Hard-on Her-shelf

scream

to be read aloud- not for the eyes alone

WayneSL 1988

She’s
clearly stated,
lamb-innate-dead,
full-did, stay-pulled,
mute-ill-aided.
Her
over-raided
hair is plated,
care-full color
punk-chew-ate-id;
thin, sharp loins
suck-singly sated.
Tho’
she in her-nest
met-hid-dated,
won-tied meat-who
fill her jaded
cave-urn up, she
weak-need hated,
met-dick-ate-head,
then be-rate-dead.
In
steel and glass her
heart/womb crated.
Now
from her four-tress
priss-on fires the
flaming bolts of
quenched desires
and suffers more than
lone-lie-nest

Laying down the hurts

just let go

just let go

I’m thinking about laying down the hurts I tend to carry around now.
I have found a few quotes that are helping me to form my thoughts on vengeance and forgiveness, in roughly chronologic order:

A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green. (Francis Bacon, Essays)
Murder’s out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh.  (William Shakespeare, Othello)
An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.  (attributed to Mahatma Gandhi)
Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for it to kill your enemy. (Nelson Mandela)
The man who seeks revenge digs two graves. (Ken Kesey, Sometimes a Great Notion)
Retribution often means that we eventually do to ourselves what we have done unto others. (Eric Hoffer)
The best manner of avenging ourselves is by not resembling him who has injured us. (Jane Porter)

Stand Your Ground

Grip5Hands_TX_640

OneRace, by WayneSL, 2012

song lyric by Wayne E. Slater-Lunsford, 2012

Down in Sanford better watch out where you’re walking,
buying Skittles and tea and Cell ‘phone talking,
’cause some Nazi may be stalking you,
to kill you just for Standing your Ground!

There’s a new wind that’s a- blowing
and the river of change is overflowing,
and the peoples’ power is a-growing,
‘cause we’re learning to stand our  ground!

Sister and brother let’s stand with each other;
together we can Stand Our Ground;

and we’ll rise up from despair,
meet our brothers and sisters from everywhere;
there’ll be room to spare when we learn to share;
and when we learn to Stand Our Ground.

Folks need more education,
and a lot less incarceration.
We don’t want a prison corporation nation,
and we’re gonna stand our ground.

The robber barons think that they have shown us
that we gotta work for them, because they own us
but we’re done with bendin’ over while they bone us
‘cause we’re learning to stand our ground.

Sister and brother let’s stand with each other
Together we can Stand Our Ground;

and we’ll rise up from despair, meet our
brothers and sisters from everywhere;
there’ll be room to spare when we learn to share;
and when we learn to Stand Our Ground.

Sister and brother let’s stand with each other
Together we can Stand Our Ground.

Sister and brother let’s stand with each other
together we can Stand Our Ground.

 

 
LISTEN TO THE SONG
FIGHT DARK MONEY

On My Mind

The mop and bucket I use for my workouts

The mop and bucket I use for my workouts

FaceBook wants to know what’s on my mind.
Why the hell is ANYthing on my mind?
Must be SOMEthing on my mind to get me out of my warm (too warm?) bed
to stagger around a dark, quiet house.
I must have something
in the shadows
of the back of my mind
bugging me.
It’s in there with the extra box of macaroni
gathering dust like that jar of peanut butter.
Why the hell am I awake at 3AM…
is what’s on my mind.
What’s on my mind? Is what’s on my mind.

I used to crave Peter Pan smooth peanut butter.
I’d eat a whole jar in a few days.
Now this same jar has been there for months
against the back of the cabinet
creeping toward its expiration date
unopened.
Sometimes I feel like that.
The clock and the calendar never pause, never rest,
and yet I must.
The sun will rise and I will go to work in a few hours
whether I am rested or not
whether I am ready
or not.

Beneath me the tile floor is sticky.
As I stumbled barefoot around the living room just now
I found the area where last night I spilled a whole glass of sweet wine
the cheapest sherry I could buy
but the glass didn’t break.
I usually have to pick sticky shards of broken glass out of the mess
but not last night.
That was good.
So I went looking for the steam mop
and luckily I couldn’t find a clean pad for that lame little toy.
Nearby was the commercial-quality mop & bucket I knew would do the job
so I put some water in it and rolled it out here
and made quick work of the puddle
which was larger than I had first thought
and now I know that it was larger still
because the little bit of water and the little bit of mopping
only spread the stickiness around and thinned it out.
So now I’m going to go and get that same bucket
that same mop
and take it to the bathroom to fill it to the top
with hot water.
I’m going to roll it out here and shove the furniture aside
so I can really work out with that mop
Swabbie Style.
The Navy is tattooed on my back pages.
I’m going to do one thing I know I can do and do it right.
and maybe then I can crawl back into my too-warm bed
next to my too-tired wife
and hope for sleep.

