Chris Gill

Poems I


Not in Kansas

Open the window
go into the world
you're not in Kansas
anymore...
with your 21st century electronics
and your little dog, too!

As you walk briskly
toward nowhere in particular
on this avenue constructed
from a history of tears and genocide
you overhear someone say, in distinct English
"Alberto, you're pissing me off!"

At a newsstand there is
Hitler on a tabloid
(Los Malos de History!)
with an airbrushed mustache
Who makes history anyway?

And as you thought
about being hungry
you were disturbed (by an irony?):
a no tanning area
in a part of the city that looked
like an excavation on the moon
reminding one, for no particular reason
of that time Gregory Corso
said, "Tipple, tipple, tipple
in the ocean like a fish,"
at the Mabuhay Garden
long after his demise.

At Cortez' summer palace
pointed out by Antonio
yesterday, the residue of decay
is elegantly mordant
and the nervous young policeman
with an automatic weapon
(no it was a shotgun the boy said)
is a hair trigger baby with a gun

It's said the politician stole
the 16th century stones
from the street here
for his own home
at night, near exquisite beauty
which disappeared when
she had her arm ripped off
for personal gain, and
the clay walls and shade trees
let sleeping dogs lie

No longer alone
hunger is addressed
and it's up with the fiesta
Goaaaaaaallll!!!!
(now we have to disinfect the vegetables)
and we get a Mexican Coke bottle as a souvenir
Goaaaaaaallll!!!

Is here there
or is there here?
if one shed the responsibility
of being somewhere else
in another time...

we might exist now

One-eyed cats, un vino blanco
misunderstandings and hurt feelings
all at the table

(O My God!!) Am I here all alone?
screamed Dylan's mister jones
while John Lennon agreed
from the grave

No

As close to now
as I'd ever been
having gone from you to me
and one to I
I had a baby
who is now at the table
to be married tomorrow

I coulda been...(a contendah)
a drummer for Chris Isaac
for instance, but
I Love her!

Then a portal opened
and squeezed out
a thought in this orgy of food:
the urge to gobble guacamole
with schizophrenic Tourette's
all in, a vaguely familiar
public place

And I declare:
(Goaaaaaaallll!!!)
just come to me
I'll be there and I
won't impose on you
(stoic or forgiving)
my insistence on our
collective incompetence

an insane butterfly, which

is all I've got now, where
we are not in Kansas
anymore




© C Gill
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Back to the Monument

Back
to the
monument
the lions
roar
where
bright
is all
enunciate
and shades
go onto
alto
sax
the canon
shot from
solo
hummingbird

where
agitation
comes

Taxi! Taxi!

Around
the circle...
orbit is
an encore
language is
a friend in
different light
a different dog
familiar
similar

(Don't censor
don't sense her
don't" censor don't
the senses don't
unsense her....
uncensor....)

Ahhhhhhhhhhh)

Around
the circle...
simple is
if happy
no one
cares
don't have
to move
cause it
would
take five
tow trucks
anyway

Don't
think
before
you
do is
say
what's
there
the dots
connect
a circle
doesn't
stress
about
the form
before
the word
itself
will die
the vine
aborted flux
the stones
are dug
the circle
is

inflammable.



May, 2008

© C Gill
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Disturbance of the Self Interrupted

Disturbance of the self
in the here and now

interrupted

by sun leaf arc window balcony door
diaphanous white curtain world beyond

a foreign place

the door is open
and there is green
texture yellow light

street life below

a bellowing bullhorn voice
in another language
of universal exhortation

riding around talking
about god knows what...

a sales pitch
a demonstration
a protest
a martial ordinance...

Ahhhh.... he was selling mangos



© C Gill
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Journalist from Mars

I'm a journalist from Mars
I don't speak the language...

what language do I speak?

WHERE AM I?

An esplanade... a plaza... a terrace
boardwalk... sky?
The stars? The moon?
The dirt? The loon?

A GANGPLANK?

I walk the plank
to the brink.... of what?

I'm a Journalist from Mars

at a glorious fountain...
I've been here before
in a different time
and a different place
The ancient trees speak
to me...         No hablo

I'm a journalist from Mars

at High Noon

La Policia
the po...the man

OK Corale
No shootout please
Mr. Wyatt Earp

No Hablo

I spy
a gnarled man
in a dirty jumpsuit
sprawled in the sun
where water won't touch him
The forsaken child
of the Catholic god.

