The Straits

Like a trick of the darkness
the colorless void is given life
word by word, by crafting hands
a seductive breath into each line

You hope the right keys be stroked
in time to the rhythm and rumble
of everything around you
that you so dearly love;

The hottest blood flows
from the pen of one who knows
love within the dimly lit borders
of this motorized city at the straits
the colors bled are all and none
but recognize you as their own
by the warm true light
bleeding through the darkness

Yep, It's me. Had to update you with a pic. Check it, I'm a hippie hockey player wannabe poet guy.

It's a busy time of year and I have a lot on my plate. I'll talk more about it all as plans become more concrete. It involves moving across the country, and finding work since I miss eating quite a bit. Damn Maslow and his silly hierarchy.

Even this poem was pulled from the dusty archives. Sure, I refreshed it and all, but really it's old and I am pensive about showing my old stuff. I would rather create new, I'm sure you understand.

Hope to be getting back to you all soon.

Peace out.

Damnatio Memoriae

To me:
you are the night
drawing me to the light
my finest lovelorn epigraph

stitched from left to right

To you:
I am the tear
shed for the fear of fear
and now a love borne cenotaph

of lust; my broken spear

Hey hey, I'm alive.

I've been very sick--fever, shivers, coughing and all the other loveliness associated with illness. At first, I thought I had contracted Captain Trips, but I guess it was only the flu...

So basically, I have been living on top of a pile of pillows under 3 blankets in my living room floor, and between bouts of unconsciousness, I've been watching Harry Potter (all of the movies to date), Pulp Fiction, Troy, and Star Wars, thinking about various ways that epic stories can be told (Pulp Fiction is sorta epic, c'mon... Samuel L. Jackson is incomparable in the role of Jules Winnfield).

As for the poem (fiction, so no worries, m'kay?), I was reading up a bit about various forms, a convention that I normally eschew. This one is my attempt at crafting a poem in a form called Cinquian, though it deviates on the final lines from the structure. Cinquian is supposed to be 5 lines, starting with 2 syllables, then 4, then 6, then 8 then ending in 2, but I found the rhythm to be less than satisfactory, in my humble philistine opinion. And since I needed to convey an idea, I doubled the form. So you have this: a double cinquain with a twist.

Hope it flies... And yes, you probably know well that I usually avoid rhymers, but this one was jumping to get out that way from when I first rattled the gate. Had to do it. Same thing with all the links--sometimes, I'm just crazy like that.

Plaintive Sigh

the window's still open
late November night

listening for the most
sublime of all words

ever to let breathe
or be given breath to

lying in anticipation
under breath in the attic

and when that word is given

all will be golden--
one more burnished sunset
on San Marina lagoon,
one more coin for the voice
at the end of the line

so just give the word
but listen for the echo,
an arc royale choir
with the breath of stars

just one more syllable
for this wordless poet

one last word
and I'll listen quietly

as the breeze slinks in late
with cold November
through the open window

listening
for one more echo
in the night

Highest

usually it's been awhile.
you try to make it last

dancing with a crystalline maiden
and every other finer substance

lace clad, lips lingering over
all the right places
everything twisted, gently
to shape
and to taste

the fire is the process
and the result

that’s what I remember
the smoke and the mirrors

you know,
it’s been a while

Could Have Been

To rise above it
you first need
to be down in it.

I told this to
the kid with the
Grizzly Adams
beard, who was
young enough
that I could
have been his
father--
if I had been
down in it
when I was 14.
But, naw...
life is not a bowl
of bananas and
cherries...

I was busy being
Michaelangelo
of the basement
all vision and no
practice, to notice
that life was more
than books, movies
midnight TV
and
guitar
and maybe
a nice magazine
stashed under
the bed.

But somehow,
out of that hole in
the ground
I filled out
the hole in my
head.

Beat that,
Eastpointe
Lizard King.

But then
I'm still waiting
for an OK
pair of wings...

Maybe the reptiles
had it right
before the best of
them
died
one starry night.

If you are reading this, then it means my autopost feature works right, and yet I am still in Detroit. Yes, most blogs have this through post dating a blog post, but my old template did not. If I dated my work for a time yet to be, it would show up no matter what, as soon as I hit "publish".

Anyway, this one just had to break loose... but now I'm off for Thanksgiving part 2 with mom and my sister, and maybe afterwards, some very fine company and a drink or 3.

See you all soon!

Footsteps Stitched a Thread From the Fire to the Ocean

Footsteps stitched a thread
from the fire to the ocean

Leading to my El Dorado,
a fountain of youth
a bottle of Grey Goose
and amber-glossed lips
stone cold in love

Footsteps stitched a thread
from the fire to the ocean

The only remedy for
a burning heart
is a soul to quench it

Everyone should know
this,

But only two
know
for sure.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'll be here answering comments on my last poem, so holler and I'll be there at your blog.

Peace out!

10 Empty Bottles (an ode to Bukowski)

It's 5 minutes to midnight
and my brain is a pan-fried egg,
sprinkle on some pretty drugs--
and watch it explode
out on a highwire near you

4 minutes to midnight
and the new boss says
the old one still runs the show.
But the old boss just sits and stares
out the window at America Boiling
since he likes his plumbing thumb
right where he keeps it

3 minutes to midnight
and I just want to go home,
not this shabby room with:
a clock
clothes
books
ashes
10 empty bottles
and one deadman poet,
washed up on a shore near you

2 minutes to midnight
and the money men sing
a searing blues all the way down
to the sidewalk on Brush Street--
but the streets morn no one,
not even the rats born down below

Because it's 1 minute to midnight
and the house is burning down...

