poems

Flashback

Posted by Klaus

for Mary Esther

Which lifetime was it when
we first met? Did we sit,
stunned by each other, the look
in our eyes, in a country glen
with the sound of our horses
jingling the reins, snorting
as they broke into full
gallop on a Sunday afternoon,
all the farmwork done, or was

it another time, chariots, pyramids
the two of us watching the finishing
touches put on a half-beast, half-man
called the Sphinx, you turned to me,
pressed your hand into mine and
said, “they will remember us long

after we are gone, the creature will
stand when our names are forgotten”,
or was that us, on a hillside sitting
writing poetry to each other, you
beautiful, older, the morphine coursing
through your system, me, a bit younger
dazzled by your darkness, I was Robert
Browning then, you Elizabeth, our
love not forgotten nor our names

this time. There are two
young peasant children passing
flowers together after church, eyes
locked in hypnotic embrace, the church
is empty now. We are still sitting
in the love seat, it is this lifetime and both
of your cats are watching us, my arm
is wrapped round your body,
and I say, “this will be one of
many lifetimes,” and you laugh,
tell me you don’t remember anything
from the past, yet there is something. Then we kiss,

and we kiss, forgetting everything.

The Butterfly In The Box

Posted by Klaus

I will take care of you, said the man
to the butterfly. I love you like magic,
he said, and all I want is a small
bit of the powder from your wings and then
I shall provide

all the things you should have in this
life. Only a bit, said the butterfly, of my
powder for such rewards, and the butterfly
was flattered, as the man touched
a bit of dust from each wing and the butterfly
soared that night. All was well and the man took
her in when she touched down and showed
her a mighty metal home. Here, he said, when
you are tired, is where you may rest. No
one, nothing can get to you here, with
the exception of me, and I love you so
all will be well. Tonight, before you sleep,
I would take a bit of your powder between
my fingers. This is all I ask and I will always
be there to protect you. The butterfly bowed
her head and she had misgivings deep in her
heart but put them aside and said, take,
take of my powder,
and he did.

That next day she did fly yet she could not soar as
high and she tired more easily than other
days. She was happy to have a fine metal
box to rest in with her good man beside her
yet her heart felt that something
was missing. There were many days and times,
and he brought her

many fine things, always taking, always
taking a bit more dust from her wings. A voice
cried out within her and she whispered
to the voice, Quiet, he loves me, I must give
my share.

Flying became hard, she was in
the box more and more, she had many things
but there were times she was lonely
in the box. The man had his own life
still, and was not always there. The day came when

flying had become very difficult, and she
asked him for a bit of her dust
back because she could not clear the
lip of the box. This I will

not do, said the man. But I can not make
it out of the box, the butterfly said, won’t
you help me out, after all, you love me, do
you not? Yes, I love you , said the man, you
will be safe, no one can get

to you now. Suddenly the butterfly
was frightened, the small voice
inside was screaming and she tried
to rise. The man smiled as he

closed the lid of the box.

The Angels of Gloucester

Posted by Klaus

In Gloucester, the angels come together
in hospitals, churches, kitchens, they laugh and cry
in each other’s arms. Once they were dirt
whores, carried by the winds of bad chance

into dark hallways, virus-strewn streets,
offered themselves to wasted men and other
cracked demons to buy death on hard-time payments.
Their spirits forgot the words to the ancient

sister songs and their children were ripped
from them. Cramped and alone, these women
cowered in dark basements, fell to their knees before
lesser gods in hell’s hotels, died and were

burned, their ashes swept away with a bitter tide. Everything
changes. They become sisters, walk an ancient path now, join hands
at signs of trouble, hug each other’s children, knit
their families into hot strong blankets with threads

of prayer. The men watch.

Allergies

Posted by Klaus

At the needle exchange she came
in, short purple hair, skinny, beautiful,
pupils wide with junk yen. Urgently
she tugged my coat, said, “Marc, I think

someone sold me a bad gram. I chipped
a piece off it three times, shot it, just keep
getting sicker each time I run it
into my blood.” She held it out

to me. I took it into my hand, rumblings
of deep dope yen awakening full-bore
inside me. I held the chunk to
my nose and sniffed it. With sorrow

in my eyes, I peered deep into her
bottomless chasmic pupils. “God,
I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but
the guy sold you beef boullion.” Her mouth

dropped open full of
gasp, then she said, “Dammit,
no wonder that stuff made
me sick. I’m a vegetarian.”

What To Do When It Is Time To Commit Suicide

Posted by Klaus

When it is time to commit
suicide you must cut the wrist
with a longitudinal slash, the longer
the better.

When it is time to commit
suicide you must put the gun
in your mouth and then shoot
upwards toward the brain.

When it is time to commit
suicide you must take ten bags
of heroin, dump them into
the cooker, cook them well. A large
guage needle, preferably a 21 will serve
you best. Empty the hypodermic
into your vein.

When it is time to commit
suicide, make sure someone
you love is willing to do it
for you if you are unable to
do it yourself.

When it is time to commit
suicide, call a doctor that
you trust.

When it is time to commit
suicide you will think it is
time to commit suicide.

The worst thing that can happen
when you try to commit
suicide is that you might
live through it.

