Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Record Cabinet

(For Tamara)

Immersed in the passivity of blood
Not you, oh no never you
Do you recall when we were children and rode on dinosaurs?
I believe in evolution
I believe Bubbles finally forgave Michael Jackson.

We were at a party listening to heaven-sent records
One of those records Highway 61 Revisited and I believe it was the vinyl’s scratchiness that brought us closer together
I’ve never been very good at small talk and yet when talking with you I discovered it easier to be interesting and to actually carry on a conversation without feeling like the village idiot.

Immersed in a passion play of epic proportions
And when the blood is spilled it is spilled for no good reason
And when the blood is consumed a fairy tale of conditioning and condemnation takes hold forevermore
I look into your Indiana eyes and spy the warrior Joan of Arc
I look into your Midwestern soul and am introduced to a jigsaw puzzle of great lakes and greater proposals.

I believe in revolution
I believe we must unearth the politics of man and design new tools to rebuild a fractured humanity
I believe that even a cleansing of fire will not awaken us from our comatose states
I believe the record cabinet an ark of civil disobedience riding atop the hypnotic waves of an opaque oblivion.


Sunday, September 11, 2011

A Poem for Rhamah

We drive through hell with nothing on our backs and I do mean nothing
Collateral damage mustn’t get in the way of your true feelings and letting go is for the dinosaurs.

We were whispers before we were screams
We were primal even before fire had been created and sold to the lowest of indigenous creatures
We mustn’t rely on religion when even God has moved to higher ground
We must push through our limitless dream-states before we can remove original sin from our limited mindsets.

I want to go to the zoo and pet a panda bear
I need to forget how disingenuous the circus can be
I believe in hard work and all the calluses that go along with it
I'm impressed at how quickly you saw through me.


A Second Poem for Rhamah

I hide inside my body
I fool myself into believing my body a fortress
I fool myself into believing my belief system bulletproof.

Truth is an alley none of us care to get caught in after dark
Truth can be difficult to swallow if all you have to drink is gasoline
The truth will set you free or at least that’s the word on the street.

I try my best to not hide myself behind my writing
Writing is the one place I strive in keeping it real
A Breakfast of Champions is nothing but a bowl of stones.


Model Sound

(For Tamara)

Turn your pages
With my fingers

God didn’t write the Bible
Jesus rarely went to the library
The Holy Ghost loves a good ghost story

I want to look into your dark cherry eyes, whisper sweet nothings in your cotton candy ears and hold your skeletal frame while we ruminate on Harry Smith.

Charles Cicirella