1 minute to save all that you love
but the drugs don't work
and the bottles are empty
1 minute to save all that you love
or watch the flames
devour everything near you

Bear with me while I get my voice back. This is OK, but could be better.

As for the top pic, no that's not my desk or anyone's desk who I know, but mine is almost that bad. A lot more books and CD's on mine, as well as a million notes written in the middle of the night, writing ideas that sometimes make sense, and other times I wonder what bolt of magic lightning I was riding when I took it down.

Just goes to show, when it hits, run with it. Because later on down the line, a few scratchy notes will often only make you wonder about your sanity.

Speaking of questions about sanity, here I have a link to a Bukowski poem that is quintessential to his particular world view (please excuse the free wii or iphone crap, adds are so intrusive).

And for a final touch, I was trying to embed a Jimi Hendrix video for "House Burning Down". But as luck would have it, the only good video for the song with decent sound quality had embedding disabled.

So here's the link, since it's a good one. Very political, I must say, and yet still very relevant to these changing times, as all great art usually is.

My Pele

If I held out
my hand--
(as cold as it is)

I know
would take it

in a heartbeat

like the voice
of a god from
the hollows,
I feel hers;
the pulse
is a sultry rhythm...

and I tell you,
this fool can dance

***

it's been so long
too long
an ice age and
a half

but tonight
it all melts away,
sizzling into vapor

as I take her hand
so warm...
(or is mine so cold?)

the volcano...
Pele, my love
will be born again
and again
and again

to the music
we make
by simply being

Yes, Pele the Volcano Goddess, not Pele the soccer dude, errr, football bloke.

If you wondered where some of my fire comes from, wonder a little bit less.

Would say more, but I'm off to the city to go get burnt.

See you all soon!

Gambler... (HTML and other gaffes (But still I Live))

As I was messing with things in the "customize blog" section, blogger decided it did not like the fact that I had 2 headers (the tiny one with only the blog name and the large one with my Detroit banners) and eliminated the banner for me. How special. Maybe it knows I don't live near Detroit anymore. Perhaps it wants me to call my blog "S Cedar Street Love Graffiti", or "Farm Lane Cow Chip Cozy" or some other suitably East Lansing-ish name.

Nothing I could try would bring back the 2nd header (which was a remnant from the chaotic age when we could apparently have as many headers as we wished) , seems we are all limited to only having 1 header now. We just can't be trusted with 2 headers, that would be total anarchy.

All I wanted was my banner back! Any of them--I have a large collection of banners that I made just for this site, and finally I decide to change the good old "Heartaching..." banner for a new one and suddenly I am only given the choice of a tiny banner for a tiny header, blogger having decided that I probably would have little use for a large header.

The only way to fix it? To change my template to this one.

At first, I was aghast at the thought. But after doctoring the HTML code a bit, I decided this one was perfect.

Now... To actually use this new template.

Here it goes, I need to rev up the old creative power cells and try to make a run at that next 100 poems.

Wish me luck.

Here's something I wrote at an old friends blog, before I had my own. Crashie brought back that memory to me in her current post, where she talked about how she got her start blogging by ranting on one of her friends blogs for a time, until she felt the confidence to begin her own.

Great how those things work out, ehh?


Gambler
by Eric1313

They will always be there
the good girls at the bad bars
the gazing faces you won't forget
attached to the name tags
you just can't remember

Inspiration--
now that's fleeting
something that tells you
that you are never alone
if you can just create this...

You aren't alone
even if part of you cries
or part of you dies
with each word written

But it won't always be there
so you better listen to it
before it finds someone else...

No matter what the faces said
spitting popcorn and beer fizz
you're all in--
let's see some paint

No matter what
the girls will always
be at your bar

So roll the dice,
Snake Eyes

It's your call...

"Wild Bill" art by Fountain.

Pros and Cons of Birth in a Funeral Pyre

The phoenix

cares little

for where it has been

or

where it is going


so........................

::keep breathing::


Before she is lost to me tomorrow

as the fire consumes everything

she used love about me;

before I become a fiction

a crude joke...


::keep breathing::

I write her one last time

I sing to her one last time

Before I lay her picture face down

One last time.


Ashes ride the wind

as though born in their embrace

And I'm free

And so are we all

Fate

Is one of many

Four letter words

Like...

Fire


::Keep Breathing::



Not my best, I'm sure, but the rust never clears off completely in the first swipe, ehh?

Hey y'all. Glad to see you are still there. I've been busy. I went into work one day at the new job and found that the evil corporate elves decided to close up shop. At least I collected 3 paychecks first. To bad they're already spent.

But as I said, I have been busy. I've managed to find a little bit of freelance writing work. I wanted to say something before, but I also wanted to wait until the deal was sealed so as not to jinx it.

I'm good at jinxes, believe me.

Anyway, there are quite a few of you who I will see soon.

I need to post more often, I know.

Ivan, thanks for the kick in the butt.

I needed it.