Rapture of Poseidon.
1.
What will become of us
when the Sea conspires an armour
and the waves rise against her?
They will think better when starving
waving operatic flags of knowing all too well.
The trees will make more sense,
they’ll know the smell of rain before it comes.
Until they want it bad enough
their laughs will be from nervousness
a symphonic ode to a boy whistling safety in the night .
and their keepers will know
Their children will know
Their fathers will know
That no longer by flipping cigarettes in their packages
will good luck run the voodoo down.
For what will we say
when there is nothing left to say
our makers mark dissoluted on stages
where conviction falls to iron shoulders,
surplus,
to ignorant artists and their ripping canes of lively sponsors?
What will we say when they test us
ask us
to define our hair and black backpacks
carrying nothing more than sugar coated culture?
May I say that we’ll skip swiftly and run
dodging green lights for dead end squatting.
2.
They call attention to hairstyle,
the quantity of people who light your cigarettes
the number of times you circle a bar without looking up
and the name of vendors that stitch themselves into fronts of cotton t shirts.
They ask you what you do
in an attempt to define morality, compatibility
and self worth comparitive to income.
Sense of wit hiding behind arcane references of books they’ve never read;
movies they’ve never seen –
It shows itself in affectations –
like the quantities of bottles missing their labels,
raped by twiddling fingers while searching for a familiar face.
It’s the butane from hot breath
sparking miles of vast semantics,
toiling in such verse as
“I thought you meant” and “I think he means”
…and groups of young idols
leave their tact next to serviettes and loose matches
as they politely stare at the backs of heads,
cackling whispers of whose their neighbor.
They can tell you from the packs a cigarettes you smoke
the way you hunch when counting streamlines in the marble hightops
tryin to find one more dollar amongst faded pockets.
It’s not so bad, really.
So long as you judge their vernacular according to neighborhood,
taste according to shoe size
and morality by the length of pauses between breaths of liquor.
3.
They’ll know all too well our vapid stances
Apolitical breaths
in a plan B world;
The problem is:
That our cities have never been bombed,
our mothers never been told to shut up;
we buy our rebellion in the form of consumer products
we buy our rebellion in the form of consumer products
we buy our rebellion in the form of consumer products
plastic coup de tat !
…and they’ll love our ideas
they’ll love our art
they’ll love our verse
when we’re dead.
Because we are the makers of melody;
We are the dreamers who dream.
Were a part a culture that sings, it sings
It’s cadence from wind chimes that suck
songs in rather than ring.
It’s a part a culture feigning matadors
that catapult crimson blankets, taunting
thin boned babies that daytrip into rings of cities.
It’s a rainbow flack a speckl’d paint
That curls it’s A’s to look like E’s;
That makes a padded brick scream Waterlilies.
This town does not shout
does not bow, does not break
under scripts of how, what, why
and where the kids end up;
and the jazzmen play for bars that listen
for free liqueur and change that glistens
silver in the palms of black;
and the white girls go shopping in places they’ll never live,
never give
enough fickle philistine color they tint their hair with.
This collective, this time’s a part a culture
that sinks behind sunglasses that tip to well dressed men
The girls wit’ pigtails o’er counters a flesh
colored powder and the name tags
that frame their stature and how many times
they sold compact religion, to you.
It’s a slept in little boy
That wipes his eyes and finds awe
In the tips of blue that spark from trains
It’s a part a culture that finds solace in individual divinity.
It’s a writers ways that bind the feathered phrase
to the puckered face and an open mind to take it.
We’re a part a culture that sings, it sings
We’re a part a culture
And it’s cadence.
The Gas Cap is Open
(and I hope you burn)
God
I can feel it in my gut
Rancid and wondrous
A quiet filling of grayscaled stars
In a technicolor canopy.
I didn’t eat today, cause I drank today.
I make and break a world of text convoluted;
An orgy of well fed shots and golden casper
Dance a mild thought
and the throat opens as if to speak of inebriation
a disappearing palate of invisible words
like Claude Raines teaching 6 year olds to sip
and not to swallow.
