Category: Penman Lounge

The good fortune express has come
Shedding its goods on someone
We saw on t.v. with that wry smile,
Pretending its not transitory,
And only fifteen minutes long.
In the middle of it all we climaxed,
Led protest against the approval
Of the imprisoned choir. Totalitarian
Rule was just whispering in the background
At this time. The nomenklatura were quietly
Pounding keypads in the outer recesses.
Microwaves chimed up and down the complex halls
As “fingers to the bone” became the standard
Work routine. What happened

To the sylvan yesteryears that maybe never were?
Much info rolls across our screens undigested now.
The frenzy gathers on the walls. “This
Too shall pass,” quotes some raven.
Quickly devouring fast food we purchase
A moment of time on this bar stool,
Listening to platitudes of the lonely hearts.

Nothing holds.
No matter how much
You water it, the soul slips
Away. It lingers in the concert hall
As the end arrives it leaves
Collectively with all others
Wandering to the exits, disappearing

Into the night. A crew will clean up.
The silent edifice holds the nothing
That still remains. What we
Claim to know continues to enfold
Us in its cloak. It warms
The heart in transition like
The fireplace fire you unplug
In the coming of the light.

I place my deepest thoughts on this paper, hoping somebody reads it.
Put my life out there like a spectacle, hoping somebody sees it.
I envision all the tension not shown on television.
People struggling to the end to just wind up at the beginning.
The whole world needs an intervention.
See my brother as an ally instead of competition.
I’ve been blessed with a world of flaws.
A world with many closed doors for you and yours living life poor.
Shots in the air, empty shells on the floor.
How can our country go to Iraq with these internal wars.
Racism, fascism, the blacks the hell with them.
That’s the words from the mouth of these government dogs.
Would you life your life for nothing?
Or would you die for a cause?
I see lives lost everyday.
, over bitches, weed, and Alize.
Even heard one about a video game.
It use to be bitches, Jordan’s and cocaine.
Before that bitches, heroin and gold chains.
For a food stamp now get a slug to the brain.
There’s no signs of a hero.
There’s no signs of a change.
We must be self productive if we wish to sustain.

We’re coming on.
Just about to hit the spot.
Ask, and you shall be questioned.
Carry on, pass this way, no that way.
Look harder into….Those eyes just say it.
All out and about the robin did run.
Touchy, feely, please heel when I call.
Alabaster, mother of plaster, holder of lost
Prayers and causes raise your hands.
Clap, clap your silence over my ears.

Pass the suddenness.
Leaven out what holds.
Gather, parse out what fills.
Park on the escarpment, catch incoming.
The horizon then includes all views.

There is ever draining.
Your part is not always apparent.
Out walking in the frantic, stolid world of work
You face all those caught in their niche:
The cell phone talkers, the transient music lovers lost
In their reverie. And, those talking to themselves,
No audience or response needed.
The lines are long, hard to recall.
The tape hums, waits for instructions.

Across the lawn shadows advance
To the porch, the doorstep, enclosing
Finally the front room windows.

Barges gulp the breeze in the thick water.
The tide roils in and out flexing
Its inner ticking, tacking.

Out in the distance
Birds call to each other,
Challenge the vast sky with their songs.

Let this be centered near the closing,
Insistent, rambling, never satisfied heart.

One more moment
We exist like this always
But where have we gone, been?