Turns Left

MoonTree

WayneSL  1990

 (to be read aloud- not for the eyes alone)

A tear of joy
a tear of heart
the tares of life
when leavers part
the part you knead
your needs depart
a life of leaves
and branches.

The branches fork
spread from a crotch
the dogwood bark
but bark peels off
peals of the thunder
nervous cough
the coffin creaks
and listens.

The creeks a flood
the flowers float
too light to fall
two lightnings bolt
lithe wood is rent
the rent comes due
the dew comes.

To do, to die
the die is cast
cast out the doubt
decide at last
the side of right
the right to wrong
the left won.

JESSICA’S WALTZ

photo of Wayne & daughter dancing

Jess & me dancing at the cotillion which inspired me to write the song down

For my dancing daughter, 1979

Dance—
and I’ll hold you near.
You dance divinely,
tho your feet don’t touch the ground.
Sway—
in the air up here…
lean on my chest and then
laugh as I whirl you around!

Oh, you’re my little girl.
You’re a joy and a beauty to know.
When you smile, I feel good-
and that’s why I’m pinching your toe . . . .

You—
are a child of love.
Gentle and joyful,
dancing your way through the world.
You float—
like the clouds above…
Go where the wind goes,
my light-hearted, light-headed girl!

Oh, you’re my little girl.
You’re a joy and a beauty to know.
When you smile, I feel good-
and that’s why I’m pinching your toe . . . .

Cry—
and the rain comes down.
Smile, and the sun shines,
laugh, and the sky turns to blue.
Frown—
and I’ll be your clown…
nasty or nice, girl,
you know that I’ll always love you!

Night Wind

Image

Shadow, our first and Last cat

WayneSL 1989

My soul is restless as a cat on windy nights,
when thoughts like pretty ribbons
in the wind are dangled briefly,
catch my eye, I reach, and
off they go, to draw me out and on
to dance the dervish, fly aloft
in silvern light ascending,
whiskers twitching, wideyes shining . . . .

TIDINGS

Salvador Dali: The Persistence of Time

Salvador Dali: The Persistence of Time

WayneSL  1990
 a Vilanelle

Time and Tide, who wait for none,
still bind me fretting to my place;
in stately meter march until they’re done.

There is one race I’ve never won:
I’ll never beat, but always chase
Time and Tide, who wait for none.

Death and taxes, moon and sun
allow no alteration of the pace;
in stately meter march until they’re done.

Things I need to do, I shun.
I dawdle, then I rush, and still must face
Time and Tide, who wait for none.

These universal rhythms weigh a ton;
they never dance with any joy nor grace;
in stately meter march until they’re done.

Change is a constant, and the only one;
Though I can find no standing place,
Time and Tide, who wait for none,
in stately meter march until they’re done.

Mundane Fry Day

Hands releasing a white dove into the sky

Hope springs eternal…

WayneSL  1989

On Moonday
I hatch visions like doves
and throw them soaring to the sky
cloudwisp wings on pale wide blue

By Fryday
blue has sunk to rust and gray
the clouds have clumped like unginned cotton
and tumble down to roost around me
lumpy owl-eyed hens accusing
constipated with rotting eggs.

Freedom, Bound

moon in clouds

Play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata as you read this.

WayneSL to Bryan 1987

There is so little comfort in your life;
you have not spent your
self
on comfort.
Naked madness
howls in empty lots
on moonlit borders
of my thoughts of you
Your search continues
in exile.
Eating garbage and dandelions.
for years.
Sleeping in the bus depot
while the buses leave.

You, who hear the music
of plants and mountains-
who know the feel of wood in hand
and shovel sunk in dirt-
and see the patterns
of the stars
and molecules
You spend your time
amid the greasy peeling Formica,
among the moths and mosquitoes
on streetlamp peninsulas,
overlooking tar-river streets
or walking out along the strand
of the interstate ocean,
and harboring in
dusty over-used slum rooms
with too many coats of paint
unless you
sprout like a mushroom on some morning lawn,
awakened by dew settling
to sparkle on your
stubble-bearded face
or root through mountain forest floors
for grub
and stride across the desert.