Still Sweet Voice

painting by Chris

Fur and heat
steadily complete me,
His voice still sweet
though I shake he remakes me

Skin and teeth
grow replete
and defeat us
yet His voice still sweet
makes a treat of this carcass

In my bones I still moan
of the night and the quiet
but His still small voice
like a sweet sup of choice
pours a stream to my soul
where the wind could never go
and where his still sweet voice does follow

Wet and torn
from the naught I had borne
I listen for an age
and grow silent for a night
in a moment of a memory
and in an absence of a sign
I hear

His voice still sweet
through the valley of my sleep
and voice still sweet it finds me

From the hole in my soul
where I swore I'd never go
his still sweet voice reminds me
his still sweet voice unties me.

AEM Dec 2010

"ASK for Help"

this guy

I have dedicated these holidays to doing something with the creations that live in my head and under my bed. But what do I do with them? Do I give the art I have borne to a cafe wall where people who do not know me nor my heart will cast a cursory glance and make me feel like I have done something tangible with my time and energies? Do I send my writing to magazines who might look at it, but most likely won't, only to have strangers read, or not read some fancies in my head?
Now I know I'm just being a fusion of lazy and fearful.
SO if anybody who reads these has something to tell me about my writing, that would be so helpful. If you like it, hate it, find it confusing, or convoluted, or boring, or hopeful, or unskilled, or it makes you feel warm and fanciful, please just give me a word or two in return. I have a sign on my wall that says "ask for help". My wall gives good advice.
Also if anyone has any ideas about what field you think my style of writing would suit, or any authors you think I could read, that also would be wonderful.
Many thanks

Trim Down Your Passions

Between my legs
your table finds
its edges folded
over my deep
crease increasing

I think now to
leave
the world of
writing as an
exercise in futility,
as civil hostility
advises me.
Feed your soul on
early decadences
and trim down
into adulthood,
cut in half your passions,
tighten your resolve
to absolve yourself of
all your
visions.

AEM Nov 2010

Weather girl

Pic by dayswillpass

Weather Girl
I go grey with the rain
and white with the sun
I'm a weather girl
weathered by night's begun

I go dull with the morn strike
and bright with the turn
I'm equated by changes over
sunset's burn

I'm an evening haunter
a stalker of the dark
I fumble with my drawings
under blurs of the heart

I'm a changeless statue
under influence of the torch
I rock with force of weather
no gun, will, or horse.

AEM Nov 2010

Over Sunday Swell

Nothing's right with this
health I mind,
I feed it flesh
and it gives me rind.
I'm less than pretty,
and less than well,
but I'm calm as sunrise
over Sunday swell.

When a person has no one
they concerned with all,
the ways they could be broken
by somebody else;
but I've got a broken someone
who don't mind my frown
we don't pretend we got no higher ground

We work for our dinners
and sing for our dimes
and though I'm less than pretty
and I'm less than well
we are smooth as sunrise
over Sunday swell.

the ways I find you

Your face up close
God's grace, God's grace
and my mistakes are held there in your eyes
I ask for space and take
the length of pride to stretch myself upon
and make images of all my golden lives alone

Drops in a bucket loudly in my ears
steps to doorways trip
my heart.
Your healthy eyes you steer-
be clear! be clear of me!

Covered up and over by my cold shoulder
still you synchronize my day and night
and when I crumble over you
We flow out and in and through

the broken ways I find you.

we go unbroken

Strike our heads together
and like a match we
flare with flame.

Slip our hands
between us
and like rope
we go unbroken.

Share the spirit
and like nothing this
world can touch
we find souls
that leave these skins
behind
and climb
toward what our lonely needs
could never see

or believe
or reach.

Firelight

The fire cracked open the deep crevices of his face. Firelight, firelight on and under and in the remnants of his face. Firelight dragged up what he once was; young, passionate, able to press the muscles of his insistence on the course of the world and change it’s path. Once he uprooted his family to travel on the wings of the Gospel, twice he dug up his family, three times and more for the cost, for the glory. The firelight borrowed him its glowing so that in it, his old glory shone. But youth, and fire burn to cold.

Now he sleeps at the fire and though the flame shines, he is old. He does not move, not to new towns. When he moves it is to summon great energies upon himself to paint. He drives through the few places that know him and people throw jobs at him. First this door to fix and then this room to scrub and paint. A new energy is on him as in age he learns to build chairs, and in broken families he paints a fresh coat of heritage red on the door frame. The mundane man who nightly dreams of when he had visions, now holds visions, like a brush in his hand. Like a small golden pellet of glory in his hand is the single stroke of up as he paints what he used to pray; redemption

Tears are in our Kisses

I find tears in our kisses
and while still you say goodbye
begins the missin.
For tight is held the evening bond
of eyes and lips and life's first words
above
beyond
cerebral bonds of bodies
and the messes
of all your old damsel's dresses
Their distresses do not hold us
no more
no more
do not hold us
no more

Morning

In morning: mourning
In mourning: morning
Where you dwell
in another's eye
in another's heart
we part there

and before I see a tree
and before I pour
light's first cup of tea
I paint your face inside my eyelids
and clasp handfuls
of the only words
that ever came to me,
came to me before you saw me
these words that built me
before you drew me
loved me before you knew me.

