Author: poetryfest

This morning I looked at the photo book filled
With pictures of Indian Massacre sites and treaty signings again.
While I looked at the photos of places where
Indians used to live, I ate a bowl of vanilla custard.
The custard tasted good.
Though, it tasted like it shouldn’t be here.
The sweet cream, it tasted like
None of this, none of us
Should be here.
It tasted like the marrow of the Pontiacs.
It tasted like Metacomets head on a pike
At the gates of Plymouth
For a quarter of a century.
It tasted like sable hair that changed dirty blonde
So we could hide.
It tasted like keeping the mother tongue a secret.
The custard tasted like
Battles that can only be won from the outskirts of heaven
And from shitters in the worst junkyards of hell.
The custard tasted like the keeper of the plains
And how it’s just bit of art to look at
But not an altar to bow to
And recall the lives we lived then
Shouting in our dreams and forgetting
Waċiƞ yaƞpi, Waċiƞ yaƞpi, Waċiƞ yaƞpi
Otoka’he! Ho-Kah’He’!
God the Custerd tasted like basketball courts In Creek graveyards
In Alabama so the Ghosts might keep playing.
It tasted like living on despite the dying of the
Memory of all the death.
It tasted, The custer’d, like speaking in tongues,
Sounding of Demons to the priest and,
Sounding of sages to our children left.
But I sat there with a smile
Swishing that goddamn custer’d in my teeth
Knowing that sweetness is born
Of all the dried up tears and voices that echo
Without any lips
If we listen to the dirt
Knowing that
It will in fact
Whisper—
Just
After.

Drums always constantly underlie.
Creating tension building high,
Never ceasing for a second.
Centre stage all seven planets:

They stop and start and stop again, repeating.
Steady, soothing sounds slowly buliding;
Grandeur forged on the back of brass
Trumpets summoning the climax en masse

Tension steered and subjugated
By a single ostinato
Slowly expanding, landing the movement.
Triplet doublet Five Four
On edge, –
forever wanting more.

Strings in a golden triangle strummed
Creating a soft silky-smooth like sound.
Always staying in the background.
Brass, burst fanfares: a stream of bars fly.

The scramble to notes bows flying.
Bassoons with Cellos make bass.
The basis to all piece and pace.
Drums hammering home the order.
March —

The audience clap and confirm
They rise, conductor stick in hand she turns,
The first of Holst’s planets.
Mars, the bringer of war

The weight of it all
is crushing me.

Like a boulder,
I’m hoisting
over my broad shoulders.

Bending my back,
burning up my arms,
collapsing me like a foldable picnic table.
Scratches coating my neck.
Being forced to my knees
that are touching my shoulders.

Getting crushed,
from the weight of it all.

My face is beet red.
My hair, untameable.
My feet are sliding on the ground,
kicking up dirt and rocks
into my face,
my vision.

My lungs are collapsing
inhaling the dust.
My head is resting on my knees.

The weight of it all
is crushing me!

I wish I was strong enough!
Strong enough to lift this boulder
off of my shoulders.

Useless! Why am I not strong enough?
To simply bend my elbows and lift the rock
up into the sky
and place it down.

To get to breathe
like I needed permission.

Released,
from the weight of it all.

If only I was strong enough,
I wouldn’t be getting crushed.

My face is wet,
Dripping and inflamed.
From the sweat, from the pain, from the tears,
from the heat of the fears, from the pile of this mess
That was never mine, but now it’s my crime.
All of the blood that’s been drawn,

I can’t be saved from the weight of it all.

I’m afraid it’s gonna win.
It’s gonna beat me,

and beat me, and beat me.
Until I’m only in the breeze.
Until I’m only what the animals feed on.

Why can’t I be bold enough
to tell the world not to touch me.

Why can’t I be fierce enough,
brave enough,
to force the boulder to roll down my back.

To free me.
To get to rest.

I deserve to rest.
I can’t rest.
I have a boulder on my back.

