Poetry

As I turn the pages
of a People's History
I feel like I'm reading 1984
all over again.
But this is real.
Too real.
The sort of real
that drove Orwell himself
to pick up a gun
and take a bullet
in the fight against Fascism.

Columbus sailed the ocean blue
in fourteen hundred and ninety two.
But when he got here
what did he do?

There are no words for what he did
for what they did
for what they're still doing.

It started with the soil
the legacy of a thousand generations
countless acres of fertile soil
soaked with the blood
of millions of indigenous
ripped barren of forest and prairie
farmed into dust
buried in a black tar shroud
unbroken by root and rain.

And then there were the Africans
torn from their own fertile soil
bound in cold iron
packed on top of each other
in floating wooden coffins
their blood turning the oceans red
before they even made it here.

And then there were the women
servants and housewives of men
with no money or land or vote
driven to cook for men
and clean for men
and work for men
and fuck for men
and give birth for men
and die for men
with no books to read
or ink to write
or a moment's space
to meet with other women
or step out of the shadow
of man.

The list goes on
page after page
of clubs and guns and bombs
bruising flesh and breaking bone
and spilling blood and brains
from the cobblestone of New England
to the jungles of Viet Nam.

But from the very first day
there's been another history
yearning to breathe free.

Hushed voices
whisper in the dead of night.
Silhouettes gather in the shadows
in the master's fields
in the man's house
in the boss' factory
in the patches of wildwood
just beyond
the white man's reach.
These are the voices
of the Africans
who never believed
that they were slaves.
These are the voices
of the women
who never believed
they were servants of men.
These are the voices
of the workers
who never believed
that the bossman
owned their labor.
These are the voices
of the native people
who never believed
that the white man
owned their land.

At first, their voices are hushed
like wind whistling in the trees
a whisper here or there
a paper passed in the night
a song about a drinking gourd
a book with a pen name.
But then it blossoms
it explodes
thousands of people
bursting out into the streets
factories shut down
or run without bosses
Custer and his cavalry
hacked to pieces
whole towns seized
by armed bands of liberated Africans
who refused to be slaves
a whole society ablaze
with strikes and sit-ins
marches and pickets
walk-outs and teach-ins
until they've hammered
their dreams into reality.

Some people think it's all over
that this is all history.
But this is a People's History
and We the People
are still writing it.
So open your eyes
raise your voice
take a stand
and demand
to be free.

Hunger is a sensual experience.
It's the feel of dry muscles
sticking to thin skin
and rubbing you the wrong way
every time you move.
It's the sudden smell
of cheese and garlic and tomato sauce
just out of reach
that makes your nostrils flare
and your mouth water
and your muscles tense
as you hold your tongue
and bind your arms to your chair
to stop yourself
from quietly whimpering
or openly sobbing
or suddenly growling
and snatching food
out of someone else's hands.
It's the stiff ache in your flesh
as your body gets tired of waiting
and helps itself
to some home-grown
All-American
Grade A Beef.
But most of all
it's a fire in your belly
and once it burns away
your fat, your muscle, your bone
there is only flame
wild flame dancing in hot brilliance
exploding out into the world
until your fire is fed
and everyone's fire is fed
and the whole world
burns as brightly
as you do.

I'm tired of poetry.
Or at least tired of what poetry
has become for me.

Poetry is a ritual.
My words are the tools
of this ritual.
With my words
I trace a chalk circle
on the cool stone floor.
With my words
I light the candles
at the four quarters
and fill the room
with wisps of burning incense.
With my words
I summon spirits out of thin air
spirits of passion and power
creatures of black fire and silver smoke.
I stand in the center of my circle
and these spirits put on quite a show
crackling and howling
churning and writhing
straining at the invisible chains
of the words that bind them.
But sooner or later
the poem ends
and the fire goes out
and the smoke clears
and only the cold stone remains.

I want more out of poetry.
Poetry shouldn't be a parlor trick
a way of entertaining people
by conjuring my passion and power
in the safety of a chalk circle
for the benefit of an audience.
Poetry shouldn't be a safety valve
to release my steam
so that nobody gets burned
between readings.

I want real poetry
the poetry of the gods
the power to summon spirits
that don't go away
at the end of a reading.

Real poetry is alive.
Real poetry is dangerous.
Real poetry is a feral hound
that chases you down
and tears you limb from limb
just to hear you scream.

Sometimes
my poetry is real
but sometimes
the words are a little too clever
a little too safe
like a dog on a leash
whose barking and chomping
makes your heart skip a beat
until you notice
that he can't reach you.

