dancing choose

he's a WHAT? he's a WHAT?
he's a newspaper man
and he gets his best ideas
from a newspaper stand;
from his boots to his pants
to his comments and his rants,
he knows that any little article will do!

though he expresses some confusion
bout his part in the plan,
and he can't understand
that he's not in command;
the decisions underwritten
by the cash in his hand
bought a sweater for
his weimariner too.

now i'm no mad man,
but that's insanity
feast before famine,
and more before family
goes and shows up with
more bowls and more
cups and the riot for the
last hot meal erupts
corrupts his hard drive
through the leanest months
shells out the hard cash
for the sickest stunts;
on aftershave, on gasoline
he flips the page and turns
the scene.

in my mind i'm drowning butterflies
broken dreams and alibis;
that's fine.
i've seen my palette blown
to monochrome –
hollow heart
clicks hollowtone,
it's time.

eye on authority,
thumb prints a forgery
boy, ain't it crazy what the
lights can do
for counterfeit community;
every opportunity
wasted as the space
between the flash tattoo

and the half-hearted hologram,
posed for the party
now he gloss full bleed
on a deaf dumb tree
cod liver dollar signs,
credit card autograph
down for the record
but not for freedom.

angry young mannequin,
American, apparently,
still to the rhythm
better get to the back of me
can't stand the vision,
better tongue the anatomy
gold plated overhead,
blank transparency
in the days of old,
you were a nut
now you need three bumps
before you cut
not that i should care about
nothing i ain't scared of, but
i guess you had

in my mind i'm breeding butterflies,
broken dreams, and alibis
that's fine.
i've seen my palette blown
to monochrome –
hollow heart
clicks hollowtone
in time.

i see you figured in your action pose
foam-injected axl rose,
life size,
should something shake you
and you drop the news,
lord, just keep your dancing shoes
off mine.
- TV on the Radio, "Dancing Choose"



i think this old Zen saying about tea can be applied to beer as well

The first sip is joy,
The second is gladness,
The third is serenity,
The fourth is madness,
And the fifth is ecstasy.


staring at the sun

Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day. Mine is a heart of cornel, the gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers. I am the broken wax seal on my lover's letters. I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself. I pace the halls of the underworld. I knock on the doors of death. I wander into the fields to stare at the sun and lie in the grass, ripe as a fig. The souls of the gods are with me. They hum like flies in my ears. I am I. I will what I will. Mine is a heart of carnelian, blood red as the crest of a phoenix.
- "The Heart of Carnelian," from The Egyptian Book of the Dead



to the center of

the almost boy smiling at the sky
the cosmic ray from the center of
his heart to the center of
the sun to the center of
all things
at everything
he can almost see
the center of

the everywhere machine eating the heart of
the earth every day
eating the sky with its smell of
nevermore its cries of just once

the center of the emptiness erupting
with love
never was the thing she wanted

the all-around girl smiling at the sky
the everywhere machine all around her
crumbling to dust clones
all alone with a camera
and a phone

it's not anger or dread silent dread
it's not hope or hopelessness
or ferociousness
she once felt but no longer
not the acceptance of the universe
she seeks not the center of
every moment she misses
not what she believes

she wants to know the way
to the center of a sunset
to the center of a sound
to the center of her senses
to the center of unbound