The Others

This poem finds as root material the writings of R. D. Laing, his explanation of "the double bind," and especially his books, "Knots" and "The Divided Self."

The others - always waiting -
arise in every ripe moment,
a slight, a jab, an unintended
slam, any excuse readily at hand.
Glancing over his shoulder
for competing influences:
he wonders who really exists -
if the he he knows even lives in any.

One knows and understands way too much,
one's a frightened little boy, mad
at daddy - neither can deal with stress,
the hallmark of their childhood.
Only but not lonely child with a brotherhood
inside his head. Silent conversations:
little boy counseled by wiser he
from as far away as memory can reach;
even at two, wiser he was there.

Wiser he most often overruled
by mischievous he, who led wild-eyed
excursions, little boy always stuck,
caught and punished. Perhaps
little boy never grew up and older
brat grew emboldened, permitted
to lash out at any inopportune
moment. Wiser he, weaker
he, raised by a rejected model,
never rehearsed his play's role.

The others dwell in another
dimension. Mischievous
he leaves too many messes,
his call more tempting
than fate, but within him cries
all life's passion - living for experience,
no matter extremity's consequences.

Shock value's merits
wake up people!

Prepare for whiplash from backlash.
Require a stash. Reject Atlas
and Sisyphus just to sit waiting
for Godot. Catatonic three!

Ah, the conversations he weaves.
Today, he introduced them to one other,
wondering about perceiving he,
the thinking he, inhabited
by the others. A he unknown?

The essential actor, reading
the lines, treading the boards,
daring he - risk-taker, riddle-solver -
forever unwilling to integrate, losing
his monsters in the mirror, unsilenced
little boy, while also unleashing
wiser he. Competition grows more
fierce; all three in his head yell
all the time, none wins the shouting
match. Disquiet disfigures he
who watches it all, discerning
from among the choices, selecting
according to whim? Is that him? Who
observes, commentates?

Minds' subterfuge crafts
paradigms, sorted out
among and between the others.

repose

repose
she floats across the rose
petals strewn upon the floor, toes wiggling,
surrounded by heavy, fragrant throes; a wink
glows upon her giggling, unblushing
face as fellatio's eyes extract;
repose
she reaches out to calm my foes;
with fingertips' tracings exposed over shivering,
undulating flesh, she encodes my DNA as a snake
god wriggles up her ankle rainbows, teasing
tabbies and calicoes into leading a mouse;
repose
holding a hissing hose
until a banker says, "foreclose," "sit still,"
she snickered; the snake posed with fangs
supposed upon my juggler, those balls
fell bouncing off strewn, dirty clothes;
repose
haphazardly throughout the room, nose nostrils
flared when heavy fragrance chose to rise
into unending, ebonynight bellows' flames
heating beaus' passions for plowed
rows; eternal orbits compose mind;
repose
trapped by stitched zeroes
as my monogram cries cock at sunrise,
a milky, lightning flood blows across
the land with immaculate dreams; bungalows
and palm trees showered silhouetted stilettos
when sunset surfer skies arose;
repose

Human Intelligence

A seedling sprouts, upwardly mobile,
shooting through seemingly inert earth.
A kite languorously floats
upon nothing visible.
Water spills from the sky
without a sprinkler system
being engaged. Migratory
sparrows return to yearly roosts -
no Capistrano exit sign,
map or GPS marks the route.

Beavers build dams creating habitats,
assisting natural splendor and diversity.
Humans pour concrete for flushing and showers,
for water skiing and houseboat luxury,
sucking ecosystems dry - eradicating
whole expressions of life's currency.

No other animal defaces the landscape,
causes extinction,
or pollutes the land,
sea and air with its waste!

Others' refuse renews the land
and feeds the planet,
while ours chokes, stifles
and poisons our home.
Nuclear radiation threatens
playgrounds and backyards
with contamination.

Some proclaim humans
the most intelligent life form.

Forever, Ripples Echo

On the shoreline I have pondered,
watching wave after wave -
each rare, each undulating
against the moist sand
in unique arcs - and savored
persistent insistence underlying
individuality's eternal expression.

