That little pink blanket

That little pink blanket




My life has been defined by that little pink blanket
That little pink blanket they wrapped Attie in
The day she was born
That little pink blanket that she carried around every day
Until she was three
That little pink blanket that sits in her hope chest, has defined my life
She carried that little pink blanket to preschool
Then put it away,
My little angel Attie
My life has been defined by that little pink blanket
She kept until her pillow until
She was thirteen
She carried her baby dolls in that little pink blanket
And she wrapped her baby cousin in that little pink blanket
When she watched her for the week her Aunt was in
Paris
That little pink blanket was something old
When I gave her away wearing her mother’s
Pink wedding dress
That little pink blanket
Has defined my life
Ever since they wrapped my little Attie in it,
Moments after her mother died

A kiss and a cigarette

A kiss and a cigarette




Cut this rancid heart from my chest
Pull it from it’s root
Where it lingers to long on her
Where it brings back all of those sins
And beats them into my head
Cut these putrid memories from my skull
Pull them loose from my spinal cord
And strip the thoughts that are left behind with a
Razor blade if the need is there
And leave these old thoughts in my hand
To keep the thoughts from creeping back
All of the dreams left as nightmares
And all the children that were stillborn
And turn my life into some old black and white movie
Where all the violence takes place out of the scene
Drain this soured blood from my veins
Suck every drop from my bones
And leave nothing but the dust of failure in the place
And leave me with nothing but
this little yellow bastard on my back

My Shadow and her

My shadow feels like it weighs five hundred pounds
as I drag it along on the ground
and the hot sun beats down on my face and makes me
feel like the hot asphalt
in the parking lot beside the beach
this stretch of beach where we use to sneak out to at
night
and make love in the sand
and sleep here with the water lapping at our feet
until the dawn came up behind us
and she use to say I was so crazy
sitting here at the beach all day
but still she came down here every day with me
and always pulled me close when the other girls in the
tiny little suits
walked by and flashed that smile my way
and she use to say she wasn’t jealous but she never
left my side
here on the warm sun drenched beach
looking out into the Gulf of Mexico
my shadow feels like it weighs four hundred pounds as
I drag it along
and think of that day
she was singing “the elephant song” that she had made
up
and could never get out of her head
well I stand here with my feet in the sand
and shaking thinking of her
pulling her top off for the first time
and running to the water, looking back at me
and her shorts coming off there where the water was
hitting her feet
and I think back to that day
when she told me about how she hates black people
and how it was her family that taught her
but she didn’t want to hate like that, but she didn’t
know
how to change
and my shadow feels like three hundred pounds, as I
drag it along the sand
and I can see the drugstore up on Gulfview Drive that
we use to go to
where she first kissed me outside the front door
and I can see the spot at the edge of the beach where
only a few small tufts of grass
separate the sand and the concrete
where she sat in my car
with her hands down my pants
that first time, and she was still in her schoolgirl
dress
that she had ran straight her to see me in after she
skipped class
my shadow feels like it weighs two hundred pounds as I
drag it along the waters edge
and I look out across the city as the light of day
starts to fall
and I turn my back on that sunset that we use to watch
together
and I look into the city where we use to roam the
streets together at four in
the morning
looking for an open store to buy another pack of
cigarettes
and sit and smoke them together in the dark front seat
of my car
sitting down by the beach
and it was always someone like her that I dreamed of
someone like her that I needed to keep me safe from
myself
my shadow feels like it weighs a hundred pounds as I
drag it over her grave

The touch of a precious child

The touch of a precious child




I keep all of those moments running in my head
Some nightmare that keeps replaying
I pulled the nightshift
All the freaks were out
A high speed chase across town
Then a meth lab in olde town
Same shit as other nights
Just piling up quicker tonight
Ellen was at the mall
Doing that without the kids Christmas shopping
Mom had Jimmy and Sue
Fire up the lights a pimp on 5th and Holland was beating his
Girl
A drunk drive on Lexington Drive
And a domestic disturbance in the Heights
Rich people fight too
Six A.M. and I am punching out
Headed home
Twenty miles out where my kids are safe
Come through the door
Ellen runs to kiss me
And pulls me to the bedroom
To show me her Christmas finds
Leave my rig on the kitchen table
And my keys on the counter
The kids and mom are still asleep
Ellen smiles as she drags out the bags
Tonka trucks and Barbie dolls

KaBANG
The run shakes and the walls vibrate


I keep all of those moments running in my head
Some nightmare that keeps replaying
Been fifteen years and Ellen is remarried
And I sit here with this bottle in my hand
And my gun to my head
Then my Sue calls
She has a truck for Jimmy’s birthday
Do I want to go with her to the cemetery?

