeared
to the sinners of the world -
we who had come to know tobacco & sex.

she danced, rather poorly, on thin clouds
with angels that appeared to be moths,
rosary in her stubby fingers,
as if a rip chord.

we laughed at her sincerity, almost envious, as we danced in the haze
of warm kisses
& the ambiguous promise of night.

indentations rather than centering

and yet, another completely unsolicited, unedited & unpublished poem, written between 1987-1989. again, some formatting issues - so i've done the best i could within the confines of this blog, by centering what is normally indented. Oh well. i am certain there are greater problems in the world to worry about ....


EQUALIZERS (FOR BJS)

Rings
of perfect diamonds enlayed

in 14k gold

mean nothing ... really
They are symbols
easily discarded
temptations always evident

i have layed my love
the essence of photons
in the wave length of rainbows
and x-rays that penetrate your soul

so:
what are you
weeping for tonight

we each wear the thorny crown of loneliness weeping in our own misery unable to see the obvious alternative

unsolicited, unedited, unpublished

another completely unsolicited, unedited & unpublished poem, written between 1987-1989.
probably no updates for the rest of this week, unless i get an amazingly (and unexpected) easy day at work ... not bloody likely.


CATS FOR CARRIE

Cats that dance
that leap (for the simple enjoyment
of flight) and cry when no one
holds them as thunder rattles
the proverbial tin roof
Cats that smile
with their eyes that
dance (for the sheer
joy) and cry when no one
caresses their beauty ....
..... cats, yes,
they are in your eyes
in your heart
dancing as they do ....

strike one, strike two? and there she goes, another update

another from Humbly, I Offer These Awkward Poems - unpublished manuscript (but it was accepted ... oh yeah, i think i mentioned that once before .... so much for that. can't change the histories.) Anyway, it's baseball season, and well, this one has a reference to a baseball god (Joltin' Joe hisself!!) ... well, baseball is my favorite sport ... and we're still working without a contract at the papermill. all sorts of comparisons to the 2001 season, and the strike that changed my universe ....



3 DOGS OF SUMMER

the three dogs of summer (Sloth,
Lust & a freshly mowed Outfield)
insist DiMaggio is not dead
& Ezra Pound still writes Cantos they will
never understand but continue reading.

there are snakes in the hour glass again
& all the prophecies they tell are lies.

the mirror becomes a doorway.
i still cannot time curve balls
& Ezra does not respond to dinner invitations.
the three dogs of summer remind me
of the wind through platinum hair.

the snakes have comet eyes
& i am afraid
all their prophecies have come to pass.

an outline for future updates

another of my prose poems ... this one has never been solicited (and hey, that means it hasn't been rejected yet either. ha!) in the updates to come, i will be sharing more of these "new" poems, except, they are anywhere from 10-20 years old. i've just never tried to solicit them, or have shown them to anyone. i will most likely mix in some poems from failed manuscripts, and some of the poems published in my books. i also ran across some poems that have been published in small press 'zines, but never included in any manuscripts. i will include some of those at a future time as well. anyway - some of the things that are in the works for future updates.


PROMISES

you take my hand. it is an insignificant event, as the rain falls. the wind misquotes the branches of trees.

i look in your eyes. the world is unchanged as the river dreams of being the perfect mirror, but settles on being the finger of gods who have forgotten what the ocean looks like.

you whisper. the words are unimportant. i hear the sound of rocks growing old, even if unnoticed, unappreciated.

i answer with my fingers. night is the sound of dreams given wings for the first time. tomorrow is a promise i have never accepted. tonight is all i ever understood.

another montage poem, from an unpublished manuscript ...

this is another montage poem ... older posts are no longer showing up on the main page - i guess i've been adding often enough to have a real ARCHIVE!! Whooo-hoo! You can always click on the BLOG ARCHIVE button on the right side of the screen to read these earlier posts. You can leave comments, or email, and i guess you can do the hokey-pokey, if you wanted to ...

todays poem is from an unpublished manuscript - Night Of Hobo Dreams, but it was once in Humbly, ... as well (but hey, that's unpublished too) ... so who knows ... guess the bottom line is, it's unpublished, but one i feel belongs in a collection someday or another ....



ON-LINE RELATIONSHIP
-concept from Brenda Fleet
-after William Doreski

1
she wrote: i am essentially a romantic:
in love with flowers, pastel paints
& the flesh.

i adore wetness - the fog, mist
off the surf, rain or (if you must know)
the way water rolls off my breasts
in the shower.

it is understood i am no longer
a spring flower, rather a garden
that has been untended too long.
if there are dreams in your fingers,
if there is rain in your laughter -
i wait to grow old & romantic together.

