life after death after life...

the well crafted hand from its

void of strange crocodile wiles

to

exhume something lost,

something

stolen as

children

fall in. smilingly laboured an

English boy stands

in department stores' dreamlands

so

wistful,

aplomb of the gun in his

tiny, white hand--

a toy smashed to pieces... and i

thinking

back toward

baseball and boogy-

men

scream as we fall through any

number of dreams,

through the tears of some reptile

dried up long ago.

now this city we're lost in

shoots up

and

away from this hole in the

soul of a soul of a

scared trigger finger

will the tree

blossom overnight if i

let go my eyes

soft as

petals;

the

lids will seem so

seriously

beautiful, to

fall without gravity...

here, let me

pause

for a

strong leg of giant has

rooted itself,

ready to

kick apart Spring

with a

stomach of

flowering things

dogs walking me, to the

place where the artists are

hung; a

boy on a skateboard says:

HI

then sails down the

cement;

he pulls off a trick

on the artistic steps

and

gladly i applaud his

innocent destruction (

though really

none of artist-calling

seemed to mind

); YOU MIND IF I

GIVE IT A TRY--i,

begging from inside,

to sail all around

through the concrete details

of this admirable lad

admiring my skills--

my

artistic hangings, like a

soldier

somewhat killed

not really knowing a damn thing about

history,

events continue on with

little planning

standing at the edge of town, figuring

which way is North, which way is

Up,

and

digging around in the ground for a

miracle: vast and ugly, the

past

waits for a god-damned long time;

waits for the ufos,

the new foes of bones

old and bones

young and strong--

waiting to be brandished again like an

army of death on the run...

running faster to

cities sound exciting in the black quilt of

night on the prowl with thick clouds

of

dark cranium covering

all of our happy heads;

logging camps empty for the first time in

centuries, and

computers rusting, melting so

sadly;

for

they never new a damn thing

about the past, really;

never raced in a canoe or

killed birds with a wrist-rocket launching

jagged death in a granite driven,

missing--smashing

windows into futures:

boring,

but it's

where we just might

live...

endorphins from the dogs

flourish, for they

got me

all riled up inside--

wrestled and

growled

and

slobbered upon,

their

eyes a-sparkle with the

empty, simple

momentary pleasures

of a

smiling belly scratch; i

walk with them through

wet grass in the

evening

as they

laugh inside their

black coats shining

with the moon

we were all

huddled up in blankets and

mesmerized by various televisions,

awaiting the night to bring

sleep to our weary eyes

and even though we

say we love humanity, we'd

much rather watch it

lifelessly trapped inside of

twenty-two inch screens

the people in there are

much easier to get along with,

even though there are times when they

go against our wishes and cause us to

jump and shout, or cry to ourselves...

but we forgive them, in time

and hope that tomorrow's episode will

give us a chance to reestablish our faith

until then, though, what on

earth are we to do?

stare at the sky? no, it's the

wrong color blue

blue the birds are waiting

blue the sun is

humming for renewal

blue the sky

is crying

for a tool to make the nighttime

run away

blue the color

of the tv screen

when you pass out drunk and

wake up jobless

blue is the color

that the sky should be

on a perfectly cloudless day

and blue is the tint

your skin turns

when the plastic of life

knocks you down in the dirt

and the sky grows quite heavy

as the rain

chills your fingers

Jesus-esque eyes, soft and hard

at the very same time--

like a dog before death from a car

and the probable bliss that unfolds...

the pamphlets,

the old words that carry the truth to the save-ed:

'i can offer you salvation;

i can offer you eyes like mine own'

simple words,

a simple prayer;

no need to read the bible for this,

just a mere exchange of

sublime religion--

no,

not religion, but faith:

faith like the toilet

always devouring your shit,

faith like your teeth

coming clean after brushing,

faith like some words ringing true--

for an echo into the skies

and a barracuda's bite...

i walk on,

trying to say something nice, while

listening all of the while, yet

wanting quite desperately

to get home to food and wine;

existence is a pastime,

faith is forever...

