that is empty air: (warm)

 

 

the mass mailing of cells

has not reached the people
(yet).

a storm of wills (or lies)
delayed the final delivery
& the people
received empty boxes
in the mail. mine again sits
at the doorstep.

i look out the window
& the steam is getting wider,
empty intellectuals
continue to shuffle past
as plaster-faced zombies
(& spies). they smile.

the tv behind me
beleaguerly broadcasts condolences
to the collective conscience
(who lost one of
its members today)

a tele-evangelist yells
mocking me & awakening
my hypnagogic thoughts
“cells have been lost,
the people will never be free,
send money.”

behind my cold curtain
peeking
i contemplate my own fate
to continue staring
a mind lost to its own freedom
or leave
the front door stands open
to receive another,
dried blood stain.

that is warm air.
the people are
dumbfounded & delighted
the cells have not reached them
(yet).

Mark David Jordan, 2011

edge of: (the dark closet)

 

 

we can go to extremes

but not be extreme in our self.
(beginning does not always need
the benefit of end)

better we pretend you are smoking
     as we drive by you
on the corner, steam rising from
the city.

better we pretend we know you
     as we watch your
moves on 10th floor from
the window.

better we pretend you are red
     as we pictured you last night
even though black is the color of
the hair.

we can go to extremes
but not be extreme in our self.
(green does not always need
the benefit of red)

better we pretend you are clothed
     as we watch you on TV
stripped naked and let out into
the night.

better we pretend
     your sex smells sweet
as we see you walk by from
the roof’s edge.

better we pretend
     your life is lonely
as we whisper to you quietly from
the dark closet.

we can go to extremes
but not be extreme in our self.
(sound does not always need
the benefit of air)

Mark David Jordan, 2011

light: (deflowered the i)

in my own time

i departed
in the best of conditions
& sought refuge in a wood
where light always entered
peacefully to me
through trees,
(the top was not visible).

here were the stones
one each i left in
remembrance of the
sins i bought from
this very spot
& deflowered the i
& them.

i lay down
in the soggy
half-green used carpet
& rolled around
dirtying
my clothes & thoughts
in defiance.

i wiped moldy leaves into
my face
& head
to clean the 2nd life
away.
i shoved rocks down my pants
& sticks up my pant legs
so my appendages were heavy
with sweat & stiffness.

this was me, stains
blending in with my
flesh,
i threw up my hands full of
new earth & it descended
into my eyes,
the pain (unbearable).

prostrate in the dirt
i ground my selfishness
down deep until
i felt my smallness
fuck the Earth &
it fucked back.

together with the soil
& freedom the sun
warmed my face when i
rolled overlaid
the packed stillness
white with dirt,
this was the warmth i
envied, the beast quenched.

i found refuge in these woods
where light blinded me.

Mark David Jordan, 2011

the silent i

 

 

death is a murderer

& is under contract to life
for this purpose.

i lay under a blanket
prepared between 2 chairs
&
it was a silent i.

mouthing the words
“i am alone”
no sound was heard
in this
thick space
i was busy
traveling to a far away planet
where i would be in charge
of rebuilding.

i conversed with those
ahead & behind
into thin airways dark
overcast with hope
baggage had slowed them
within earshot.

my own sounds were at peace
in the green,
a glowing cast from
the overhanging blanket
in this, an amplified theater
meant for only i.

i was the me who
was cast aside
from a shadow
less body more
part of a hidden psyche.

i cut my hands off
&
let them to others
falling into my lap,
i was the i who was
motionless
&
at the edge of desire.

the future whispered
in my ear being upon
me attacking i
without movement,
a puppet with no strings,
this was an epic battle.

i could end the i that
was now with a
slow drip of breath
or
let the lived life
take me slowly,
either way i was
the suicide
like drinking in death
with shots of vodka
or water.

death is a murderer
& is under contract to life
for this purpose.

Mark David Jordan, 2011

on the Sea: (a dry slab)

 

 

i liked the dry slab of meat on bread

you fixed me for lunch.

i woke from a dream
i was swimming in a sea.
it was just a few minutes
before the alarm was to go off.
that anger at having lost
3 minutes of slumber.
i couldn’t get back to sleep now
since i was trying
too hard
to get back to sleep quickly.
my body was living now & i
was entering the sea
of perpetual real life,
crawling up from the depths
in a bubble filled cage,
the translucence pressing
hard against my head.

i lay there awhile, then
pressed the damn off button.
i lay there more until you yelled
"are you going to work today?"
yes i'm going to work baby,
this is the fucking sea, it's what i do,
an expert swimmer in a sea of crap.

right now i'm in a cool pond.
the sheets feel milky
against my finger tips.
i'm safe under the sheets.
the pillow is a life vest.
i am floating softly.
i'm floating away to where
the pond meets the stream
which meets the river
which meets the bay
which meets the sea.

there, i am in the sea now,
not knowing how i got here.
i'm an expert swimmer bobbing
on the heavy putrid waves.

i liked the dry slab of meat on bread
you fixed me for lunch today.

Mark David Jordan, 2011

GOING AND STAYING
 By Thomas Hardy

The moving sun-shapes on the spray,
The sparkles where the brook was flowing,
Pink faces, plightings, moonlit May,--
These were the things we wished would stay;
       But they were going.

