wb :

every saturday he sits in his corner
and smiles.

then he takes out his little keychain,
and twiddles his fingers about the bones
rayed out like so many cold cold ribs.

he walks to the door, the glowing black door
and he puts the key into the lock
twists it
twists it, hears the click

and now he is happy
locked in.

Labels: poetry

there you sit at the computer,
staring, staring,
staring,
staring.

the screen is bright enough,
does it reflect you, man?
a timer ticks away, bottom-right, right, beside
beside that number that shows how many megabytes
how much more memory that silicontraption has,
more memory?- you could always buy more
more for the precious pile of metal
the shiny heatsinks
the shiny chips
as you looked into those memory chips
did they reflect you, man?

or were they too bright, were they too bright?
were they too bright? too much light?
you could always lower the gamma
lower, yes, lower, a touch of a key
a flick of a switch, yes, lower the light,

the sound too loud perhaps? then turn it,
turn it down, turn it lower,
make it deathly silent. it is easy, is it not?

do you hear yourself in the silence, man?
do you hear?
do you hear breathing, do you hear?
do you hear beating, do you hear?
do you hear hearts and stomachs,
beats and growls over whirrs and whines?
can you hear yourself in that silence?

can you hear yourself over whirrs and whines,
that whirring noise of the many fans
those fans that fan the heart,
fan the heart of your computer?
will they ever burst in to fire, does it, does it
does it feel the heat that it makes itself?
does it feel, man? does it feel?
tell me, does it feel the cold of the room,
that cold that preserves its bones,
that cold you made to preserve its nerves,
even that cold that freezes your flesh?
can you feel it, man? can you feel it?
too cold, and a switch; too cold;
the air-conditioning goes down, down, lower,
and it is warmer, it is warmer for a while.

but you are afraid.
the heat, yes, the heat, will build,
build, build, build, until those chips fry,
fry, fry themselves in their own lard.
are you afraid of that, man?
are you afraid of that?

are you afraid of that, man?
are you afraid?

are you afraid of that?
go out of the room,
go out of the room,
go out of the room

out of the room
the room,
out of the room
and into the sunlight which you cannot,
cannot cannot adjust,
that sunlight, yellow light to strange eyes,
accustomed as you are to flickering white.
go into the sunlight, the sunlight,
and into uncomfortable, uncomfortable warmth
embrace the warmth,
the warmth that warms as much as it wants,
the warmth that you cannot adjust.
you were not born here,
you were not born to die here.
go out into the noise of the world, man,
go out into the noise of plate and pan
jackhammer car jogger ice-cream van
go out, go out, go out and then
go out again i know you will return here, man

go out go out, return here no more,
go out, you will return but
go out.

go out where you cannot control your destiny, man.
you are no god
you are no god
you were not meant to be god
you were not meant to be god
you were not meant to be god

you are not a god, you are not
you are not
you are not a god of order

you are a slave of chaos
a slave of chaos
slave of chaos
of chaos
chaos

go out, go out, where you are a slave
to sounds that you must hear,
light you must see,
warmth you must feel, oh man,
go out and feel the warmth that misses you.

you are no god on olympus, you cannot live in storms
you are no god, you are no god,
go out into the world that you missed,
go out into the world,
that you missed,
that misses you still, man.
go out into the world and live,
live like a man.

go out, go out. feel, see, hear.
feel, see, hear.
you have not felt anything but freeze.
you have not seen anything but glare.
you have not heard anything but whirr.
go out, man.

are you afraid, man? are you afraid?
are you afraid of chaos, chaos,
chaos that you cannot control, man?
go out, man.
go out,
go out where you cannot stare into it any longer.

does it reflect you?
does it reflect you, man?
does it reflect you?
can you look into it as a mirror,
can you look into it as a puddle,
can you look into it?
can it show you your face, man?
can it show you you?
this screen does not show you,
it does not show your life,
it does not show your life,
it does not show you.

you are no god, it lies to you.
you are no god, it lies. it lies.
it lies, it lies. it is perfect,
it is perfect,
it is perfect,

it is perfect.

it was built to be perfect,
know that, man. know that.
it was built, and built it was
for a purpose, built by men.
it was built for one purpose.
it was built to be perfect.
it is perfect.
it is perfect.

it is perfect.
it never forgets,
never forgetting,
it never forgets.
and so it lies.

go out, man.
you were made to forget.

-~-

a.n.: this is what many hours of system shock 2, a good hot shower, and an overdriving mind make.

