WaystationOne

Poetics: Fair thee well, lady liberty

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 26 May 2012 11:32:00 +0000

street art, Richmond, VA

Normal is an illusion---especially at the fair every year,

all kinds of people immigrating from near and far
ones you never see anywhere else---even Walmart

a bearded lady sits licking greasy lips

sucking flecks of fried food from the cracks

not to miss a morsel---pickle, oreo, twinkie,

snicker bar, washed down with battered drops

of flash froze coke---(we will fry anything

for our pleasure, yet dismiss the heart)---her

children pilfer dollars from her pockets

for a ride on the tilt-a-wirl or canvas bag slide,

as a local band on the main stage sings cover tunes
from another generation & men line up to prove
their worth with a hammer or in knocking down
milk bottles with baseballs, America's past time

(there is always a trick, an angle needed

to accomplish the hawkers promises)

the woman though, i envy her liberty from proof & look

of joy that roses her cheeks. in the end, we are all gluttons

of some sense & sometimes it's choice.

bringing a candy apple to my own lips, i minister

to the firm shell, sticky & sweet, tongue seeking

the tart flesh beneath---the soft glow of a thousand

light bulbs adorn the carousel spin, sPiN-iNg, spin

& i wonder just how long it will take for you

to get through the line for the women's rest room
but have no illusions here among the normal.

At dVerse Poets today, we are taking a trip to the fair grounds...enjoying sights & sounds on a long weekend. Time to have a bit of fun, or at least come 3 pm when Claudia opens the doors. See you then.

Meeting the Bar: black & blue but....

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 24 May 2012 15:13:00 +0000

street art, Richmond. VA

crickets & hay muffle the skritch of gravel,
his feet traveling south, kicking dust
that clings like cats to his Spiderman PJs

No, no, NO, is all he's saying til i step
in front, whisper break the obsidian night
& he cracks like hot grease spitting fists
in black & blue---jab, hook, hay maker
with fourteen year old fists & he curses
with such fury, froth like waves break
on his lips & he hits & he hits as we roll
to the ditch, his tears, hot lead, drip
on my hand, his mom pulls up tires slide
& van door open we get him in, the speedometer
gets bends as it rises & somehow he opens
the door again, asphalt whizzing, hiss-
ing, dashes yellow bleeding in a single line

i wrap him tight to the floor board, old candy
crust, grit in the carpet, wet dog flavor by
smell & he howls, let me go, LeT mE GO!!
we crash the hospital, security, SeCURE-ity
hold him while the needle sinks but does
nothing, we are linemen on Sunday, throw-
ing bodies against each other, him to escape
& i to keep in, the minute hand passing
midnite, 2 AM & another needle, butt, but

helpless, hopeless, tormented & angry
he's NOT here, in full retreat to age 4, the place where
his mother took him when she stole him, a crack
house, crACKed house & who knows what happened
only that skin draped bones to make a home
for nits to live when they found him & she,
she---

found him again this week, made the same
promises & told him she wanted him back,
to be-little & make herself feel better/pleasure
see, bullies are not limited to school yards,
but hide behind locked doors, call it home
& invasion of privacy when someone peeks
in, while they spin membranes like sCramBLED
eggs then add a kiss to remind you they love you
and are only doing this because they do---

(i wake in the bathroom, warmth leaks from
my nose & lip, tile cold on my skin, they are
laughing, laUGHing, LAughING, yes i know
my own, i know my---)

and after six hours, i am covered in piss,
back twisted in knots & muscle bruised but he
knows & tomorrow when he wakes won't remember
a thing, but looking across the linoleum,
passed the white linen to the institution-
al(l) hard plastic chair---i will be there,
in jeans & tie dye STAR WARS t-shirt, black
& blue, but still smiling & we'll walk
the walk again---where crickets & hay muffle
the skritch of gravel, 'cept this time north,
black & blue, but still smiling, both
black & blue, but---

At dverse Poets today, we are thinking & writing, tracing pathways our membranes take us, down train tracks across the cortex--ha, ha, confused yet? get in the stream, but stay conscious you will just have to tune in at 3 PM when Victoria yells all aboard. smiles.