I want to cut the leash.
I want to let the dog run wild.
I want to be eaten alive by poetry.

The next time I'm walking
among the blossoming trees
full of pink and white and purple flowers
and the wind is blowing in my hair
and the petals are raining down on me
and the grass is greener than green
and the sky is so blue
I gasp at the sight of it
the next time I find myself there
I want to fall on my knees in awe
at the glory of life
instead of just talking about
how I wanted to.

The next time I talk to a woman
and I feel my pulse quicken
at the sight of her brilliant eyes
her sudden smile
the wind in her hair
the words on her lips
the music of her voice
played by a heart
that no words can describe
I want to hold her hands
and say her name
and sing her praises
and kiss every part of her
and fall to my knees
in worship of her
instead of just talking about
how I wanted to.

This is my desire
my mission, my quest
to live my poetry
real poetry
every moment of every day
instead of dusting it off
every week or two
and putting it back in a box
at the end of the night.

And so I swear
on all I hold holy
to give myself to this poetry
in the spirit of the Green Man
in the spirit of Dionysos Eleutherios
even if the world forsakes me
even if my passion drives me mad
even if I'm torn limb from limb
by the feral hounds
of my poetry.

And so I swear
on all I hold holy
to give myself to this poetry
to let my heart pound
to let my voice rise
to let my flesh
and my heart
run free.

I saw you from a distance
long blond hair flowing behind you
sharp blue eyes studying the world
lean and shapely body
walking lithe and limber
through the drifting snow.

In your quiet moments
you were like that frozen landscape.
Cool, calm, silent, still.
Even in your stillness
there was a luminosity about you
like a blanket of fresh-fallen snow
brightening the day and night
with your reflected light
even when the sun was hidden.

And yet in an instant
at the sight of a friend
or the promise of adventure
you sprang into motion
broad smile, bright eyes, flushed face
arms wide for a hug
or hopping happily in place.
In these moments
you were like a sudden burst of spring
snow giving way to lush green grass
clouds parting for a brilliant blue sky
sun shining on the face
of whoever had brought joy
into your life.

At first, I saw you from a distance
and found myself speechless
even at a glimpse of you.
When we finally spoke
I found my voice
and asked you to join me
for a night of dinner and dancing.
You said you weren't a dancer
but liked a good adventure
and so we had a date.

But fate
had another plan.

When I saw you again
I expected the spring
but instead you were
cool, calm, silent, still.
Once or twice
my voice was enough to stir you
with a smile flashing across your lips
and a flush on your fair face.
But the more I spoke
the more you retreated into winter.
My voice was met
with trickle of words
that slowly froze into silence.

When the night came
for our dinner at the dance
you were there
but not with me.
When I looked to you
my voice caught in my throat
as you walked away
at the sight of me.
In that moment
I didn't see spring
or winter
or summer or fall in you.
I saw nothing
but a blank face
looking away from me.

For a moment
I lost my voice.
For a moment
my chest tightened
my throat tightened
my jaw clenched my mouth shut.

But then I remembered.
I remembered
that this isn't your story.
This is my story
my mouth, my jaw
my throat, my chest
my voice.
Every moment of spring or summer
fall or winter
that I see in you
is merely a reflection
of what lives in me.
And I will sing for the spring without you.
I will shine like the summer sun without you.
I will fall like the autumn leaves without you.
I will be still like the winter snow without you.
And whether my voice
is booming through the fields and forests of summer
or howling through bare winter trees
or sitting in silence
it is my voice
and since you've chosen
to walk away from me
it will never sing for you again.

Ecstasy.
Ex Stasis.
Liberation from stasis.

My breath deepens.
My heart pounds.
I stand tall
as hot blood
courses through my veins.
I stand tall
as the chains that bind me fall.

I am become Dionysos Eleutherios
Dionysus the Liberator
ecstasy become flesh
and flesh become ecstasy.
But this isn't a game
this isn't a joke
this isn't a scene from Fantasia
with a jolly fat man in a toga
drinking wine.

My ecstasy runs naked
beneath a midnight sky
head thrown back and arms raised high
laughing and crying and singing and screaming
through the sharp silver light of the moon.

My ecstasy is the sun at high noon
shining without pause, without rest, without question
bringing warm green life to forest and prairie
and hot white death to scorched desert sands.