One theory about life is
that if you commit suicide
you must repeat everything
in your next life.

You don’t always get what
you want. Go back
to the beginning of the poem.

Splitting Wood In Hell

Posted by Klaus

The things God cannot put
right have always come back
to me. When the piece of wood
split and fell on the toad

squeezing its internal organs
out through the gaping mouth
it continued to hop
towards me, its hot eyes

staring directly into mine.
I learned that morning eyes
can scream. Squeamishly, I took
a stick and tried to push

the insides outside back
into the toad. The eyes,
the eyes, the eyes never
ceased as the stick busted

the fragile organs would not
fit down the narrow throat
of the toad. I flipped
the maul over to sledge hammer

and prayed that toad into the ground.
My stomach twists, wrenches when
I dream about those eyes. I am
ready to have my mind revoked.

The Perfect Storm

Posted by Klaus

No one is jumping from buildings
during this crash because of the
Bush parachute bail-out. The rich

get paid off with our tax dollars
while a poor woman from Boston
is put out on the street. The bank

is foreclosing on her. She will have
to move to one of those new tent
cities; they’ll call them Bushvilles

this time instead of Hoovervilles
like during the last depression.
The last depression. No one bailed

out the fat cats that time; everyone
went down except for a few
carpetbaggers and liquor dealers.

It’s the Perfect Storm this time; even
the weather is telling us we’re on the
wrong track. Hurricane Kristina, Gustave

and the war in Iraq; the greed of the CEO’s,
I’m a friend of George W. is the new
Greed Anonymous greeting. Bush

didn’t have the 7 billion dollars for child
health care but he’s got 700 billion dollars
for the cats on Wall Street; you can hear

them if you try; yowling on the top floors
in the sweet suites while the rest of us
get foreclosed and put out on the street.

A Sea of Candles

Posted by Klaus

for Sarah Hannah

You lived somewhere for very long.
But the avenues by which you
could recall it
Have been closed for new construction.– Sarah Hannah

When I hosted at the Tapestry of
Voices, Sarah was the opening
act. I didn’t have a clue

her candle was close to
being snuffed by her own
hand. The room was filled,

some seats by her students,
always a positive statement
about a teacher when those

who sit at your feet as you
speak attend a non-mandatory
event. I didn’t have a clue,

not even when her eyes met
mine how close she was to
the edge, but then I’m a counselor.

Some of her thesis focused
on Sylvia Plath when she
studied at Columbia U.,

later to teach at Wesleyan
besides playing guitar in
a heavy metal band. Heavy

metal guitar strings wrapped
around her ankles, verses of
poetry filling her throat, an

“obscure road winds me
sinister” she said, “Gas lamps
flicker” as they did on the

street where Sylvia Plath
died. Jack Spicer, according
to his own words, was killed

by his vocabulary, Sarah Hannah
was cut to pieces by her verse,
burned to beautiful dripped wax

by her own candle, a sea of candles,
a poet adrift, a light lifted by the
waves, then washed under whitecaps

on the evening of a salty wind.
A poet adrift, the fire hidden
by the mirror in her eyes.

What I Wanted To Say Was

Posted by Klaus

6 billion people counting down
while dead zones grow in the oceans
while people wrap Christmas presents
while people plant car bombs
while children learn to be good citizens
while some parents choose which child dies
while Bob Dylan writes ads for Victoria’s Secrets
while Madonna adopts a child from Africa
while HIV spreads like an ink stain on a paper towel
while children play video games shooting gray heads
while bees, hummingbirds, and bat populations decline
while bees, hummingbirds, and bats pollinate plants
while the oceans are fished out by factory ships
while Halloween disappears
while some countries train children to kill
while some countries train children to kill
while some countries train children to kill
while my hair turns gray as I heal
while my refrigerator is humming
while somone is hunting for a scrap of food
while I lay warm in my bed
while my friends die in the shelters
while the president of the United States makes decisions
while the vice-president accidentally shoots his friend
while Donald Rumsfeld sends our soldiers to die in Iraq
while I remember he sent soldiers to die in Viet Nam
while I sit at my computer to write poetry
while my wife is hard at work
while 56% of state prisoners show symptoms of mental illness
while we spend so much more money to kill
while we spend so little to heal
while I wonder why China’s Yellow River turned red
while I notice that so many factories are on river banks
while I go to the bank to get money to buy comic books
while 24% of jail inmates are psychotic
while my motorcycle sits in a shed surrounded by dead leaves
I think about all the plans I had when I was young
they were good plans and I had high hopes
well I am registered to vote and I do that
I read quite a bit and write a little more
I love my wife and say my prayers
sometimes I just sit and think
sometimes I try to sit and not think
why do we always have enough money to kill people
why is there never enough money to feed everyone
as I read this poem there are machines running all over the world
once upon a time there was a man who became a poet
words are powerful things
a bullet or a bomb can only explode one time
it’s true that many will die
but words can be used over and over
maybe one day we will stop killing each other
because of something someone said
I would like to be the person who says the magic words
but if it’s you who have the magic words
that will stop all the killing and the cruelty
I hope you say them soon
words are powerful things
say them already say them say them say them
I’ve got my ear to the ground
and the way the ground is humming
it feels like we’re running out of time.