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Material for theIowa workshop thatI never submitted

Martin Freebase 

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Love found in an overcoat

The frame for this poem is the joy of discovery. One thing that I really love doing is

 solving a puzzle. When we tackle some problem or issue that evades an easy answer 

and when we finally create something meaningful from the chaos of information, that

act of discovery is a very joyous activity. I truly treasure those moments of discovery.

To look is to marvelAt all of its dimensionsIt wills you freely

To wonder is a mustStanding with jaw slung

We marvel and take notesWanting to share thisWith all the hoary others

It makes me feel so freeSo alive in the moment

And I marvel at its beauty

My Breath upon this mountain

The framing perspective for this poem is the point of being contrary to everything that

exists. The nature of this piece is the fish that swims upstream to spawn in its homewaters. The point of the struggle is to simply struggle and the end result of the struggle is

death. Epicurus suggested that humanity should not struggle. I would argue the

contrary; a life without struggle is a life not worth living.

If you burned it all downI would rebuild it from the ashesJust like the PharaohThe plans written in indelible ink 

Some people never get a chance

To pick themselves up from the stormThe fastballs and curveballs

It’s in the blood and the dirt and the landBuilding these monuments of flesh

Selling lies in the New Yorker Making them just like us

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The Silent Mountain Speaks

The frame for this poem is man’s destruction of Mother Nature and her revenge.

There was not much to itOut breaking his back against the dayNo fleeing mules or troubled livesHiding in caves in the mountainsAbsent from his crossAnd away from the timesWe heard the clapping and shoutingDown one side of the mountainWe heard dynamite bringing down the mountainThe mule’s blue dreams as he pulls against the harness Breaking into his silent mind

Past the shadows and dynamiteNight falls on the mountainAnd there is silence in his heartSilent like his fearsThe blue-bloods across the river They don’t believe in his magic Their reasons for disbeliefHe was blessed by the mule’s kick  Stubborn as a bag of rocksThe magic man was near He could hear his call across the valley

In a voice that made one trembleRocks and trees in shamblesBlue-faced dreams of progressMaking the way straightAnd cold like the dead animalBeaten by his master A victim of distrustAs the rage of his voice was silencedBy the stillness of the woodsAfter the blastThe silence rushes towards him

Like steam from an engineBloodletting in both handsIt is a fierce whistleAs it flies through the air Past him and past the universeHe ran as fast as he couldDown the mountain like tumbling rocksWith a fear that was born from the ancientsAs old as the mountain

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He could see the magic man comingWith fire and brimstone in his eyesStanding before the judgeThe dirt on his hands soaked in tearsAsking for forgiveness

From man and the mountain

Scribbles on the blackboard

This poem is about the evil that lurks in the hearts of people everywhere.

Fine, have it your wayBreathe your evil breath into meFrom that evil thing you call a heart

Ragged and jagged edgesMan stumbles and falls outTrafficking in the miseryStopping for nothingTransplanted by this false natureMe sitting and watching it all go byLike a dream or a movieNever craving the evilLike this beforeA new addiction to my false prophetToo raw for reality

Not ready for the made for tv movieThe daily static of indifferenceSeen in rare combinationsThey go hand in hand to the graveThis is the behavior of humanityNailed to the crossWrithing against the wood and iron

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Charging the Bastille

The frame for this poem is simply resisting the oppression of unjust rulers. Our wars to

create freedom for others are waged at the cost of our own freedom.

In your house of nightThere are many windowsThey are all for the shadowsBroken into piecesPut down along the pathAt precise intervalsWalking into a horizon of nothingIt produces copies of itselfThey own the creation and generationFitting into your tiny palmIt goes into an entire ageThere is no light on this street corner 

Where you sell your waresYour art of divinationProduced by cutting and foldingWatching the big and smallThe shadows stand so tallAgainst the smallness of humanityMan is such a little creatureCowering in the dark With closed eyes at the danceNot seeing the decade’s long toilThe life left in the streets

Never making it to the marketSteps out your door Touching the points of darknessOnly the forms are realIn the eyes of dark looksThe death fires burringAs you crawl on your hands and kneesWe were kings to the shadowsThey worshiped at our feetThey follow us into the darknessInto the streets

Behind the barricadesThey join us as we call fire down from heavenWe are thieves and scoundrels shouting for the head of the kingTrying to provide one fixed pointFrom which to launch the bombsWe hurl them at the guardsThey fire back at us and missAnd they reloadTime enough to run for the shadows

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As we feel the ground dissolving below our feet

Setting down the scroll

This poem is about how the more things change, the more they stay the same.