Over shoulders we read come evening
when Word and You draw in
one page one night one moment
held
til we expire

sun

Inside the sun I hide my hands
and burrow down my face
Close eyed holiday mind
has died to thought, to care
to want
but to shuffle slowly always
edging toward the sun

When motion is removed
from thought, we glide,
we edge,
close to heat, to light
to sun.

Short a Dollar

I'd love to build your world with you
search at night with torches through
our streets my child, my little one
watch over you breathless while you run.

Three dollars short and full of faith
but where's your father?- he's not yet come
babe of ours, he's not yet come

A busy man he is you'll see,
I'll rock you, rock you in my heart
there are options still you see
for him to seek, to bleed, to beat.

The milk of dreams and playtime seems-
but where's your father?- he's not yet come
-to keep us strong til morning springs
but where's your father?- he's not yet come
babe of ours, he's not yet come

Sunday best

Gathered holy clothes off the
Sunday floor,
shades down darkness
let linger a touch of time to prime us

Scrubbing faces and fingernails
for church
we search familiar streets
to find the seats that
wait to meet us and our borrowed sorrows

One sigh and
alltheweekisgone
we weave our thoughts and graces
into sacred spaces
mumble words-not yet words
and unformed prayers
prepared for us to breathe

Together touch
peripheral lovers
watching Love
and waiting.

chico d'oro

Early enough to climb trees unseen, I rise.
Proud and sleepless and troubled with the confusion of a child
I rise.
In coffee cups and letters, folded recipes and duty we seek
some dry ground for our feet.
Build a day, there's a method
build a day there's time
Build a day on a whisper, on a whim, on a dime

Who's talking caffeine baby, are you spokesman for the mute?
grown up to hold the world atop
your teaspoon full of smoke
Build a day there's a high to come
build a day there's more
Build a day on a drag, on a cup, on the floor

In spaces dark and silent, with thickness gathered round
some quiet sit unknown, untold
without their greatness crowned
They wriggle through the sermons
and shuffle through the door
Build a day from the ground - (they say)
build a day from your knees
Build a day on a death, on a promise, on a please

Of creation and feeling

"Art no longer cares to serve the state and religion, it no longer wishes to illustrate the history of manners, ... in and for itself, without "things" ... feeling, after all, is always and everywhere the one and only source of every creation." Kasamir Malevich

On our tail, the evening star

Trail us home O evening star
and hang your tail above our door
send battalions
with each, my lovers
and guard them too
before night fall

Trail us home O evening star
and stalk the dark away from us


I heard a story the other day about my friend who used to believe that the moon and stars followed people when he was a child...makes perfect sense to me.

Weathered

Inside weathered hands, lines where heat and water have run away with our strength, we now indent each other; aged. We calm down time and cup it pealing the skin of each minute and like love lost children we soak each falling kindness and hypnotically follow its trail.

Inside weathered hands lives a little warmth where we can hold each piece of broken moments lost. We bear evidences of things no longer remembered but worn, and like young favour the savoured relics of the gone.

Inside weathered hands is room, narrow passages next to fingers and valleys for you to leave me and return, to burn and scar and hold the moon. We do not demand, but lend and borrow and bend, always bend to reach each other tomorrow

Allay me now

Smooth calm arm
and fire of scent,
you balm
allay me
allay me now

persuade these knots to
leave me
treading softly
'round the giants
of near ends and we're fenced
picketed
Old lovers still half warm
breathing
fill our silent circle thick

a half mile more
could split the difference
a half hour more
between
Him
and matters of men

Allay me
Allay me now

2 minutes

I wriggled out from under my 2 minute cigarette
if they were any longer we would not have the
attention span to smoke them.
At the bottom of every cigarette
a new person is born
we're always a little less whole
than we were before.

People make holes in us
for hurt to reside, smoke makes shadows
in these caves
we can hide

Flimsy smoke shadows, faint cigarette,
fill and distill life's fresh breath
and help us swallow

Out the front of Hernandez sipping coffee at sundown

Sunday tree of afternoon tea
patches up the tuesday
sun of eye and teeth
under mid week life
sleep defied
now recline, it's sunday

Four white chairs face
the road
in shade to keep watch of the sun,
and dean who used to commentate the hours
has now since left this quiet chair to me.

the thought of being a
stranger on a church bench,
to under God's watching eye my noon
time spent
all got cancelled by the grey haired scandal
why are we left so little dignity?
death upon mother's mantle


In sunday moments I still watch for a
little
cloud hole
for up to climb
on up we climb
or else

Sad Normal Plums

Who faithful lies still with their wives?
Their wives are gone
their wedding none
can ever find
'mongst
unlabelled boxes

She bends and grows
toward the sunlight of
attention
that burns her face
her thighs, her cheeks

and leaves her chilled
each night of the week


O faithful husband
also lies alone,
he does not know her
does not feel her throat
their wedding done
their needs like plums
grow side by side

til strangers come to pluck them

O, Mercy

And you came back.
I never knew
how to welcome you
since all we'd counted
on was these farewells

O, Mercy

And now you're smoking
real life
in my eyes and stinging
and not the person
I'd thought I'd hold this tight

O, little heart of mine hold on.

