THIS PAGE HAS BEEN UPDATED 3-31-2000 POETRY: THE GHOST BEHIND THE TRUTH Most Non-Functioning Literates relate to poetry. It exists to mock the status quo that sets us apart from them. These poems speak for themselves. My method is sculpting together what I want to say, to break down reality and rearrange it to fit my head. This my world. Welcome to my mind. I am currently in the phase of my life where I am looking back to my childhood and asking: "What the Hell was that?" The process of piecing together who I am is not an easy task as I face my demons, but I have to figure out what events shaped me into a Non-Functioning Literate. Since I create these not out of any hope for economic gain, with no one to kiss up to but myself, it helps to keep the content and approach less adulterated by the powers that be. As a standup comic, I have to worry about laughs. As a poet, I only have to please myself. These are the poems that document my struggles as I deal with the world around me. Some of them are autobiographical. Some of them deal with my emotional response to how other people cope with the circumstances of their life. I am happy to say that I have reached a positive turning point in my life. Many of the circumstances that prompted such darkness have turned around for the better. In other words, I have faced my demons head on (we all have them) and won. Sometimes it takes a personal crisis to open your eyes. So, in the spirit of truth, experimentation and artistry, I submit the following: ======================================================= ======================================================= THE AUDIENCE I am here with wild hair and coffee to tell you about the madness. I do not respect respectability because it does not respect me. You scoff at my earring. I laugh at your tie. You hate me but pay ten bucks at a club to hear me make fun of you. Now I have your respect for a small block of time. You laugh but you’re out ten bucks. Thank you 5-14-97 * * * * * PAPER COVERS ROCK "Hey Michael," she says from the shower, "Why do people judge you by your looks instead of your thoughts?" "Because they can’t see what you're thinking. Besides, I'm always naked." "But I'm the one in the shower!" she counters. "But you're still not naked." "Are you going out to work like that?" she says without thinking. Then the smile leaves her lips as she picks up my clothes. Sometimes laundry takes priority over conversation. 5-21-97 ============================ Now, some of the latest... ============================ PRETTY DEAD BIRD Her anger awaits life behind lace curtains as she puts her forehead against him raking her nails across green hills disguised for slaughter to suffer fresh flowers in the morning, choosing her sense of whom in case of accidental overdose mocking the skull of man as life spills on the floor revealing the ceiling to the presence of stone unbuttoned windows and a carriage for three. Remember thou keep holy nothing but Halloween eyes on comfortable streets where the wind once blew. After all, what is more changing than the sky loud and mussed for a pretty dead bird? Remember nothing but the rage as you wind your watch for falling words. 11-12-98 (Note: This was a response to the seemingly lifeless and soul-less mothers who dropped their kids off at my son's school. They all seemed to share the same bland, generic point of view in exchange for living in a nice house in a nice neighborhood.) * * * * * TOOTHMARKS ON HER TRUMPET The buttons taste like chaff as her pockets fill your mouth with the missing fingers of forgotten gloves, a deeper sense of rapture while you graze in her closet to pinch the nose of snakes where canyons hide from the moon. She of hot winds and apple seeds reminding your heart to beat as the dogs bark at the silence of fresh rainfall while the trees grow unnoticed into logs and the final notes of her trumpet fill your ears with fresh moans lost in a quarter rest to bookmark your bones on her lawn. 8-6-99 * * * * * AND THE MOON WHISPERS HER CHRONIC REAP Like a breeze too cold to move the freedom of a solitary life begins and the moon whispers her chronic reap. Advance slowly to little faces looking at me watching an old woman ruthlessly rid her face of words as I fluff her tortured pillows. Grandma is very shattered who loves her son, who gave him life and crippled his bird with wings. "You always dance more slowly without legs." Is tenderness aware of mad, sleeping off the sunrise? Something is tilting…Black tape across my eyes in this picture, maybe life isn't definable for our viewing pleasure. I might have wished for lesser gods withering toward 5 o'clock sadly. Forget time, where is the harvest, the suckling cry of autumn? Family secrets, those terrible things that make life interesting, doing things by halves like mismatched socks that feeling of drying on a winter clothesline the freedom of choice overwhelms me at times and I sanction her irregular verbs. Better to stub a cigarette out on remember? A strong sense of something vague, of genetics & other errands. Where is a hurricane when you really need one? Spin the bottle of mercy, her voice on every wind… Fall is coming, behave yourself. 