And walking into the sunSeeing all my old friendsStanding around the kegJust as I left themTheir lives in limboFrom my narrow perspectiveLittle plastic cups still in their hands

All their fingers have fallen asleepAnd it has become increasingly more difficultTo hold the cup in their handsThe jackal and the crowCircle around themLooking for an opportunityDreaming of soft soled walksIn the forest of daring visionsAll for a forgotten civilizationAnd crumbled hierarchyThat no longer exists

And doesn’t hold the meaning Like it once didSome finding a green religionBetween the stems and seedsAs they clean their memoriesThe summer of 79It was the summer of loveThan no one knew ofThere were no advertisements in the paper Above the horizontal mixAnd my old friends pray to new gods

They don’t understand the power of green

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Dogs

This poem is about the difficulty of finding freedom. So many things in life enslave us in

the name of freedom.

My dog SparklySitting in the passenger seatOf my old ford pickupHe sticks his head outside the windowIn order to catch the windAll dogs are fascinated with the workings of the windThey are like investigative reportersThey scratch patterns of anarchy into the groundAnd they lift their heads and sniff the air Checking to see if freedom is anywhere near Occasionally they find it when they dig deep into the groundDigging up a long forgotten bone

Wagging tails at the joy of discoveryFreedom is like thatIt makes us wag our tailsOur fierce muzzles proclaiming the goodness of lifeWith our strong teeth we crack and break the boneReleasing the marrowWe know it is a substitute for the real thingThe intricate weave of the bone busts into tiny shardsDangerous to the unsuspectingThinking freedom is this hard fought thingBut, freedom is not a bone

We cannot dig it up from the groundWe do not drink of its marrowThey look at us with expecting eyesWanting us to have the answer Looking for a clue in our mannerismsOr in the tone of our voiceThese dogs really are smart creaturesExcept for their trust in manWe will not lead them to freedomNo, we will tie them to a leashOr put them in a kennel

That is freedom, like the windA disguise

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Driving this vehicle of vengeance

The frame for this poem is the evil that humans perpetrate upon each other. Humanity

has shown itself to be capable of performing great acts of evil. Also, the American war 

machine uses labels of “evil” as a means of dehumanizing the enemy. If our enemies

are not human, then we are justified in our violence against them.

You sit, safely tucked away in your ghettoof confusion. It’s not really a ghetto, is it? It is more like an enclave. A place wherelike minds congregate and plot their evil deeds. Your deeds pile up against youlike prisoners in Abu Ghraib prison. Poor dark hooded creatures with wires attachedto their testicles. In this case you suggestthat the ends justify the means. They areterrorists and deserve the most vile treatments.

You did it all in the name of liberty and another man dies with a bullet in his head. His sin wasviolating society’s boundaries.

No Friend of Mine

The frame for this poem is the betrayal of a friend and the subsequent loss of that friend.

To hold you in the mind’s eye Fields of reds and goldCompeting for god’s eye Your head being brought lowIn anticipation of the fire’s glow Crouching like the catAs we head into the stormDefending against the attack Hurt’s slings and arrows Tangled among the roots

As we dig them upAnd store them for the long winter A breach from which to escapeTo shoot down this enemyThat we once called friendAll these things that lay heavyOn the monarch’s starry head The guilt of swift execution

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Dynamic stanchion

When I was a young man trying to find my way in the world, I remember having this

 sense that a great mystery existed in the world and that I was not a part of it. I had this

paranoid feeling that everyone was in on a secret that I was ignorant to.

Strawberry fields and blueberry hillsSpin in opposite directionsAs I inadvertently kick them with my foot

Looking up from the darknessBlowing life through my rusty breathLight just outside my reachOutside my windowStriving, moving forward

Curious cats gazing downWatching the legs moveMuscles tensing and relaxingLike pistons in an engine

Two lovers clutchingPushing me forwardMy search for answersMy search for stabilityThe movement’s strange fright Maneuvering creatures

In this ever evolving world

Each hopeful graspThat exists behind the smoky hazeCrashing against meClinging to my ambitionDesirous for moreFulfilling whoop

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Bright Souls (for Aunt Irma)

The frame for this poem is the fact that we all will die someday. Earlier in the day that I

wrote this poem, I had asked my wife what she wanted for Mother’s day and she told

me she wanted a birdbath. I told my wife that one of my aunts had a birdbath just

outside her kitchen window and that I remember sitting at her kitchen table looking out

the window and watching the birds splash in the bath. This aunt passed away several

years ago and I thought of the birdbath as being a metaphor for death.