And floors come quicker –
a dogs eye view of Old Crow nesting
next to clocks set ten minutes fast
ten minutes past a time more sober
than a nuns fingernails
tapping a big book a recipes beggin to shake and bake.
I didn’t eat today, cause I drank today.
And nothing short of a pale hot pixel
could hide the dry circling of the ceilings blue grout
and the obvious overlapping
of tile 32 with number 20.
And I can smell it
the wheat
the grain
the screaming in bubbles of liquid dinner number 2
and the pieces of nothing left heaving in the drain;
It don’t happen to everybody”, she said ;
This fasting in barrels of triple x and double espressos
lasts about a moment longer than a good yawn
or a last look at a card before it falls into the stack.
“You ain’t here forever”, she said
“You’re not lodging permanently”, she said
and, tit for tat,
I may be an ugly sign for the roof of an Inn,
but today
I have a temporary space for last sips, last regrets
and a face
that knows whiskey from wrong.
The water knows
It owns rights and visions
Of the Suns lament
Breakfast on banks of passers-by
Vessels broken
Blue flood waters
heaved on planets neckbones
and the marine day fingers making haste.
They are lovers, all of them
speaking softly of each long breath
now twirling
miming
dances between stones and old stares;
an anchor by the ardent sea.
Unrequited.
Write a poem without the sky
sans the ocean
86 the Baltic air the active flowers
the something something ideas
that make the unquiet dew deafening.
Without their own portraits wrapped in dying stalks
poets will snap flower tops
just to watch them fall.
Gestate lilies and the poppy will follow
first by definition, last by connection
and wholeheartedly a thundering meadow of conceptual botany!
Lick the lines, the mill creek stanzas
and stick them
offer them up
and watch them tumble Jill, jacked
by their milky predecessors fetching water pails
to dilute fistborn gardens
that prance on the petals of paisley pages.
Hold them, fold them
and watch their carbon triplicate verses,
12 o’clock shadows left on faces
unsure of where their image is growing.
Feed them you will, but once a seed is left to sprout
millions will sputter, cackling swans grouping
at the first toss of bread.
And where might we end
this philanthropic apathy they call love?
We script so many kisses coupling lips
like dianetic volcanoes springing up islands
where there were none;
We build totems of 20/20 hindsight
looking back to replay balls lost
among like minded countenance,
drafting once coveted players for other teams;
We’ll trade them off
an update version of last weeks stares,
blue as ripe mangoes left for dead.
“This love is new love” we say,
right before we thaw the moon and parade it
like the intangible ‘way up there’ no one has.
And still the batons are heaved on planets neck bones,
the flock singing marvelous prose
like locals feigning tourism.
I know this love, and it speaks its name
it shouts for the romance to stop
but yet has no adornment, no reason
for the rings to keep its fingers from burning.
So I bid the leaves adieu,
and wish them well
someone will pluck them soon
photosynthesize their gazes
and stain them into phrases like new information.
But one word to the wise:
subscribe to Better Homes and Gardens – it’s cheaper by the year.
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What’s New with My Subject?
Cantina Tale.
I like the girls with pigtails
They’re palsied posies begging for paint
And the hair will dance
And the hair will dance
orchestric cantos
flailing downstrokes of commas
silkscreen syntax on eggshell skin
listen to me
left arm raised hailing juggernaut cabbies
double parked twilight at each ear
and the toe taps
and the toe taps
cross hatched in red banjo pants
where here nickels sleep snugly there
and the quilts know why
always hangin there
bentup portraits like seashells
caught in a dirt;
Roadhouse screams ’66
A rye coach whipping
galloping gold tenure from table a table
- the busboys are singing
burlap hair fastened with visqueen ties
and the tapestries dance
like watered down sasparilla
sipped in cool tile pharmacies
bubbling carbonated phrases to lickshot faces
twine postcards from Arizona
Wish U were here.
The Undefeated.
A good morning shot
drapes heavy in saucers
steadfast on handles
with hands to pour them
Brandy go lightly
heather come hither
a feather on my lips
Tickling needles of pucker
tumbling down to hot ladled streets
in buckets of sweat
kept in bowels of faulty towers
Scrubbing streets
for change and meat
to fill my fill
and constant still
My soul dances lightly.
