carried away
carried away
i now cannot say that this
is not what i cannot say
i keep quiet
carefully
counting out
the contrast
of continuous quietness.
— Zumwalt (06/1991)
Posts tagged ‘Zumwalt’
Can’t Hide
Can’t Hide
With the last paycheck spent on camouflage,
focusing on a mindset made of mirrors,
I attempt to be an object
or better yet be none.
My clothes mimic the variegated prints of nature,
my face is painted much the same.
I stand in the wilderness far away from the Sheridan Square Stop
teaching my heart to copy the various pulses of the forest.
I once sacrificed:
my future and my past for my role in the now;
I once worshipped
fences and gates and directions pertaining to.
With each breath I inhale the cold message of shelter
holding in the truths and surface deceptions
creating a balance between conception and mirage,
accepting the difference between initiation and isolation.
Without the next paycheck
I worry what it means
to not be nothing,
to not be able to hide,
the actual point of submission to everything
being the same:
no distinction.
— Zumwalt (2011)
seeds
seeds
broken imagery scattering pumpkin seeds upon the ground
rhythm shifting, implicating, wildly gesticulating
thoughts bounce over fading ideas which trample upon speculative reflections
give me a word
a simple single word
not an action
not a person, place or thing
not a conjunction, exclamation, article or
worn down, over-taxed modifier
give me a word that creates its own reality
that establishes an impossible set of events
that engages the energy of thoughtful scholars for ages upon ages
creating a library of discussion
and ignites an endless tangle of wars over interpretation
and with that word once given
give me its counterpart
that word
which, so totally complete
and unrelated to anything else,
will dissolve every other word
and then
without apology
dissolve itself.
— Zumwalt 2011
a single word
a single word
words, words, words
static over static
drilling deeply thru the dentine
scraping invasively against skull and skin
your line of supply is inexhaustible
arguments, propositions, explanations
predications, exclamations, excuses
all unecessary barking and bow-wowing
at hidden celestial objects
I am here
don’t chase me away
unless you want me
to be chased away
I am yours
don’t bombard
your own firmly secured posessions with
ammo best saved for those territories still unconquered
give me short compact sentences
phrases and single words
ideas as consumable as quarter pounders
don’t shove a hose down my throat
filling me with mashed escargot and foie gras
words, words, words
I can’t sustain a relationship with them
pelting me from every angle at every moment that
we’re together
take your finger off the trigger
I surrender
make me a prisoner
not a confirmed casualty
words, words, words
they all sound the same
they don’t mean anything
they just demean, meander
and make me end up thinking
that when all is said
I haven’t heard
a single word.
— Zumwalt (1990)
Trade
Trade
It’s a fair trade.
Food for fuel.
Convert all our corn.
Add the amylase enzyme gene.
Food for fuel.
It’s a fair trade.
Forests for Food.
Switch soya for corn.
Make Brazil a giant farm.
Forests for Food.
Prices are right for fuel and food.
Step up production:
More fuel, more carbon in the air;
More food, less trees, more carbon in our lungs.
Rising Global Temperatures are ripe to drive up prices.
Droughts increase water’s premium
Aquifers get depleted.
Water becomes even scarcer.
Food prices rise.
Little Johnny wants to make money.
How can he not help to do so?
Invest in food and pollute at the same time.
Easy money.
Pollute on a small scale:
Pocket change.
Pollute on a large scale:
Wealth beyond dreams.
Rising Temperatures,
Erratic Weather,
Population Growth,
Scarce Water Resources,
Civil Unrest
All put stress on
Food supplies.
Now Johnny has to work harder.
He burns the midnight oil.
And makes more money.
Cattle, Sheep and Goats
Make deserts out of grasslands.
Tractors, Freight Trucks and Commuters
Make hazardous waste the speciality in trade.
But it’s a fair trade.
Quality of Life for Quantity of Life.
It’s a reasonable trade.
More humans for less plants and animals.
We will switch the future for the present.
Make our Dreams a Giant Dustbowl.
Swap future prospects for a bite to eat.
Principles are right for the harvesting.
Let’s step up consumption:
More fuel, more carbon in our air;
More food, less trees, more carbon in the lungs.
It’s a good honest trade.
I can write away the guilt.
Put my complaints down on some message board
And feel just a little better
As everyone increasingly feels worse.
— Zumwalt (2011)
The last party (Trivial Pursuit)
The last party (Trivial Pursuit)
She was in the room glowing
a smile on her face
she should have talked to me
or looked at me
Her boyfriend sat across from her
like a cardboard cutout
he should have been alive
or at least awake
another room awaits
autonomous
bordered by sounds
of new wave existence
friends reach out
alcohol people
a swirl of support
a backdrop of goodness
yellow light flickers
orange perfume clusters about
purple music masks the crowded voices
the little dog scurries
moves with short stubby legs
strawberries sit too long
a phantom plays monotonous precipitations
the game continues
to begin anew
the dice is the leader
the cards are finite
time wanders in a trivial pursuit
following the strewn clothes of lovers in transit
drinks stir, soaking the carpets
choices are made to apologize for chance
time beckons in a trivial pursuit
bubbles of memory
pockets of pain
seasons stacked up, circling to land
time chases in a trivial pursuit
paths are lost forever
relationships crumble from the motion
happiness dies countless deaths
time hates itself in its trivial pursuit
it shoulders the consequences of the fear and grief it spreads
it loses its identity
and is crushed by its existence
colors darken into empty shapes
taste and smell congeal
sounds form into thickening twisted knots
a dog scurries
apparitionally
alone in sympathy
it cannot understand
arms of activity
limitless ferment
dancing in madness
fleeing from feelings
this room is silent
solid and isolated
occupied at times
by present and past
Her boyfriend sat across from her
and he once had been me
He should have been happy
He should have stayed
She was in his life glowing
a blessing of emotion
He should have understood her
or at least communicated
the game never finishes
its motion won’t subside
but its pretense fools the wise
and traps all
forever
the morning rises
timidly, reluctantly
its features are grey
from the last party
— Zumwalt (1985)
there’s no drought about it
there’s no drought about it
the fountain shouts
with an overwhelming bout of color-lit water
in a passionate fit of fashion it pours out its inner most need
neither avarice nor greed
simply the seed of a self-centered flower.
the thundercloud booms
taking up more room in an overcrowded encounter
its war-torn form pours out scorn on the earth
an attempt to briefly reassert
the importance of a morning shower.
jack strong and muscularly weighted
from bench press freight greatly elevated
struts about the beach
nakedly painted speedos now activated
nothing left to chance
nothing understated
debating with himself if he’s x or r-rated
jill scantily clad
in the latest thonged fad
lays and bathes in the rays she maintains that she craves
though she’s here mainly to daze,
haughtily take off her shades,
and occasionally faze any stray
make-a-play braves that come by
to gaze and throw lines her way.
the ocean roars
as its tidal waves pour onshore to make the sea forcefully screech forth
in a rampage of rage it sweeps the front page
of the island town paper
and make those that survive
cower from it self-asserting power
i am important!
i am here!
i am!
not, i am not!
i am of significance!
i am something you don’t see everyday in the bathtub!
when i chose to be
i am not not there!
the little dog
using it claws
digs making an impression
on Peterson’s ground
knowing its work should be remembered after it’s gone
wraps up the morning
by watering the lawn.
— Zumwalt (1990)
Your anonymous blog
Your anonymous blog
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely persuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
— Zumwalt (2011)