The weight of it all on my back.
Twisting my arms, grasping so tightly.
Paining my neck, trying to watch it
all happen.
Wobbly legs, loss of balance,
breath.

It’s crushing me!
The weight of all of it.

Maybe if i was in a sturdier position
I could get a better grip on the boulder.
If my feet were securely placed.
If I had the time to do this right.

Who am I doing this for?
Enduring this for?
Hurting and sore.

Is it for me?
That just can’t be.
If it were up to me,
this wouldn’t be.

The weight of it all
is crushing me.

he’s in show business,
shrew business,
buy-concrete-shoe business —
give him the ol’ college boot!
show him the door,
right through the floor,
give him what for!
the ol’ hook for an ol’ crook.
tootle-oo, caribou!
what a hoot.
reality? reel this!
feel this!
no, he can’t be
the unscripted master,
the best boy
and the beast boy
of the country, too.
doesn’t he have a job already?
maybe he needs something more steady,
day work, voiceover,
sag clauses,
common causes, all over,
with promise of an oscar-do.
(he can quit/be fired from his day employment.
that would provide most enjoyment. an “r” rating.)
watergating waterloo.
oh what to do?
ask caroline.
she’d be just fine
with a key grip
on this psycho-drama-flipgyp.
this slough of despond business,
slew business,
caribou-enemy stew business,
full of slow sorrow,
matinee and no tomorrow,
angel investment zero,
no hero, only anti-, villain, loser,
with low crow dough
and owe foe abuser,
byblow, outthrow, mudflow,
non-amuser, electro, jocko,
basto, clownmo, solo
shadow, chumo,
minnow, hollow, bunko,
crappo, schmo, faucet d’eau,
all show and must go,
repo, we po,
he life show-stripper
and stopper big whopper.

This AIR, the DEBRIS, as it falls over me –
Is it healthy – or will I retard?
Turbine-engines screeching blast deafens my words of:
“I love you, too,” as you walk past –
and couldn’t hear me.

Everyone above is going somewhere and we are below;
Gagging upon their destination’s dreams.

If only you could hear me when I’m telling you/saying,
(whistles…) – Blasted engine has prevented: you from hearing my words that “I
Love You, too.”

So let’s do this: we will meet at the rendezvous.
I’ll wear something gold. You will just be you.
And before you know it, the distance between us will be much closer.

I find myself attached to a woman in the most peculiar way. I love her, but she’s a fractal scar of a person. She’s been struck by life, but who hasn’t. There’s a quietness I love about her – sheepish to show me what she likes; what music makes her soul breathe, what hobbies make her days feel more fresh.

I like how she makes a bad week into a perfect day, and I like how her by my side is like time standing still; honey in the air.

She drives me mad, but I keep running back to her everytime we argue. When we work together…we work together. I need her and I hope she needs me.

You do things for love that feel unnatural. Money gets spent, trips are traveled, and you don’t know yourself from the man you were first meeting her.

There’s diamonds and there’s rough, and she has a lot of dirt on her…but I don’t mind cleaning.

I love how she feels in my mind, but when we’re silent with one another it’s like a tumor; swelling and cracking my skull. I need her to be a part of my station; she’s the only frequency I want to hear.

The air is warm when she’s near. Not snow, sleet or rain could make me feel differently.

I want a coat made out of her voice. I want to put her smile in my pocket.

We break up and make up and now we’re just…two hearts in limbo.

I gave her all I could, but I’ll scrape the bottom of the barrel for more. I can pull my hair out over you but I’m not tired, and it always grows back.

I love you like I can’t explain. You’re mine, like blood in my body.

I hope I don’t say things in vain, because we’re cogs. We’re designed the same.

I want you to see what I see, and not run away. Every push feels like my soul is being punched.

I need you to heal yourself, so I can be yours.

I do my part, clean shaven and law abiding. The world is scary and I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m trying. I try everyday to keep calm, but you make my emotions curse themselves.

You’re torrential…but you cool me down.

You’re mine. I want you even if it all seems pitch black.