With the appearance of the robin,I screw my head on tight and watchthe blue words float from your mouth.Sometimes the bird gets lost in theheaviness. Everything grows heavy withthe passing days. They pass you in refluenceas the waters fade in the birdbath. I have seenvisions of the future in its torrid pools. Turning cold,

turning into stone. I am turning into this bird.I have grown wings and flap them signaling othersto come join me in the bath. There is plenty of roomfor all bright souls.

The differences are green

The theme for this poem is a common plight of the human condition, wanting

 something that you cannot have. So many times we want what someone else has.

The garden gates are shut tightWith sea serpent eyesGreen as the morning dew

Prosperity has been sent homeTo lay still between the sheetsMauling the day’s details 

The dark night stands before us

Alones as the albatrossAll secrets find a home

Pride prevents true visionThe glare from your glory hurts my eyesThey are green with secrets

We no longer stand at the pinnacleWanting you with all of my heart

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But, a heart was not enough

Kings of the future, no moreDevoted to the injusticeAlways falling, always becoming

Our ideals do not dictateThere is no pride in the gardenThe flowers are shaking

The engine of change has new mastersUncertain how to pronounceOur dreams are unfinished

Learn to accept thisHunger of fateTo be carried away

Eternal Solitude

The frame for this poem is feeling all alone and left out.

Alone with my thoughtsBarren and desolate

Like a force of natureBetween dream and intoxication

Along unknown stepsMy unfrequented placeA compulsion to the visionThe world detached

Lacking contact with the other Separated and detachedMy mind projecting this dream

Gone are my moorings

Infinite and limitless, eternal presentNot lacking the voluptuousAnd becoming more beautifulAltered sensations

Outside the boundaries, timeless existenceA feeling in the muscles

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The world of images and ideasInfinity in my heart

Lasting forever, always existingPossessing this primary force

Stranger to self and to claritySeeking complete escape

The assimilation of the shadowLife, death, and rebirthThe snake swallows his tailIsolation and alienation

Gripping heartless, will dismissedExpression, satirized and comedicGenuine pleasure with utter contemptReminiscing about the errors

Pointlessness of existenceMisspent childhood’s forgotten past Love that flees in the midstEscape the suffering world

Artificial world, corporeal manifestationFinality is your conformityEfficient automata, bound by dutyCold precision, bland apathy

The plague within the cureThe agent’s fall from grace Teaching me the purposeAll beginnings have an end

The final surrender The paradox of choiceTearing the flesh from the boneBetween word and meaning

The act’s discordant result 

Mortal amusement, cosmic realitySituational tension, Intangible richesA different future

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Farm Wife

The theme for this poem is being in love with someone who we shouldn’t be in love

with. Like Romeo and Juliet, It is about being trapped in the nightmare of a forbidden

love.

She opened her blouse,A vibration and glitteringSusceptibility of suggestionA beauty lost in deadly precisionFlopping like demented jellySeeing only the lavish consequences

Tap dancing across my mindThe power of suggestion over the musclesThrough pain and sufferingYou are beautiful

Sparkling like lost earringsIn the carpet

Wandering at the edge of lifeDiluted words brutalizedNot shrinking in deceptionFreezing the moment of timeStraddling herself across my lapAll the old time favoritesStruggling with the melody

I am a seasoned pro with my bayonetA morning of regular jabsFishnet stockings hanging over the chair The creation of absolute desireThe sharp side of the knifeSerrated bladeDeliberate in her actions

Her eyes a twisted birthAwaking to the moment of selfShe begins with strange sources

And works her way downTouching the small distancesThere is cream in the coffeeIt swirls round and round

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The incarnate form of an empty noun

This poem is about the celebration of the carnal nature of humanity.