Also submitted for Poetry Jam for Bully.

fingerpaint a smiley face on the sun

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 23 May 2012 15:32:00 +0000

Richmond, VA

My oldest jams to Taylor Swift, my youngest, Toby Mac
& i am trying to listen to the new Train CD i bought my wife,
for our anniversary, sixteen years this week
& everyone is singing---

     ♪ Take a breathe and soon i bet you'll see
     without you I would never be me ♪
     ♪ I put my hand on the wheel before I change my mind
     I put my foot to the floor and I start to fly ♪
     ♪ Long live the walls we crashed through
     While the kingdom lights shined just for me and you ♪

A man sits a bench waiting for the bus, a shop owner
shakes out the welcome mat, joining in the chorus
of cars & bikes & aeroplanes flying in some tourist,
headphoned boy has got the beat, bopping as he
moves his feet, a lady step-pop'n drags her walker
'cross the steet, each person has their own tune
if you take the time to listen, yeah, everyone is singing

     ♪ Just sing together it's the least I can do
     My final gift to you oo-oo-oo ♪

'Dad, can you keep it down, I am trying to hear
my music.'

'Oh, sorry.'

♪ Yeah, everyone is singing. ♪

'DAD!'

'Okay, okay...'

written for Imperfect Prose & Theme Thursday

Lyrics from (in order) Train ~  Sing Together, Toby Mac ~ Get Away Car & Taylor Swift ~ Long Live.

OpenLinkNight: ManTalk & other primitive forms of communication

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 22 May 2012 13:05:00 +0000

street art, Richmond, VA

At the garage on Old Forest Rd,
getting an oil change & eighteen point
inspection of my cars performance,

me & one other guy sit in the waiting room
while mechanics vrrrt vrrrt vrrrt nuts off,
drain thick tongues
of oil, in orange buckets & screw
filters back in place.

I like this place, they don't lie (much) to pilfer
your pocket, it's quiet & the coffee is hot,
yet unburned

The guy has a Tampa Bay hat & I ask,
tell him I lived there the year
they won the Super Bowl.

He's been to the stadium but never a game
& after five minutes, we lapse into silence.

I read Bukowski & he sits staring forward,
content in knowing everything we need
about each other

until the over-alled man opens the door
& with a 'be good man'
we leave

relieved
to escape into cool morning sun
that shines with no expectations.

At dVerse Poets, it is OpenLinkNight, where I will be hosting but the verse will be provided by you & about 150 other pen wielding wind mill chasers. Write something poetic & come join us. I will open the doors at 3 pm EST.

All our tomorrows & another day

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 21 May 2012 13:28:00 +0000

street art, Richmond, VA

skitterSkitterSkitterskitter
grey squirrel skittering back
& forth across a small spot
of the black hard top in front
of my car, scared & unsure

between ~ between

SQUISH

barely a bump & it's over
in my rear view mirror i watch
the body writhe a-round a-head
now flat, of the snake that was
coiling to strike. a dash of grey

disappears in the roadside green
& these are the choices we make,
must live with, when freedom
is at stake---for all our tomorrows
& another day

written for Carry on Tuesday

Magpie Tales: Memoir of a one time clown

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 20 May 2012 14:49:00 +0000

The circus with the yellow clown, Chagall (via Magpie Tales)

i was a clown once, even wore yellow like the one in Chagall's circus. clothes so bright, they called me Sunshine.

we didn't talk, letting expressions speak for us. exaggeration was everything.

make up was the worst, moist sponge filling all the cracks in our faces and then later, the taking off of the mask. trying to get every little speck, leaving no remnant for when we walked through the dressing room door.

the kids would scream. all the pent up energy spilling over their faces in sticky cotton candy grins and they would grab, pull, yank, at the pants, held up only by bungee suspenders.

there were others though that shied away in fear, cowering in their parents laps. climbing their chest to get away, the whole time their mom and dad saying, 'no honey, it will be ok.' 'see how funny he is.' 'oo, look how colorful.'

the kids eyes would roll back in the top of their heads as they went into shock at the trauma as the parents handed them over to us. 'i just want to get one picture. smile, honey,' they'd say as their child went into seizures.

these pictures are used in therapy sessions today, i am sure. i periodically check the wanted posters in the post office, but have yet to see my face---all white with black triangles above and below the eyes, frizzy rainbow hair and red, red lips.

i did not last long, a season. too much work, putting on that face, to still make people cry.

i am who i am & somehow, that is enough.

i tell you this so you know the smile on my face today, has no need of paint and while we have shared both them and tears along the way, i am glad we have lasted these sixteen years.

happy anniversary, baba.

written for Magpie Tales.

It is anniversary week here in our house. The actual day will be Friday, I started leaving the first of my six little gifts out to be found yesterday. Yesterday's was the new Train CD. She will get today's when she gets home so I can't tell you because she will peek. Six gifts for Six-teen years....she asked where the other ten were, but i can't tell you my answer either, just know they are taken care of. Smiles.