And I've always jumped the gun
in matters of loss and little loves
let the curtains
rise and

fall

before you've spoken a word

O, Glory
have mercy

O, Glory
you're here

O, Mercy
have mercy and be gentle now
magician's son forget now
to disappear

want straight lines instead of the rhymes

Sneaking into Eilen

I've been writing very lyrical stuff lately...just because it takes a comforting turn from having to over think pentameter, line structure, blah blah...good stuff but tiring. Lyrical writing is about rhythm. It's about transferring a feeling through sounds and meanings.

When we toss our heads,
tambourines they tink-link linkle,
shaking dreams into our hips
they trip.
Got no boyfriends
just the trends, just the trends
to lend their dances.

Castanets, castanets and folklore
grant us,
borrowed time, for the time,
swing sunshine, on borrowed time,
on borrowed time.

I got snuck into a folk gig tonight where Eilen Jewell was playing and hearing her inspired me to keep picking up that guitar to sing and make music, because music transcends skill, it is so much more. Music is cutting out your mind and heart and soul and pasting it to the air, it is the most humbling, frightening, beautiful act.

Dye me red

http://yooani.deviantart.com/art/red-54598274


When I cross my heart
I hope to die
than face the cross
of hopeless lies.

Dye me red
and wipe me white
tonight. tonight.
tonight.

pagan fingers

Sucking mangoes on the porch
we paganly deny the close of summer
before we slam the screen door
wash our hands
and clean ourselves for winter

SOMEWHERE NEAR TAPACHULA from stefan hunt on Vimeo.

Sometimes everything that stirs you hits you all at once and you know that there is meaning and hope in every single moment of your life. Check out their blog it is amazing. Just a couple of Aussies who had the choice to leave or to meet need at its head. And also it's great to see indie kids who have recognised that you can actually take those creative arts and use them to help a kid who is a little bit stuck and a little bit lost in Mexico town http://goodcheer.tumblr.com/

Sidewalk Pickups

I found everything I ever needed
on the side of the road,
all the things that once people needed
got superceded
by the time I set eyes on a them


Were you shining when inside
you sat wide eyed, used, and prized?

Now, when under late candle light I watch you
I'm glad for your round rusted edges,
charmed and warmed, still perfectly formed
delicious and worn.

When they start to trade the faded
I'll be 'round
I'll be 'round to collect you

Wait out front
I'll bring the truck
I'll be 'round to collect you

Never asked for you to be shiny new
just asked for all the pieces.

I found everything I ever needed
on the side of the road
I'll be round,
I'm coming down
I'll be 'round to collect you

Laughter spills like wine...

This is an experiment in stream of conscious writing. Alot of writers use it to get to the core of what they want to say...the idea is to just write whatever pops into that head of yours and not to stop til your hand gets tired. It doesn't need to have flow, it is a very loose prose.

Laughter spills like wine and we drown in fun. I'm a particle of truth and I dissipate in this house of lies. At the bar I buy a schooner of I-don't-care-anymore and I wonder who I have become and where to find the peace of all the pieces of this life. I wrinkle in the night and wake with sleep queued up before me. I turn to tattooed arms in the prayer that ink can save my world from spinning. And I touch the tattooed arms and I am satisfied that it still moves under the skin and that only God can change me. And I pray; but for what I do not know. I live numb, then sad, then brave, then powerful, then sad. Powerful comes before sad. Always. I wonder if I feel these thoughts from a life that has told me so or if it's because there is truth in them.
For the spirit is life and the flesh is death. So can we tattoo the flesh so no one will ever know who we became?

Under Your shoes

Sadness comes in under your shoes
and you leave it
when you're gone.
You want me
but I am nothing
I cannot blink when you get here
cannot breathe
in case you leave
I cannot breathe
in case you leave

Fluid

To believe in a creator God is to believe in an artist instead of a machine. When the sun rises each day, it is not the clicking over of a mechanized operation, but a fluid piece composed and lovingly crafted by an attractor God. I live in a city but he lined my street with trees, to help me to believe.

Only Brave Men Watch the Sea

I'll need the whole beach stretched
from heal to brow
on top to lay my sorrow down.
Comfort now, there's comfort down
lay now under golden ground

Only brave men watch the sea
only calm men know the tide will turn
to return their love
when waves mellow to dreams

Trace, retrace and race my
steps
til I get to where I missed-I found the spot I missed you.
Comfort now, there's comfort down
now I sit where warmth has kissed you.

Only brave men watch the sea
Only calm men wait for the caps to break
and crumble where we missed you

follow your hands to the middle

Shadows of the coiled lattice
mark my legs
and paint them a henna sort of
statue
most beautiful
and my hands are framed
holding things
once I swore I'd never hold.

Jewel once said her hands
were small
but mine are long and skinny
and once they held orphans
a while before now
and once I believed that they were good
and now
I believe they are ghosts
that have attached themselves to me

I watch them like a mystery betraying me

Explain to me, my hands
I'm listening