Placed into the madman’s mouth A voice of liberation from all moral constraintsOn the edge of shouting mountains

Resistance being overcomeTemporal fallacies of pedigree

On the far side of despair Those who died for the serous and awesomeDetaching ourselves from the old soil

Clothing hope in metaphor Another distant lifeTo be burnt by the flame once more

I dream like fallen snowSoftly singing to the moonMy heart, melted passion

In darkness for miles and milesmy sins still shine like a lamp

Uncovered by my nakedness

Failure feeds my aching painKnowing something of the fear From post to post

Overwhelmed by the proportionsShaking off the coldSeparate grooves moving

Common lives with petty crimes

Twisted hollow prideToe tapping, keeping time

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Time Stands Still Outside My Window

When you fellThere was nothing left to say

A blue visitationBecoming a former shellSomething both near and far 

I saw it comingChoosing to live in the momentThe words stuck in my throat

Dancing and singing

Pretending to believe in the night

When it all broke openThe heart’s crying Next to the still born dream

You standing on the doorstepNever looking back 

I wanted to tell you not to goBut the stars were against it

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The Destination between Each

Straining their necks

Broken stones upon the sun’s winglets 

Seeking artistic love, unconditional

Escape from the earth’s fire 

Totally outside themselves

Kneels down before passion

In a rowboat of green bottles

Touché the hem

Closing in on greatness, only a moment

Obscure instincts, narcotics and opiates

Nervous matter in wearied souls

This gives meaning and drill

Coarse dilettante life

Fibrous clustered reason

Shake loose the multitude of sins

Opportunities of dead loneliness

Cares upon the backs of nothing

Look into my darkness

At the doorstep

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Disdain for the boulevards

Soul hunger creating

We did not hear 

Feeling every tear 

Every prayer bullets

Beguiled into self-deception

Slight unreal semblance

Beaten by the waves

Claiming my deadly station

Point influence feeling

Denied power joy

I am prisoner 

Imprisoned within

Infinite forsaken weeping

The saying of souls

Wholeness seeps through me

I turn back upon myself

An invincible king this smallness

I hang sublime in the flaming deep

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My instincts driven underground

Sleeping still with beetles and larvae

Engulfing Happy Heads

This poem is about abuse in all its many formations.

Only wanted to stay warm

Like a junkie needing a taste

Here I sit at 3 in the morning

My mind a soggy wasteland

Moisture soaked and reeking

The situation requires much effort

A little something to feed the hunger 

Pull back the cold covers of disgrace

More than I am capable of

In over my head

Most unstable and difficult

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Misfortune mocks my every step

The little ooze on the end

That you never wipe away

Still I smile into the camera

Hope they can’t see right through me 

Your wounded self pounding away at your well reasoned remarks

A philosopher’s chant in the night

Little child crouching in the corner 

Passionately sucking his thumb

My bluff still working, at least I hope

Stay the course, my battle cry

You are longing for transmutation, to channel the Holy Ghost

If we don’t, our enemies win 

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Super Monkey

This poem is about joy.

No, no, no sunshine

Broken down

Dances to indifference

Fluid grateful specter 

Follow anger, years rush

Modernity observer’s mind

Clouded and distorted

Slowly choked from our lives

Conjure me full darkness

Dance of concealed

Yearning blindness, total oblivion

Filling tormented cries

Falling forever in the darkness

Death’s discovery a bountiful reward 

My gloomy heart your shadowy home

Trepidation, imbued hunger 

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Compelling need, lustful craving

Hidden agenda, late discovery

Parting veil of human existence

Escort the damned to their anguish

Destructive bliss, manifold witness

Transported longing made in newness

Feeble servants’ respectful submission 

Dance before me grotesque

Unseen edge release

Strangled million variations

Presenting a burning General

Would destroy

Cursed by lonely grass

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Bombastic

This poem is about the lust for riches.

The alienated man stands on the street smoking

Tossed out, tossed about

From religion to rationalism

His estrangement from society

Climb high and cut

One form of slavery for another 

Reeks from his every pore

Speared trash garden idle

Free the people

Like too much garlic in the salad

His roots 400 numerals counting

Emancipate the individual from control

Flick the ash and watch it falling

Escapes out the window

Expose the sinister nature

Adaptation to each other’s uniqueness 

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Nothing real, all illusion

Rebellious nature, selling shoes

Fails to express the proper emotions

Futile attempts

Criticism for profit and gain

Convicted by his lack of tears

Deluded world dreams freedom

Paying with dreams

Enslaved by profit and greed

Measured in dimes

Coffin nails

Death has no meaning

Cheap trinkets

Enjoined with irony

Cracking of the mainstream

Fragmentation

Finding one’s niche 

Moral and economic

Consumer as the artist

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Desire for control

The Lady at the Counter 

This poem is about humans being human.

