donate my body to art

it was just some comment
concerning a little anecdote
uttered by someone in the back of class
who i want to call an academic
or something equally pretensious

...when i donate my body to science
how would i make sure
that it was of some use-
making sure it got used for science
not some art piece...

and in my head i groaned immediately
blocking out the little chuckle at the end
like some people do
give me a fucking break, i thought

not that i'm one of those people
who thinks art is the high and mighty
and science is a dirty whore
more like we're all a dirty whore
and pretend we're high and mighty

with this comment i thought
i'd leave the greater good at home
and donate my body to art

paint with my blood
and silkscreen my organs
weave with the sinews of my bones
a collage with my wirey pubics
my tongue in a scupture somewhere
and i wouldn't care if it inspired or not
hung in a musuem or men's room

so say what you will
about science and art
but at the end of the day
the nice thing about art
is you can say
i liked it or- it sucked

almost like it happened

i make up these stories
in my head sometimes
when i'm walking along
inspecting the ice on the sidewalk
things that i think could happen

a beat up sedan
something in the engine
out of tune
and the driver
not seeing not looking not thinking
coming down the alley
too fast to stop
until my dog is under its stupid wheel

i'm at my most eliquent
still holding the leash
saying, you just killed my dog

the driver says nothing
a whimper hangs in the air
they are as oblivious as ever

i go on
have saved up this rant
noticing every oblivious action
by our dumbass species
for at least the last week

you just killed my dog,
i'd break their stupor with this repetition
killed my one true friend

there'd be no room for anger in my voice
only sorrow that feels so real
that somewhere there's joy
and i'd have this opportunity
to change the way we all live

by now they'd offer money
and i'd refuse
saying my dog's life knows nothing
of the worthless stuff

this is what i want,
i'd say
for every time you leave your house
you'd remember you are one of many
and when you met anyone else
by the way you met their eye
you'd remind them too
you would know every car
had the potential to end life
every ugly thing you might say
can hurt someone listening
have a little compassion
and an once of imagination
how about that,
i'd say
for the life of my dog

and i'd scoop up my friend
struggling to carry him
walk away with him bleeding
feeling the last little bit of his warmth

and it's almost like it happened
somehow life feels better
breath in cold air and stop at a stop light
wait for the walk sign and hope a little
no one runs a red light

this job i had in the desert

i once had a job
where there was a great lack
of bullshitting

it was no perfect oasis
wasn't other wordly or even
all that romantic
and that's not to say people tried
somehow it's in our nature
these days

all these kids would come
get sent out to the desert
at any time of the year
sometimes in the middle of the night
and me and another
would walk out to some kid
some kid who'd pushed things a little to far
with the drugs or lies
some kid who was too down to get up
or broke windows and walls with fists

we'd say hi, tell them our names
ask them how they're feeling
make sure they knew how to poop in the wild
tell them we weren't gonna lie
and about the bullshit thing

mostly we walked around in big circles
talked about their lives
and what we saw in them
people were happy or pissed or lonely
sometimes elated about little things
or furious at the huge
how ther moms and dads could be assholes
and how life felt like a fight
just to get up some days

the best things
were around the fires
on cold nights that didn't feel cold
when you all woke up before the sun
and no one talked for awhile
people were too busy thinking to pretend

somtime i think of bullshit piling up
a sizable hill like a sand dune
someone's trying to climb it
keep up a life pretending
i imagine bullshit as the slipperiest of stuff
sliding down and down
to wherever the bullshit runs out

what will rise

there are times when i'm afraid to write
because i either know or don't
what will rise to the surface
writing is my shake up
what is buoyant prevails
this comes to mind-
on the bus with many
people are silent and squeezed in
trying not to step on toes
what's most amazing is the eyes
that everyone tries to avoid
i don't think it's shyness
when you're sad
all it can take is eyes
meeting yours like a key in lock
there's the pop of the spring
look away before then
out the window to the billboards
find something to be angry about
more accepted than sad
sadness sinks
somthing else comes up

days are

days are like this sometimes

when you get home and sit
you can't remember
the mood when you left
it might be too much to know
that you left the house happy
ready to face anything
and returned not wanting
to leave until you're dragged out
long after you're dead

days can get this way

where you find yourself writing
poems where you die
then rot
and i wonder back and forth
is it just me
and my brain cells
my chemistry and bio
the genes and hormones
and parts of me
under microscopes

