1. |
The Salt Of The Earth
03:19
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sopping wet in my Sunday best
hoarse from calling for help
clawing my way out of the salt marsh
where I immersed myself
sediment clings to my collar
stiffens and cracks along my cuffs
never wholly dry, the brackish water’s brine
a constant drip, a reminder of
salt of the earth
make me dry
salt of the earth
scrub the blear
from my eyes
strait is the gate, narrow is the way
and few there be that find it
surmounting the city upon a hill
my arms start calcifying
pyretic beads of caustic sweat
corrode my corn husk hide
another child of wrath clinging
to the miry hillside
I want to love selflessly
become the salt of the earth
but every act on behalf of my fellow man
only serves my self-worth
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2. |
Depraved Estate
04:24
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I tend to
this sorry lot
it’s not much but
it’s all I’ve got
fence posts replaced
with mannequin arms and legs
nylon grass
teeming with rubber snakes
extremities
undulating with the breeze
diving deep
or blindly reaching
it all slithers or shivers
the gravel driveway’s skittering
acrylic teeth
and loose fillings
a collection of odds and ends
on flagrant display
townsfolk with rope
and rifle congregate
it’s in my nature
to get carried away
a stained art silk negligée
on the flagpole waves
melting polyester blooms
lining the walkways
plastic plates stacked
canopies of saran wrap
vinyl lattices
covered in latex rats
gawkers and urban myth hawkers
set up shop outside
my fabricated filth
spills over the property line
a collection of odds and ends
an unruly array
townsfolk with tar
and feathers surge irate
laughing through a frothing sneer
as I’m carried away
they say I was born without a sense of shame
I only feel alive when I get carried away
the thrill of being reviled
cascading hands batter and maim
still I find salvation in human touch
it’s from my depraved estate I should be saved
my malleable
menagerie
my unyielding
pseudo sanctuary
a human living
not just a human being
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3. |
The Hatchet
06:35
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see the forest
not for the trees
a mad dash with a hatchet
branches leave their mark on me
seldom notice
until I’ve come and gone
bandages torn
from lacerations raw
rest for a minute
mend this threadbare grip
a fistful of attrition
as I pick up the hatchet
hack at the earth
pound and press it dense
it’s time to hold on to something new
and bury the hatchet
bury the hatchet
hope the roots don’t take
pray the shoots don’t raise
the soil from its resting place
pluck and press the first leaf
in a book of fiction
hastily arranged
illegibly written
I don’t trust the sun
I can’t count on the rain
to handle the hatchet
while I wait
weather withered or unearthed
I trace all of its growth
from every window
I see it sprout from its shallow hole
dig it up myself
cloak in new ground
lay a stone on the surface
slow the sprouting down
carefully through the trees
come upon a clearing
enter with the hatchet
leave clutching nothing
not one twig or crag
no trail of branches snapped
no mark for where it rests
no path to lead me back
I don’t trust the sun
I can’t count on the rain
to handle the hatchet
while I wait
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4. |
Frayed Rope
07:42
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self-portraits
torn into strips
sulfur coated and lit
before they’re finished
down the hatch
ignite and illuminate
the bile burning furnace
with charred disdain
on the edge
of the open coil bed
trembling
in restless heat
a finger bone metronome
without a steady pulse
deep breaths and exhales
to clear the smoke
a nervous system of frayed rope
a blaze carried through the fray
contract and expand
the vessels need a clear course
I need to relax
there’s so much to do
when there’s nowhere to go
slow match fuses
of scorching rope
on the edge
of the open coil bed
trembling
in restless heat
hang my head in a downcast doze
slump down on my pillow
what use is sleep when each day’s kerosene
seeping in the frayed rope
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5. |
For You To Take
06:40
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I will not give
what writhes beneath the skin
to hosts who extend an invitation
and never let me in
I will not take
all of our space
with my various monuments
of tortuous posture and avarice
I will not lend generosity
