A PORTRAIT OF THE ICONOCLAST AS AN OLD MAN

Iconoclast – AUDIO

Christ Cleaning the Temple

temple

i am still yearning, i am still learning
to choose free of conditioning
to select out of silent consideration
to expectorate sugar coated propaganda
to regurgitate traditional victuals
to make this life my own
no pawn in their game
no name that they name
no same that is their same
my life is my own web site
no templates please
no dreamweaver, no web fusion
let me write the raw code
let me create my own icons
let me compose my own style sheet
let me become my own layout
i am an ancient youth
still yearning, still learning to be free

i am not the sheep
i am not the bellwhether
i am not the shepherd
i am not the wolf who steals the lamb
i am not the eagle who feeds from its carcass
i am not form
i am the infinitely inchoate
i am the always becoming
i am not the “I AM THAT I AM”
i am the “becoming that which i am becoming”
still yearning, still learning to be free

credit card numbers cannot contain me
computer programs will not process me, confess me
big brother will not discover
the secrets of my soul
how i become whole
that spymaster mole
will not unroll
this secret code
because it is not
it is becoming
it is the humming
of the summing
of the me
still yearning, still learning to be free

i am not your nielsen rating
i am not your prophet prating
i am not your flag waver
i am not your citizen
i am not your patriot
i am not your passport bearer
i am not your ballistic
i am not your statistic
for you cannot see this sample
you cannot fathom this six feet under
becoming asunder
the root of the shoot of a tree with no name
the story with absolutely no history
still yearning, still learning to be free

look
i am not your altar boy to fondle
i am not your poster child for a god fearing upbringing
i am not the blood stained proof of virginity on your white wedding night sheet
i am not the contents of your skinner box
i am not the pavlov’s dog for your ringing bell
i am the becoming of originality
still yearning, still learning to be free

I AM BECOMING… me

 

SHE BRUSHED

shebrushed = AUDIO VERSION                MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

she brushed a wavy arc
it soon became a bay
a line a road along the park
and it went that a way

it ended on the edge of town
and then became a trail
she brushed it ’til it went around
the bay, a boat, a sail

crested rise and disappeared
into an evening sun
a flick just there a figure reared
a figure of someone

a silhouette on a crest
that one just could not say
was headed toward the west
or coming this a way

it hung on many different walls
each time a different name
when asked what it was really called
she said to me it’s all the same

it is not to take someone somewhere
nor bring somebody back
it speaks of no concern nor care
it is art not artifact

BISCUITS AND GRAVY

AUDIO VERSION (set volume before clicking) Biscuits and Gravy

The only tie
that just won’t die
from my
growing up in the south

Is that bisquit and gravy
craving
I’m still savoring
in my mouth
It’s just a flour
and water paste
that takes
me back to when

But the power of that gravy
taste
has seen me
through thick and thin
That pasty glue
that some folks use
to fuse
and stick their stuff together

Has kept me true,
has helped me through the
the blues and blue
and foulest weather
But like sooth in seeds
the truth one needs
that sprouts like weeds
from within the conscience

Gravy’s cheap
and bisquits keep
me humble deep
beneath my nonsense

NONCONNAH YARDS by CanDo Jack

Audio for Nonconnah Yards (set volume before clicking) NonconnahYards

One railroad came from Chicago, bound for New Orleans
Or vice versa
One railroad came from Little Rock headed for Charleston
Or the other way around
In Nonconnah Yards south of Memphis
The rails crossed

My father knew that
My father rode those rails
Long before the Great Depression
Made it a requirement for many

Too restless for regular school
My father educated himself
From a faggot of belt bound books
He studied in the school of empty boxcars
While scenes rolled by on
The screens of those open doors
Like high definition television
Before its time

My father went home to his father’s farm
In Sardis, Mississippi
Where to his Faulknerian family’s dismay
He harvested a beautiful Cherokee sharecropper
Who became my mother

He learned from his father
The art of building houses
He built good ones before he went blind
Going blind he blamed on
Zane Grey, Bret Harte, Mark Twain, and Rabelais
Years later I would drive him through Memphis and he would say
Stop here or there so I could admire a house he had built
Back when he could see
When I was born, he was already blind
He would run his hands over my face to see what I looked like
He couldn’t feel my color

My father returned to Nonconnah Yards
Where he had jumped so many freights
Just south of those railroad yards in Memphis
That blind man built his last house
With a store attached to the side
Then he bade those trains from Chicago
Bring him boxcars of used shoes and clothes
Some he sold for cash
Most went on credit
That is, he gave them away
But people remembered and
By and by they made him money

My older brother and I were the
Only white kids for five miles around
It never occurred to me that
My family was strange – half blind and color deficient

Decades later
As I sit here in this Copenhagen bar where
People have no concept of racial discrimination
I am riding cosmopolitan rails
Looking out the door of my boxcar
At that boxcar door television screen
In my mind

I see that strange color deficient kid playing
With his friends
Totally unaware that five miles north
A great leader would be assassinated
Totally unaware that five miles to the east
An uneducated white man would own a grand estate
Paid for with money from singing black people’s songs
Ignore-ant white people would come to pay homage
At Graceland
In a white town named White Haven
Totally unaware of Nonconnah Yards
Where the railroads cross

I sit here in this Copenhagen bar
Drink my Tuborg
Amidst the clacking of the wheels
Of my daddy’s boxcars
I hear Peter Gabriel singing
I grieve

Gem In I-ambic Diameter

Gemini

gemini with hum audio version, before clicking adjust your volume

He slid the glass door open,

stepped out onto the darkened deck
Down below
a hundred decibel surf
pounded the Pacific shore
trying to exchange vibrations
with the Atlantic
He could not see the surf
He could feel it and hear it

He turned his attention to the sky
knowing where his eyes would come to rest
knowing what w

melanding

ould be there
at one a m on oh one oh eight oh six
at one eight oh degrees south
at sixty degrees from midheaven

The Pacific went sile

nt

Vibrations ceased
He heard only his constellation
There
his trapezoid
comprising four stars
wonderfully unsquare
such simple astounding asymmetry
such Janused dissimilar duality
such unbounded agility
suggesting

such readiness
to be anything
just anything the cosmos needed

His reflection, his Gemini, his doppelgaenger, his twin

Some elsewhere in the universe
Some other perspective
Someone was standing
on a darken

ed deck
enthralled with the same four stars
as a perfect parallelogram
so perfectly equiangular
such simple astounding symmetry
such focussed unity
suggesting
such rigid permanence
eternally its same self
Poor bastard!