At Home

The door? One good kick would do it.
The walls? Pretty, flimsy, pretty flimsy.

At home with the feared yet longed for television.
At home with ice in the toilet bowl.
At home with virtual friendships.
At home with cold legs.
At home with foreign junk food.
At home with a creed of tiny movements.
At home with smoke, stale beer, no music.
At home with blank paper and tooth-torn nails.

The windows? How shiny, how brittle.
The floor? The coins don’t roll far when dropped.

At home with uncomfortable sinning.
At home with omission.
At home with small abuse.
At home with no room at the inn.
At home with darker.

At home trying to decide.
At home not deciding.

At home.  What could be better than this?

The ceiling?  Too far away.

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S#$% My Mom Says

When she says
“come home sooner rather than later”
it means “come at your own convenience
but do not forget
to take mine into account
as you decide
what that is.”

When she says
“do you understand, or do you?”
it means “whether you do or do not
understand, there is no way
you will wriggle out
of behaving as if you do
whether or not you ever do.”

When she says
“I guess she’s pretty enough”
it means “she’s lovely, but
I don’t like
your attraction
to her.”

When she says
“it doesn’t matter to me”
it means
it does. 

When she says
“you can do what you like”
it means “what you like
will likely be
the death of all your doing.”

When she says nothing
it is a filibuster.

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Choking (revised)

It’s night again of course
and the air in here is still not breathable
not because of the air
but because my throat closes when I sleep
it’s gotten worse lately
so I panic all night instead of sleeping
and I’m going to write about something Big
to pass the terror time and free my mind

there’s no poetry in choking

I guess I’ll write another poem about race
and gender and the damned state of all things
I’d rather blame my panic on that
than on my diseased throat

I can’t solve that mess
so it’s safe to complain about it

A simple trip to the doctor
might save my life
but I afraid I can’t afford such things these days
without giving up something else vital

I’d rather be seen after my death
as a martyr to the big causes
than be known for dying because
I didn’t know how to breathe

(It’ll look better in the obit anyway)

I’m genuinely frightened
of only two things
That I’ll choke in my sleep
and die
and

that I’ll never know how anyone else does it —
gets through
survives
thrives even —
while choking on bile
and hating everyone
I feel if I knew that
I could die OK
if not happy
It might help

That said
here’s yet another chance to write
the last poem I’ll ever write
but I can’t think of anything I haven’t already said
about how it feels
to grow up not white in the home
and nothing but white outside
swinging a knife because daddy taught me how
and hating the tickle in the groin it gave me

Ah, who’s gonna read this anyway
I’ve choked this chicken so often before

Shit
I hate how the races and genders and all that
play us
Being anything is a drag
after all
There ought to be something to say about it
that I haven’t said
Something to stop it if I can write it
Something I can write instead of going to sleep
where I’m bound to drown on my tongue
one of these nights

I’m so scared of choking
that I’ve stopped caring
about anything else
But I haven’t stopped smoking
haven’t lost weight
or exercised recently
all of which might save me
Too busy writing poems
about dying and choking
and the race and the gender thing
and certainly about God and suchlike
and the social order
and the closing throats
and the wind
and the recognition
that we all die
from choking these days

so who exactly
is any different

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Choking (late night draft)

It’s night again of course
and again the air in here is not breathable
not because of the air
but because my throat closes when I sleep
and it’s gotten worse lately
so I panic all night instead of sleeping
and I’m going to write about something Big
because there’s no poetry in choking

I want to write another poem about race
and gender and the damned state of all things
because I like blaming my panic on that
instead of on my diseased throat
I can’t solve that mess
and though a simple trip to the doctor
might save my life
who can afford such things these days
without giving up something else vital
so I’d rather die a martyr to the big causes
than simply die because I keep forgetting
how to breathe

(It’ll look better in the obit anyway)

I’m genuinely frightened
of only two things

That I’ll choke in my sleep
and die
and
that I’ll never know how anyone else does it —
gets through
survives
thrives even —
while choking on bile
and hating everyone
I feel if I knew that
I could die OK if not happy
It might help