10-17-98 (Note: A poem about my mother.) * * * * * A HURRICANE AFFECTIONATELY My unlikely Kathleen, I recall coming home from school and having my winds blown prime mover of her tortured weekend pass Welcome to my childhood behave yourself is such a small space What time-release capsules the sunrise applies without the orders of a loving Master! What else is there to piece the puzzle? Is tenderness of autumn or Mistress, or mother who still has what her son unconditionally decades? What hair in her fists to punish the white of my shoes! Welcome to her children -- what obstacles have been touched? Face of swollen words, another piece of sunrise, yours 10-23-98 (Note: Kathleen is my wife, and the number one priority in my life.) * * * * * WHEN LOVELY IS HARSH very shut down today stray dog crossing the freeway in rush hour traffic nights in a row with little journey the curtain takes a deep breath head about lack of hate breathing exhaust of drunken minds and down come little lamps pile of debris under tolerance five minutes from retrospect when lovely is harsh she hates him but he matches her shoes opens her purse and pulls out a mattress winces and pulls back the blanket to a guest, or a trespasser? question was phrased like it concerned my head hazard lights not working again 9-4-98 * * * * * CAN WHEELS UNRAVEL A ROAD? The windows are raised for the long voice of a bird who crawls for many lifetimes to converse garden and throw lurks in her heart. She says wine, yet acquainting my heart seeks water. A pile of string, negotiations, nothing rings like a bell, no messages on her eyelids sleeping. Nothing is but a word, lift me up to the floor, take from me and prosper. I, the dirt around her roots. Nothing is in the way, try to avoid it. Leaving the train is not possible. The windows are broken. 8-22-98 * * * * * NO EPIPHANIES WHERE HER EYES HAVE CROSSED Who flies in the window, flowers in hand? Who bears the scent in her fist wounded with grace? You know better than to be kicking my name Recall your mouth, so full of doubt as words tumble out of your teeth and survive You have wiped your tongue over the orderly arrangement of empty spoons Now the eyes of conscience are upon you refusing to blink. Once the handcuffs are on, it’s over The bullet leaves with the weapon of choice as shame holds you in her tender arms 7-7-98 * * * * * THE RIPPING OF FINE PAPER TREES Getting out of bed every morning uninvited, excluded by the green of bells, cursing tough stains that would have horrified my mother whose smoke-damaged eyes were nailed to the cross, the ripping of fine paper trees from a bloodthirsty wind without a name. As the universe obeys a collection of pinned insects, another pot of water boils dragging soup bones through the sky, and nothing seems as slaughtered as hope when a man falls slower than a wrecking ball to thirst no more as cattle. You always miss what you no longer have. Tender child, sleep well. 8-5-99 * * * * * BE UNTO TREE A SHADE five miles from sundown your neck snaps it might take a girl is crying a storm blowing through twenty thousand lips at sea love is a balance of hate waiting for the evening train waiting for those who wander without pay to heed the voice so close to holy clutter scraping ancient caulking from the flame what fire reacts to diamonds, the blood on her face? a drug called tomorrow leaves the flowers just out of reach inches from a moment of detachment she rolls up his sleeves with her eyes the crowbar fractures and splits a car skids to the palm of his hand the other end of meat 12-2-98 * * * * * THE BOUNTY OF HUNGER To dream of apple seeds on pretty hills arranged for rice at the gate of her meadow, a bottle for her eyes, mounting steeples for the texture of soil to cover your limbs with a display of minerals in her hand and cloth on her womb, the stars of forgotten skies burn her hand in a loss of light as snakes rattle, killing each other for centuries over a piece of a woman's sweat, digging my fingers through her bath to squander the bounty of hunger. 8-4-99 * * * * * THE UNTIMELY SENSE OF NIGHT To be stroked with the flat of the hand that cradles the violin and robs the fields of wheat the smell of agriculture, the groaning of the hills as they fall, rocks moving ever slowly down the street -- everything I have abandoned hangs on your wall. I rise as your dust as you fall down the stairs red words playing scrape marks on the floor that little voice out of focus splashed upon me the last time I crashed to shore screaming through the view of half a hat selling footprints to the snow cursing the flow of time, breaking rocks into sand to clutter a glimpse of biography. I break before you in the same gust of wind who dampened her sights on the sea impersonating a stone. 7-11-99 * * * * * RESIDUE What purpose to crawl these streets, to rest our heads on shall not find? skidmarks across our eyes? There are more ways to communicate than this still life, another reality than what lies through the mail on a postcard. Sometimes better to not cast shadows, leave no residue, as if dreaming were enough. For what child is without chapters? Everything means something else and tonight the moon is nearly a postmark beyond the trees. 