Anathema

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Anathema can stalk
anyone, anywhere
like rhetoric, or marketing

it will find them

and use them

like a paycheck

~~~

For three days and nights
it’s been raining humans:

humans falling from heaven,
humans drowning in their own
human-made puddles,
humans choking
on unshared wishbones.

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

Anathema catches these humans
by the tongue, one by one,
as they fall like tears from heaven.

Anathema spits these humans into a bag
– a messenger bag made of Chinese linen,
so, the humans can breathe in this hot fall weather –
throws the bag upon a broad shoulder
and walks across the bridge to Anathema’s tower
where Anathema takes each of them out,
one by one, holds each
in the palm of Anathema’s hand
and studies their movable limbs;
very doll like, very simple.

Anathema lingers in the moment because
Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.)
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.) but
daddy’s gone now,

Anathema can play with them all.

Anathema gets a magnifying glass
out of a detective kit purchased from Boys R Us
and thinks about taking the dolls to the rooftop,
you know, the old victim under the magnifying glass trick?
That was always fun to do on hot days like this

But then something happens
when Anathema hovers the glass over them,
and notices their great big eyes of fear:

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

and notices the bloodshot complexity
of their eyes
and how the vascular pathways
spread throughout the whites
like a network of routes
on a human map
and Anathema begins to believe

that Anathema has found the map
to his hidden treasure

The Big Silence

 

 

I don’t like to listen
to the heart beating my lover
as he sleeps       or the tympanic drone
of the jet engine as my plane creeps
through a

cloud
levitated  on  silence

or the hum of life
as it burns calories
into fossil fuels,
fossil fuels
into calories or the buzz of a god-zillion
different smart phones and feet,
percussing
the
sidewalk
along
a regatta of combustion

There is a always a signature;
a pattern,
a cadence,
a sequence
to everything that has decadence
and is trying
to pass as life

And there is this infinite noise
within the body of the divine
out of which
musicians pull their infant notes

But, all I can see is the doom

that awaits…
that impending,
impalpable silence

that is my violence.

And it is where I am
the most.

That Drunk at the bar is staring…

i want
to

though she doesn’t know me
and though I’ve
come
multiple times
To watch her
work,
she still refuses to know me,

which seems a bit unfair,
since, i have granted
her so much
power over me

and though time
is money
i    can’t stop spending
It all on her.

She waits her tables
eager to please those other    men,
like children seeking an allowance
an extra touch,

nothing bad

can   happen to her

In the back
while she twirls her dirty blonde
hair up into a messy bun
(she thinks) nobody is watching

However, I am not a nobody
I have:
1.) a body,
2.) a yacht,
3..) a good job in finance,
4.) strong hands

What does she have?
A    pretty face, a tan?
That spoiled little         cunt!
needs a man like me

I’ll show her the value of man.

A Dog’s Optimism

My dog chases a ball
to give him a reason to run;

I chase meaning
because it gives me a reason.

He also likes to bury his bones in the backyard
to hide them from other dogs.

I flaunt mine; it’s my only risky behavior,

other than that,
I’m just a steady grave covered in daisies.

We all do what we can to want to survive;

for my dog,
it’s all about performing that perfect high five.

A visit to the Old Cul-de-sac

The cul-de-sac is cold now,
spry children play no more
& those bright marks of chalk
from softball
have long faded into lore,

the parents have all moved away
their sons & daughters grown,
the driveways need resurfacing
the seedy lawns need mown,

behind an iron window guard,
desperate eyes peek out,
I hear a woman’s frenzied call,
I hear a man’s stern shout,

Then suddenly, the man appears,
fist up, approaching fast,
I roll the window up, shift gears
& leave dark skid marks
on the past.

Propaganda of the Deed

i choose love & work

& work to raise you
(not from the dead, but the living)

& i don’t talk too much
Because talk is cheap to human ears,
which seem to be constructed out of the toughest rubber,
& nothing like the floppy grey ears
of a pachyderm, which flap gregariously & lung-like,
like the victory flags of null-nations,
or twin satellite dishes collecting every GPS coordinate
from waterholes to family destinations.

It seems that a healthy dose of beastly thirst
are integral to speaking the truth,
however, you & i, my darlings, have no thirsts;
the river that runs to all rivers runs right through our home
& all that wine we bought in old Rome
is much too much for us to keep down alone,
both of which, the river and the wine,
always seem to lead us to those uncharted places
we can’t call our own.

So, let’s not talk at all,
since we have no thirst to righteously guide our jaws,
instead, let’s choose love & work over the chatty town halls,
doing simple deeds without debt or regret
& loving each other, as if we were all eager to wed.

Um? – The Noise the Universe

If I could trap the original noise
in my tympanum, instead of just its echo
– which echoes inward, away & wayward-
a noise so pent up in
iron chamber civilly & Cyrano de foolery,
it goes off half-cocked,
flaring
in such a shrill,
harrowing trajectory,
even the fools of schoolery
bend to secular knees in prayer;

if this noise could be captured & trained
to run freely, to and fro
-unhindered by the heaviness of its echo,
always dreaming-
playing for hours without scheming
or wanting
to contemplate the purpose
of its soul;

would I then be free to call it a day?

Trending

What was the thing… the thing… the thing that I thought when I was unthinking?
That very thing that kept me motionless at night, tossing and turning as I greeted my morning ink and paper.
The thing that stirred my atoms so, and underwrote the movement of my fingers;
The thing, that very thing that mattered most, yet could only be measured as the ether.

I tried and tried and tried to figure it out.
With rapid fire thoughts, discharged from a trench of doubt.
I tried to tag it, hunt it, tack it to a board, and when that failed,
I tried to lure it, obscure it, shape it to the world, and when that failed,
I tried to ruin it. Yes, Ruin it!
With religion and irreligion, absurdity, and hate.
(I even started a small cult in the basement of my estate.)

And when that failed, and when it all failed,
I prayed. Oh yes, I prayed – upon Whitman’s grass and Plath’s oven-rail.
And, blew out my mind until it swelled out of my ears and eyes and brain-blinded my mouth.
And, I was ruined for it. Ruined! Housed in a split-level soul with no windows out.
And, my throat, my throat became a fuselage of incomprehensible shouts.

And, when I did finally think of the thing that I thought when I was unthinking,
There was no love anymore, no love…
only hearts dipped in chocolate and served up with a glove.
This troubled me, for I knew love the most; I had even practiced it in my sleep.
But, love was no longer relevant; it was a biological at best, a lubricant of sweat and dribble.
And, since love was not considered a variety of reason, nobody would dare risk “liking” this thing that was so out of season.

Condemned, but not Damned – This poem appeared in the 21st issue of Pink Panther Magazine

I wanted to cross the barrier
perched on fog’s slippery mount
as it rolled out
God’s floor

This made me a condemned woman

for having practiced my style of grace
as I walked out on a bed
of sharpened steeples

Praying with my tongue stuck out
Daring to taste
a drop of
Heaven’s forbidden rain

It is not like I didn’t try…
for I had practiced enlightenment
til my head swelled and herniated the sky

But my heart wandered in place
finding only veins

and now, I take my nourishment
in air and silence,
carry this burden, with pride,
of these God forsaken chains