Poetics: the retread LI(f)E

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 19 May 2012 10:45:00 +0000

wall art, Richmond, VA

Vzzzzz/thwip/thwip/thwip
thwip/thwip/thwipt/shhhh
psssst[pop]thunk

Vzzzzz/thwip/thwip/thwip
thwip/thwip/thwipt/shhhh
psssst[pop]thunk

hot off the press, we'd shave the nipples
off with hooked razors & check
treads for cracks of foreign L-M-Nts
that slipped the mold
REpair (make[look]new) with filler or
buff out blemishes before
loading them on trucks to showrooms
& you'd never know the difference

once, i watched a man's arm rip
right out the socket & even over
the
HiSSpopClank
HiSSpopClank
of mechanical arms & conveyors
his SCREAAAAM ascended,
as it hung by stretched tendons

inAttention will do that, especially
in the mundane - i mean, a dull blade
or mentally vacationing

Vzzzzz/thwip/thwip/thwip
thwip/thwip/thwipt/shhhh
psssst[pop]thunk

another tire on the palette, dinner plates
in the sink to soak, TV on to fill the silence,
bedAlarmCoffee bRUSH your teeth, sh--
shower, shave, kids to school, work, take
your pills so the heat won't get you, PSi building, UN-
intimate machine keeps spINN-NN-ing,

Vzzzzz/thwip/thwip/thwip
thwip/thwip/thwipt/shhhh
psssst[pop]thunk

until the blade dulls just enough---

Vzzzzz/thwip/thwip/thwip
thwip/thwip/thwiptschLorpP
kShunk[pop]ArRgghhhAaeiii

Today at dVerse Poets, Karin has quite the JOB for us in her poetry prompt and while I don't like talking WORK JARGON on the weekends, I decided to take a look back at my college job in the tire factory. Really did see the man's arm get ripped off, that was pretty intense. Any way, so Karin will be opening the doors at 3 pm EST.

Form For All: dirt & spit love letters

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 17 May 2012 14:17:00 +0000

2nd St. Lynchburg, VA

MErde ~ Shit ~ chalk on brick

bold maybe, but hidden in French

on a 2nd Street office, for what?

to eXpress DISpleasure, proclaim

the addi+ion of UNwhole numbers

or like ballet dancers, does it mean luck?

WE write OUR stories from the inkwell

within, tattoo, tattoo, rat-a-ta-too gun or pen

facial eXpressions in reflection of the sun

or second hand light of the moon, who

lives your life, them or you? [i] choose---

to speak grass along hills, tongue warm

honeySUCKle, nose pressed into its scent,

leave tuLIPS damp with dew - bLOW

dandelion seed in the wind - in hope

truth makes it to you. God gave the rainbow

i use to fInger pAINT your shoulder strength

in mosaic faces of LOST colonists, one for each

breath you have forgotten since birth

or let be-taken, in ever diminishing

circles of your self worth~

CAN't see the forest

CAN't see the trees

take my eyes and see you thru me

but you better bring shades, yeah

YOU better bring shades

for even in metaphor you're aurally blinding

BEaUtiful

Over @ dVerse Poets today, Gay is helping us find rhythm that has sprung UP from within the heart muscle of word hustlers...but SHHH i can't tell you exactly IT is, you will just have to ford that CREEK yourself come 3 pm EST. Maybe you can figure it out better than me.

AllWeAre is AllWeKnow

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 16 May 2012 14:10:00 +0000

12th Street, Lynchburg, VA

behind the abandoned factory,
its windows broken by stones thrown,
a rusted Loading Zone sign stains
the wall with trails down to
where the asphalt rises in a pucker
like an infant volcano.

between the cracks of its lips
long fingers of green grass reach for the sky
waving -
waving -

calling us
to press on, regardless

no Cedar of Lebanon, still
it knows no different

written for Poetry Jam and Imperfect Prose.

The Cedars of Lebanon have great significance to many ancient cultures. Some believed them to be the House of the gods. Specifically in the Biblical Narrative, Moses ordered it used in circumcision as it was said to have medicinal quality. Isaiah also used them as a metaphor for the Pride of the World. I think either interpretation of its significance works in this.

OpenLinkNight: The fall of dictators

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 15 May 2012 10:13:00 +0000

Crabtree Valley Mall, Raleigh, NC

'Are you coming to visit my pillow tonight?'

my wife asks, a joke, because most often

she is the ruthless invader,

slithering through the Constantine wire

curl of my leg hair, pushing into me until

i perch precariously on the edge of nothingness

between the fall to the floor & her

Closer, closer, she encroaches---but

Tonight, WILL be different---I lay my body

like a wall along the parallel that divides the bed, turned

to face my oppressor, eyes pinched surveying the border

for attempted intrusions & when she approaches

coolly ask for her papers, so I can check

for the appropriate stamps, fingers twITCHing

for further inspection

THIS IS MY TERRITORY signs duct taped

along the expanse of me, weapons armed & aimed,

a small gathering of protesters off to the side

with big placards chant ChAnT chANT

a bead of sweat rolls down the foreheads

of concentrating snipers that risk a quick blink

& if any of you believe i put up this much

of a fight---sorry---

i am happy, exiled

to the small corner of the pillow

i have been relegated to---

her pressed tight to my back, so it memorizes

all her contours---with nothing between us

& i don't care---about all the wasted space

on the other side of the bed

the resistance has died

& this

is the way it should be.