I met a lady while she worked

Serving food and drinks

She leaned across the ice cream

Asked me a question I can’t remember 

I spoke a little too soft

Around she came to stand at table

Telling me about her other job

The one that gave her meaning

I tried to read a couple of pages

Siddhartha was troubled by his son

The ferry man gave his advice

Send the son to the town

Seemed excited to share of her life

Where she received her degree

The little things that challenged

Where she stood on the ladder 

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As if she stood before god

Exposing all her sins

She drew the connections of our stories

People that we sort of knew

I spoke of my daughter and wife

She of her husband

He was going to school

So she worked this extra job

Everybody needs to make a living

We do the things we must

Pass the day as quickly as we can

Conversing with others

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This life draws to the darkness

This poem is about the multiplicities of our possible lives.

I am content with the notes

As they stream from my hands

It is all in the vibrations

How the waters pool in different lands

I am a chiseled vagrant

Leave me to my imaginings

Convinced by the ongoing

My spirit separates

The temporal body housed in this reality

Lingering in your hands

They are temporal also

Traversed through garneted lives

We start with the body

And build as we must

Some rhythms stayed in tempo

Others wandered

Classified the shrines of other lovers

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Standing next to the professor 

Ringing their bells

Stacking themselves

Adjusting the smock 

The tie tucked below the breast plate

Below divinity

Parting the waters

Wading in knee deep

Into the conversation

Dipping in the net

They wanted to buy me a Harley

Each donated a few bucks

A total of two thousand dollars

Always reaching for the opposite

Turning my back to the garden and hoe

I have grown tired of digging for potatoes

Tired of this dull hum

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You wanted to be a Painter 

This poem is about the dying of a love.

The sparrow said not to worry

You are still convinced of the value

Of dust and contrition

The warmth contracting all around us 

Not the point of the backseat lie

When I told you I love you

Setting the apartment on fire

And you misinterpreting

In the thousand boxes

Grants and leases on promises

All these pages have yellowed

Like we have aged

Between us is the lost meaning

Becoming the diametrical

And you placed more value on being

We found ourselves moving from the lower to the higher 

We were moving and didn’t know why 

We only just kept moving

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 As if something willed us from beyond

Into bright skies with interpretations

You said that everything is a matter of interpretation

Interpreting this painful corner 

That we have painted ourselves into

The expression of satiation

 A human response

Swollen

We sat around the fire

Watching the sparks fly up

To heaven and beyond

I have always been a dreamer 

And I have been sick for days

Always weeks

With my heels on the edge of the abyss

It was warm

But not unbearable

Like the summer at the cabin

When we slept in wet sheets

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Between being creative and being a dreamer 

This still sickens me when I think about it

As I stand on the outside looking in

Watching you plant your flag

As the sun sets down

The bats came out from under the roof

Cooking the roast beef Sunday

You just plain cooking anything you can get your hands on

Mothers with their phones

More things than I needed

The broken glass pipe

Before the gang wars

Before your words entered my heart

Obsessed with the idea of having an obsession

Always apologizing

We sat tripping over each other’s feet 

Turning the juice into wine

The preacher said it was quite a trick 

At our confirmation

Dreaming enables you to imagine the possible

When tripping was more than a metaphor 

When the spark was there

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He tried to convince us that there was something beyond the physical

I couldn’t see past my erection then 

Incomplete flesh

 Always gets in the way

It used to be a fucking meteorite

I found myself walking on a country road

Walking to you

Searching for that mysterious love

With a pain in my stomach

There it is again

I still have this fucking sickness

As the dogs chase me

Wanting to close the distance

Loving the look in your eyes

Break down the barriers of silence

Pulling down your tower 

Setting this dream free

It never goes away

Never 

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Twenty Years in Iowa

Every day is gray, in Iowa

The dirt turns the richest black 

The plowman comes and stops me

Forever in his debt

He sent me to the fields

To bring you back 

Twenty years in the gray fields

And my mind turns black 

At harvest they burn the scarecrow

Burn him inside me

Spending my life on unsure bets

Betting the farm for you

Bringing you back 

Picking you up off Mother Nature’s floor 

Still alive in the stars

Out my back porch

You wrapped inside my head

You and the scarecrow

Burned inside me

Your eyes flashed serpentine

When you saw the dirt fly

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Black as the night

You coiled and hissed

Ready for a fight

It was lovely when you died

On this blackest night

It was then that I realized

How much I truly loved you