words with no names

Talking to your food

htwilson — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 06:23:30 +0000

is not a sign

of mental illness …

most of all

he gets a pass

because he’s four

and just because

he talks to his food

how do those

who took these notes

know exactly

how it’s going on

from where he sits

how do they know

that in his mind

he’s not thanking

the potatoes for

being so delicious

and that in his heart

he knows that

while whole potatoes

may have eyes

you have to speak

kind of loud

to thank them

because they lack ears

and do not always

pay attention.

I think people

might learn a thing or two

if they had a conversation

with their food.

To my son, on searching for his wings

htwilson — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 02:07:19 +0000

You know

the many reasons

that we named you Gabriel;

arriving in the world

when and how you did

according to a fashion

unguided by the stars

directed by the chances

of who and what we were

I know my story says

there is no grand designer,

there is no author penning

lines for you to say

there are no demons coming

or angels to save the day

and I cannot use the devil

or eternal damnation

to turn you away

from the “dark side”

… what they call temptation

now that you have

no use of a soul

or a search for salvation

to easily tell you

what’s wrong

and what’s right

now that you know

that we may be alone

in this corner

of space and time in the night

now that you’ve learned

of the treasures we’ve earned

as social loners

making culture and learning to write

now that you know

all the monsters before

were imagined and less deadly

than the monsters we know

now that I’ve shown you

in form and in poem

in lines and at home

through kindness

and failure and flaws

what little I know

of the nature of laws

I am sure you too

you will find yours.

on geography & love

htwilson — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 18:13:10 +0000

we are all Sisyphus

with our own boulders

you my love

are Sisyphus as mother

as teacher

as humbled crumbled

daughter …

rolling your bones

like a lover

longing for a cliff

when we are lost

or tired, you know …

there are times we

must stop to rest

when we let the rock go

hurling along and we

bend low to wash

to bow our heads

for a moment

to take measure

of our course and recall

that we have been

here before

but everything is different

it is not the same river now

the land has changed

we are tired

in different places

having seen things

from the valleys

having stood at times

near the top

our rest is

sometimes broken

when the rock

comes

rolling

back.

on where our enemies may come from next

htwilson — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 23:55:24 +0000

our enemies may not come at us in planes

they may come in limousines

our enemies may not come at us wearing sheets

they may come in pin striped suits and cowboy boots

our enemies may not come at us to push their weed or mushroom caps

they may come with pretty pills with tested names like prozac

our enemies may not come at us at knifepoint to steal from our pockets

they may come electronically to take our life savings

our enemies may not come at us to share a drink or toke

they may come to lock you up for moonshine or smoking

our enemies may not come at us speaking little English

they may come unaware that they put a little English on everything

our enemies may not come at us when we’re not looking

they may come in daylight with papers from the state

our enemies may not come at us from outside

they may come from the room next door.

Memory poem on your birthday

htwilson — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 19:27:28 +0000

hermano, amigo

I don’t gots nothing more

but words for you …

an open invitation

like the blanket I hung

as a door when we lived

side by side, all the places

where we were young together

even these things are leaving

us now,

that we don’t talk,

that you can’t call

to say “I love you too”

now that I’m just another

Facebook friend or bit I.M.

Te acuerdas,

remember how we met?

¿como todo paso?

how by accident your mother

bought the house across the street

from ours? How twelve years

earlier we had both surprised

our fathers and bent their tomorrows.

¿Que cosas, no?

that so much had to go,

had to break a certain way

to find us playing tag in

the summertime, dodging

between cars or playing kick the can

and waiting for the street lights

to turn on.

Te acuerdas como nos conocimos?

You doing your imitation of John

Travolta from Saturday Night Fever

and singing the Bee Gees’

“Staying Alive”

to mock whoever the hell was “it”

… except me …

we were already running as a team

Ploying silently to keep the

rest at bay, pushing to be better

than each other because no one

wanted to be Robin, because

we both felt absolutely golden,

whenever we were together,

you were Larry and I was Magic

even though our skin said

we had it backwards

… we knew better

Ya tu sabes!

So here’s a list that only

you will understand with your

decoder ring and secret index

of punchlines and memories

Pink Champale and Greased Lightning,

Lower Grant and their mutant bigs,

Hershey Park spinning on its side,

Reggie, the bleachers and spaghetti,

Willie on the train and the fucking fractions,

Missions to van Sicilen, Crescent or Norwood

The middle of winter and a rat’s nest,

Pitufas and soft shelled crabs,

The Dominican outback needing dancers,

Fernando in the ambulance,

Shoeless football, stir fry and home grown,

Seafood Mamajuanas, Billy Joel and

about a million other words I could

string together to hang around our necks

like totems signifying we know

exactly what they meant.

But we don’t.

We have our own stories, no?

Even if we shared that

glory time so long ago, all things

can gather enough dust

to be covered in the end.

Te acuerdo, te amo, te extraño.

said the fallen angel *

htwilson — Fri, 06 May 2011 22:51:22 +0000

es lo que es

las noticias de la vida

todo cambia pero

quedan las heridas

y yo que fui

tan perdido por aquí

me encontraré

la paz sin ser

cometido ha mentiras

(musical interlude … lots of horns)

Y es lo que es

la vida por noticias

nada cambia pero

quedan injusticias

y yo que fui

educado por aquí

me encontraré

razon sin ser

cometido ha malicias

(repeat music … end with horns and cymbals)

* dijo el angel caído

the next great thing

htwilson — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 00:09:02 +0000

the crowds are here today

they wrap around the block

and seem to go for miles

they’re here to see the birth

of that very special something

that will bring them smiles

and everyone will walk away

happy for the gift today

and it will be enough for a while

it will entertain their brain

until it all becomes the same again

and then it will fall out of style

they’ll be back in line somewhere

not too long from now, I’m sure

giving something else a trial

pasando por aqui *

htwilson — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 04:38:06 +0000

for Paolo Ernesto

the rules for all of this

come from distant worlds

we are satellites of satellites

bound to every detail of the past

we trod around our

flooded rock imagining

we could be stars

but we know now

that we are very far

we are made from pieces

that fall apart to blend again

with earth and rain

and other broken things

like water at different degrees

we are held in a temporary state

awakened for a moment

and given a name and birthdate

if we are lucky,

our days cannot measured

only by our presence

or the illusion of our reflections

instead we learn to love and live

above the center of the dance

where the music is played

in plasma waves and memories

of romance and laughter; until

yesterday is more engaged

for moments …

before the bad news breaks

to remind us of our origins,

that the lotus is retreating

that the universe ends up freezing

that there is no way to kiss your gentle face again.

* “passing through here” or “happening here”

kali @ the club

htwilson — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 16:46:54 +0000

18″ x 24″ Collage, magazine clippings.

lost prayer

htwilson — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 22:12:37 +0000

… and I said send me a message

or show me a sign

because my eyes are wide open

but I am feeling so blind

I understand all the reasons

and none of the rhyme

and I have changed with the seasons

to mine the sublime

and while I long for discovery

I’m growing shorter on time

I’m afraid all the answers

don’t get along in my mind

as the more that I learn

the less I can define

what you call angels and demons

good deeds and crimes.