It is OpenLinkNight over at dVerse Poets---a night of fun & merriment filled with wild verse and wall to wall poets---Tonight, our host is Joe Hesch and he will be opening the doors at 3 pm EST. So go write something and come join us...we have been waiting on you. Smiles.

The picture is of a corner of Crabtree Valley Mall in Raleigh. The wall art of the diner and a car balancing precariously over the edge...1950's style.

Magpie Tales: How can you put a value on a mother's love?

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 13 May 2012 21:51:00 +0000

The Meal by Paul Gauguin (via Magpie Tales)

Fried pork chops, fried chicken, mac n' cheese and greens in Styrofoam boxes. Sunday afternoon on mother's day, in a double wide behind Social Services.

She bought all the food at a gas station back home. They used to eat there occasionally---always on Sunday & it doesn't matter how we got here, he's just happy to see her.

'I don't like my new mom,' he says, 'She makes me do everything. I have to wash dishes, fix my breakfast, make the bed & clean my room.'

His mom fixes his plate. They eat and when he wants seconds she fixes that too. Clearing the table, she wipes the top with a disposable blue dishcloth, catching crumbs in her hand then tosses them in the trash.

He belches, then asks, 'What you want to do next?'

Out the window, the grass has grown high enough to need maintenance so i take a note.

They sit on the couch, she cuddling him close as the clock ticks off the minutes of this weeks visit.

My own mom waits be at the house with my dad, wife & boys for me to get off work. We are having ribs. No irony lost in that. What can I say, they were on sale.

How we got here, does matter.

written for Magpie Tales.

Poetics: Wild Things, i think i love you (but i wanna know for sure)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 12 May 2012 11:35:00 +0000

Street Art, Richmond, VA

The problem with prodigals

is you never know they are until they are

and come back, like Max, realizing where

love resides

Sendak once replied to a child's letter

with a personal original Wild Thing picture

the mother sending him, 'Jim liked it so much

he ate it.'

This he said, was the highest compliment.

& I came home, having found my own monsters

with terrible eyes rolling, gleaming teRRible teeth

and with claws that were mostly TE(a)RribLE as well

Not sail-ing, more a stumble through a snow storm---

my mother driving an hour to the hospital room

of my landing & i vaguely remember the grey road

as shadow in the violent slashing white

He was gay, you know---Not that it has anything

to do with it---but it does---just check public opinion

polls, political roles & swim the twitter streams

& he---never told his parents

saying 'All I wanted was to be straight so my parents
could be happy'

What is that like?

Never being able to let

those that (should) love you most know who

you really are, or having others legislate for you

what that love can mean---

When the Wild Things came out, it was banned,

as well, until children would not leave it alone---

they understand better than us

Perhaps fear drives out compassion, or twists it
like licorice, with twice the bite, the older brother

angry and jealous at the affection of one that would

stray, run away---when a father offers hugs

and throws a great banquet---the trouble though comes

sitting by the window, waiting for them to re-turn

remembering & re-playing all the reasons
for their leaving

& when you eat this poem, chew it, like gum,
really masticate it until all the flavor is gone,
then blow bubbles as we did as kids,
when monsters lived under our beds and some---
were even friends---then

put down the brands & pitchforks
and take a look at yourself, take a look at...

Today at dVerse Poets, I have the privilege of inviting Aaron Kent in as a guest host. He sent me an idea to honor someone that passed this week that definitely touched my childhood through his art and books. Between the passing of Sendak and MCA this week...my adolescence is vanishing before my eyes. And of course I could not help sticking my nose into the political arena.

If the Secret Service is reading, I am coming no where near the stadium where Romney is speaking today. So relax. Smiles.

Meeting the Bar: Brian vs. the RPG

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 10 May 2012 13:36:00 +0000

sticker on the bottom of a skateboard, Raleigh, NC

I don't want to believe
but put my quarter in the random poetry generator
almost as a joke, as if a machine can ---
i mean where is the he(art)
           in firing microchips & turn-
ing logical sequence programming

(clink. Clank. Chunk) it spits...

       The mast rises like a cold mainland.
       Desolation is a sunny breeze.
       The misty moon roughly loves the girl.