That said
here’s yet another chance to write
the last poem I’ll ever write
and I can’t think of anything I haven’t already said
about how it feels
to grow up not white in the home
and nothing but white outside
swinging a knife because daddy taught me how
and hating the tickle in the groin it gave me
But who’s gonna read this
when I’ve choked this chicken so often before

Shit
I hate how the races and genders and all that
play us
Being anything is a drag
after all
There ought to be something to say about it
that I haven’t said
Something to stop it
Something I can write instead of going to sleep
where I’m bound to drown on my tongue
one of these nights

I’m so scared of choking
that I’ve stopped caring
about anything else
But I haven’t stopped smoking
lost weight
exercised recently
all of which might save me
Too busy writing poems
about dying and choking
and the race and the gender thing
and certainly God and suchlike
and the social order
and the closure of the throats
and the wind
and the recognition
that we all die
choking these days

so who exactly is different

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Unimportance

I am not light.
I will not claim
an inner glow.
I will not lie about my flame —
what light I throw
is not my own,
and my name and form
when clarified
are best defined
as reflection alone.

This is no shame.

I am the mirror,
always. Even when covered
the possibility of blinding shine
is always present and ever ready.
I have slaved and silvered myself for
years and years
to be prepared for whenever
the Ray strikes. 

Do not implore me
to let my inner fire roar,
to crack my glass
so those before me
may see by my
illumination —
the same Light
strikes us all. It falls
upon each of us. 
All it takes
to throw it back
into the Dark that’s all around
is a little polish, a little
spit and shine: this Light is ours,
not mine,

and I will not lie
and claim it for my own.

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Dim Sum, or, What Would You Recommend?

The sad
and soft-centered
dumpling of my self-esteem
has been oversoftened
by the long low heat
of lazy living.

If you want to eat it,
you can.  A little sauce,
something pungent,
will be required
if you want it
to have any flavor at all,

because it’s been bleached
and drained beyond the point
where it could bear
its own taste. 

Turn the lights down,
please, if you take it;
I don’t want to see
how shapeless
it’s become. 
Dim sum indeed

that’s far less
than its parts — talent
and a stubborn faith in the talent
don’t make up for
the energy I never poured
into using it.

You see?  It tastes like
nothing’s there at all.
It barely filled you. 
I can already see you
poking at the cart looking
for something better.

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2010 in review

The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

A helper monkey made this abstract painting, inspired by your stats.

The Louvre Museum has 8.5 million visitors per year. This blog was viewed about 81,000 times in 2010. If it were an exhibit at The Louvre Museum, it would take 3 days for that many people to see it.

In 2010, there were 634 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 3646 posts. There was 1 picture uploaded, taking a total of 4kb.

The busiest day of the year was November 6th with 4,000+ views. The most popular post that day was Gazelle Ghazal.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were alphainventions.com, blogsurfer.us, heavyrotations.com, networkedblogs.com, and facebook.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for northern lights tonight, northern lights tonight boston, northern lights, dark matter, and hummingbird prayer.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

Gazelle Ghazal November 2010

2

To See the Northern Lights Tonight August 2010
8 comments

3

About March 2008

4

Show schedule, tracks, and more… May 2009

5

In Love April 2010
3 comments


Cathedral

A gold, pierced ball
of metal glows
with tamed fire
in a living room. A library
roils with sacrament;
a kitchen rocks sustenance,
and a bedroom saturates its sleepers
in the scent of unconsciousness
and connection to the largest
events in the sphere of love
and dreams.  When a closet door
closes upon a child
fearful of a parent
or a conjured monster,
it is a universe of safety.
and that child learns
the great truth: that
one can make a cathedral
out of any room, no matter
its size.

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Divinity

Why do I need
a “Holy Book”
when there is an oak tree
to read?

In the least square of sun
on this hardwood floor
is the promise of eternal life —
see how the grain still glows?
After every transformation,
there is always a remainder
of hope.

And if the scripture
is so knowing and powerful
why does it proscribe
so much that gives meaning and joy
to those who have not heard it?

In the fiber of the pages
there are truths not spoken of
by the ink they bear.

As long as there’s a willing eye
to see these discrepancies
there will be a God
open to new transmissions
of divinity.
And in the arms of the trees,
a birth waiting to grow.

