The Powerful Still

sound, the silence you make
fury, wind braids through wicked trees
reach and scratch skin red, skin torn
delicious need

dreadful beautiful power
climbing, crescendo, crash
still yet stunning the buffering wind slaps my face
assaults skin red, skin raw
visual slow
trance

my heart pulled into the rip
reaching to tear the tongue
suck my breath
pulse sears through veins
tourniquet, skin red, skin coursing blue
earth shakingly still

your brown eye
and that one too
I am on your raping wind
all of this, and love in the powerful still
of your eyes
skin red, skin new
clean ripe, I am of a vicious heightened view

gods wait on corners

I stand on this corner stringing words together
remembering how they can sound, written and read
reading Audre Lorde

The thick thump of heavy death repeated itself around the corner,
peeking i am perfectly planted to own witness and credit for a grand endeavor,
a striving force completing the wilt and fray of a fire extinguished.

he kicked her stomach, boot to spine till the air came in, eyes glaze and out no more.
still, soft and dead she laid in her own sort of cocktail made of her insides out

when you folded your long narrow body, eight arms and multi purpose intent into a pose of crouch,
in between sirens and the shrieks you could hear the sound of her blood dripping out of her, off her clothes and into the beautiful puddle on the rocky pavement below,
like art she was creating again, regardless of death here she laid, despite herself,
feeding us this hideous, inspiring blood art.

all movement slowed into deep motion, intent,
carrying a purpose to empty,
the blood was the only event, the only importance to consider,
with it i spilled out of myself and into her and the dread, horror and tragedy made a clicking sound of perfection.

nestled close filling her with me, this was my perfect example to give to the history being created that perfect isn't fair and fair is irrelevant.

the pecker quandary

Why do we call cocks, peckers? Is it because they peck at holes like wood birds? It's an undignified concept, for both the cock and the person it's pecking.

And while I'm waxing philosophical, why do we call them cocks? Again the pecking issue? Pecky pocky fuckers? Who has pecking sex? Gimme a shout out.

Dicks and head. Heads, because they are little heads? I've never seen a big head that reminded me of the little head or vise versa. I would be sad for the owner of such a strange looking big head. Head, because men sometimes think with the little head?

And dick, well dick is a good one.

make like dick,
be slick,
not quick.

yes, dick is a fit,
hey, don't get lit,
it's just a sound that rhymes with clit,
sort of..

tremble, small hands, eyes to flutter

Again she is reaching some sort of peak in the story the words of this song are singing. I am aware her voice is drowning me, I cough to make sure. We the audience are witness to a 'situation' and it isn't what we came for. I pull at the cloth of the arms of my chair, bracing against the vibrations her voice send bouncing off the wood, the metal of the theater. I am rubbed, and becoming raw.

Her little hand holding the microphone, shaking to and fro, it's metal mouth open, eating her voice, spilling it out loudly into my head and her eyes are gone. Flutter, my eye lids practice applause while I unravel to this discomfort, hers and mine. She can't really mean to be this lost little girl amidst the padded seats of the curtained, echo filled theater. Everyone, just like me sees this, knows but doesn't.

Silence and applause.

I look away frightened, frightened that I may cry if I see her alone up there in front of all of us again and if I don't return my gaze to her I may never feel Real for real, again.

I'm thinking of her story in my mind, making pictures of her as a kid. Big business came and pretended to be her daddy and they used her till she had pumped out enough movies and honed herself into one of the most professional actor/singers in the country. And with all of her accomplishments by her lonely side, she built her own little story she told only to herself, it goes like this, "I can't find center." Hands on her center, you could point there, "that's center". She never found it.

So off balance and wildly amazing, she's moving around the stage again. She's singing and her eyes focus and release and the trembling, yes that trembling, subtly climbs out of her mouth and into her arms again.

The audacity defies social protocol and she checks into her own self induced ecstasy and agony. It chokes me. We sit out here scared and uncomfortable, madly invested in every word and note that comes because it's not her talent she's sharing, it's her little trembling soft hands that hold the mike that holds the sound of her guts.

I finally break, tears run, face red with release. She is a ghost in a borrowed body and nobody notices me weep because they are all worried about crying themselves.

Her body jerks along with the tremble in her small hands and her enormous voice tears at our well constructed impressions of ourselves and she is done and we roar, we clap and she says, "Thank you thank you.." She's recovered her well organized, professional entertainer voice and just before she exits stage left, just before she passes behind the curtain, I see her flutter, whispering, "small and alone".

But what I really saw was her pointing and saying, "That's center" and I find it, despite myself.