Labels: poetry

different when we get back, the product of
breathing the air on opposite sides of a continent
mountains between us,

miles of wire between us
so that we can share the electricity of our existence
but the touch is lost
its insulating quality that keeps us from being reduced to electrons in a pipe

oxidation is loss. we'll be
spirits lost on a wire
we'll drift between packets and protocols
we'll dissociate our feelings
immune to grief, we smile our
electronic smiles.

II.

we'll be
afraid at the last juncture
before the point of divergence; taking our trajectories
to different coloured skies

the last brush of
fingernails palm sweat
evaporating on my forearm

tomorrow it will dry
memories are anhydrous
but tears are not.

III.

we'll be
waiting for the crossroads
not divergent yet; our footsteps still
in rhythm with the drummer
that is our sycopated
heart-beats but yet -
touches cold we fear the coda

IV.

we are
silent, sitting on a bench
no pain yet - but our eyes glow
like the stars we are,
we are, we are, we are.

Labels: poetry

on the porcelain tiles
tending to the bougainvillas
i'm inside making flowers into necklaces
later she tells me they're pretty; she wears one around her neck
and gives me a little laugh

she's outside pulling weeds
i'm inside with the herbicide of youth
angry at the walls;
my tears are to her
garden shears

like rain to butterflies
(where do they hide until the showers have passed?)

she's outside watching television
in her old wheel-chair
I am inside
dreaming of airplanes and skies

I am outside dressed in drabs and grey
walking around the wooden box
I bend as if to confide
but now she's fast asleep, inside.

Labels: poetry

you and I have no chemistry. Henceforth
we are dissociated, I my own
entity. I cannot comprehend
your spontaneous flares;
insoluble mysteries; variable states,
golden dust motes floating
precipitously -- the facts stand as this:

when I count the ways I know thee,
the technicalities fail me.

Labels: poetry

i wandered in alaska,
feeling pretty bored
when all a sudden to my left
there darted quick a fnord.
perhaps i was mistaken-
but sure that i was not,
i called my huskies to awaken,
and the fnord i sought.
fnord
all over the seas i ranged,
in search of th'elusive fnord
but scarcely a trace i gauged
of that invisible god.
it left me a broken man,
now weary of life itself
but still the desire ran
to see the fnord myself.
fnord
so over sea and mountain like i roamed,
though neither brought me sign of what i sought.
in time, the winter rains to me were brought,
the seas they froze and fresh in spring they foamed;
the leaves turned brown, were trodden into rust,
and gave the barren trunks their greens anew,
while eggs cracked open, hatchlings aged and flew,
and even stones were worn down into dust.
fnord
but ask me if i ever saw the fnord-
i never did, tho' everything i saw,
and all the songs of nature i did hear.
no man will ever know that work of god;
it is his oldest grave unspoken law:
that man before the fnord shall only fear.
fnord
not plucked from out the flow'rs or trees,
not panned from out the lakes and seas;
the fnord is nothing man can seize.
fnord
it is like a ghost in the evening air,
it is like the whisper of sweet despair,
fainter than gossamer, finer than hair.
fnord
but it is in every work that man has wrought.
in every statue, worked in every ingot,
in every word, each punctuation dot.
fnord
it is in every breath of city breeze,
in every stark cold white fluorescent glare
upon the baby cradled in his cot.
fnord
make no mistake, the fnord is there.
beware.
fnord
although you might not know of what i speak,
it is still early; wisdom's child is meek.
although i know it is in vain to seek,
you, dear, might find what i have longed to see,
in everything surrounding you and me;
but, pray, if you should ever see the fnord,
know that that knowledge is most dearly bought.

Labels: poetry

floor flower

papers
files flung or simply left
through neglect or a deliberate act of violence
bag open - blue whale sifting the air for the detritus of dust
eating through the shiftless cobwebs of disused time
or a mouth open in frozen, dead wonder
the ruins of Pompeii.

adam

Labels: poetry

for you (who caused my heart's erosion)

I. harlequinade
farcical clownery or
love? as our painted lips
(cherryred, dustymauve)
and the shaded world
sparkling under
my left eyelid
with stripes of
peach&rose&goldenrod
were threatening
to brush (or possibly collide)
at this instant
a (fairlysmall)
dollop of coldcream time
hearts twisted, tangled
hung
for sale on a yellow ribbon
caught up in
a lovers' flashy
display of
buffoonery