Born in a war against death
From your first cigarette
to your last breath,
they gonna send you home when your done
(like the postman, always shaking)
You say I have this posture
that makes men weep...
And I think of this when I stand and see
Two taxis cross at the same time
In different lanes
With their lights on.
I can see there is writing behind me
On the building with dark corners
Even in the daytime
And I try to picture my posture
As words
Pieced above the awnings for everyone to see.
I think these things sometimes
As I lay my cigarettes
And lighter
And pen
Side by side in cafés where people never eat
On streets where no one looks up to see who you are
And I look for my body, my shape
In the words you told me
Above the awnings
Above the heads
Above those streets
And those cafés
And I wait for those two taxis to pass
And I wait for my hand to raise
And I wait for my thoughts to gather again
To remember how you said I will make them weep –
And somehow, that’s enough
Somehow my posture, is enough.
Tonight.
Is every night for me
It’s the end of one and the beginning of another
And it’s hard to explain this to you
When I know this story all too well;
Like a second skin –
But for you, maybe
You’ll be hearing this for the first time
the way I look in backs of cabs for your face
cause I think you might be going somewhere
for the first time I lit twos and threes of cigarettes
on the medians of gas stations
in hopes the explosion will reach high enough
for you to see out your window.
Tonight, this night
you must understand is the end of my story,
and the beginning of ours;
Tonight I can’t see your body hidden in storefronts
cause I find your reflection wherever there may be rain
Tonight, this night
I see your face when I look at mine
My fingers trace your lips when I touch mine
and my eyes tonight they are your eyes
and never the twain shall meet
So be it the first time you listen,
or the hundredth time I’ve spoken about this night –
It will always be the same
for this night is every night for me –
and this story
may very well be every mans story who has yet to meet you –
but I can say
that in those nights,
those moments,
I have touched the face of God…………...
Let the Devils be friendly.
He’s a proprieter of fire
red hair and
a basket asking where
it should hang.
Him, maybe
but the point is missing
twisting of his locks
like rocks lying to themselves
on pulpits of curling fingers.
Peoples canes are dirty
they’re leaning outtakes of crutches and none such
of fake compromises
lies that take whole sides to operate
testing fate and maybe it’s too late
but bending to break all but half of their listful sides.
You’re the reason
children wish they were him
capsizing
catapulting
defects into oils of piss and vinegar
it gives ‘em reason to shake
reason to break
reason to fake things that take whole sides a paper to explain.
You’re the smile on wretched faces
left on traces of Sistine blood paving school hallways.
Once the boundr’y of insecure fists
now the pounding of nonsensical riffs
raffing laughs to what it is they say –
diluted street legal fuckery of words
and trauma and spinning of circles of work tales and miter,
spiders calm at the sight of you
and at no loss to us, for just but a laugh
and the credit will most certainly be given,
to you.
The Greyhound Watershow
selected prose
Ocean Alexander
Copyright 2001 Ocean Alexander & Fire of Aries productions,
all rights reserved.
Be cool, stay in school.
Eat your vegetables and
Brush twice to be sure.
Dedication.
I dedicate this song to me
The gelled face that scrapes with razors
Phrases raising skin
To snip by dragging metal cross cheeky scripts
Dropping past hips
That touch ends of sinks.
I dedicate this image to me
The afraid little sabot asking
Where the links need breaking
Lines worth saving in books of nervous scribbling.
I dedicate this line to me
Full and tilted, a half asleep watchtowerman
Bent on backs of chairs snowed in
From his sleepy work week.
..and Finally, I dedicate this life to I
whomever I seem,
for to create is nonetheless to dream
to gleam like neon jacks in a filtered heaven.
Dedication.
I dedicate this song to me
The gelled face that scrapes with razors
Phrases raising skin
To snip by dragging metal cross cheeky scripts
Dropping past hips
That touch ends of sinks.
I dedicate this image to me
The afraid little sabot asking
Where the links need breaking
Lines worth saving in books of nervous scribbling.
I dedicate this line to me
Full and tilted, a half asleep watchtowerman
Bent on backs of chairs snowed in
From his sleepy work week.
