Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Midway


I was born in the south in the year 1974,
six years after the death of Martin Luther King Jr,
ten years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964,
twenty years after Brown vs Board of Education

Growing up I remember witnessing the African-American marchers
through green-forested Forsyth County, GA
So many years a hostile and dangerous place for them from the lynchings of 1912
Greeted with epithets in the town of Cumming,
a gathering of white supremacists
from throughout the north of Georgia
spewing stones and hatred
across blighted generations
The same place where the Olympic torch passed in 1984,
carried in flame by a man of color
The place where my father was a grocer
with patrons oft in the infancy
of their own rung of enlightenment
Just a few miles from where I grew up
in a town across the county line,
still with remnants of segregation,
in transition to the throes of suburbia
Internalizing my personal sense of justice
through these visions, or TV shows,
the encyclopedia,
or the Fulton County schools teaching on the era of civil rights,
bussing in my best friend in fifth grade
Or the highlight of Hank Aaron circling the bases at his 715th
in the city of Resurgens
defined by its movement away from the old south,
yet shadowed by the darkness carved on Stone Mountain
It hasn't been so long
in smoky blaring rooms and punk bands
Scenes corrupted by manchildren
with shaved heads and red laces on their boots,
commanding attention and disdain,
threatening in their presence,
pushing you and your friends from behind
Their names and faces showing up in journals
of the Southern Poverty Law Center
Just a small slice of my humble young life
Entrenchment doesn't turn on a dime
Remediation doesn't take with turning away
Lifetimes are spent shedding time and trauma
The work is never done.
MM 8/2015

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Entrenched Age


Traipsing through an entrenched age,
roots driven subterranean
in search of hydro-enlightened
enchantment of one’s inner-workings

Comments aligned in columns
feeding into loops, a continuation
through where opposing circles conjoin
in vexing intersection

Discourse is relegated to damaged
primacy expressed through the visual
instinct of regurgitation displayed and repulsed
in bizarre mating rituals

The circuit of solemn gestures
gestating full ranges of rationalized existence
through screens of measured response
through uneven channels of despondency

Struck chords resonating archways
into radioactive trenches, the sanctimonious tide
versus the festering stench of caustic
reenactments of the past eternal

Borne on the backs of displacement, dead tides
receding beyond common comprehension
litigated, explained away, justified
in common line formation sway

Through hackneyed points of reference, marked
and linked back to the most recent frame
drawn to the stench like flies circling
tragic exploitation conflated to agendas

Disturbances of this sort are well
established across the landscape, ranging
the scope of tragic myopic monuments
erected in anxious displacement

To the unlikely redemptive dreams
managed from small hours of dwindling night,
through drawn time anesthetizing its way
in light through wandering days

In free exchange through middling layers
we’re entrenched in impressions driven in cast
at surface level and defined in theory
rather than nourished in being


MM 6/17

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Holding On (Final Offering song)


I'm holding on 
to everything you're leaving here
The lies we told ourselves 
somehow came true

Blistering what was held inside,
dilating in light
after being in chasms 
through the time
before all this counted toward the lie
that somehow found its truth

I'm holding on to everything
I don't know 
whether I'll ever see your face again,
even though it represents 
such a turning point

I love you

MM 1995

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Rest Impediments

Public Domain

The voice is time draining
its remains through caustic
enclosures, cataclysmic rhythms
raining down god-like structure
on intransigent position
recording its internal dialog
with a well-formed void of spirit
in reeling space

The gray glow outside
casts a hollow sheen surreal
quaking overturned buds kicked off
the tops outstretched and clinched unflowered
spread about the staggered steps
among the ransom’s reason
brought out of solitude unresting
in space invaded

The immediacy in closed eye
fields magnified beyond infernal
periphery pervasive enveloping the voice
piercing the slack surfacing
the perimeter of your person
bridging the barriers of renewal
cross-flowing numb tension
in rest impediments

The words in transposition
line their attack feigning indignity
of the speakers’ holy position within
audible patterns and pieces intersecting      
rims and casings within visions
colored by meters of moments and mileage
unmarked in their distance remaining
unnumbered


MM 6/17

Thursday, June 1, 2017

News Cycle

1478, Theodoros Pelecanos, Public Domain

Each day is a process
of reconciliation’s stain, upon
the evening’s resolve, dissolving
into folds of a void, shifted through
tension fields and projected
throughout the night’s pattern
of restful disturbance, craning
interruptions

Morning’s horizon beckons
in ominous first light, alighting
a new pattern of mounting
tension cured only by the human
stain of fractured opiate
connection to the first hit
of technology cased
to the dementia, unwinding
symptoms of the dawning day

Repay, wait,
it creeps into your dreams

MM 6/17

Monday, May 29, 2017

DOA in May

Public Domain, The Science of Life and Death in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein
           Disconnect on arrival
to rights, be damned and dreaming
of erosion, cobbled together seconds
in fractured and illicit fields
of vision, you lie
in the pooled insurgent
crust of well-worn auspices
            Bleeding off, drawing down in
moments encryption,
flashing in pitch and fragmented
vision laid forth in infinite halves
of depth and of death
in breeding haze dimmed
and fading last rites
            Waking fucked-off and parched
in suspended animation bled
and crawl to whet the throat,
fixed in searing lines
all the way through this beaming
deliverance path of makeshift
and grave – you wait
            Informed in catatonic states
of chronic mass, absorbed through
surreally exposed grafts
coming down from wallowed
hallowed eulogies, gifted in tithes
rushing into the bloodstream
informing its finality

MM 5/17

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Status Interruptus


The body resets during sleep,
muscle memory abounds through fitful coughs,
aching joints, dry-itching skin,
serving notice to Mind at Rest
Rogue satellites broadcast status
interruptus in the arc of their course
through night-stills of twittering chirps,
drones of machine fan humming,
chorus of death-chant crows

Restful bodies lie in solace and silence
cleaning filters, expunging
the need for the minds’ input
of the day’s disorders,
its tightening grip as evidenced
unwelcome in the clutch of my wrists
urgently held in my plaintive palms
reacting to the distorted playback
of looped invasive dreams

In halves unfold time loops,
in and out the quirks and fits,
unwilling and unable to fall gracefully
into the limited and limitless embrace
of total surrender to the mercy of the alarm
residing in a small compact computerized appendage
that greets and accompanies,
that fixes the cycle


MM 4/17