2
he answered: i am essentially the rain,
falling straight down, cold - hard -
a January rain that no one enjoys, believing
eventually in the dark ocean.

but, yes, i do have dreams -
rusted & bent slightly out of shape.

there are few things i love
more than the smell of morning in autumn:
dew on lawns in need of mowing,
sunlight changing from one undefined color
to the next, half sounds that echo in memories -
all before the alarm clock of Mr. Wonderful Neighbor rings
with the odor of his dandruff shampoo
& his French Vanilla Coffee
& that damned diesel truck of his that needs to be warmed up.

for those who believe growing old is romantic
i send them swollen knees & arthritic fingers
that bend the wrong way, much as sunflowers
after the sun has gone down.

i send them old books of poetry
that no one has bothered to read.

perhaps, it is obvious it is not the romantic
i seek, but the romance.
i do shave in the mornings,
mostly because i find stubble annoying.

3
she responded:
rust is a sign of neglect. maybe what you need
is not a matron, but a mechanic.

water is the source of life. i would never
allow it to be a curse in my life.
while i would agree to send you poetical references
i do not believe you will ever encounter
the ghost of Walt Whitman (the body electric),
not as long as you allow your heart
to dwell in self created cancer wards.

there are red roses in my garden, not one blue one.
they are a symbol of my passion.
the twisted sunflowers you speak of ...
perhaps you are in need of planting new seeds.

hey look, it's a new post, but it's an OLD poem

Hey, look, it's a new post, but an old poem. this poem is unpublished, unaccepted. in fact, it was solicited a couple of times and met with that ever proverbial rejection letter. Oh well, it holds a bit of special memories for me, so here it is for your observation ... don't know if the formatting on the original will come through on this blogger thing ... it sort of did, but not exactly. good enough though, i guess.


I RAN MY HANDS THROUGH HER HAIR

i ran my hands through her hair as if the wind
& when she reached to hold me

i was merely the moaning
through twisted pine

bones of the baleen upon the beach
tourists taking photographs

not even knowing
treasures stood upon igneous rock
just out of their focus

her long hair in the fog
as if an apparition

where ya been, mister?

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. haven't dropped off the face of the planet, not just yet anyway ...
and haven't forgotten the blog, just been busy with other minor things, such as overtime at work, and most of it on night shift, so haven't gotten around to adding anything to this. This afternoon, i not only prepared this update, but also worked on a couple of other things to add in the near future.

i do read ALL the comments, even if i don't respond to them. If you want me to respond (or correspond) leave your email address - or email me - the addy is in my profile.

Here is another poem from the Humbly, I Offer These Awkward Poems - an unpublished collection. Actually it was to be the last poem in the collection, at least in the last edited version i had worked on.


END OF THE WORLD

i do not think Nostradamus
predicted the world would end
quite like this -
Thursday afternoon
with rain
turning to sleet
just before the 4:30 traffic jam
on Belt Line West.

perhaps he knew
beautiful women with intellect
would remain untouched
except by magnificent poets
admired by too few critics.

i doubt
he believed the Devil of the East
was the offspring of Union Officials
& their followers
were to perish carrying coffins
of false promises
spoken without apologies.

for Lori

todays update is from Humbly I Offer These Awkward Poems - unpublished manuscript. it was accepted and - then ... well, life lesson #767, don't count your chickens, i guess. it was written to my sister, Lorraine Gail, who died far too young .... a far greater travesty than not getting a bunch of poems published i suspect.


FOR LORI - version two
-after Czeslaw Milosz

i will put poppy seeds cracked corn,
for the dead,
who will return as birds
may be nourished.

but the thistle seed
in the old china cup
from grandmother's hutch
i saved for you,
redwing blackbird, gone
before the sky knew your song.

charming the apostles

another poem from Poetry of the Deformed (c) 1996 - Pygmy Forest Press. this book, my first, has a certain charm for me (as well as naivety) - while it is hardly my best work over all, it still does give an essence of my approach and vision to/of poetry.



CHARMING THE APOSTLES

the phone tells me
my carpets are dirtier than my soul
the poor will accept the clothes in my closet
as well as appliances i never learned to use properly

donations: money, materials -
it will purify the heart better than confessions
the greater the amount, the more intense the
purification

endangered species, rainforests
even the condemned
all on the balance of my dollars:
as if i were chosen by jesus himself

after the great strike of 2001 - let's say life changed significantly

after the strike of 2001, and the lay-offs that followed, along with a few other personal catastrophes, i quit writing poetry all together - except for a few (rather poor) personal rants about the strike and some of the dialog that was proven to be less than true. this short fragment-piece was the first thing i wrote (after about 3 years) that was more in a poetic vein. very few real poems have followed, but maybe in the future .... this blog is my sort of attempt to get back in a writers frame of mind. we shall see if it succeeds.

TOME

it is a fallacy the dead speak
of dust & time & the sound
of horses on cobblestone roads no longer in existence....