John Oliver

John Oliver: black,

black as night with no stars

John Oliver paints, and sings,

and beats his chest to the rhythm

of poems; odes to Bluefields.

Mr. John Oliver: street man, rasta man

a fine man.

John Oliver smokes crack, lives on the streets;

still a fine man, especially when he’s humble.

pink sheets

wrapped, here, in faded pink sheets

how many others have come,

from this moment?

we are the nucleus of a city, the moment in time

here we are.

wrapped around eachother

pink, faded we came and went.

To Ometepe

Fans blow Nicaraguan air

through the 2^nd class section

of a low class ship

Baby girl shirtless,

only her skirt, only her smile

ella dice, “¿Que se llama?”

beautiful baby girl

unaware, like all of us,

we still have four hours to go

Nica feet touch me,

the lady sharing my bench

is attempting to sleep,

but how she could fall under,

I do not know

We are hot, we stand out

we are white.

And the fans rotate,

blowing Nicaraguan air

through the 2^nd class section

of a low class ship

Dreamscapes

Oh god! the expanse ahead is so deep and blue with a tinge of heat glowing off of the northern most horizon.  The vast space keeps me fixed on finding one point.  I will make it there.  That far off pinnacle must be a mountain top.  It might be days from here that I will trudge, dragging myself through the heat.  Suddenly I have arrived.  The time vanished and I have gone with it.  The emaciated shadows of my formal self, my awake self, have scared me into submission.  The first glimpse of myself as this other person.  The dream ends here.

How do you describe the end of your life.  The starvation for another being.  The laying down as a mushroom cloud rushes furiously at you.  To eat you whole.  As you close your eyes this is called giving up.  This is called death at its finest.

These are bits and pieces from the underworld.  The bouncing of eyelids in my darkest and most human of places.  Where I become the hunted, the shadow, the insecure, the dumped.  Where I am my most violent of selves, a defender, a murderer, and a lover.  These are my blurred visions of a vivid silence that go on each time I am weighted next to you.

Lets discuss the violence.  The purest of my dreams are those in which I am battered and beaten.  Bruised and wet with blood.  I can not be killed.  I can kill.  These things must be ruined.  My insides twisted and torn to know what it feels like to be chased and caught and captured.  Running to only be tackled and brought to bear by the most evil of all beings over me and near me.  Not a nightmare.  Not a tremor.  Just one voice that stops me from running, puts me into slow animation.  Blurs my vision and fills me with regret and hatred.  Then exits through the gun, or the knife or the blunt object around me.  Any weapon to save me from this torture trip.  I am not disturbed.

I woke and made some coffee.

The Trip

there was an area of a small side valley

this valley made its way, i would say delicately

and coldly up the mountain side

below the earth raged, in a spring melt

we stopped because our hearts were pounding

and maybe because you were bleeding

and the trees were, of course, breathing

this always is one thing

the truth inducer, if you may

the drug that sees things in a different way

an odd attraction

that was put away, i need only to confess this

my other thoughts

another purpose to wait for something else

here

When you are not here

I am not here

Withering to songs of us

Bowing to the solitude

I create you next to me

somber we exist

When I am gone

You dream of me

and dedicate this one

tonight

to the girl you love

When we are together

We are both here

You are giddy and I smile

huge into the night we go

tangled web of childsplay

Ah, the freckels have aligned

the part of the song we both sing

whether together or apart

WhEn yOu ArE hErE

i Am HeRe