Not me!
I am from Mars!
son of the sky, cousin of earth
brother of Saturn

I can't read... (yet I can)
I can't speak... (yet I will)
I can't BE... yet I am
The disobedient one
I am one of those

Mutilado?     I am

Consagrado?     Not I

He... over there
the brown leg sticking out
of a bush on lush green grass

is consecrated

I seek shade only
not yet a return to Mars

No hablo

I'm turning back
it is too dense in here

I require space

I am from Mars
I must cross over
the truth is literal
I return to the center
for protection
from density
or destiny?

I am simple

I am a journalist from Mars
No Hablo

The esplanade, the plaza, the terrace
and the sky, oh my...
lions and chariots and babies
in life giving water... oh my, oh my

I drink from the fountain
and seek Oz... without comprehending

Urgent! to the North...La Villa!
(I demure for now)
urgency is not on this passport
yet I sprint for my life
across the divide
but a tourista, no visa... no identity
I have paper gold, and could be feted
I could be prey... I am anonymous
I say... I do... no hablo

While citizens share mango
and laugh
I am a citizen of Mars

I will buy nothing
I will consume nothing
I will have nothing
I embrace nothing
I desire ALL
I am full of empty
in this odd paradise

under the green canopy I go

The young suit looks uncomfortable
I don't dare look back
I remember his face
Is it disgust? Or frozen
practiced grief?

I am back in the region
of the other world
the wind is sweet and restless
the leaves dance
not for me alone

I pray... god is invisible
(green if she had color?)
what color is venus?

please be still...
no hablo

I cross again
one wrong move
and this avenue
is the river Styx
domo arigato, Mr. Roboto

(Why is my soul a loner?

I don't need pictures
for I have been here before).

A small boy
is spastic with grief
his mama can only
hold his hand.

more flora, thank god
for flora is god

sinister automobiles
curse me... I don't answer back
'cause I don't speak the language
what language do I speak?

I am simple and explore straight lines
I have always been
an existentialist
it is simple
No hablo

Another casualty in front of me
victims sprawl on the sidewalks here
this one in black

I hear the music of life
I stray from the path

at eleven o'clock

WHAT IS THAT HUGE BABY WITH GIANT MUSCLES
DOING AT THE TOP OF THAT LITTLE BUILDING?!?!?

(contemplating the large, sharp plants
in the traffic circle?)

I find the music of life
near a tree lined avenue
which could grace any city
(don't run me over, chicos on bikes!)

the music of life is latin tinged dixieland
it turns out......with a heart bass drum

Yo..... hablo.




© C Gill
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Rhythm Ate Me

Spot on, baby
like what you said
I hear you
blow your horn
in my imagination
and yours
we feel it

Say what?

The hole thing
is a whole thing
spectacular

You're talking nonsense
be specific, please

Okay, I will
the proper noun
improperly
splattered
before the
seventh time
the second rhyme
the potted plant
the carpenter ant
who gave signals
that
the Gregorian chant
dissolved into
a dissonant rant
in the third century
before the Duke of Earl
digested jazz music
and...
ate me.




© C Gill
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Expression

What do I have left?
an island
an ocean
a singular notion
of France
in pants
a continent
incontinent
you silly little fool
rhyming away
the brain cells
capacity to reason
at the exact moment
I expect some flowers
in the mail

That was abrupt
it's time you left
you have nothing left
but the season of reason
without a doubt
shutting off
the words you need
now

expression
compression

to a fault
line
that
implores

the thing you love most

don't say the moon
it's way too late
for that

you're toast
okay?


© C Gill
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Time is Not Linear

Time is not linear...
ha!
who would have thunk it?
Time's a bitch... and I love it!
Always falling into
another destination
Always hanging around
desperate people!

time lapses time crumbles
time flattens time rumbles

time is the woman of my dreams
time is the bumpy little quagmire
of all luck
time bursts from nothing
everything
it chugs along

testing my patience!

Where were you when...?
When were you where...?
Who are you if...

you had another chance
another time

You do

in fact
probability says
time is a gnarly
counter-intuitive
mother fucker!

And It's taking me
backwards!!

Forward
March!




© C Gill
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