1-6-99 * * * * * THINK AND GROW WATER glass after glass of days without water not one day goes by that I don't know I’m drying headfirst full of holes through several pages of time touched by a breeze and other related scars how bright my light is know so well death, how does one escape such a gone? beware of they who call themselves righteous those who tricked me into my first breath the killer speaks from a human head nose against expiration date teeth around a little darkness a back seat stare into space hiding behind a furnace too aware of everywhere never learning to swim too far from rain 1-11-99 * * * * * NEVER TAUNT THE HUNTED, NEVER LOOK AWAY morning rolls snake eyes on the grass the world spilled through her flesh it’s hard to stop a train a hand full of moon from the neck down too thin for the cold, too thick for the heat welcome to freedom, these are the rules the outcome of chance and other acts of devotion driven by hunger anywhere near distant unworthy of her pleasure or the shackles on her feet too much ennui in her eye a middle child alone in the crowd never taunt the hunted, never look away another unsanitary smile deep breath fading to blue a brisk beating so I may be left free to dance and sign my name in chalk as I leap from the bridge and enter her thus with nothing to bear but false witness a new day, a short piece of time another installment on the loan of life only to be returned by six to the hand that smells like a fist thanking God for the stunning blow we are about to receive 4-21-98 * * * * * ABSOLUTION Embrace your shame as life pastes recognition to your eyes with whatever strength the moon is food, one more petitioner of unlimited blood. What hooks are unfastened in unstable eyes licking poetry from the floor of your tormented mother! What time the wind blew is no longer ashes. Her cold creeping fistful of hair hurt you less than the neighborhood kids who dishonored you so long ago… yet, changing the locks while they’re gone, they come back banging on the mountains. Please deposit a quarter for another three minutes of absolution. You look good in those eyes, confined to hope, and remember this as a handful of collision cradles your head, the helmet law does not apply to pedestrians. 1-29-99 * * * * * A WOMAN IN HER SNOWFALL the room is an empty snowfall a woman dressed in comfortable streets and untraveled roads climbs into bed with a man’s voice a hooded head resting on her chin the creak and jangle of utilities a piece of carbon paper on her stomach blood on the unmade bed a pair of footprints starts to flow unspoken thunder she answers the phone the frozen lake pressed to her ear the opposite evening blowing a storm a blunt pencil to enter numbers onto him tries to beat the circulation back into her nightgown littered with footsteps and feathers too loud for a grave 6-26-99 * * * * * REMNANTS OF TIME The day was selected for a woman’s hand a milky way beneath her gloves where bone meets white flashing a wedding gown between her legs as death tapers her limbs with cloth. The world is a storm too close before you. Too much water will break your lips and the rain shall remnants of time the way of speak, a license to blink, a reason to move, driving out demons like a dog on a faulty fetch where she softens in your eyes as the grass grows. Lean over the rail and speak freely as you fall where few of us walk without secondhand feet, where fortune knocks us about, human templates hard and tough as rusty hinges subject to the history of each breath as a foghorn blows twice the nimble wind and the morning glory blooms for an hour like angels on broken ground. February 1999 * * * * * RAINSPOTTING The mornings are not what they seem. They need a spot of rain. What passed as husband & wife never dreamed of consequence waiting for the rain. Raising their hands to speak like poets standing in line at the bank hoping for the rain. Life was too untidy for crumbling wheat fields, curtains soiled by dust and time, throwing stones at twisted bones, a testament to the power of gravity tugging at the rain, when the mountains formed man from the dust of the streets dampened by the sea expecting too much rain. Who among the deaf cannot hear the pounding of the rain where blind men blush to touch the sea? I was once a man like me, falling in the rain. Execution by personal opinion, blaming all the rain. No one uses the word obsolescence anymore lost inside the rain. To spell destruction for crumbs of praise as the wind falls on its back and loses its breath spitting at the rain. To move as humanly as possible, praying for some rain, because you cannot walk on thawed water, a pocketful of watches ticking in the rain. Fairness is never part of the plan dying in the rain. Tomorrow the sun will forget the dead rotting in the rain. For every one who reaches the top, another one dies. I think about that every time I take the elevator, climbing to the rain. When your head hits a bullet you need to slow down spinning in the rain. Clutching the walls of the witness stand accustomed to the ruin, I draw a spot of rain. Do unto others as you would have to feed them bucketsful of rain, pajamas from an empty suitcase wading through the rain, as graceful movements enter our heads dancing in the rain. I know the wind steeps like tea to fan the flames of sleep. A soft wind into a hard night blows into the rain. There are more risks with a storm, blow as she once blew. Am I the only one with both his boots, taking aim footloose in the fields playing in the rain? Anyone got a light? I hate November. I spot a drop of rain. Where are the stars my big brown eyes? There’s a village beyond the thirst. Smelling the leaves I crawl to the water drowning in my rain…drowning… in my rain. 6-7-99 * * * * * All poems on this page copyright Mike Welch 1997, 1998, 1999