The Museum of Fruit and Blood: Poetry Exhibition

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-105771702011-04-21T14:06:11.511-07:00The Museum of Fruit and Blood: Poetry Exhibition<CENTER> <IMG SRC="http://home.earthlink.net/~fwbull/bamboo.jpg"> Poetry is good for you. A healthy domesticated primate should have at least one a day. And being a lazy, unambitious writer, I need some motivation in order to produce the recommended dosage. Wish me luck. "I have nothing to say and I'm saying it." -- John Cage</CENTER> Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.comBlogger151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1111340364722491392005-03-20T09:28:00.000-08:002005-03-21T04:59:27.840-08:00Crow

I arrived just before dawn. Jerry was already there, and what a beautiful sight as I topped a bend in the road and looked into that small dark valley where the creek meets the river: the orange light of a fire glowing on the trunks of trees.We fished for hours, languishing in the silence that occurs when you become one with a crawfish crankbait -- and the internal roof-brain chatter diminishes

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1111288081153756612005-03-18T19:07:00.000-08:002005-03-19T19:08:01.156-08:00Bushwhackers

We followed the dim trail,a path of leavesthat mirrors the creek.It is just the width of a deer and not much sunlight.I teach my grandson to clear the crush curtainsof thorn, to push aside the vines,to whack the bush with his plastic sword.He knows the moves already.He has the skills deep within his quick ballet ---honed to a sharp shiney edgefrom vanquishing dragonsand cutting down Bad Guys who

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1111342139927932112005-02-26T10:05:00.000-08:002005-03-20T10:08:59.926-08:00IQ Test

"Americans mistake Pleasure for Happiness." -- Peter WhybrowIf Pleasure is a can of beans, Happiness is the feeling that you won't starve.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1108677618835011602005-02-17T13:54:00.000-08:002005-02-17T14:11:33.466-08:00The Art of Peeling Fruit

When sunlight moisture and seeds combine with my Touchjust under the window(the breeze,a peeping tom,the blinds,a pair of eyes)hold their breathsas fingersspin the bladein a slow tornado of skin and flesh.We came down out of the treesjust to perform this act.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1108677973423097072005-02-13T14:02:00.000-08:002005-02-17T14:06:13.426-08:00Hard Driven

I don't want to disappearcompletely --just float beneath the surfacea breath of atomic odorsstirred by the hum of power.There is an Off Button,a pull-down menu that says "Sleep".Every once in a while,I'd like the thing to crash.We all need rest. Hope to be back for more.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1108214378419574112005-02-11T05:17:00.000-08:002005-02-12T06:45:34.270-08:00Poets, Life, & Time

It seemsthese daysDylan is quiet.Both of 'em. One is old and apparently doesn't have much to say.The other is always young --and speaks forever.Youth shouts, growls, grows new language like erotic crystals in feral gardens flowering with visionsand marauding manifestos.Old age mumbles, sighs, eyes bad now from the constant burningof those ancient faded fires.One screams in the street,fights the

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1108058172884167352005-02-10T09:55:00.000-08:002005-02-10T09:56:12.886-08:00Dream #2

L.A. like Paris deep underground with sidewalks swimming in the washing machine's dark drainage -- everyone is an actor or a waitress wearing makeup and stilts. I wear a large overcoat stuffed with knives; the hand is my father's bayonet. I lost my wallet. Where is my brother? He knows the way out.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1108030249994174282005-02-07T02:06:00.000-08:002005-02-10T02:10:49.993-08:00Winter

It's too cold. I'm not used to it. The air is a cage of ice. The breath is a frozen cloud. The wind is an Inuit Train. The tracks are my thin blood. Food is an aspirin. Drink is the cry of a blind bird. My pillow is barbed wire. I long for the sun and a fire. How long?

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1108030444045672452005-02-06T21:10:00.000-08:002005-02-10T02:14:04.046-08:00Super Bowl

This day will be remembered... For What? A few billion bored, restless consumers gathered around one toilet bowl, peerd in, drank the cheers, flushed, and went home. Forgotten.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1107705275713771992005-02-05T07:51:00.000-08:002005-02-06T07:54:35.713-08:00Anxiety

Last night: the same dream. Booked on a flight to Europa, thrilled to travel with Warhol and his eternally fun entourage, I'm frantically looking for my ticket. Something lost and nearly found. And there you were hanging out the door holding out your hand -- me running down the runway: The plane lifting off without me.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1107608910259375062005-02-04T05:05:00.000-08:002005-02-05T20:33:36.780-08:00Rocky Creek

Be patient. I know there are some fish in here: I caught one years ago. Like Happiness, I set it free. Like Contentment -- Catch & Release. It could have smiled at me, knowing I wasn't hungry... And now, revenge pays a visit; there is some dispute as to its size and species. It's gone now and we'll never know.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1107608557059326352005-02-03T04:56:00.000-08:002005-02-05T20:32:02.496-08:00Mostly Cloudy

I brought watercolors to the river; a chair to face the day, a warm winter sky, a sun's arc beginning to rise. There were very few colors on the other shore. Only the grey of dormant lives, an army of empty trees marching their static silence. No sound. Only the hammer of a hungry bird. I notice movement across the mirror: a lone coyote looking back at me.

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1107353341142461012005-02-02T06:02:00.000-08:002005-02-02T06:09:01.143-08:00Rain & Her Blankee

There is a blanket warm and dry while puddles pool a darkened sky reflecting circles damp and deep There is no storm -- just silent sleep. There is a body flesh and blood as mortal mountains feel the flood lower valleys drown the night There is no storm -- just hidden light. There is an odor warm and damp a memory cave where She makes camp the nesting cloth, one centered space There is no

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1107354832927970092005-02-01T06:32:00.000-08:002005-02-02T06:33:52.926-08:00Dangers of Insomnia

Apex night in the cool mausoleum friends have turned to stone families sleep in drowned aisles small children chased by wild animals in a dead yet haunted zone. cities are almost silent filled and stilled with renegades in metal wombs hats back in a restful descent. Nothing but static beating the concrete veins. I lie awake just this side of the interstate counting and naming the loop of

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10577170.post-1107357606560162872005-01-31T07:16:00.000-08:002005-02-02T07:20:06.560-08:00Birds Like Us

I. SECRET FLIGHT You migrate far from the trade winds of cities far above the howling stream of a horde not used to adventure. You flee the flock a murder of crows the incessant chatter of a burning bush. They hover over houses longing for an easy meal so fat and domestic in dinosaur pride. They arm themselves with common calls functioning as a mass of wings which only map Yesterdays and the

Sharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00391667645300307654noreply@blogger.com0