'you haven't got long'

he said,

as i left with those eyes

soft and hard--

at the very same time

maybe words can

lead you to the truth

or

maybe words can

transform the truth

or

maybe words

are the truth

or

maybe there is no truth...

or maybe the truth was there

but it disappeared after we

learned how to say

the word

this is because

music is dull

and the night is much darker

than some really know

this is because

nothing is permanent

and

everything is empty

when you realize you are

something

and this is because of

this, here,

when i should be asleep--

but the fear that's not fear

is as real as these

words are

sure empty

a

new ribbon

a

new beer

and

no girl to

call my own;

no one to

share this poem

with,

just

thunderous Mahler

and

deathly still

Mahler

and

midnight approaching

like

a

struggle for

nothing

but the

idea

itself...

this will calm

and

this will be

some

process for

learning to

heal from the silence

to

kneel before

my end and

laugh at its

strangeness--

to shrug off its

brainless

waste of time...

wherever i

go from there,

whenever i

extend my arms

singing and

reaching out to

care,

i'll find some way

to bring them home

and

feed them to the gears

that make these

words

sometimes appear

words

i will get you in bed

on sweaty sheets and

nightmare visions

i'll

arrive at your

door-step

with words i will

kill an idea or

reverse the pattern of

truth--salvage then

plunder; ignoring

any remnant of remorse

and the dogs will follow

smelling the trail

walking through shit and

dragging it in

into houses and lives

over

husbands and

wives

the words will

grow like an unbeatable army--

torturing, raping

tugging at the

very fabric of

god's tears

and i will

sit inside and

laugh and smile

while drinking from his skin

with

sugar and cream

one foot in the grave and

the other in my mouth

i hobble awkward motions

and

growth begins anew

blood growth and fresh dew;

mountains bloom inside my cheeks

then burst into warmth eating

cold winter's night

dogs growl in my teeth

biting fields of nervous nonsense

slurred, rapid, emotional

language

seems unnecessary

chew off an animal's head

like candy or a baby's dreams

yet undreamed, exploding like a

million screaming fans shot

directly in the face

with a hopeless expression

one small fragile glimpsing weakness

reworking resplendent new angles

peers out, eyes gone, stumbling in a sheen;

stunningly redeemed as an invisible cool,

wondrously galvanized and

priced low for humans;

a magnetic response triggers

gun-happy singers, voices inflecting,

encroaching and stinging with

sharp, chiseled minds;

fragile turns volatile warmth

cut to pieces as rays spitting out

cut to pieces in turn;

eyes form with blood-life and

old sight and dull dead

corpses like trash on the

streets once again...

upstairs i'm banging left

handed upon these keys while

downstairs in the living room

everything dangles with ease:

the tv, the speakers for the

stereo, silent and lifeless

the air of a thick, ashtray stench;

the ghosts and the lives of

those who have lived there

sat there, drank there, ate there

killed there--

time or humans, which-

ever's more convenient

whichever triggers the imagination...

and i sit upstairs and

hang there, too

awaiting the envisioned

invisible thread

but finding only

carpet and ceiling and the

breadth of the still...

knowing deep inside that

if i turn off the music

to seek what i find,

i probably will

at this bar with

Brian H., Bruno and some other folk--

mostly a bunch of rock 'n' roll types;

i think that Bruno and i decide to sit

at the bar, and order some drinks;

i order a double Windsor kamikaze,

then realize what i've said and change the order

to just a double Windsor, on the rocks...