So many walls have been built to contain it
So many chains have been forged to constrain it
So many souls have been bent to restrain it
But in my heart
and in my mind
and in my flesh
I have set it free
and it has set me free.

And so it comes
and so I come
the ecstasy of liberation
and the liberation of ecstasy

It drives me to singing and dancing
feasting and drinking
fondling and fucking
day and night, night and day
my flesh ablaze
with the fires of beauty.

And it drives me to sighing and crying
gnashing and wailing
thrashing and screaming
night and day, day and night
my flesh twisted
in icy horror.

But even in those moments
where ecstasy meets agony
I still feel the thrill
of a body, a mind, a heart
that are free.

Liberation from stasis.
Ex stasis.
Ecstasy

I can take it in the daytime.
Or at least I can fake it
for long enough
to get me through another day.
But at night
the polite, diplomatic
boy scout part of me
goes to bed early
and the blood of
Pan and Dionysus
flows through my veins.
The spirit of the satyr moves me
wandering restless and reckless
across concrete and blacktop
looking for the moonlit oak groves
and skyclad nymphs
I know I'll never find here.
When all else fails
my thoughts wander back to you
and the man you hold on to
and I can't help but wonder
what it's like for you
to be with him.

Does he look into your eyes
and feel his pulse quicken
when you put your arms around him?
Is your laughter a drug to him
and your tears a November rain?
Or does he think it's boring
to lay on the couch holding you
and not even notice
when you've had a bad day?

Does he share his world with you
and whisper his secrets to you
and turn to you for advice and inspiration?
Does he listen to you
and pay attention to what moves you
and cherish your dreams
as much as his own?
Or does he think that boys and girls
live in separate worlds
and yours isn't worth noticing?

Does he see your body as a temple
lavishing you with kisses and caresses
his fingers and hands and lips and tongue
worshiping at the altar of your flesh?
Does he know when to be tender
his touch sliding across your skin
like cascading rose petals
bringing you goosebumps?
Does he know when to be rough
slapping your ass and holding you down
thrusting inside of you
like a wild animal
until you moan and writhe
and cum in his arms?
Or does he grope at you
bluntly in the dark
unaware of your pleasure and passion
using your body to satisfy his needs
and falling asleep
before you're done with him?

Does he see you as
his Venus
his Aphrodite
his exalted high priestess
queen of heaven and sacred whore
a primal force of nature
whose very presence
ignites his flesh and his soul
in a blaze of holy ecstasy?

Or does he think of you as
his ball and chain
a burden he bears
in exchange for the services of
a maid, a nanny, a fuck buddy?

As I wander restless and reckless
the moon has no words for me
but I know the answers
to my own questions.
My blood runs cold
and I feel forgotten forces
burning and churning and yearning
through my flesh.
The old gods stir in the soil underfoot
immortal bringers of passion and power
beyond all comprehension
rising in defiance of
lifeless life and loveless love.
But the new gods of blacktop and concrete
plastic and steel
stand immobile
on the smothered flesh
of our mother
and the night remains
shrouded in silence.

My chest collapses with a sigh.
The fire dies down into smoldering embers
and I start the long walk home.

As I walk up my front steps
one last question
flashes across my mind.

Does he do enough for you
that at the end of the day
the feel of his warm body
in bed beside you
brings you comfort enough
to help you sleep?

Maybe that's enough, then.
If it's enough to keep you from
wandering the streets at night
pacing back and forth
like a caged animal
then I'm happy for you.
But if he can't even do that for you
then maybe you need to be
restless and reckless like I am
and maybe while we both wander
our paths will cross.
The light of a full moon
is crisp and bright on a cloudless night
and I have no doubt that
if we find each other here
it will all become clear
and we'll find our way home
together.

Dark. Hard. Cold.
I wake up in darkness
and don't know how I got here
or how long it's been.
There's no sun here
no moon, no stars
and even the memory
of earth and sky
has long since faded.
My mind clutches at these words
but their meaning slips through my fingers
like so many grains of sand.

Four iron walls surround me.
Iron chains bind my arms and neck.
I lie naked
bound to the concrete floor
with only a sliver of sullen light
slipping through a crack beneath the door.
I strain against the chains in vain
and the sting of concrete and iron
chills my flesh and bone
until I'm too cold to shiver.
Soon, I lie still and silent.
Minutes flow into hours
hours into days
days into weeks, months, years
with no measure for the passage of time
other than the rise and fall of my breath.
My muscles wither from lack of use
and my eyes grow dull from lack of light
and I become an empty husk
dry, hard, brittle, cold.
I feel my heartbeat falter
and I sigh a heavy sigh
letting the air slip from my lungs
one last time.

