Place

There is power in place,
how it gives rise
to who we are,
how it defines us.

And I have been defined by
crab races, singing bridges,
pastures, and plantations.

My next door neighbors
have been a roman aquaduct,
a bay, a hollow, and St. Francis of Assisi.

I have lived in murder capitals,
charmed cities, chocolate cities,
queen cities, and big easy cities.

Forgive me if I speak of them fondly
as family, friends, and old dogs gone
off to die; it is precisely so. For their
good and their bad, I am branded
by memories. Owned by each.

J.C.

Sometimes, I see a darkness, too.
I want to rip the flesh from my face
and run across the cold burning fields.

I hoped to be spared by pulling painful smiles
inside. The lights burn through the forest
yet through yonder tree line I feel
the heat of freedom: ablaze as a torch in the Hudson Bay.

I was in Baltimore when he died. I was there
when he talked about his wife and how he hoped
to only be with her. How he hoped for a heaven.

He didn’t care if he got there. Only that it existed for her.

Gutters

there is something special
about a gas station gutter
spilling forth the waters of life

her rust and dents lie:
she will outlive us all

Lost Colony

There is a community unfolding,
a cyber-space or poetic movement.
An electronic school of thought
spanning the Beats, Firesiders,
Dark Room Collectors, Ethnopoets,
Fugitives, Confessors, and Slammers.

No historic homes perchance
will stand to remind the world
where we lived. No worn down
warehouses to echo our style.
No neighborhoods to tell our stories.
Only stones, urns, and cyber copies.

Years from now, what will they call this?

Stuck in Transition

This is me:
A not-so-happy place.
Only because I cannot differentiate
between music and life — there is strife.
I am pulled in wholeheartedly
whether you and I like it or not.
A banjo. A fiddle. A sad ole gospel.
I have never seen the light,
though I sing it with all my might.
Am I born to die?
The appalachian gospel asks
and my inquiring mind wants to know.
Do I lay this body down
so that my trembling spirit flies?
Are these things my snake-handling
great-grandmother wanted to know?
Or maybe it was her husband
who angrily asked because of women.
They weren’t allowed to preach, you know.
Soon as from earth we go
what will become of us?
Eternal happiness or woe
must then our portion be?
I ask this for her. And me:
There is Pentecost in my roots.

Eventually, we all hope to go home. Always.

Detour

My mind is rambling,
an untamed ox,
the zen monk would say.

Passengers in planes
to japan sleep
while i size up hale-bopp
and the egyptians who last saw it.

The faitfhful attend mass
en masse, i contemplate
those who painted the walls
and affixed doves to ceilings

In fisted fingers and petal-soft
tongues, i should find pleasure
but distracted only find this poem.

On Being Lost and Found in Maryland’s Appalachian Fog

the highway became the harbor
full of creaking, moaning ships
water splashing and slowshing
there it was: crashing collision
metals smashing and scraping
screaming of pain and fear
fear of what you couldn’t see: only hear
only taste the dampness of the air
didn’t i think i would die that night
smacked dead by a semi
before things were made right?

Crash published at Poetry Express

I created an account over at Poetry Express, a great online social networking site for poets. I’m giving it a trial run, though it’s free if I decide to completely migrate.

Wanna read Crash? Just click on the title. It’s a great way to get a feel for the site, too.

Whitespace

let’s explore this                        whitespace
together, where same-flesh color meets
black
sail through the coarseness of it
down
your
spine
to
the
dark
canyon
where boys come out on bottom

i could trace this with my tongue:

could you be loved?
as i am wont to do: i                    rollover
trying to capture this newfound thing
but it is you who has captured me
this is love                          you say
as your black arm slides across my belly
a t e t h e r or a c h a i n
to an anchor s t e a d y i n g
my course in dull seas

Nothingmore

she warns me:
once we are back inside
i’m not mention you again

let’s be real here: i left
you against my will
i was never good
not with break ups
we were ripped apart
like claws cracking from the shell

i have never forgotten you
nostalgia is a beast
similar to mental illness
in that it scratches your brain
causes you to linger in worlds
no longer existing
as i am wont to do
i often stroll along brackish waters
duck under floating churches
hovering over graves
and ever watchful ravens
listen for your early morning rumbling
the call of ringing bells, buses and boats

we are all lost at sea at times
no beacon to guide us
adrift without neon lights to steer
us in the directions of lost habitation

do i miss you? of course
do not shed tears
or reach out for me
cast up your nets and let me go
as i have done for you

i was ripped away
like a suckling pig
from its bewildered sow
whisked away to feed
the hungering masses
of pioneers gone west and forgotten

not forgotten, not forgotten
that’s not what i meant
let’s be real here:
i have let you go
a fond memory, nothing more