Away from it,

I sit here, reverently
In a matter of an instant, most things have changed
Where am I going? I ask the coffee table
It will be here for me tomorrow, so there is my answer
The mirror holds my enabler.
That painting. Dead,
Like porcelain. Beautiful,
Like that too. Alive?
Always a possibility
I must keep moving, so
Solidification and the,
Stagnation can not, keep up, and
Keep up

Respectively.
Respectfully,

I lay here, in reverence
Under stars that will reveal themselves to me
City lights can’t stop this. This process
Not if I remember.
Old ties and, forth coming lies
For them, I mourn.
New existence takes this life out of old souls
Know better. Been here before.
The Tower – is a myth
So true. It crumbles. And then shakes
Energy, not destroyed. It, seeds this place
Then starts anew

But, I’ve imagined much of this. This is obvious to me
What was not so clear, was that everything before this: imagined, as well
Dreaming the impossible, in real time
Leaves space for all things
You can never do

Knowing the Truth in memory of Frank O’Hara

Turn out all those stop lights please
I’m on the go again
pack it up
put on your hat the caretaker is away
for the weekend your heart is allowed
to fly around at will once more

The curse of rubber stockings
in a bathysphere &
dreams of Asian babes
throwing parasols at you should
cease & desist
Pocket
the change from this segment of your life
The shop is locked
I don’t care
There are no dress rehearsals in this here
neck of the woods
Park the car
walk the wet street
Spinach or peas please
me I take this cup that
no one offers
that no one has to tell me is mine
ask the cashier where the nearest refill is

The light changes
& you with it
The cars are brightly colored
I can’t choose never could read a map
love a dog
eat a big lunch keep you happy
very long

To A Martyred Painter in memory of Mark Rothko

No one is thinking about you much anymore.
The large book of your paintings hasn’t been
Checked out in years.

I fear fashion has moved elsewhere.
You are the old master; there are
New reputations to be made.
I look at your solemn eyes,
Do not see the light that must
Have shone inside,
Spilled out into your hands

To glow from the canvases,
Pulse like your heartbeat.
Color hanging in the air
With your cigarette smoke:

Darkness of the mind, fire
Of the soul share their rectangular place.
Placed together where melancholy
Reigned & rained in the winter wet

Of NYC, where your breath
Flowed out amongst the buildings,
Days on end and out of your body
The last time. The colors gone.

There were accords left unsigned.
How shy we all seemed at the start.
Logs rolling in the distance left much
Unsaid. Speculation planted hope in
Building a new frontier. “Less said,
The better,” signaled the magistrate.
“The original natives endlessly complained,
Until we disposed of them.” The remainders
Became wayward servants.
We on occasion wear their outfits,
Enjoy some of their recipes, never ask
For seconds though, out of respect.

Denver, October 9. Noted UFO hunter Ronald Baker claims, “there are now many aliens from other worlds living among us who can assume human form and remain undetected to all but a rare few with experience in these things.” Mr. Baker does not claim to know any personally.

as thief

Rethought how about stealing years ago less abrasion
Less scuffling and squirming places have changed
In short it means a new year
Yet you couldn’t understand this
Thousands of miles against others them
They came out on top in all areas
And you they got you
Now you are hugging this place like a bear

a superior speaks

We tested for a hundred unbelievable makes
And we’re happy to report much since then
A long time this place
Was properly a good education

as native

The problem has been that it was
Ever since they were introduced
They wear out shoes and have been the hottest
Thing going keeping you awake nights glowing
You turn over look at this place
For months could they get along
Would they have you come back in the dark ages
To sit with monks and seedy nobles
Underneath these people are firm and tough

as citizen

Today some of the world have modern factories
In the machines I can see them
I’ve got three kids from a blonde
Again the bandit turns up
A loser why

Trained men working
With you it costs a fortune
Comfortable home heavenly glare
Today will glimmer

A few years from now worrying
Up doctors’ bills is useless

That some of them don’t wear
As well in some places is evident

We were asked to care for our own world
But I have learned to know them

Landlubbers, the crescent moon has arrived
with slanting tales to populate your sleepless nights.

Laplanders, the croissants have arrived
with breakfast tales singing a version of Paris.

Lugubrious joiners, the crestfallen arrange
the breaking hearts in versions of temporary relief.

Laconic gymnasts crest the heights.
The braking assistants bring them belief.

Largess gained, crevices open,
with links to cells that have not yet spoken.