Seasons of blankness as of snow,
The silent bleed of a world decaying,
The moan of multitudes in woe,--
These were the things we wished would go;
       But they were staying.

the pause: (an accident)

 

 

for fuck's sake. i pause.

i accidently hit the off
instead of the snooze,
now i'm late for work.
     -i pause again.

my eyes blinked twice,
     -is this saturday?
why is the sun up?
     -i was just wandering
     a creepy house. not now.

now i am born again
into this light on the ceiling,
and the racket of a car
outside,
     -diesel engine starting.

this is a fresh confusion,
dizziness the ruler of thought.
i suck on my yesterday jeans
and my feet slide,
     -please stop them,
to the bathroom exigently.

what is this place?
who has built this
around me      -for me?
it is cruel that I am, i am
imprisoned in this mad space.

i should be more alive,
but this forced entry
into the objective world has
dampened my grey spirits,
     -to the benefit
     of a tick toward death.

i'm pushed downstairs
by an immovable force.
i'm forced through the routine
by intermittent habit.

my right hand grabs lunch /
my left the car keys.
my feet are dancing around
in unnecessary circles
     -in the kitchen.

i'm out the door,
heading down the road.
who are these people?
this is not the same traffic.
in a brief moment of cognition
i see i am shirtless.

Mark David Jordan, 2011

little Spaces: (little disasters)

 

 

My life &

a history
of small disasters
predicted on cue,
are one in the same.

Not born into disaster
(but born for them)
I was pre-trained to
fill

my own little spaces
with destinies
of cerebral importance.

Those little things
made up the whole
of my
life, a page,
or group of pages
     -unsorted to most.

I was the hero
of every personal story
     -and the villain in most.
Pre-written pages
that hung
from old trees
     -on old branches
never dropping off
in the
fall.

I cried,
every time a page
was torn down
by the wind
     -and I stared
once again
     -at a blank page,
instructions written
in invisible ink.

Mark David Jordan, 2011

DANTE

 By Walter Savage Landor

   Ere blasts from northern lands
Had covered Italy with barren sands,
   Rome's Genius, smitten sore,
Wail'd on the Danube, and was heard no more.
   Centuries twice seven had past
And crush'd Etruria rais'd her head at last.
   A mightier Power she saw,
Poet and prophet, give three worlds the law.
   When Dante's strength arose
Fraud met aghast the boldest of her foes;
   Religion, sick to death,
Look'd doubtful up, and drew in pain her breath.
   Both to one grave are gone;
Alters still smoke, still is the God unknown.
   Haste, whoso from above
Comest with purer fire and larger love,
   Quenchest the Stygian torch,
And leadest from the _Garden_ and the _Porch_,
   Where gales breathe fresh and free,
And where a Grace is call'd a Charity,
   To Him, the God of peace,
Who bids all discord in his household cease--
   Bids it, and bids again,
But to the purple-vested speaks in vain.
   Crying, 'Can this be borne?'
The consecrated wine-skins creak with scorn;
   While, leaving tumult there,
To quiet idols young and old repair,
   In places where is light
To lighten day--and dark to darken night.

ANIMA MUNDI

 BY Richard Moncton Milnes

"Anima Mundi"--of thyself existing,
Without diversity or change to fear,
Say, has this life to which we cling persisting,
Part in communion with thy steadfast sphere?
Does thy serene eternity sublime
Embrace the slaves of Circumstance and Time?

Could we remain continually content
To heap fresh pleasure on the coming day,
Could we rest happy in the sole intent
To make the hours more graceful or more gay,
Then must the essence of our nature be
That of the beasts that perish, not of Thee.

But if we mourn, not because time is fleeting,
Not because life is short and some die young,
But because parting ever follows meeting;
And, while our hearts with constant loss are wrung,
Our minds are tossed in doubt from sea to sea,
Then may we claim community with thee.

We cannot live by instincts--forced to let
To-morrow's wave obliterate our to-day--
See faces only once--read and forget--
Behold Truth's rays prismatically play
About our mortal eye and never shine
In one white daylight, simple and divine.

We would erect some thought the world above,
And dwell in it for ever--we make
Some moment of young Friendship or First-love
Into a dream, from which we would not wake;
We would contrast our action with repose,
Like the deep stream that widens as it flows.

We would be somewise as Thou art,
Not sprig, and bud, and flower, and fade and fall;
Not fix our intellects on some scant part
Of Nature, but enjoy or feel it all.
We would assert the privilege of a soul,
In that it knows--to understand the Whole.

If such things are within us--God is good--
And flight is destined for the callow wing,
And the high appetite implies the food,
And souls must reach the level whence they spring;
O Life of very Life! set free our Powers,
Hasten the travail of the yearning hours.

Thou! to whom old Philosophy bent low,
To the wise few mysteriously revealed;
Thou! whom each humble Christian worships now,
In the poor hamlet and the open field;
Once an Idea--new Comforter and Friend,
Hope of the human Heart! Descend! Descend!

Yesterday: (we forgot the future)

 

 

At 6:00 PM they went

to the edge of the cliff
and threw his body off
into the open sea.

After watching it drift away
then sink, they walked
back to the village and resumed

where they had left off
baking bread, weaving baskets
talking about children.

They never mentioned the man
thrown into the sea again,
did not honor him with dinner,
did not hang icons up
where he had Passed away.

Life went on
as it always had
and the people were
caught up in their
every day existence
as they always were.

The next day at 6:00 AM
a strong wind arose
and blew all the town's wheat harvest
into the air,
down over the cliff
and into the open sea.

The people watched in shock.
"Surely we will all starve to death now",
they thought, "as this
has never happened before".

They watched the wheat
float away And sink
into the depths of the water
against a volcanic rock.
There Fish nibbled on the remains
of a man washed out to sea
yesterday.

Mark David Jordan, 2011