There is no good way
to fall out of bed except
to not fall at all. The first
time was when I stayed over
and woke up in a tumble
of sheets, writhing in a cocoon
on the floor, tearful and unsure
of where I was. I remember
figures in the dark, crying
softly like me.
Now I tumble out each morning,
met with the same old me.
Not falling is not an option.
In India the heat is a stutter
and out there they are hacking stones to build a quarry of dreams.
Glisten, let bodies glisten, let the sun rupture these bodies, they
have no clothes,
let the stone cutters listen to the voices who pay them for eating,
drinking and dying in their sleep devoid of dreams.
A title that covers
a number of sins.
Never mind if he cheats
and eats people alive.
Good family, good guy.
He’s a hitter, a quitter,
a beater.
But never mind.
Good guy.
Roads are tarred
sunburnt, sullied with blood,
their living trauma is no episode, I have spent time on these roads
which when despoiled
bear fangs like those roaring floods in turmoil, wreaking havoc.
These days are gloomy,
My pain ruminates from my mood.
Slowly I can see light peeking out from behind the clouds in my mind.
As my sky starts to turn from gray to pink.
My sorrows begin to fade into day.
All the gray begins to melt away.
The ink from my pen takes all my sorrows away.
When we met
Staring directly at my scars of chaos
She said
If we can’t find the man in the moon
We’ll be unable to find our true face
She’s curled up like a kitten
Wearing her soft blue pajamas
I have finished writing a poem
Wading through raw sewage
Trying to find the beauty
In the stink of it all
I know it must be there
As I read to her she begins dancing
With the the sway of my inflection
Moving in a way
That understands my motivation
In a way
That oils my creaking bones
In a way
That brings tears to my eyes
To be loved for my creative issue
Emerging from the darkness
Of my secret places
These little celebrations
Infuse sunshine into a solid gray heart
I finish reading and hold her gently
We dance in the beautiful silence
Of a soft afterglow
She re-curls in her soft blues
I curl up with her too
looking out the window
At the man in the moon
I am body
made up
of mind
a fictional
tissue
created
from idea
a reflex
of
emotion.
In five years or so
All there’ll be is digital TV
The old television signal
It will not receive
For a half dozen years
The old signal will be on
Then digital will take over
The old signal will be gone
Chalk it up to progress
Though don’t you understand
Your life won’t be private
It will be a two-way scan
Every sin moral or illegal
Will be recorded on tape
Our privacy violated
Only the rich will escape
No one will know what happened
Or how they were caught
The key to the plan
No one discovers the plot
All TVs and computers
Will be able to tell
You’re every little move
In digi-Hell
More at http://www.dennymarshall.com/.
Breaking news interrupts the show
Reports the landing of a UFO
The sounds of sirens continually blow
Breaking news interrupts the show
Static interference starting to grow
Hear skips in the voice on the radio
Breaking news interrupts the show
Reports the landing of a UFO
More at http://www.dennymarshall.com/.
Wooden and round
Shined with work
Polished with love
A small satellite
Four chairs
Individual moons
All revolving
Around one
More at http://www.dennymarshall.com/.