& there is hope, it's not SO great,
sure it has good points but---i am not....aNXious,
it could be a fluke
not bad on the contrasts---Let's try another

(clink. Clank. CluNK)

       The cigarette grows like a faceless skyscraper.
       Cold, cold lights quickly get a cold, hot slum.
       Talk rough, like a old truck.

00-00 & i want to add an 010110
exclamation point to the end, the algorithm
has spun a metaphor,
tight, with repetition and alliteration

& i see Armageddon
in the blinking lights of the computer,
see a congregation of poets outside gas stations
dejected under NO LOITERING signs
& smart phones lined UP at Open Mics, the sultry
voice they use to take my calls rattling off poetry
written on breaks between messaging

       your finger dance is cold
       so fast, i feel
                  used, the only time
       you touch me is for text

Holy John Connor moment Terminator,
the MACHines are RISing!

targeting our arts he(arts)
now they've taken our jobs---free thought
numb, revolution become a wet dream
on the big screen---but
                               but
                                   BUT

Maybe this is a good thing---they will
cull the form writers first---
because they understand boXes
& this gives us time to stop
hitting the snooze button

desperate & on the run we may realize
   -may we realize-
our voices, not live in their INsignificance & choose
to use them to make a difference

the machines ARE coming
the MACHINES are coming
the machines are COMING

---& if you'd like to make a call
      please hang up and dial your number again

Today at dVerse Poets, Charles Miller is challenging us to look at technology and how it has impacted our world, among other things....you will just have to show up and see what he has in store for us...he opens the door at 3 pm EST.

The first two poems attributed to the random poetry generator were actually created by a Random Poetry Generating program---so---be afraid...very afraid. Smiles.

Sacred (Fools hiding in Whales)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 09 May 2012 14:03:00 +0000

Inside a whale skull, Science museum, Raleigh, NC

There should be warning labels on nature
or i may need to wear gloves
when i cut the pineapple

It's no easy task,paring away the skin,
all the little brown dimples & removing
the core without losing much meat

thunkah, thunkah, thunkah
each pass of the knife, a sigh

i gnaw the hard center, like chicken
bones, not wanting to miss any

chunk the rest in a blue bowl
for dinner, my fingers burn, burn-ing, burn
as the juice searches my hands

for each cut or nick, crawling inside
& rutting out every little flaw leaving
none unnoticed---even ones i did not know

rubber gloves may save me the pain,
or i can wash my hands, go on about my day
but can never claim ignorance.

a blind man now able to see, would he
put his own eyes out again?

i put the knife away & watch a sparrow
search the yard for seed through the window.

written for Imperfect Prose & Poetry Jam

OpenLinkNight: like trying to fight the rain

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 08 May 2012 10:16:00 +0000

adorns a doorway, downtown Lynchburg, VA

we draw pictures,
connect wet dots on windows
no numbers to follow,
trail our own imagination with fingers

rain drop worlds constellate
until heavy they run down the glass pane
join puddles, stretch for the gutter, gush
river toward storm drains

carry bits of yesterday's newspaper,
a crushed beer can, the body
of a small animal that tempted fate, a tree
limb lost, leaves, silt. a child

in galoshes & slicker kneels the curb
                   pop~pop~pop,
rain pelts the plastic, chubby pink fingers extending
to release a folded paper boat, it floats
down the road
   down the road
     down the road---

he squeals in joy, gives chase, unable
to clomp clumsy feet fast enough to catch it
b4 the waterfall---a father
carries him back up the street,
the set of his shoulders as he holds his son
is one i know all too well,

the first bullet he did not stop
    the first loss~you try to explain
as more already head their way

pop~pop~pop

It is OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - Hedgewitch is running the show - and bringing about 160 other poets, maybe more...maybe you...so go write something and come on...what are you waiting for? well, maybe it to open...which it does at 3 pm.

Magpie Tales: From the deep end of the mud puddle

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 06 May 2012 21:31:00 +0000

RAD Stainforth via Magpie Tales

Pan for gold, pan for your supper
pan reeds grow by the Banks (of the river)
my violin saws Charles Ingalls
soft, like feathered wings of angels

walls of an abandoned building read,
     those that complain about this generation,
   forget the ones that raised them

& there will be no raises this year, blame the economy
un-conscience, a constellation called selective memory
when fallen stars are where you base your astrology

peek through broken homes windows at heaven,
see the super moon (jokes on you) before someone pants it
eye witness news is all about perspective

takes a detective to decipher difference between simple truths
tied in knots to make complex lies & campaign promises
made to hungry kids at a birthday party happy to break the pinata

& find broccoli instead of the same teeth rotting candy

crawl to the edge of what you think & throw yourself over,
     wisdom is the river, rolling round rock
all ways seeking to re-join greater communion of the ocean

pan for gold, pan for your supper
Pan laughs as he dances by the Banks (of the water)

written for Magpie Tales

Note: The local Christian University has a certain Mormon presidential candidate as their key note for graduation next weekend. Don't worry they sent out a press release to say it was not political.