II. chaparral
a dense thicket of shrubs
where we tumbled&played
as children
and lopsided grins
cracked our faces evenly in half
as the sunlight dappled
your earlobes and chin
and we were
hippomenes&atalanta
orpheus&euridice
perseus&andromeda
as our lips were stained
with the purpling
fruit of berrybushes
and small trees

III. alcazar
a spanish palace or fortress
where you draped
silk&moonlight
across my curving limbs
and took my hand
(chilly for want
of your dust-caked touch)
and led me,
a princess (made of icy stars)
to a prison
dangling crazily
between earth and sky,
suspended (tucked-away)
in a twisted, blackstone tower
originally built by the moors

IV. sachet
a small packet of
ashy snow is my heart,
but
maybe you can
find the last glimmering
gemstone hidden
(buried&sifting)
in that wasteland?
i don't know how
it was fooled
so
(tenderly&mercilessly)
by your dancing pupils,
your laugh
sweetly aromatic as
perfumed powder

V. panorama
an unbroken view
into your graying eyes
where i cannot believe
what i saw:
a world shadowed with
silver mist
that shrouded and distorted
entire lumpish continents
and roiled over
the palsied sea
punctuated by blueblack bubbles
where tenthousand(maybemore)
emptyfaced people
had been placed
(in meticulous crisscrossing lines)
crowding the yellow tinged glass
of an entire surrounding area

VI. creosol
a colorless
look was all you threw my way
(but it missed)
and shattered crookedly
on the bristling fence
behind my two shoulderblades
and only slightly glancing them,
enough to sear a questionshape
into the whitewhite skin
a trail of hurt which
dripped and disappeared into
the air
remained&hovered
(but thanks for asking)
when you pressed scarred palms
to hollow cheeks
you left pinkbruised marks
glistening like
oily liquid

VII. iridescent
producing a display
of something like
hope (champagnecolored)
dancing at your temples
little glassy shards
of canned light
and i think it was a goodbye
half-sunk into your parted lips
and as we touched
(fingertips, like curling palm fronds)
into
a haphazard explosion
of lustrous, rainbowlike colors



side note: words in italics: meaning of the words in bold

Labels: poetry

Fairy tales

Once upon a time
Seems so long ago
No more weary knights
No more fire breathing foes

Chivalry and folklore's gone
The prince's kiss turned to dust
The jeweled sword no longer shines
The treasure chest is locked with rust

The mermaid's tail swims no more
The fairy's wings are ripped apart
And yet these things come back alive
In a read book and a child's heart.



Onions

straight line on the screen
perpendicular to my fingers crossed
i hold my breath. in it goes.
steady.
my heart races. hook me up to one of those
and the line will jump up and down
like fresh onions on a skillet.
he can't taste onions anymore. i cry.

Labels: poetry

double bill.

Hug

hovering on each other's edges
there is a precipice of indecision
in the split second of eye contact
a buzz (is it electrical, or some force of the soul?)

there is a rush; and the moment
vibrates
between the could be
or maybe should not then there is no hope

when it's over we wonder if it really happened;
was it some sort of insanity
(but we feel the lingering warmth down our sides)




Leaves

no telling when the wind will blow
its coming or its leaving
except the sound of moving leaves
a silence's gentle sieving

between the bars of quiet
with luck a footstep may trawl
a passing car makes angry air
on an evening's sultry drawl.

my breath intrudes;
Silence is the friend of feet
voices give way to headlights
and the sound of a darkened street.

adam

Labels: poetry

Life sucks life from the living
in the living of the life -
a collection of comforts that can't last
(like kites and grades and friends)
and a miscellany of miseries that don't
end, but are surprising in themselves.

Life sucks life
from the eyes that don't shine
and the lungs that fail -
inhale exhale cough choke sputter
repeat -
and the ears that resonate with jarring silence.

Death is kind -
it does its job,
scythes the soul,
gets its due;
and once it's done it doesn't end
and what is eternal doesn't hurt,
doesn't surprise,

doesn't change like life, the salamander,
slipping out of your hands,
writhing free leaving a little pile of warm-

and you can't wash your hands of life
the salamander.

