Thanks to Brett Sullivan for creating this video of his and Erica Schreiner’s musical interpretation of Poem #70 which was performed for A Conclave of Baer during the Summer Antifolk Festival 2016 in Sidewalk Cafe.
70. Do you remember that day in November?
Tinderous treasons slow burning
Smoking a gunpowder black mood
Anonymous plots planned through subterranean subversion
Summer shadows us through fall
Haze limbs keep us afire in the ship of state’s space
Swiping blood aside with mistaken identity questions
Footsteps trampling echoes
Obscuring how tight vendetta’s grip holds
Still smoldering after grasping the straw of revolution
Their iron hand, their tower
Made you sip from the traitor’s camelback
Now your face is exploding everywhere
A mask exhorting people to never forget the summer’s fervor.
Thanks to Peter Dizozza for creating this video for his song based on my poem.
The nights are burning.
Acrid smoke from a Hollywood effects machine
rolling over the town.
A fog of thousands of screaming extras,
Falling Japanese monster movie skyscrapers
And crusading art film zealots
Smothering a shocked city in opiate fever nightmares.
The knights are burning.
An orange poppy of incineration
Lulling them to forever sleep.
A conflagration igniting desire in
The hearts of lotus eaters.
Arabian Knights have stolen our treasure and
Destroyed our talismans of power in 1,001 seconds.
Would that these fires burn away
our fear and hatred
in so short a time.
For now our vulnerability is available
To show during the burning nights.
Thank you to Tunetown Philharmonic for this music video of Poem 61.
Another day gone
Leaving my thoughts to ramble on
To a place where mumblers go
Dead leaf words crumpling
Flaking upon themselves
Partial sound reaching out
Only to be swallowed by a significance singularity
My mind has created around you
Its well shadowcasting the other starlit ideas
Into faint pinpricks
Grains of sand screaming to be noticed
As they are swept over by the tide
Drowning, they are shipped elsewhere to further muddy the waters
The light’s blood darkens as the closet of our lives creaks open
We are not the art piece I hoped
More of a dead collector’s treasure stored in the basement
Tendrils of wear emphasized by damp dust mold line our bodies
So that even caresses fragment
The bare bones of our melody
Bluebeard’s song from another day gone