Poetics: Will work 4 music, but it won't work 4 me

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 05 May 2012 11:24:00 +0000

party napkin, found in Charlottesville, VA

a bright yellow Volkswagen
for sale on the side of route 29 South---

& i am back in the seat, feel the road
through my feet---the first time we

hear Pearl Jam, before everyone knows
them, on Charlie's cassette, knob twisted
tight to the right, static
crack in the speakers
POP
we could not, sing louder---

Of wolf and man, Metallica, the black
album slayed it, Lost Boys soundtrack,
found Everybody Knows remixed Cohen
by Concrete Blonde---Pump(ing) Up the Volume,
Efilnikcufecin, Locked the cellar door, so bA-by
talk dirty to me--whip crack, Faster Pussycat
up the Zeppelin bootlegs, as Twisted Sister
Bangs our heads

we were amethyst stardust in the onyx,
wearing our immortality like "Hello,
my name is" badges, writing reckless
songs late on the headstones of our history

HOWL-ing, HOWL-ing

Thumb, mental polaroids like a flipbook
of the night they pull that Bug
from b'neath the tractor trailer truck
your sister limp in the hug of your arms
hoping she lives---ah, shit---we're f--k'd
band broke up when you slept with my girl

whatever---the cost on the For Sale sign,
i get enough as we pass to know
i don't need that---now,
but the music made in those seats,
still sings---

[sing] It's not whatcha got, it's a-what you give.
It ain't the life you choose, it's the life you live.
It's only what you give. Only what you give.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Note: Closing lyrics are to 'What You Give' by Tesla, who were the first band I ever saw live, opening for Poison.

Over at dVerse today, Stu McPherson is controlling the juke box---i mean poetry prompt---and is passing out quarters for you to play your favorite song or sing along, or just listen to the music. Doors open at 3 pm today.

Also dipping in at Poetry Jam. & condolences to the family of MCA of the Beastie Boys who passed away from cancer yesterday.

FormForAll: the first signs of summer are...

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 03 May 2012 17:01:00 +0000

Shockoe Bottom, Richmond, VA

downtown, two streets off Main

& last car to miss the green

(these red lights take forever

no one even waiting at the other corner---whatever)

the bricks adorning the sidewalk

& retaining walls are appealing---deserve Bach

or Beethoven, but Blunderbuss by Jack White

is all i hear, washed sheets hung in the sun, its light

scent soaking in, a mom & her kid stroll

the crosswalk as red fades, when the little

one breaks free her hand, stops in the middle of my grille,

her floral dress dancing, to wave and smile

the sound wind makes whistling through car

windows at 60 mph, whipping the hollows of your ear

[even at a full stop]

Today at dVerse, Semaphore is hosting Form For All and has us penning Clarian Sonnets. Fourteen lines of rhyming couplets in pentameter. Well mine is fifteen, the first 14 kinda rhyming, but in idontgiva meter. Cause form is meant to be broken. Grins. Anyway, surely you can do better. Stop in after 3 pm.

And seriously, the new Jack White album---stellar.

Cut the red wire & hope---the bomb doesn't blow

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 02 May 2012 14:26:00 +0000

Candler Mountain Skate Park, Lynchburg, VA

In my life there's been heartache and pain
I don't know if I can face it again
Can't stop now, I've traveled so far
To change this lonely life

I wanna know what love is...

Some have heads bowed, some eyes closed, several stare at the ceiling tiles, how the coffee colored water stains break the symmetry of ordered squares --- and as the music plays a chuckle starts somewhere.

I am dating myself. Months later they will do a skit and everyone will laugh at the night we did a meditation on Foreigner---but the question remains.

----

He is flipping desks and tossing chairs like an audition for the role of the Hulk in the new Avengers movie. A middle school girl cringes in the corner, arms clutched to the panda on her shirt, lips quivering around her braces. A cocoa colored girl starts to keen a broken lullaby, seeking soothing. The rest hug the walls, the furthest they can get from---

Panic has the teacher in a choke hold, eyes open to the devastation but unmoving---unable to process the connections between the science lesson and the rage erupting from the boy. Forgotten worksheets flutter through the air, carpeting the floor. He is screaming. She is keening. Everything is broken.

----

A bird trills in a tree by the track as we sit in the soft clover, a pile of little white flowers grows in front of him---snap, snap, snap, he breaks them off at the neck.