But then, I start to remember.

My faltering heartbeat
reminds me that I have a heart.
My long and labored sigh
reminds me that I have a pair of lungs
and a chest that rises and falls
with my every breath.
As I start to remember
my pulse quickens
and I take a deep breath.
Blood and breath flow through my body
and though the chill still fills me
I start to remember
the feeling of hot blood
flowing through firm flesh.

At first, I still lie motionless
my muscles too weak to move.
But my heart beats
and my chest rises and falls
with the ebb and flow
of a rising tide of breath.
Minutes flow into hours
hours into days
days into weeks, months, years
and my body burns with an inner fire
that no iron or concrete can chill.
My muscles twitch and writhe,
trembling at first
under the weight of my frail frame.
But my heart beats
strong and steady like a drum
and my chest rises and falls
and with each breath I take
I strain against the weight
stretching and strengthening every sinew
struggling to sit up and get up and kneel
until one day I find myself
standing in the shadows.

As soon as I stand,
I feel the chains on my wrists and neck
pulled taut.
I stretch and strain against my manacles
but the cold iron is unmoved
and the concrete holds the chains in place.
For a moment, my stomach churns
and I fall to one knee
shaking and quaking with clenched fists
eyes clenched shut
jaw clenched open in a silent scream.
But then I remember my voice
and my cold iron cell
echoes with a hoarse holler.
My heartbeat races at the sound
and I rise to my feet
straining against the chains.
I open my mouth
and throw back my head
and let loose a howl.

My howl is a clap of thunder
shattering the silence of the cell.
I howl, and the walls tremble.
I howl, and the chains creak and shriek.
I howl, and the concrete cracks and crumbles.
I flex my muscles, and my arms break free.
With my clenched fists
I snap the chain binding my neck
and as my hands reach for the collar
I feel the torc of an ancient god.

And then, I remember.

In the span of a heartbeat
the cold iron cell
is flooded with the light and heat
of an inner sun.
A crown of antlers sprouts from my head
and the concrete is devoured from below
by creeping vines and rich black soil.
The light reveals the door to my prison
and I charge at it with fists and horns.
With a single blow
cold iron yields to hot flesh and bone
and the door flies from its hinges.
I leap across the threshold
into the light of day
and fall to one knee
with arms stretching skyward.
Sunrise surrounds me
and the sky blazes with
shades of red, orange, and blue
and the air is ripe with
the scent of soil and oak
and the sound of rippling creeks
and leaves in the wind
and creatures crackling through brambles.
I breathe it all in
and rise to my feet
cradling the rising sun in one hand
and the setting moon in the other.
I run through forest and meadow
hill and valley
mountain and plain
singing songs of soil and water and sky.

Behind me
the chains lie broken and buried
and all around me
the plants grow wild
and the animals run free.

The desert at night
Cold sand beneath moonless skies
The wind, a dry sigh

I see you nearby
Trees surround an oasis
Your kiss gives them life

I reach out to you
But the sand grasps at my feet
Making me stumble

I fall and I crawl
Sand cutting my naked flesh
Until I collapse

By the break of dawn
My eyes are already closed
My body silent

The sun at high noon
Bleaches the flesh from my bones
And the sands take me

But for you, my love
This is just another day
You never saw me

It's in the green glimmer
of a field full of fireflies.
It's in the flash of lightning
that makes you jump out of your skin.
It's in the tongues of flame
licking logs in a bonfire
releasing bursts of burning sunshine
from the flesh of the wood.
It's in the middle of the dance
in that moment between heartbeats
when both of your feet are in the air
and you feel lighter than a feather.

I feel the blood of the Fae
flowing through my veins
sending me whirling, twirling
hurling myself from a moving train
only to land in a forest clearing
glowing with silver light
on a moonless night.
This may sound like a faery tale
but every word of it is real
more real than the cold iron glow
of a thousand neon corporate logos
blotting out the moonlight.

If you don't believe in faeries
come away with me
to feel the full moon
floating through the mist of a midnight meadow.
Come away with me
to dance in an empty parking lot
our feet kissing away the blankness of blacktop
filling it with the echo of fluttering footsteps
transmuting the neon light
into electric moonshine.

But don't take my word for it.
Take three backward steps
twirl yourself dizzy
and say three times
that you believe in faeries.
When the next moon rises
you'll see for yourself what I mean.