Angelic whore in my bed

Angelic whore in my bed




Something about the way she opens the window
I found her high heels on my library floor
And her clothes in the hallway
She must have came through the curtains without much
on
All that is lying here
Is her coat and underwear?
It sure is suspense
As I walk up the stairs
Looking at all of the pretty dresses she has left
there
On the steps the times before
And the panties and bras that are there
Her whole wardrobe must be lying on my floors
She never uses my front door
She always comes in on the second floor
And never uses the balcony doors
Comes through the library window
Or through the one in my study
When I have fallen asleep at my desk
But when I wake up I always know
The window is open and I can smell her
Lingering in the air
Around my desk and chair
And I always think about the way she opens a window
Curtains pulled closed and the window slid open only
enough
To fit her five foot five body through
With her size zero waist and c cup breasts
I am always amazed at how small that opening is
And I walk through the halls and rooms
Picking up the clothes she has left and sniff her
scent briefly
And discard it back where she left it
And trail into my bedroom
Where she lies naked on my bed
Same as the night before
And same as the night before
And same as every night since I bought this house
And I have never asked her anything
She comes quietly and goes just the same
I just sit her in this high back Queen Anne chair
Looking at her wondering where she comes from and why
she always leaves her clothes
And I fall asleep like the night before
Same as the night before
And the night before
And every night since I bought this house

No Title #1

Strange how the more technology we acquire the more civilized we perceive ourselves to be, but are we? What does civilized really mean? Free from war? Free to pursue our passions? More effective in our government and judicial systems? Greater technology? yes, maybe, no! We are bound to evolve and progress and create greater machines to ease our burdens, but does this denigrate us as humans as artists? I have found that art is now a disposable commodity, how long does the background stay on your computer? a week, a month, a year? How long do the songs stay on your IPod? What is the oldest song on there? When was the last time you went to a brick and mortar museum instead of a virtual one on the Internet. when was the last time you looked at a real painting? As humans are we not defined by our art? by our wars? are these not the things that show the true span and compassion of humanity? Is it not possible to be civilized and still be involved in a war, a war for the right reasons and the right causes, were we not right to fight against Hitler? So how does war define us a humans? Is it different than our art? Up until the fifties or so (when we came into the enlightened morally and politically correct self righteous, overtly and covertly religious America) we taught poetry and art in school, now we do not teach so much as give a brief and highly prostate overview of the arts. We should look and judge humanity not by what we achieve in technology and how we work so much as what we do in our free time, in our leisure. I wonder if as humans we need to reconnect with our art, it has become intangible and we need to feel and touch it. Maybe that is why I have such an affinity for vinyl records, you have this large piece of visual art in your hands to start, you can see the passion that went into most cover art, then you slide that record out of it's sleeve and wipe the surface clean of anything that static electricity or hands might have left, and place it on the turntable, turn the turntable on letting it come to speed, then gently setting the needle on the vinyl. and when those first songs are done you have to turn it over and start again, is it easy, convenient, no it isn't but it makes you appreciate the music and the artistry, you can't ever touch an MP3 in any way. So let art return to you, or if you are a child of the digital age discover the beauty of art from the past, the past decade, the past century and savor it for longer than a week. Just as all wars since WWII have become intangible to us, we see it on TV and hear about it, but as a country as a whole we see nothing of the pain and suffering, we feel nothing, we only delight and strive to get more technology, so we can get our art faster. When was the last time you walked up to a soldier, a policeman, a fireman, a musician, a painter, a sculpture, and said thank you? When was the last time you looked at these people and admired them? If we as Americans do not get a grip on the reality of our surroundings, on what it use to mean to be an American, we are going to end up a fracture country just like the remnants of the Soviet Union. (OH Blasphemy comparing America to the Soviet Union) We were once the ones in the world who were the peace makers, the ones who accepted the poor, the hungry, the meek, the tired, the downtrodden, and the persecuted. Now we are the bullies in the global community. We no longer have hero's (I bet you are saying yes I do, well think about it, who do you admire? are they from this century? Are they a fictitious character?) So you ask where does all of this fit in with art? Well isn't that an expression of who we are, where we have been, and what we see and fear in our own hearts? Conflict is part of human nature, artistic expression is part of human nature, when we deny the free expression of these we end up at extremes. As we become more civilized and repress those basic animal instincts inside of us, we become what we are. We grasp at anything and we end up doing the extreme to make our point of view everyone else's. Look at Intelligent Design, such a cowardly thing, Just say I am a christian and I believe "God" created us, don't try to sneak and scam to teach your children this. If you believe in freedom of speech and the bill of rights quit trying to take away those rights because you don't like guns. As a whole those rights protect us, when we start changing those and revamping what we think they mean we are going to lose those freedoms that make us uniquely American. So I guess just once in a while let that artist and that animal inside you roar or you will never be civilized, just an angry bitter person behind a facade of civility.

