I’ve seen abandoned cars, mines,houses and dogs. But where do the abandoned minds go? Are they floating above in arcs of the lightning forming fissures of black dots like when you close your eyes? What is all these streams of consciousness blends into one visceral creation? Or perhaps it is but a flight of fancy to clothe the imaginary friends. The abandoned minds, how do I find them? Where do I seek them? Give me an empty glass mason jar to collect these and weave story blankets out of them:
Blank pages, of you, me
and the space in between
made of tarpits and steel frames –
black heels stepping on flowers for the dead.
free flowing tales of black ink and tyre grease
can you
wipe it off your face?
Can we trace the footsteps into panels of twisted lies
rivets of steel – bound.
Can we have a dance off
between our words,
with false hopes and red ‘Caulfield’ hats?
under the tarred whalebones and crippling shadows.
wave a hello —
to the sounds of coexistence
as we traverse the abstractions of the mind
Take another dab of varnish, and let it shine.
The dabble up there was a writing challenge that was definitely fun. It was part of my first slam poetry session here in Philly (and very close to Penn’s campus – hush, it was actually on Drexel’s), we wandered about the creations by Chakaia Booker – these intriguing shapes in black, interconnected and dark, compelling one to pause. The poets themselves were really good – and I enjoyed their pieces – some quite memorable ones.
There is something innately satisfying about listening to slam poets slam-poeting. It’s their words and sounds and melody that carries one to a different land of storytelling. And there is a subtle differences in poetry to be performed is also intriguing, to identify repetitions and variations in pace to cement the scene into the listener.
Well, in any case, ’twas fun.
Jumping Gene 