Reagan Marcotte (sp.?) is sitting at the bar,

and an older friend of hers is

serving as bartender; they both talk

whenever the older one isn't

busy serving drinks;

i also realize that i had not intended on

drinking, but i drink my drink

down, anyway...

later, Bruno decides that he wants to

go for a ride on his motorcycle, and i

follow him;

when we get outside we see that

Brian H. (?) is across the street,

sitting on his motorcycle; so we cross

and talk to him; we discuss going

back to the bar, but there is much traffic

and Bruno says that we'll

never get back (alive?), to which

one of us adds:

"we're not real men; there's no way."

and Brian H. replies, "boys were born men,"

and he hops on his bike and

pulls a wheelie across the busy street

without getting hit by the traffic;

Bruno and i can't

believe our eyes; then Bruno turns to me

and says, as if inspired by a revelation,

"if boys we're born men, then

men we're born angels," and

he crosses, too...

i'm not sure what i said and did;

i might've just stayed

on the other side...

terribly life-like feeling:

me and two others, one is my brother

become trapped on this giant rock formation,

while the rest of the world is apparently

buried underneath a great flood;

we are the only ones left...

and i feel a mighty, ominous presence

in the sky that is dark and all a-storm;

i believe that it is God,

or, should i say, i think that it is God...

and we are all gripping onto this giant rock

to keep from being thrown into the sea;

then i am asked a question from

somewhere inside of my head

about my faith and belief--

and i am maliciously swept

into the deep, dark waves,

screaming...

she told me:

if you don’t

see me around

for a while, it is because

i am committing myself

to an institution;

they said it would be

the best thing

for me to do

right now...

and i didn’t

see her around

for a good, long while...

then one day—

three or four weeks later—

she came by

for a visit

we talked

and she told me that

she had changed her mind—

she was feeling much better;

then she placed some flowers

by my bed

and left,

as visiting hours we’re

over,

and it was time

for my medication...

i hate being here;

but they say

that it’s the best thing

for me

right now—

at least until they

change their minds

my life felt like a

movie—not

a very

good one, just

a very

long one...

and here

where we are

where i am

in the plot

(it is loose)

i am

loosened

like an actor contemplating

outside of the script:

here i am.

the absolute worst is when you’re writing

down these words upon lined paper

in your bed—

the clock reads one then

four

then

eight... you write the words because your

typewriter’s broken and it’s too late

to fix it,

and besides

the world is

broken

and the absolute worst when you’re writing

down these words upon line paper

in your bed:

you’re hearing music, quiet

music from a stereo or nothing...

or

the walls are speaking

pipes are hissing

dogs and cats outside are saying

something

you can’t quite write down,

yet

words don’t mean anything the word

mean

doesn’t mean anything

the word word

doesn’t

mean anything the word anything doesn’t mean

anything

anything

doesn’t mean a word anything doesn’t

mean

a word means nothing nothing doesn’t

mean a word means anything

nothing

isn’t the opposite of anything everything isn’t

the opposite of nothing isn’t isn’t

the opposite of words

meaning i means

not much meaning you

means

just about everything else except me meaning

nothing at all

except

you

(i

do)

you the word

meaning:

not

us

Let me begin by informing you, the reader, that I was listening to a musical group called "Dead Can Dance" while typing this. As I was staring at the (mostly) blank page, the strange, dark, middle-eastern influenced music wafted from out my speakers... And I began thinking about those words: dead-can-dance... I realized that that is exactly what Philip Hyams poetry does: his words, the images they invoke, the mid-eastern, war-torn lands they transport you to--all encompass the feeling of death, yet up and dancing. Philip writes of the horror, the sadness, the senselessness and inhumanity of war. He tells of brothers killing brothers, of countries so obsessed with religious dogma and their own selfish desires for power that they will not let even the coldest cruelties known to humankind deter them from their conquests. He paints stark portrayals of broken cities and ravaged streets, with hapless victims strewn about like garbage. His words are bleak. But there is a beautiful strength behind them--in them. There is something that he has instilled into this carnage he has witnessed (most certainly fist-hand) that brings it back to life; that urges us to see that, although the killing and destruction are seemingly for nothing, there is something amidst the chaos that warrants recognition. His words are like a rejuvenating fluid that runs throughout the destitution and recognizes the life that was there, that is there, and the great importance of it, then forces it to dance upon the page, inside of the mind's eye, for anyone who happens upon the magic of Philip's words.

And that is about all that I would like to say right now. You're here, at San Francisco Salvo, reading this--why not check out Philip Hyams poems for yourself, and see what they do for/to you?