to any rage unclaimed or kidnapped sympathy
I will endure every sting
as long as I can taste the honey
sluggish as the
temperature drops
nothing is as sweet as the fall
to be redeemed
to recreate it all
all that’s left
is a strange cigarette
in my antique coin ashtray
and a rose perfume
I can’t fully place
I gave in to giving it all
it was
too much
for you to take
you took it all anyway
I still have my cowhide rug
mounted skulls and a trusted knife
it’s time to decide
to sever ties or carve out more time
for melodies or effigies
fashioned with fluttering hands
decisions whittled beyond recognition
a splintered perch for the fingers to land
I gave in to giving it all
it was
too much
for you to take
you took it all anyway
the few shared things that I have kept
may appear to be meaningless
so often, I wish they were
we can choose what to keep
but I want every thing
to mean something
now I keep bees and their honey
in a jar, darkening,
it’s mine when I’m ready
you can’t take that from me
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6. |
Out Of Reach
03:17
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she kept a picture of herself
in that locket around her neck
in the shape of a water lily leaf
floating on her rippling chest
slathered bruise
bathed in paint of midnight blue
veiled in the sheen of a fresh coat
anything to keep the photo afloat
she claimed that she
was drowning in me
I reached out my hand
covered in life rings
the frantic kick of legs
churned crest of the wave
amid the drift with coiled fists
washed ashore, sputtering and scathed
thinned with mineral spirit
diluted and distilled
the gloaming tones coat
the shoreline and the hills
when roused from dormancy
she runs at each heap head first
inverted steps, lie down again
in command of her own hurt
she claimed that she
was drowning in me
trace my own transposed steps
until I’m out of reach
out of reach
clenching the locket
I watch her sink
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7. |
Grave Mistakes
05:52
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it only took
42 years
for him to learn
how to die
that medicine
it did him in
a long drawn
suicide
for years he slept
arms crossed on chest
a dress rehearsal
for his denouement
he kept a list
of his ailments
a small lined sheet
his confidant
body resigned
organs wrung dry
swelling appendages
yellow of the eye
for months he knew
and sat by
the narrowing
window of time
slammed shut
lowered blinds
a selfish act
or to be kind
father, did you spare us a goodbye
or were you afraid to
concede to the end of your life
I was the lone son purified
reformed on the day he died
in my own image, a master of my own fate
inheriting his grave mistakes
a swastika
inked in his flesh
constant regret
carelessly hidden
just like the cheap
vodka and speed
underneath
his workbench
paranoia
took the form of
a briefcase with
a loaded gun
workplace arrest
community service
every weekend
that we’d visit
memories retrieved
theories conceived
unsound accounts
storytelling
a few tight lips
absolving him
unsettled pain
the high price paid
for the unexplained
being exchanged
for the wisdom of bearing witness
to my father’s mistakes
I am the lone son purified
reformed on the day he died
in my own image, a master of my own fate
dismantling his grave mistakes
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8. |
Mutiny
06:52
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enmity
kept pacing in a pen
forgiveness
hog-tied in the basement
discipline’s been locked in the attic
bedraggled in his rummaging
vanity’s whistling a tremulous tune
from the rafters, observing
disquiet
tethered to the bed
serenity
barricaded in the shed
cast watchful eyes like lopsided dice
behave as I stare through the seams
divide my gaze, they plot their escape
here comes the mutiny
mutiny
calamity
wrangling as they can’t agree
whose turn it is
to follow or to lead
swaying in the shape of a figure 8
listlessly they retreat
sequestered in chains, out of harm’s way
free from the fetters of the mutiny
mutiny
enmity
kicks and shrieks
ground finds its pulse
beams bend and creak
echoed screams
bonds breaking
righteous anger
demands a mutiny
anger is the shepherd
the rest are following
embrace the mutiny
anger is the savior
for those who need saving
embrace the mutiny
mutiny
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Dry Wedding Portland, Oregon
PDX Post-Cowpunk
Davey Ferchow
Jarrod Green
Chadwick Ferguson
Tom Fuller
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