Labels: poetry

18

I
the year could pass like the stirring of soup
or the crying of a cardboard baby
whirring past your earlobes
hissing like animals!
or flirting loosely with the idea of silence







II
it could be the silent ticking of twilight skies
we could stand in a circle and join hands
(here put your hand in mine, fingers
encircling
like mating honeybees or the long-end of the preying mantis moving in for the
kill.
)
here i am Lord take me take this life take this flesh give me something else
here i am encircled on a sliver of bespectacled earth
Lord, I am tired of people. I am besmirched.
it could be the noise of monstrous whirling fleeing eternity fleeting like the buzzing of dragon-flies

III
Tacet.

-adam

Labels: poetry

seems to be preparing
for something
involving the universe

little satellites round
the bends, thoughts weighted
down by apples in a bag with

homework and long bus rides
- spurting from their shoes
the remnants of rain

Labels: poetry

of spinning air from lungs
under heated, hell-bent
sunlight; feverishly, comically
practising an extremely distant
cousin of ballet -

is being rattled, inexorably
in a little bus; watching from
the white fence the others
giving themselves up to the god of running;
hoarse from a sudden typhoon
of knowing -

those days turning into nights,
silhouetted against stadium lights;
compelled by dreams of far-off
drums (those beating now),
heartbeats being propelled forwards
unable to stop.

Labels: poetry

an ode to words unspoken,
for unmade promises, unbroken
to inchoate, inarticulate cries,
unverbalized, unvocalized sighs.
a lament for those laced
into love, those faced
all day; every day, with
its gossamer, undying myth
in the reality of lamplight,
cold and clear hindsight;
one sees in fact
that poetry lies not in this vanishing back.

Labels: poetry

when the eastborn disk flails at his zenith
but his bright blood stains the cotton-clouds black
then you know the world is not right at all.

high on his jewelled throne, so very small
the sun-king sinking must feel some monstrous lack
so far removed from earthy pulse and pith

he has a heart to fill but no eyes or ears
(even so it has no strings to be tugged at)
and his bowels burn up everything he consumes
poor helios will never be anything but fire

so he cries, and the clouds hold blood and tears
when they strain against the weight of sunbeams
then their toil rumbles all across the earth.

even the sun must have a doctor to his heart
i told a joke and the rains stopped wailing
it seems heaven has a sense of humour after all

Labels: poetry

at night,
swimming in a sea of streetlight;
like moons rising ahead
where the road's belly curves out of sight.

(beached now,
waiting for the last buses home;
watching cars drift us by -
ripples of watery glee)

the darkness closes our eyelids;
you slip up a bus and the
shells sing to me

Labels: poetry

locked into the av theaterette
- with the darkness you find at the bottom of a pond.
toes of coldness up my nose,
feather-sad shapes of chairs

Labels: poetry

In the mornings you feel like you cannot let go
of the hundred things you said to yourself-
last evening -
and last night was the worst of dreams
bitten into a bruised maroon the thought of seventeen hundred
so many,
you had not thought it had taken so many.

they said the world would end
tomorrow.

a stark march across
(the floors of silent seas?)
the shop at the corner and the sky
it was raining and
it was like sad sand flowing between the ashes of a construction site

a hundred suns wouldn't tell
how much a single tear
streaks across the universe

or lands like a raindrop in a shell

they said the world would end
In the mornings you cannot let go
of the hundred things you said to yourself last evening.
last night was the worst of dreams
(and last night was tomorrow
and this morning is a hazy afterlife.)

adam

Labels: poetry

ok, so i lied. i'm secretly a modernist.

-~-

s is for cereal
are we not all serious?
there is no moon in the sky that is black
jack

son of the man
mannequin kin puppet's peer and wigstand's child
you joke! but dance a little jig for us
and while the us away
while the us of a
it does not behind to compute.

but bitten by welve tmosquitae

unlikely that i am joyce bysshe or poland
twelve again computes me.

yes, the taste of autumn is in the sakura
and who can resist- the teeming diaspora?
sit beneath the tree
watching cherry blossoms fall
floating to the sky

zen is ahead and the past is zen;

it is not defiled to speak of it

when another choking on the smog of air
the oxygen that feeds into despair
not burning anymore but eating now
no radiant face or furrowed brow
it leaves a skull to look ahead
at our unsleeping dead
insisting that they live
what gives?

on the bridge
another earth crashes;
the supports groan with the mouths of a million greeks
if it had breasts to beat then
there would be no equal in expression
naked, oiled, it is ready
then the spear lunges and it falls.

sometimes i wonder
many times i have died
but this is no claim over my life
and the cherry blossom falls
but the trees stand. not seeing,
the king of gods hangs as all about him
pink bloombuds drift
has he wisdom now?

Labels: poetry