I read the letter, creased with sweat from his back pocket. 'I think of you at night before I got to bed and when I wake up. When you touch me I feel alive. Please hold my hand at lunch. Talk to me in gym. I want to know you more.'

And then she didn't, when he tried and he doesn't---understand her, or love, or why everything crumbles as he holds it---snap, snap, snap.

A gym class carves the black circle, shoes slap the black. Short shorts, matching shirts emblazoned with the school name. A few in the back walk--just trying to catch their breath. The coach from the other side of the field yells, 'Come on. Run. You can do better than that.'

Snap, snap, snap---the question remains---as we muddle through abstract answers in his concrete world---questions we ever only grace with the tips of our fingers. Snap.

written for Imperfect Prose.

lyrics to 'I wanna know what love is' by Foreigner.

OpenLinkNight: Never like chicken

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 01 May 2012 10:00:00 +0000

Street Art, Charlottesville

we eat pizza off paper plates
on the avenue of the open air mall
in Charlottesville

which smells better than it tastes,
but that is not the point, neither
the wrought iron table with a bit of a wobble,
a man and his son on the corner, picking banjo
& playing violin

nor the bricks that form broken symmetry
we crossed to this point, beautiful it is though

sun glows through a few stray hairs
dancing with the afternoon breeze, atop your head

in your eyes i see a man skipping, out of place
wearing a suit, sunglasses, shoulder length hair
holding hands with his purple dressed daughter

smiling
& free

your lips damp with mountain dew,
a small dimple where the straw rests
along the lower one, the arc of your ear
round the shadow depth of its crease,
freckles reappear as seasons turn---

if you ask me what we are talking
about, i won't
be able to tell

i'll say 'blackberry jam'

& after you laugh, but before you can ask
i'll add, 'the taste of this moment'

not that you need to understand,
perhaps love tastes different
for each of us,

yet never like chicken,
that is reserved for everything else.

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - a full on poetry-polooza, with verse as eclectic as --- well i guess, as we are. Smiles. Write something, come join us. Tonight the host is the un-imitable Natasha Head. Doors open at 3 PM, see you there...

Magpie Tales: Variations in b Minor

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 21:42:00 +0000

'I was in Plato's closet the other day,'
says the cash register
lady at the bookstore cafe'...


chalk wall, Charlottesville, VA

Wrath (a predetermined theory)

Who we choose to include/
exclude says much of who

we R & R
we that much [            ]

it's funny to watch people
become that which they detest
because those you detest
will meet you halfway if you let
   them

toads crossing roads
SPLAT bNeath
tires of their own progress
   & we call it marketing

Noah built an Ark for two of each
i wonder how he chose which one to take
& which would blow bubble below

as you rise

if you are looking for deeper meaning
in this verse, toss a coin, in the park
fountain, but remember
whose face adorns it

DJs drop beats, pastors preach
& i, just a broke(n) porch swing
squeak-ing as it sways in the breeze.


trash can sticker, Charlottesville, VA

Blowing Smoke out your ass~umptions

A song fills the vacuum of space
stars think it's sung only for them
not a speck in their own eye.

Image by Manu Pombrol (via Magpie Tales)