..and Finally, I dedicate this life to I
whomever I seem,
for to create is nonetheless to dream
to gleam like neon jacks in a filtered heaven.
From Gibson to Brogue.
Their ties know not
From right and wrong
They just hang there, apparent
By a workmans song
Like nine to five
And the cadence of punchcards
Above loafers with stitches
No pennies, but polished
A shaking head constant
And duties left sprung
From know how to heres how
And the power of one.
Noontime to walktime
To cars with sharp symbols
Pagans with watches
And wives with idols
Of alabaster tourniquets
With steering wheels, silver
Driven mad by presidents
Left membered, off kilter
To previous terms, we wait
For cycles
And circles
And whats for dinner, tonight.
Back on Belmont.
These dogs will do nicely
Same echoed fronts
To stores
To fronts
And the wheels dance from cars
Licking flatbed stars
Painted yellow twine sidewalks
Hair is a different color now
Almost as real as the days used to pass
Into nights
Into days
The Maybeline aint so black
As to run down alleys tin pan breaks,
But the song remains the same
Slow, surreal and apparent.
The Greyhound Watershow.
I alone have seen miles of flickering films
Of black and white bodies twitching at crossroads.
They float like demons cross alps off snowy dreams,
Caressing souls from beams
In rooms of windy solace.
I alone have woke from dreams to find real
The fear of living.
The cataclysmic tales of young ones conspiring,
Suggesting pictures of middle aged men
Grasping their phones, sweating
Unable to communicate.
I alone fear the dolphins will know me
End their cascading embrace,
And leave for warmer circles.
I dream the women will haunt me,
Incessant grouping of eyes hurdling implications
Of my stature, perverse
roles played among Wretched blankets
stained from sweaty secrets.
This is my show, the pictures ive seen
Run faster and dont look back,
For now is born the Greyhound
Whose lost its sugar .
Philip in Paris.
Philip had fillings
Each tooth huddled
With tidings of metal.
He had glasses that tinted
His golden hair split
To alabaster cheeks
And a nervous chin.
Dreams, this boy had
The ones where you can see
Whole rolls of film
before theyre shown.
The dreams where
children speak softly
on subjects they’ve
always known.
He liked the silence of bathrooms
Of bathtubs, and gin
Even the humming of fans
That twirled above him.
Youd think that theyd know me,
He spoke of the tiles,
The drain, the curtain
Theyve listened for awhile.
So plans, he had
Like dreams without reason
Travel he would
Ina circle, but farther
Past language, past scenes
Of coffees and saucers
And outdoor seasons
flipping like authors
of the calendars he kept
ripe in his pockets.
Money wont matter
He membered quite fondly
Of booklets and traitors
Like artists with day jobs
And human house painters.
He read of quartered poets
And wept for inclusion
Gazed at far places
That sat for the musing.
Writers and tricks
and leaders of men
I shall see all of whom mattered
And the hands that fed them
Mostly for children
The maths of great song
The legends and church keys
To help ideas along.
He woke in the day
Past dinner, past noon
In Cities that sprung
For trivial pursuits.
Late is better than never
And is never worse still
Than parchments of paper
Emptied unfilled,
Good Morning, dear judas
He said with a bellow
To his little blue friend
His snugly bed fellow
Thought we would start
With tickets, on trains
Bound for separate places
We will meet off the main
Talk over napkins and glazes
We will smoke like the rich do...
What a fine idea
His little friend thought
Stuffing pockets
With hymns and filled paper
That philip forgot.
But what shall we do
When the both of us arrive,
Stop and go back
To tell what we have spied,
Of sidewalks and shops
And old women asking
Directions and meaning
And bread for the fasting,
Shall we speak of times past
Of the peoples ill looks
The books with no purpose
And their benevolent hooks...
Of course not, said Philip
Lighting matches to see
Where he left the poems he had written
Bout midnight, last eve.
The enjoyment is in leaving
He said with a shrug
Its already decided
Where well end up.
But the time between,
So thats what we will do
Just go and keep going
Of this, Philip knew
I see, said Judas
And thats how they left it
No plans, just tickets
To places unknown
Theyll make travels
Make moments
And share how they've grown.
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