c1997 by S.M. Plottner
To the healer I reveal my wounds,
but only on her holy hearth,
I cradle scars like notes within
the vocal chords of heart,
until again I sing my tune
to a loyal lover's mirth,
I am fetus in the womb
of forever giving birth.
To the healer I reveal my soul,
wisdom of a thousand years
waltzing in the labyrinth
of sorrow and of tears,
the universe of no account
gives solace to my scars,
and with the knife of night
slices them to stars.
The crowded inn grieves my light
that shines beyond a garish sun
to where redemption ancient
cleanses like an antiphon
of gushing afterbirth of time
splashing on my blackened will
that grips my spiteful spine
until I drink my fill.
To the healer I reveal my thirst,
as I was quenched before,
the never ending open wound
seals my sea of storms like shore.
I peddled scalpels to the blind,
but now all truth is God's truth.
The galaxies of yesterday
preserve incisions of my youth.
I wave goodbye the diligence
of all despair and now depart
the drama of all circumstance
that desiccates my heart.
For I belong beyond this age
dancing with my tribe at dawn,
to the embryos of worlds unknown
begging to be born and gone.
To every wound that ever opened
through anguish of failed flesh,
for all those wounds remain
like artifacts of artful death,
I bear those bones of sorrow
like planet earth wears green,
and laugh at no tomorrow
from each time zone in between,
until at last my homesickness
that seeks the healer's hands,
finds her touch of love
that my naked mind demands.
Ocean City, Maryland, 1998....to endless seashore June.
Through a painted pony maze c1998 by S.M. Plottner (For S.E.P. at Easter)
Through a painted pony maze
To endless seashore June
Where your face feels waves of praise
And seashells play soft tunes,
A pristine rain simmers sun
And quenches need for storm,
God upon a tree has hung
To keep your heart from harm.
Go there to that quiet place
Far past the maze of ride
As waves again refresh your face
And drench your dry insides,
A gentle twilight hugs huge sun
A fear of night to calm,
God upon a tree has hung
To keep your heart from harm.
Half Moon Bay, Highway One, 1996....sing thee the anthem-mottos.
The only Marilyn Monroe remaining c1982 by S.M. Plottner
I, where every American epic begins and ends,/ The electric in Whitman, Brooklyn tight,/ The bullet lodged in Kennedy's brain,/ The Godfather Gotti and his Goodfellows,/ The Babe of Babylon, the crack of his bat,/ The cheers from Wrigley, the outfield fence,/ The fission of 1929, the apple core of '30,/ The dust as deep as snow in Sparks, Oklahoma,/ The wrinkles of Hiroshima, the writs of '46,/ The go-west-young-man splintering kinfolk,/ The golden spike driven into the heartland,/ The television of every tragedy,/ The grimace of Oswald, the leap of Booth,/ The groan of Garfield, the glow of Vegas,/ I, ventricles droning, a V-8 engine,/ I, stomach churning on slick steel rails,/ I, pressing star-spangled precision,/ Where slithers sacred city through concrete,/ Highways, freightyards, walls, drugstores,/ Girders, and center city courthouse belfry.
Sing thee the anthem-mottos, the Guthrie-/ Hymns, the Dylan-rhyme, the hobo hums,/ When I am was Eden, Canton, Pittsburgh,/ Detroit, Wheeling; when I am was Whitman and/ Will and Where-next, before the martyr in/ The motorcade, before the outer limits/ Controlled your television, I, I came,/ From the bowels of Justice I came,/ Howling, before Buddha Ginsberg howled,/ Howling, before train to Springfield howled,/ Howling, before gates of Graceland howled,/ I came, a ghost; I came, a placebo.
Not all crowds me like this ridgetown notched/ Between strip-mine burlesque and mudswell,/ Mail Pouch mouth wrenching barnside nails,/ The woman at the well scribbling causes for/ Her generation, sprinkling holy water on her/ Daughter's heritage, not all crowds me./ A coffee station in Sierra Nevada, I move up,/ A telegraph outpost in Cheyenne, I move out,/ The last American tradition, a last frontier,/ I arrive, I seek claim to this ridgetown,/ Its girders, its drugstores, its gas pumps,/ And every amber wave of grain in its groin,/ And every majestic mountain in its memory,/ I seek claim to this tattered remnant,/ I seek claim to this franchised wasteland,/ I seek claim and say death, I say death/ To silverspoons of thousand dollar plates,/ I say death to pompous party platform creeds,/ I say death to billboard lips, cartoon/ Evangelists, courtroom caricatures of Jesus,/ Phallic monuments of beltway icons mouthing/ Isms at pomp filibusters, I say death to/ Frantic antics on M-TV and Rather's news,/ I say death to shopping mall museums, infant/ Formula, cancer research, condom celebrities,/ Porno priests, I say death, I say death again/ And again and again to death, where every/ American epic pauses, until those asleep/ Waken to my proxy and rise and strangle/ Charon, plunging his blue headed putrid/ Corpse into parched Lethe, plunging death.
Sing thee the anthem-mottos, the Guthrie-/ Hymns, the Dylan-rhyme, the hobo hums,/ When I am was Eden, Canton, Pittsburgh,/ Detroit, Wheeling; when I am was Whitman/ And Will and Where-next, before the movie/ Of the martyr in the motorcade, before the/ Outer limits entered the twilight zone,/ I, I came, from the bowels of Justice,/ Howling, before Buddha Ginsberg howled,/ Howling, before train to Springfield howled,/ Howling, before gates of Graceland howled,/ I came, a ghost; I came, a placebo.
I, where every Roman Empire begins and ends,/ The hologram of Whitman, beads of Brooklyn,/ The Kennedy lodged in Castro's jugular,/ The Joey splattered in Little Italy,/ The Babe of Babylon pointing from home plate,/ The glow of lights at Wrigley, beer vendors,/ The explosion of 1930, the apple core of '31,/ The brother-can-you-spare-a-dime in Sparks,/ The hibakusha of Hiroshima, Nuremberg of '46,/ The smirk Wyatt Earp, the smite Wounded Knee,/ The long slow train of missing persons,/ The slow motion of every tragedy,/ The guffaw of Jack Ruby, the break in Booth,/ The groan of Garfield, the glow of Vegas,/ I, I am the only Marilyn Monroe/ Remaining in America.
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