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Questions For A New Year

Is anything
real to us
if we can’t
touch it
and call it
solid?

Have we turned
our lives
into a sieve
so fine
that we call it a bucket
and will only accept
what it catches,
ignoring
the many things
that slip through?
What will we call
the wetness
that is left upon us?

How shall we explain it
to our children
when we’ve denied it
again and again?

What if we tear a hole
in the bottom
of our belief
and let everything through?

What if we’re thereafter
soaking wet
all the time,
shivering and cold —
or what if we’re suddenly,
beyond our experience,
deeply happy?

What then?

Here’s to that breaking
and its resultant minefields.  Here’s
to a calendar
slipping off the wall
onto the floor —

here’s to this date
and this hour full
of torn metal
and rushing water,

and whatever comes after.

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600 Poems In 365 Days

Earlier this year, I posted that I’d posted 500 poems on this blog in 2010, which was an arbitrary amount I’d chosen even earlier in the year when it became clear that I was on a record pace for posting.

Since then, I’ve added another 100 poems, bringing the 2010 total to 600.  An equally arbitrary number, but one I’m proud of.  (For comparison’s sake — 2009 saw, very roughly, about 360-370 new poems posted on the blog.)

I’ve talked elsewhere on the site about why I post everything here — might be worth saying it again.

The Dark Matter blog is essentially an experiment in looking at an entire body of Work — the good, the bad, the mediocre, the false starts and good tries as well as the “successful poems” — as being, ultimately, more important than any one poem.  It’s an effort to see the trains of thought, the style shifts, and the themes as being all One Endeavor, one giant monster of artistic output.

Some have criticized it as being silly — that it limits, for instance, where I might submit poems for publication; that it keeps people from buying merchandise when they can get it all for free; that it doesn’t give the public only the best work I can do.

I just want to reiterate that I’ve carefully considered all that.  Certainly, there are some journals that won’t take my work because it appeared here first.  But over time, there’s a growing number of journals both in print and on the Web which do NOT consider an effort such as this to be a problem.  I think that trend will continue and I tend to only support those journals that work this way, and will only submit to them.

In addition, I think of publication elsewhere as just another aspect of the Work as a whole.  It’s not my be-all and end-all.  First and foremost, I want the Work to be available; there are various ways to do that.  Creating and publishing a manuscript — seeing a book as another art product built from the larger Work — is another.  I don’t see them as mutually exclusive.

As an old punk, I don’t need the validation of an artistic establishment to feel comfortable with my efforts.  I see this blog as a manifestation of a DIY spirit I cherish so much that I’ve got the letters “DIY” tattooed on my chest above my heart.  People will find the poems and like them or not; I made sure they were out there, the good, the bad, and the ugly.  That’s my job.

At any rate, I’ll likely move at a much slower pace here than in 2010.  I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire, both personally and professionally, and those will now move to center stage for a period of time.

I thank you for reading here, and please keep at it — there will be more of the Work posted here in 2011, if not quite so much as in the past year.  Will keep you posted as I go forward on other projects too, especially as they relate to the new Duende Project CD that will be released on Jan. 9th.  There will be gigs and public performances, new publications, and more.

Happy New Year to you all.  May the future bring you what you most desire.

Tony

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Steak Or Chicken

there must be days when george clinton
thinks about giving up the stars
for a steady job in furniture repair
and prince thinks about saying fuck it
i’m going into retail
bruce has to desire a corner barbershop
and mick must occasionally think about financial analysis
as a late career choice

just as
right now
i wanna be a rock star like they are
with a name that projects a complete cosmology
the minute it’s uttered

hearing my name
ought to change the inner monologue
of anyone who hears it

that’d be sweet

instead i’m in the store
looking at frozen fajitas
and i could be just anyone

it’s gotten so bad 
if someone calls my name
i don’t turn around because
they couldn’t possibly
be talking to me

and i am so inured
to being a nobody
that even my own name
doesn’t evoke anything except annoyance
that i’ve been disturbed before i can choose

steak or chicken

most days i don’t feel this way
i just go through motions
i’ve been through before
and i’m ok if not happy
the world around me
isn’t mine
i just live here
and i mean so little to it
that when i stop living here
someone else will be just fine
with my name