You can be cold, but even a single match can draw heat for two.

Be mine, and open the door for my eternal waiting. A rose sits in my pocket even if I am just bones now.

…nevermind…I realised my own worth.

I read it in a book,
Where we took a road trip and I
Didn’t go to school,
I was young, and daisy-fresh,
And you were not.
I was 14 and you were not.

It comes back to me in waves,
One day I’ll be in class and I’ll remember.
One day I’ll be at work and then I’ll remember.
How your hands felt,
Dark and bruised like a butcher,
You were used to tearing meat apart,
And you sure didn’t spare me,

I used to think of myself like a lamb in this allegory but
Now I know I was never that pure, that special,
I was complicit in your carnage,
Snarled my teeth with you,
Play fighting gone wrong and then
I said Stop and I said stop and I said stop and
I’ll never forgive myself for what you did to me.

the nine daughters of Zeus
who inspired Homer and Aesop
traveled from the shores of the Mediterranean
to the beaches of Malibu
to cast their screenplays to the ethos
in Hollywood.

but now, the Muses
trapped in the Getty Villa
between the rolling Pacific Palisades fire
and the pocket of the offshore wave
ponder their fates.

The smoldering brimstone
rises from Hades
consuming the city of Angels
with an appetite
of Vesuvius consuming Pompeii.

When dreams turn to stone,
the weight of slow revelation presses like iron chains,
dragging you into the marrow of loss,
where even your blood tastes of rust—
bitter, metallic, a hero blind to his own wounds.

You mourn yesterday like a ghost trapped in cracked mirrors,
splintering bones that were already broken.
A fractured heart wanders through hollow corridors,
seeking a home that time has long abandoned.

Hopeless hopes hang heavier
than the sighs of days, months, and years
collapsing like tired stars into the abyss.

You wish you had poured love
into hands that turned to dust,
left fingerprints on those now faded into silence.
Perhaps the only dream worth dreaming
is the one where the world still does not know your name—
and yet, you are still breathing.

The star, once the keeper of your whispered wishes,
flickers, wavers, pleads—
“I don’t want to die.”

If I was blue, I’d dive into the ocean,
Let the waves pull me under, lost in their motion.
If I still had you, I’d dive into your arms,
Safe from the storm, sheltered from harm.

If I wasn’t blue, I’d find the right words,
But silence is heavy, and truth goes unheard.
If you only knew how I reach for the past,
But time moves too quickly, nothing can last.

If I was blue, well, I’m already blue,
Drowning in echoes of things we once shared.
If I were you, would I fade like the tide?
Would I let go, or would I still fight?

If I was blue, I’d call out your name,
But maybe to you, I’m just part of the rain.
If I were you, I’d probably forget me too,
Like footprints in water, gone out of view.

If I was grey, I’d linger at dusk,
Caught in the quiet where memories rust.
Not black, not white, just lost in between,
A shade of the moments that never have been.

If I was grey, I’d drift with the mist,
Soft as a whisper, too faint to resist.
Not cold, not warm, just fading away,
A ghost of the words we forgot how to say.

If I was grey, would you notice at all?
Or am I the shadow that clings to the wall?
Not here, not gone, just waiting to be,
A whisper of color you no longer see.

If I was grey, I’d blend with the sky,
Holding the storms that you left behind.
Not rain, not shine, just longing to stay,
But maybe I’ve always been fading to grey.

If I was black, I’d swallow the light,
Fold into silence, vanish from sight.
Not day, not night, just empty and vast,
A place where the echoes of love never last.

If I was black, I’d drift with the void,
A space where the heartache can’t be destroyed.
Not soft, not sharp, just endlessly deep,
A chasm where all of the lost secrets sleep.

If I was black, would you feel me at all?
A shadow behind you, too distant to call.
Not here, not gone, just pulling you in,
A whisper of absence that chills on the skin.

If I was black, I’d be the last page,
The ink that bleeds, the end of the stage.
Not love, not hate, just all that remains,
A silent heart where echoes remain.