or is it outside

is it the things hermits hide from
on a day to day basis
is it a society of strangers
and a modern culture whiplash
is it selling yourself for a job
and a piece of hanging on
is it- that the only good
five second conversation
was with the begger on the street
who was in it for a nickel
is it the pretending i don't want to cry
on the corner in this city

is it neither is it both

or the spirit that i've lost
my godforsaken meltdown
godforsaken in the literal sense
and it's me that's done foresaking
replaced god with the absurd
because in and out it's the only thing
that makes sense
when sitting in my old dead grammma's chair
and never wanting to leave
it's been a day like this
a damn you day like this
and days are,

days are sometimes- like this

a poem with options

some of you may see this like a movie
like pictures and the flicker and the cuts
you've already missed the previews
see exits signs hang in the dark

some others may hear the voice of a story
that old kind that was told aloud
like a teller of tales around the fire
there's the pauses, and the bursts in words
with the sing song , the lulling, the voices
the action, the end

some of you may see this as a shape
a column like a rectange, one side waves
no symetry to the columns, no design
only black and white there's no color
no capitol letters
and did you notice the font

some of you might find this amusing
like the stories babbled on by a toddler
...and then when we got there, there
was this man with a horsey- big as
a elephant and there was an ocean...
wondering where it comes from
you might smile, play along
whimsy's fun

some of you tire of repetition
of a poem that just seems way to long
some of you tire of repetition
of repetiton, repetition, repetiton

some of you feel this as judgement
though i didn't say it, of other poems
of you, other art forms, of myself
as the anger i can't give away
and it's mocking and jeering and its-

some of you try to see meaning
see it here, see it here, now it's here
these words are shards that i find

some of you have given up reading
are somewhere else
as eyes trace a line
did you put out the garbage
tomorrow's tuesday, already

chances are some of you like this
and some don't
chances are some of you'd probably pretend

some hear my voice as they read this
speaking these very lines
even though they may be all alone
hear my slight lisp on all of my s words
for those of you that don't know
it amounts to a very soft s

instant winner

the kind of week i've had
somehow feels like scratching
not the satisfying nails finding an itch
or sickening nails on a blackboard
my week was not the kind of scratch
you'd hear from inside kitchen cupboards
or moving behind the walls
not the scratching of the needles
in a cat's paw as they rip through
your delicate skin
this week had the feeling
of holding a sweat smelling coin
firmly in two fingers
back and forth rubbing
on some sticky grey matter
you're scratching off some contest
did i win, did i win
but we don't know
behind that grey matter
behind all that scratching
we don't even know
what we're looking for

after one

i'm not sure how long we stayed
it was after one in the morning
and the light in the sky
had a timeless dreamy quality
running and sliding on the ice
a lake with new cover snow
seeing the dog chase my brother
then me and we ran yelling
catching ourselves numerous times
from crashing on our asses
we're adults and we're playing
up past our bedtime
i'm not sure how long
it was enough to later
fall asleep easy

as i sit and write

even as i sit and write
sometimes it strikes me
as the most absurd thing
perhaps most pretensious
thing i could do

for a moment i might pause
run a list in my head

i could read
make a snack
take a walk
tug of war with my dog
call a friend on the phone
play the guitar

plant a garden
take a nap
go to the bank
get a job
surf the net
watch tv
make a list
buy a new sponge for the sink

then i stop
and i sigh
write some more

winter

in the descending blue gray darkness
of an endless winter sky
snowflakes crowd around streetlamps
hovering in bold golden light
sidewalks soft with the snowfall
as it lines every detail of the world
shadows glide on an icy pond
melting crystals, tickles as they melt

this is the romance of winter
of the memories, of childhood in the north
it's both as true and as false as a lost love
sometimes its fantasy sometimes its real

headwinds burn on your face if you're lucky
if you're numb you have already felt its ache
it was dark in the morning when you woke up
dark well before supper's served
touch your finger to some kind of metal
and they'll feel like they're metal themselves
it's true that your eyes can feel cold too
try to think when too cold to think
don't complain when it's only half over
two and a half months more, if its short
the only thing you love is that you have shelter
without it you'd have nothing else

this is the reality of winter
of the day in, of the day out
of the crusty and wet dirty snow
it becomes hard to make it romantic
like life its a kick in the ass

to what end

hearing what i heard
i wanted to push on my temples
in some way lessening pressure
people were discussing disaster
and how religion explains it
i couldn't help but feel sick
hearing all those lives lost
explained away as a test
that waves of water
were pushed by some god
that it signaled some evil
was some sign

there seems to me
no easier way to explain
my lack of faith