Now shall I make my soul dance,
stir it to twisting delirium,
this wreck of a body I’ll lift
on high.
A violent luck and embellished instruction
to no more quaint suffering
than a bowl of soup
for strained throat which howled at life
like a mutt chasing cars.
Though our bones mingle,
and my fingers quake,
this is how I shall make my soul
dance
and preach furious chance—
even on Saturdays,
even when god sleeps,
even when the sun dies.
That’s when I shall make my soul dance.
–Chris
Five black lashes
on a face lapped by rivers;
Hands that have coupled in prayer
and held sin as acorns.
Flowers grow in the most foolish soil,
under windows shuttered like dead
lungs.
Five black lashes
on a face bitter to logic,
tap-danced to dull marble.
–Chris
“How did the operation go?
Were they able to reconnect
your carburetor and replace your
spark plugs?
And what about that lump you found
in your glove compartment?
Was that as benign as the feelings
about your last mechanic?
You know I try to keep up with the intricacies
of your oil changes and birth control
techniques,
but sometimes I get too caught up
in my favorite T.V. shows.
Do you think they’ll ever turn
reality programming into true horror
snuff films?
Just last night I saw a condom commercial
followed by a tampon commercial
followed by a car commercial
and I found myself unable to tell the difference.
I think we have discussed where I stand on this,
but do you think there is anything
beyond blood, semen, and motor oil?”
–Chris
Declined to their own rubric,
overreaching, overriding, reclining
in no-brainers,
joint-strike borders;
divining biblical no-fly zones
wrong-headed.
Oppressed by philosophical incest
and snacking on corn syrup passages
of annexed text
As leaves fall,
temperatures lower,
belly fat is increased:
padding for pudding.
Democratic credentials
turned obsolete
by evangelicals in Idaho,
in Wyoming, North Dakota,
with bubblegum brains and licorice fingers,
thumbing noses out of habit,
beating breasts like rabid baboons;
red asses raised like flags.
Sometimes life is an exhibition game
played by blind quarterbacks,
and millions of birds suicide bomb
the ocean playing field of Boise State
or the dusty floor of Palestine.
But after all: trust not your feelings,
trust only what is thought for you
by used car salesmen posing
as god’s henchmen,
selling eight passenger yaks
or cardboard Silverados:
high-ho, indeed!
Remember when John Wayne ethnic-cleansed
the crusty Injuns,
and hold aloft your touchdown
paws.
–Chris
My house is an ellipse–
a home without an edge.
I’m keen to bark at my girl’s heels,
lick her kneeballs,
cradle her love ladle…
whatever the case may be.
Chicken scrap dinner table barters
if I’m a good boy.
Or I thumb through her underpants catalogue
where sex is sold solidly two dimensional
and comes with a free tote bag.
Internal rhyme is a crime of fashion,
taken out of context like a hairpiece,
a hex-feast of grab bag vernacular
rotting in my brain.
I’m bored of curves and wet crevices;
I’m tired of weddings,
of funerals,
of funnel cakes,
of crock pot beef,
and of caring about fleece sales
and programming the T.V.
to record feats of anorexic
daring-do:
collagen collages in high def.
(Definitely no more absolutes)
Tired of underused basement stairs
and credit card bills,
always credit card bills.
I don’t dream of colonized children
hanging from my limbs like Spanish moss.
I’m putting her heart in a bag
and hailing a cab from the front porch.
–Chris
Tell me why it is we don’t lift our voices these days
And cry over what is happening. Have you noticed
The plans are made for Iraq and the ice cap is melting?I say to myself: “Go on, cry. What’s the sense
Of being an adult and having no voice? Cry out!
See who will answer! This is Call and Answer!”We will have to call especially loud to reach
Our angels, who are hard of hearing; they are hiding
In the jugs of silence filled during our wars.Have we agreed to so many wars that we can’t
Escape from silence? If we don’t lift our voices, we allow
Others (who are ourselves) to rob the house.How come we’ve listened to the great criers—Neruda,
Akhmatova, Thoreau, Frederick Douglass—and now
We’re silent as sparrows in the little bushes?Some masters say our life lasts only seven days.
Where are we in the week? Is it Thursday yet?
Hurry, cry now! Soon Sunday night will come.
-Robert Bly
[August 2002]
Image: Ugly Smile
Recipe For Happiness In Khabarovsk Or Anyplace
One grand boulevard with trees
with one grand café in sun
with strong black coffee in very small cups
One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you
One fine day
-Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Here’s a yummy dance tune that I suggest listening to when the sun is down:
From Shot Callin’
Silence in Architecture
Silence in Architecture 