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i once jumped out of an airplane.
yeah, i was with others who all thought the air would save us, even though it had no eyes and hands to hold us tight and close, loving each of us who dared to trust the ropes and cloth that could have been laundered and folded neatly by some woman who never watched television or ate pizza. i asked many times but no one told me about the little dog inside me who fell out the window. we barked and howled, but not all the way down. there was no siren, no alarm bell, only the grassy hills and an arrow on the ground pointing at something. i don’t remember anymore at what, just like the professor down in front trying to explain something. i was wearing a white jumpsuit, and i made sure to use the outhouse often enough so that the jumpsuit wouldn’t change colors at the sudden mad moment when i let go of the strut and saw the wing get smaller and smaller. the wind nearly blew off my glasses. i now know why paratroopers in the movies yell “geronimo!” when they jump — so no one hears the little dogs bark. i think i saw a white flower when i got done with falling. i looked around to make sure i wasn’t on fire. later i heard tall grasses tell their adventure stories. it was so long ago the trees don’t remember how many times i looked carefully at the dirt when i practiced dying.
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i captured an asteroid cold
as a lilac’s garden so cold a woman's flower has no scent careen a rocket among children preening with their eyelids the bright stars sinking deeper in the sad mud of this nation i wander and rocks stop lying tailless crystals burrow in the flaming sand and disappear like me who leaps over cars and trucks and spray-paints a poem on spain, france or chile a poem thin as someone flying in a hole in the ground with a child's wing a poem i stole from a lilac petal floating cold and lonely among the stars wandering in oaxaca a photograph
of yosemite lies crumpled in the pocket of a nurse who wraps the wind around her mamacita’s neck. the nurse warms the wind so it won’t remind her of the sea, or the time when horses were some other animal changing slowly into long-lost street musicians who cry and holler at the hollow sky until all the couples tie themselves in knots, ancient and silent, lost men and women coated with oil that seeps from a symphony in the park, before it was written on all the leaves, fill a cup, smear it on a telescope lens and see an asteroid aiming carefully at a wet and glistening shell in the sand. no one sees the hungry
hardwired angel naked children see the petals no one says goodbye children bought you every ocean dream and no one sees the petals please say goodbye long ago the words command the sand the bones the water the children laugh lie forget your name and bring you peaceful canyon dreams mother’s drumming bones no one says the blood every ocean fallen with the petals says goodbye no one sees the baby no one laughs no one says goodbye — san jose february 2015 i put my ear to the brick
and hear no crashing waves only birdsong overwhelming the piazza with avian thunder confusing the wayward tower shrouded with scaffolding of unhurried tourists cold and wondering what is the pain of lifebreath hurrying through veins of viper eyes relaxed and reading omens of night without stars poison at the mountain top streams rocks watered-out campfires a cool breeze through the trees befuddled and snoozing the murderous hands slice crusty loaves of bread and never give hunger a second chance — oakland november 2018 i once jumped out of an airplane.
yeah, i was with others who all thought the air would save us, even though it had no eyes and hands to hold us tight and close, loving each of us who dared to trust the ropes and cloth that could have been laundered and folded neatly by some woman who never watched television or ate pizza. i asked many times but no one told me about the little dog inside me who fell out the window. we barked and howled, but not all the way down. there was no siren, no alarm bell, only the grassy hills and an arrow on the ground pointing at something. i don’t remember anymore at what, just like the professor down in front trying to explain something. i was wearing a white jumpsuit, and i made sure to use the outhouse often enough so that the jumpsuit wouldn’t change colors at the sudden mad moment when i let go of the strut and saw the wing get smaller and smaller. the wind nearly blew off my glasses. i now know why paratroopers in the movies yell “geronimo!” when they jump — so no one hears the little dogs bark. i think i saw a white flower when i got done with falling. i looked around to make sure i wasn’t on fire. later i heard tall grasses tell their adventure stories. it was so long ago the trees don’t remember many times i looked carefully at the dirt when i practiced dying. — oakland july 2017 the only way the moon can rise
the only way the moon can rise is to take a shot just before the major finishes his briefing, and remembers his little daughter has no time to purge wily arcturus. the moon rises, alright, like the free jazz ringtone improvised by your smartphone when someone in the whitehouse wasn’t looking. or did i really mean to say “white horse”? i guess i wasn’t looking either. the sample returned but no one was home. you could have caught it with a flying net, but every seven years it’s in maintenance or on a snowy field. the paint on the snow has ripples. they used 3D printing to make snow fall faster and cheaper. still, there’s no money for moonlight. — oakland july 2017 except when full except when full i put moonlight in a bottle on the kitchen counter near the crumbs and unwashed butter knife moonlight dribbles down the bottle and i scoop the light in plastic bags closed with twist ties and throw them in a drawer so i can read next power failure soft moonlight beams murmur my name in the drawer and think i’m dead but i sleep instead and light falls flat on the dish you feel the particles try to remember but they sit there expressionless and motionless and never talk and don't know their name and go for a walk once a day if someone calls them from the door — oakland march 2018 thunderclouds
blossom breathless float like water in water thunderclouds on the living room floor empty stars on a huge ruined airdrome technology clouds sleep in a monastery who will hear the wind? -- oakland january 2018 here to edit. Gearbox Poetry
Saturday, January 20, 2018 at Gearbox Gallery 770 West Grand Avenue, Oakland. Please join us for an afternoon of poetry! Poetry feature will be Steve Arntson. Steve is well known around the San Francisco Bay Area for his fantastic readings of metaphysical and psychedelic nature poetry. Please join us for a reading from his book, "To and From on the Day for Night Coast", published by Regent Press, and other work, along with an open mic. The poetry reading is from 2 - 4 pm, with open mic sign-up starting at 1:30. Hosted by David Zeltzer, dzeltzer@acm.org. I'm hosting a new open mic series called "Gearbox Poetry" at Gearbox Gallery, 770 W Grand Ave, Oakland, starting Saturday Nov. 18, 2-4 pm, with open mic sign-up starting at 1:30.
Our first feature will be Richard Loranger, author of many books and chapbooks. Most recently, he's published a great book of prose poems called "Sudden Windows", available from Zeitgeist Press and Amazon. Hope to see you there, and maybe hear from you as well. |
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