but right now
i wanna be a rock star
and i want my name to make the choice
of steak or chicken
for me
with a sense of inevitability
as they magically appear in my cart
they are exactly what i want
they are therefore exactly what everyone wants
and if i change my mind later
so shall change the fajitas
and so shall change everyone else’s mind and taste

so while bowie dreams of truck driving
and jay-z longs for an assembly line
i shall think of steak of chicken
and say
why not both
and why do we not call them
tony fajitas
regardless of what they are made from

why do we not cook them to a sound track of me

why does nobody
seem to have a clue
as to whether or not
i’m in the room

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Joe From Ararat

Just as he removed his hat
a dove flew by
clutching an olive branch.

The dove went back to the Ark,
bearing a message
that it was finally safe to land.

So the Ark settled on his bare head,
and animals poured out
and took refuge in his scalp.

Some made their way down
to the ears and nostrils,
entered his brain and took up residence.

They began to breed,
murmured and cackled and screamed
that he was holy ground.

This played hell with his concentration.
Work became impossible.
He was fired and became indigent.

I met him at a veterans’ shelter
where I’d gone to drop off clothing
for the winter ahead.

He told me, “They won’t shut up,
but at least there’s a rainbow in front of me
all the time.”

I dug through the bag I’d brought
and found him a new hat.
“I don’t need that —

wouldn’t want to chase away
another dove looking for
dry land.  But I do wonder

where that first bird
got that olive branch
and why she didn’t just lead Noah there.

What was wrong with that guy’s head?
Why didn’t she think it was good enough
for the animals if there were olive trees there?

Maybe I was meant to be the new world. 
When I think about it, I kinda feel sorry
for the guy who didn’t get chosen,

sometimes.  Maybe
he needs that hat?  He’s got to be
cold.”

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A Short Summary Of The Story So Far

An elegant pipe bomb
is found
unexploded
but still live
in a suburban mailbox.

The maker
has dispassionately painted
the cylinder with careful strokes
so that it resembles a piece
of Zia pottery.

The explosive inside
is potent and unusual
and wrapped in a coat of tiny
white men made of lead.
The ends are packed with shrapnel,

small bits of steel
cut into the shape
of the bodies left in the snow
at the 1890
Wounded Knee Massacre.

Attached to the bomb
is a note that reads
“Welcome to the continent”
and a feather from
a peregrine’s tail.

All over the country,
people begin to avoid
their mailboxes, staying in
and reading their property deeds,
examining their family trees

for records of cavalry sergeants,
missionaries, traders, storekeepers,
farmers, ranchers, pioneers,
Congressmen, Senators, and Presidents.
No one likes what they find.

In subsequent days
more bombs are found.
Not a one ever explodes
but everyone holds their breath.
Everyone feels as if they’re on trial.

The suspects are known to be
hiding in plain sight
right around here somewhere.
Even though the government has banned
casinos and dreamcatchers

and closed the roads to every reservation,
the investigation is stalled
while the bombs keep appearing
in mailboxes, in car trunks,
in closets, on television,

in place names, in foodstuffs,
on the roads, near the rivers,
in the language itself.
Everywhere we look, in fact,
we know there could be a bomb.

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A Week Of Safe Words

I’d like to be
leashed to silence
tonight

so

the safe word
is simply
a volume level

if I scream
real loud

LET ME GO
then
let me GO

~~~~~~~

tonight

the safe word
is

augury

if I suggest
dire prophecy
may be imminently
fulfilled
then

LET ME GO

~~~~~~~

tonight

the safe word
is

aspiration

if it seems that
I am about to reach
my goal

then
LET ME GO

~~~~~~~

tonight

the safe word
is

ouchies

not ouch, though
as I tend to say that a lot

~~~~~~~

tonight

the safe word
is

syllabus

if you hear that
I’ve learned enough

so

LET ME GO

~~~~~~~~

tonight

the safe word
is

reflective tape on racing bike handlebars

if you hear that
I’m not into it anymore
and am thinking of
the Tour de France

so

you might as well

let me go

~~~~~~~~~

at last we come to
tonight

when the safe word
should be

don’t ever let me go

if you hear that

you know the drill

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