Monday, October 25, 2010

Traveling the Road (Six Men Passed)

                               Traveling the Road (Six Men Passed)

                                That makes the second man I’ve seen
Walking on the side of I-85.

The first had a weighted beard,
                                Carried three overfilled backpacks,
And looked like he hiked from the mountains.
This man, older, wrinkled, and stooped,
                                 Is walking up the exit
                                Opposite from the traffic forward,
                                Moving toward his time in reverse.
The scenes around me do not change
                                Except for the wood splinters in the road –
                                Disintegration of the trees around me.
Then the road closes to one,
                                Almost to a stop.

As I wait for it to reopen
                                There appears the third man.
Straight from some movie,
                                Ragged, long hair, mustache,
                                Sunglasses half on his sun-beaten face,
                                He moves casually, minus his bike.
His effort is hardly any,
                                Knowing he isn’t going places particular,
                                Sort of lost, sort of wandering;
                                The third man seems the least so far.
Man number four along the road
                                Carries a duffel bag of his life,
                                Headset turned to oblivious,
                                Head down, cap on,
                                Hiding from the deepening light
                                 In the wide of this space.
Number five walks silent -
                                No bags, no music, no hat,
                                No facial hair or expression -
                                Simply solitary.

                                The length of the hair on number six
                                Allows a ponytail to his back
                                And a bag hanging low onto his ass,
                                Drunk as he staggers about.
Strong contrast between the men,
                                As well as the cut-through woods,
                                Forces my mind to passions.

                                               And as I pass Green Lake –
                               A muddy expanse of water,
                                               Murky in its cold –
                                                I don’t know where I am.
The green has turned…
                                                Starting to fade…
                                                Becoming a dying brown.
And in the blind world
                                                This place doesn’t exist
                                                Counties, cities, creeks, all the sky,
Everything is named in color.

My car barrels past all six pedestrians
                                With the road expanding before me,
                                                My guideposts dropping leaves like hints,
                                                Knowing my walk has yet to begin.

A Toast of Blue

                                A Toast of Blue

Twist off
                                and lick the under-
                                side of the cap,
                                mixing the metal taste
                                with the bleeding insincerity
inside your mouth.
Set the bottle down
                                and find that Skip James album
                                you tend to play in the dark.
                                Begin with his voice –
                                that wild, howling scream –
                                and sink in the rhythm
                                of the guitar or piano
                                or his feet pounding the floor.
                                Sip with each lurch
                                of your soul.

Lift the liquid to a drop
                                on your tongue then read
                                the label four times in tune
                                and place it back,
                                clinking the table with its
                                glass serenade breaking you.
Your head slumps
                                chin to table,
                                you view the top
                                through tinted refractions,
                                overturned in its disgrace,
                                its humbled example.

                                To finish the drink
                                your eyes repair
their known motion,
                                aiming the tilting
of the empty
from stomach to mind,
from mind to mouth,
from mouth to glass.

                                And in this present
                                the ancient sounds slow
                                allowing these words,
                                in this place,
                                on this fault,
                                to cry myself true.

Grace Upon My Lips

                         Grace Upon My Lips

                  Fan from this base
                                 A flame which reaches for heaven
                                 For that is the only chance
                 Of reaching you.
                                 Yet closeness can’t come
                                 For fear of singeing you
                                 As you’re held high above
                                 This aching ground.
                                 Float beyond my solid reach
                 Towards the purity of the sky
                                 Here your image will always be
                                 The praise of beauty,
                 The song of art,
                                 The one to amaze and beautify
                                 The claims of the clouds.
                 This earth shall only tarnish
                                 And stain with every step
                                 So free your shadows to the winds
                 Look over those who sing your air
                                 And take pains to know
                                 The terra-prisoned souls
                 Who view your perfect pristine.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Lyricism - Part 3 (You Have No Choice and Dreams in the Wind)

Here are some more lyrics rescued from a torn and shredded high school folder helpfully labeled "Lyrics." As before, in an effort to rid the world, and myself, of these ridiculous expressions of lyrical content, I will be presenting selected lyrics from several "songs" here to allow the proper disgrace they will undoubtedly bestow upon me.

Read at your own risk. The song is in blue type with red type reserved for my public destruction.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Auf Wiedersehen, College Fund

Mrs. Seal, The Model Known as Heidi Klum, The Project Runway axe-lady... 
I am not sure how to address you, but I have to discuss something with you. I know that you have a line of "active-wear" clothes that you are hawking on In fact, I will be nice and include a link to the collection here. 
If you wouldn't mind, could you explain a couple of things to me?
My first question is this - Why the HELL are you doing that 80s Flashdance-esque jump on the front page? I know models sometimes do weird things to get "the shot," but this is a little disturbing. Your face looks a little like Skeletor with a rug. And exactly what exercise or activity are you supposedly performing in that pose? It looks as if you stumbled upon a trampoline and camera and said, "Let's go take a picture!" Most people I know will not be in that situation anytime soon, so I am not sure to whom this photo is appealing.

My second question, and last question (albeit with several offshoots) is this - $78 for SWEAT PANTS???