(con)Sumption

a glass always
viewed half/empty
will never be
full/man

~~~~~

...to someone i can't see, as she hands me change
& a warm cup, then turns away.

written for Magpie Tales and completing 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Month.

Poetics: Getting my Teeth

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 10:48:00 +0000

street art

It was as if I had only just been able to see colors and shapes for the first time...It was confusing, each sound running into the next sound, like the mingling reverbations of bells, until I learned to separate the sounds, and then they overlapped, each soft but distinct--increasing but discrete peals of laughter...peals of bells

It is like this,

the way Louis describes it, a great awakening
of the senses, which is not what gripped me
at sixteen, the first time i read Anne Rice---it was more
the sexuality~power, puberty's perspective

the taking, quenching the demon within yourself

stick your head in a speaker box, turn the sound
up, if you really want to know---this life
among the cacophony, a clatter, a gong, a screech

stare into a strobe light, flash, flash, flash faster
until your retinas dull, this---life, unending
stimulation, a flip book, blink, fast forward
film reel---until you turn

until you learn to separate sounds,
moments into the little things, unnoticed

lady in the cross walk on 5th avenue, lay
your tongue along the line from the soft spot
behind her ear to the collar bone, just to taste
her h-h-heartbeat, the black bruise that rests
in her chest, last night, her lover---

pull back, don't take too much, let her live,
breathe, no need to sate yourself on just one---

a man runs the fruit stand on the corner,
gives samples to children every morning
as they wait for the bus, his joy heady wine
almost masking the remorse at the loss of his own,
feel the thrum in his hemoglobin pop along
your taste buds, like too much curry

don't hurry, slurp like some beast, have dignity
for them, but also yourself---pace

the bus comes, a tiny round face in a side window, pink
backpack across her shoulders, silk black hair,
emerald eyes and in them---do you dare taste
what pools there---

a cab driver, a suit-tie too tight-angry, soiled
pup, words wet on the brick, trash caught in a breeze
rising, separate each, sample, loveHATEpainRElief
SEcretsSOCietYsaltGRITgriefSIGHbeauty
pull your pen out, and furious-
ly write poetry---

No better than vampires---taking intimacy,
to quench that which lives within us---can you be-
lieve, do you want to know what i see---
when i look at you?

I heard the night as if it were a chorus of women beckoning me to their breasts.

Oh, Louis, you have no idea.

Process Note: Italicized lines are spoken by the vampire Louis in Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice. This series of books was a staple of my teen years.

Over at dVerse Poets today, Blue Flute, who I had the chance to meet in New York last month, is guest hosting Poetics with a prompt I did not see coming, but then again, with Barnabus Collins rising from the dead at the movies, perhaps I should have. See you at 3 PM.

BrokeStringStillBeautiful

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:29:00 +0000

12th St, Lynchburg

Where the canal runs through the city
under bridges
                    under passes
                                      people walking
its brown water meanders by them

a man, all hair & beard, worse for wear
plays a guitar, with one broken string

his companion twirls a hula hoop
round     n
           round    n
                    round her curves
barefeet on the sidewalk

Lost my mind, anything helps,
torn cardboard in the battered case reads

regardless, his music
                 her dance
                 they are

rain drops making rainbows
                  on an otherwise sunny day.

congressional acts & fiscal responsibility

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 15:10:00 +0000

graffiti'd street sign

i watch her cross the parking lot
only a bit older from when i knew her,
the way she preened for boys,
always looking for her daddy, mama's
beauty queen & promise to be
more than the less than of their present
                      reality---

has it really been five years?
she's probably graduating high school this year,
a senior or junior--i remember

how her mother called it cute as she flounced,
draping boys like a table cloth, just waiting
for a drip to slip the lip & stain---

passing within twenty feet, they don't see me
their eyes measuring each step, hand
upon the roundness of her belly, more watermelon
than the girl i once knew, full with seed

     summer days, as kids, my cousins & i'd see
     who spit them the furthest, pink flesh so cold
     our teeth would hurt---laugh
     as juice ran down our chins---wonder
     if any would take & dream of watermelon
     vines sur-rounding our houses

her mother opens the clinic door, they disappear-
ing inside, boys now as absent as a ring
on her finger, at work, i hope, trading hours
for responsibility / currency

---we spit like seed, without a care,
wondering where all the watermelons came from,
vines blocking sun from both our Houses

Today at dVerse Poets, Victoria has us focusing on allegory for Meeting the Bar. Doors open at 3 pm DST.

The story is true, but I tried to use it to represent something more. She is a girl from a youth group I ran a few years ago. Last time we were in Maryland, I watched her and her mother heading into the clinic. Have tried to write about it a few times but it never really worked. Underneath it all is a political poem, veiled a bit.

It is part of my his-story as well, so slinging it into Poetry Jam, as well.

Convict(ion)s & Samaritans

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 14:02:00 +0000

Lynch-byrd by Local Artist (unknown)

At Sears, getting my flat tire fixed,
minding my own patch of scuffed linoleum
in the waiting room, as i dry from putting
on the spare in the mud & rain, a hockey game
drones in the back ground, from a hung
television, and this man, a Gideon
by the lapel pin, keeps telling the same
story---ten, twenty, thirty times
to each new person that walks in
each time time hitting my shoulder
so that i will close my book and join them---
about the man that found him
in a parking lot when his alternator went out

'he didn't just stop, he brought me to Sears
& made sure i was taken care of'

(That is not the whole story, but
consider this grace, from me to you)
& in all the re-tellings i never catch a name
but built a sketch of the suspect
in my mind with each new detail given,
the kind police put on cork boards
at the post office, of fleeing felons,
so i can hunt him down

beCAUSE he kNOwS what he did, but
does he kNOw what he did---i DO
& heard it over and over again
for two solid hours

When I find him, I will ball up my fist
one finger at a time,
pound his door,
                      until he answers

& remind him that even though the man
never stops talking
                       ---he did a good thing.

Perhaps, he'll invite me in, we'll share laugh
over whatever he heard repeatedly
on the long two mile drive to Sears---or sit
just enjoying the silence
                       ---of our mutual breathing.

written for Imperfect Prose