In Picasso's Studio (Insp. by Gertrude Stein & Alice B. Toklas)

Less modern.
Something painful and beautiful there
and oppressive but imprisoned
Pale and at once bright
Unfinished and probably not finishable.
The queer danger of color;
Of art mixed with sexuality.

Unnatural.
We strive to be at odds with nature.
Do I want to unlearn humanity?
Nature is frightening and society keeps me safe.
Desire drives us to face nature;
It slaps our face for insolence
So some of us are not natural.

More modern; Less natural.
Hi tech/ lo brow, mass produced, cheap and plastic
Socially policed, censored, opaque and oblique
Outrage at the unnatural freedom of others
We are not like this and prefer the company of the
Socially inspired, in your face, offensive and obtuse, the
Intuitive, Intelligent, Individual, Immoral and Ingenious.

More modern; More natural.

God's House

One lone building covered in gold
Surrounded on all sides by ramshackle houses,
Thin streets, and densely crowded markets.
Children crowd around us like water on a sinking ship.
They beg for candy and money. I can't breathe.

We pass out cigarettes to men in exchange for
Half-hearted allegiance, shifty, toothless smiles and derisive mistrust.
Some cheer while others stand far back and glare as they whisper
Purple fingered people stand proud; They march in the streets.
We march in their streets and I wonder how long before we remove the U.I.A.

We remove an unexploded RPG from a family's doorway.
Men stand armed and nervous within earshot on the perimeter
Children play with goats and they treat us to tea.
Shokran Jazeelan. I give thanks and drink.
The sweetest tea I've ever had.

Contra

Hate me if you want.
Get mad that I am different
That I came from some other place
That I look and sound separate from you.

Shake the bars of your mind
Or stomp your feet and yell
But don't expect me to leave
Or even shut my mouth.

I would like nothing better than
To use your words against you
To make you upset and confused
and look like a fool in front of whoever is handy.

Perhaps that is too much to ask.
If nothing else, I am contra.
I stand to juxtapose you and let others know
You're not as smart as you think you are.

I don't need you or anyone else to agree with me.
I don't need to be right all the time.
On the contrary, there is rarely only one answer
And I want you to admit it.

The New Colossus

Was that a lie? Do people still believe that?
If slanted politics make my home unsafe for me, is there anywhere I can go?
Is there no place on the surface of existence where I can earn a living
and not be held responsible for sins of generations past?
If I agree to abide by the golden rule and obey basic laws, why am I not welcome?
If I pay my way and adopt your culture, your customs, your language, what then?
If I walk here for days through the desert just to shop in your stores and clean your plates,
Will you not let me stay?

Lazy Men Work Twice as Hard

That spilled lobster bisque
The dogs licked off the gray tile
Then dried on the couch

Shell Shock

I know how I am and how it must seem
Like I'm rushing around and trying to leave
But when my things are put away
And I visit every room everyday
Smiling in the dark when I'm alone
I know I'm back and feel at home.

Ode to New Pens

No villains on Earth
Or demons in Hell
Are more frustrating
Or more deceitful
Than the misfortune of trusting
The dull blades of dead pens.
The muse's words are lost to the ether
While my pen scrapes the paper.

In futility.

After years of silent wishing
While undeservedly stopping
In art shops and travel stops
Briefly allowing my eyes to settle
Like dust in a mausoleum
Onto the quills and inks
And parchment and fountain pens
To use and make my words beautiful.

Haiku Kung-Fu

In a Bored Room

Back in my art school

Never thought I’d be using

Words like synergy

Prosthesis

Chicken wings on dog

Wheels of polymer and steel

Now flying down streets

New American Dream

Smack your girl around

Get arrested and famous

Do drugs and retire

4:15

Nervously tapping

Legs crossed tightly toward restroom

HOW LONG IS THIS CLASS?

Tutoring a 7 year old

Teaching kids English

Was not the plan but now it’s

Strangely fulfilling

Universal Potential (Insp. by H.P. Lovecraft)

Potentially wrong.

Potentially bad…

Potential energies move grains of sand into

Odd patterns following waves on graphene

The beach is not a solar system or

Even a galaxy. The grains are not planets but

Subatomic particles appearing to be

Malleable. Laws can bend. Things can change.

Humanity is distracted; this does not change.

By movie-stars in tabloids and fashion shows,
By cheesy day-time television and on-demand
Pornography. Potentially wrong. Potentially bad...

Infighting between religions

Hate crimes between brothers

Wars between neighbors

No one trusts their doctors

Mothers could kill their children

Republics can rise and crumble
Planets revolve unaware and
Over the brink man shall tumble

Returning to the dust through which we trudge
The unceremonious death of an egotistical species
On a tiny rock, on an outer arm of a back-wood galaxy
Man dies, Earth dies, stars blink out and God never existed

Vast millions of planets continue revolving continue revolving
Einstein knows matter is not created or destroyed.
The cosmos are unchanged but no living being witnesses
The next big bang which perpetuates existence

The spark of life ignites in any dry forest over time
Energy cycles and begins where it once ended
Kinetic energy becomes potential
Potentially wrong. Potentially Bad.

Melting Metaphors (Insp. by Wallace Stevens)

Get down to the marrow of it.

Truth is not prescribed for pain;

This uncertain light shakes the central of my being.

In dark rooms of silence when I try to rest,

I am soothed only by you, my gentle muse,

Imposing onto me the burden of discovery.

It is possible, possible, possible. You must

Still your incessant lyre and allow me

Moments of peace. As in any Supreme Fiction

Peace is not the end but the beginning.

Auroras under the trees in autumn;

Feeling half dead, deserted on a beach.

It is white. The single bird, the obscure moon;

Lost and all at once in direct position

Between primary noon and the A B C of being.

There were ghosts that spoke the feeling,

Which was what they lacked.

Poesis, Poesis, The palm at the end of the mind.

Stripping this tree to stoke the fire fangled

Furnace in the early March wind

Of sleep’s faded paper mâché…