Chameleon

I was a sapling once, a small tree for those of you not using big words yet.
I grew from a seed that flew from the tree that was my mother.
I am not sure how far I landed from her, or even which one of this forest she is.
I look like most of those around me.
I grew and I grew until I was the tallest tree in the forest, I could see over the crown of all the others.
Well at least I did until those men came and cut me down, with saws and axes.
Some of those closest to me felled also.
That means we hit the ground with a crash and broke our limbs and crushed our leaves.

I was striped of all my limbs and all my leaves, and lashed, that means tied down for those not using fancy words yet, to a wagon with those who fell near me.
I was hauled across the edge of the forest and into the barren lands they call prairies.
I was not sure where I was headed and I wished for my limbs and my leaves back so I could shed this rain off my bark.

They laid me on a set of rolls and started slicing me apart, I was made into thin layers.
I felt strange not being whole anymore, but they kept my pieces together, except for my bark and the little curved pieces that they just let fall.
They stacked me in a shed, and closed the doors on me, and it was dark like the night, when the moon does not come out to play.
And it was dark long past a day I know. I am no longer sure how much time I sat in there
with my sap drying up. Then the doors flew wide once day, and the sky was bright and blue.

Alas I was weary again, I was pulled and stacked and lashed yet again to a wagon. If you are still not using those words it means they tied me down again.
The wagon rumbled away with me. I was fraught with anxiety, which means I was scared.
I wasn’t sure where they were taking me again, but I knew it couldn’t be better than the last time. The blue sky started to fade and clouds rolled over my head, and just as I began wishing for my limbs, and my leaves, and my bark, the man stopped the wagon and covered me with a tarpaulin of canvass, that’s a giant leaf you see. I thought then I might like this man better than the last.

It was several days and several nights when we finally stopped and he took the horses away. He called to another man, but one that looked like he might be a sapling to me, that means he was but a boy. Together they pulled me out of the wagon piece by piece, and laid me in neat little stacks on shelves along the wall.

When the man opened the door the next morning, he just walked around running his hands over me. He made me feel safe, better than when I was taken from the forest, and better than when I was sliced into these little pieces. He and the sapling pulled me down one at a time and took little tools and made my sides smooth.

He made little pieces and big pieces of me, but I was not afraid, he was kind and gentle and made sure to rub me and whisper to me of my beauty. He formed me, and put me back together with little holes and notches. I was a wonder to behold and he promised where I was going I would feel safe and beautiful.

Here I have stood now in this same place not moved an inch, just like the sapling I once was. I stand here as thousands walk by, and they all look up and admire me. They speak in whispers and I hear them say the man’s name often. I wish he was still here, but all I have is the saplings sapling, that his grandson for those of you keeping track.