I only dared sneak
close enough to water's edge
and immerse myself in the icy
cold exhilaration tingling
within a few ocean fingers.

As the shadow across my sundial
creeps days' hours shorter,
my crystal ball exposes a time
when the waves will cease
lapping up near me.

What did I ever offer
any watery beachcomber?

Forever, ripples echo
from toes dipped
into the tide pool.

Helen of the Agora

Long, breathy moonbeam wisps
wind together, weaving honey into hair
strands, braided and cascading over porcelain
shoulders, shimmering an amber aura. Aqua
pools ripple upon opalescent gemstones,
hypnotizing, luring, like whirlpools which suck
down every revolving body drawn
into a magnet's pull. Caressing tones flutter
seductive silence from chords never drawn
too tightly, nor left limply hanging. Vibrations
insincerely whistle jingles in rhythm to veiled
partings which hide no iridescent
gems. Clandestine commerce inhales
amorous scents, inferring flesh is alive, arising
with goosebumps, copulations incites
lingering daydreams - sensuous onenightstands
and even soul mates' eternal monogamy. Eons
elapsed before spicy incense trails arrived
without dooming everyone to death
by ennui. Contradicting longings, induced
in sirensongs' temptations, uttered
incantations commanding no one can live
without them. Prim asylum guides the tillerman,
who steers his ship past rocky straits - navigable
only by the hearing impaired, sightless
connoisseurs of the most delicate flavors. Calm,
the still air blows, as rocky shores retreat
in the presence of bucolic, pastoral leisure suits
found moored in a leeward harbor
at twilight, after tempests fail.


This is an edited version of the poem which was originally published by Eleventh Transmission in their March of 2008, Volume 2 Issue 3. A link to the archived publication is provided on the right hand column.

Blistering Up a Longing

She arose to singing skies,
like a butterfly emerging
from a cocoon -
strawberry-blonde tresses
waved in the wind,
a tie-dyed rainbow.

She posed in cartwheels
for a painter's motionless
brush. Her freckle-faced,
alabaster flesh stirred tsunamis
from tremors and quakes
which shook loose reverential
ardor's stampede,
piercing the hearts
which beat
her clinging throng.

She glided upon the breeze
as if ice skating,
wearing Mercury's winged
sandals, eternally
under my skin -
blistering up a longing
time has never healed.

Parched Lips

He rests emaciated arms
from shooing flies buzzing
near his face, crawling
across parched lips. Wide-eyed
expectation begs for so much -
really, very little to drivers
whose cars suck
the water and food
right off the earth.
Recreational golfers turn blind
eyes to everything but shooting
par for the course, while fountains
evaporate in Las Vegas
through an abracadabra
wink as Copperfield says,
"Presto," and water
morphs into the almighty
American dollar. A TV
flickers with images,
Madonnas and Jolies
whisking a child or two
away from everyone's
starving mother:
umbilical Africa. Even
Bonos and Geldofs
tell us to send the almighty
American dollar
to relief funds.
But the wide-eyed pleas
will not grant absolution
to overweight motorists
who drain drop after drop
from Lake Victoria and Lake Tanganyika
while they idle in drive-thrus
for another burger and fries.
The flies continue to crawl
across the parched lips
and into moist eyes, multiplying
with each additional car
started, driven and idled.
Take another trip
to the corner convenience
market, buy only a pack
of cigarettes or six-pack
of beer, adding to your obesity.
Then, blame oil companies
and car manufacturers.
The child sees you
grant absolution to yourself
as you tee up yet again
and idle in another drive-thru.
Every additional almighty
dollar sent to the child
evaporates another drop
of drinking water
and morsel of food.
The child cries in muted tones,
"Will you awaken
from dreams of bank account
balances, dates with boyfriends,
and the best sex in your life
long enough to save mine?"

This is an edited version of the poem which was originally published by edifice WRECKED in their October 2007 issue. This was my first poem published. A link to the archived publication is provided on the right hand column.