Sunday, March 4, 2012

Angel Voices


Needing to be seen, I find my face
in the mirror and shave away the edge.

The lunatics on the street know me.
They whisper my secret name and splutter
profane histories that riff jagged chords
from out-of-tune wire. They beckon me to join
on bended knees and supplicate the God in you
at subway landings, our long greasy hair
draped over nugatory faces, neither male nor female,
our fingers hung like rotted fruit at the end
of dead tree limbs that beseech heaven
for pity, compassion, a stranger's stray dollar.

He hid under the covers and spoke
to the mother ship all night. At dawn,
he killed the dog and set the piano on fire.
The Others had come to take him home.
He spent months in the observation ward
and left with a pocket full
of antipsychotics and Gillespie
itching his finger tips with no way out.

They see one of their own in me, those lost
and despised. Like them, my past is one
long short-circuit of happiness. Their pain came
unasked, but mine played as perverse desire
to warm my self in its own burning ruins.
Criminally flawed, I'd bury my bone of deceit
in your chest and dig it out to chew on.
There's no crime I could not commit,
given the right circumstances.

When the meds milked his soul near empty,
the stars conjoined to tear him in two,
and his need to celebrate their harmony
so fated his blood, he quit eating the poison.
Lightning lost itself in the keys on the piano
and the chords of Gillespie spoke in angel voice
from the mother ship and mingled with mating songs
and drug deals in the dead end bar.
Dawn light on the Sangre de Christos ran red.

In the kingdom of the lost and insane,
the realm of saint and sinner, being seen
is not being seen, and not being seen
reveals our nothingness. Truth dies with you
in the grave and burns like an ember slowly
losing its glow. Only then do angel voices
open the gates of heaven or hell.

In the mirror, I shave away one more angle
to reveal yet another part of me that I might be or not.

36 comments:

  1. Oh dear! This is really a novel--and a compelling and sad one--not only a poem. The Gillespie, the fingertips, the shaving, the fruit at the end of limbs, the homeless, the mother ship, the piano--it is very strong; seemingly each part could be the inscription to a chapter. K.

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  2. goodness charles..this is awesome!! *sits there with open mouth and blue face because she forgot to breathe...*

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  3. This is rough, raw, real. It is madness and yet, recognising it is the touch that makes it sane. It's suffering, and self harm, it is knowing how others suffer having been there.
    What a fabulous, in-depth, and very vivid in its imagery, read. Amazing write.

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  4. This is great...In the mirror, I shave away one more angle to reveal yet another part of me that I might be or not...a hint of madness mixed with wisdom...

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  5. our long greasy hair
    draped over nugatory faces, neither male nor female,
    our fingers hung like rotted fruit at the end
    of dead tree limbs

    Can't say it's beautiful, but it's damned good writing! Thanks.

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  6. dang man....this is good...funny we both mentioned shaving as well...smiles....a piece of me that i may or may not be...i might have a bit of crazy in me but...i agree with K this def could be a much larger story...strong

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  7. In the kingdom of the lost and insane,
    the realm of saint and sinner, being seen -> interesting kingdom

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  8. So strong. So powerful.

    Love the change between verses as well, the flipping between italic and standard text. Wonderful effect.

    And so many great lines.

    "splutter
    profane histories that riff jagged chords
    from out-of-tune wire" - If I had to chose a favourite. Makes me feel all Leonard Cohen. And I like that.

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  9. Truly went down to the bare bones and gave a rough edge with a bit of grizzly too, very nicely done, great writing.

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  10. Magnificent piece of writing and I am not qualified to break it open, I wouldn't even try. I'll just stand back and appreciate how good it is. Thanks for sharing :)

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  11. Excellent poem. The circling back at the end is perfect. The psychotic break interludes are wonderfully done as well. I bow.

    http://poemblaze.wordpress.com

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  12. Far too good a poem to pick and choose lines--it's a seamless whole where the spirit doesn't flag for a second from first to last tortured, blindingly revelatory word. To see the dark, to see the Other, you have only to look in the mirror, look within. between madness and art, affliction and sight, pain and poetry, there's hardly a shadow, sometimes, and certainly not here, where everything stands naked and alone. Fine, fine writing, Charles. I can hear those wild blue notes singing the schizophrenic's choired howl.

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    1. I know this comment is in the wrong place but the computer is acting up--

      This is a wonderful piece--to look at the darkness of madness and to feel its hold--to feel alone in it--or not--when the voices descend--Loved this!

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  13. Wow, this is a very vivid and visceral poem! Second last stanza grabs me; and this poem makes me question if we ever really know who we are!

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  14. And Prospero said of Caliban: That thing of darkness I call my own ... He loved the wild spirit Ariel -- the projection of his white magic -- but incarnated in the intemperate, passion-bloated savage he saw dark nature at its indulgent worst, the mind mired in its mud. Alcoholics like to say they're the elite of the mentally ill, but they're only fooling themselves; anyone whose gone down and walked in darkness never quite comes back up, no matter how much healing happens in transit. (I'm speaking for myself, here.) The fearsome visage I call my own, too. You carved this with scalpel and gall and it has a fearsome fire; but I wonder if the acceptance here is the very thing that keeps you free. - Brendan

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  15. What a chilling yet powerful write...I felt my hair rising with your words.

    The story format in between the verses were effective but you didn't let up in your intensity ~ Whew ~

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  16. Charles, a fantastic write. Love the nix of narrative styles. The two italicized sections are incredible tight, biting and strong and the lunatics stanza, well, I had to stop for a second, really can feel what you wrote here. fantastic use of language and style. Thanks

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  17. Excellent write... favorite lines...
    Truth dies with you
    in the grave and burns like an ember slowly
    losing its glow. Only then do angel voices
    open the gates of heaven or hell.

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  18. What a deep, raw and at times true tale. I could feel the sadness in this poem. I'am glad that I stopped by to read your work.

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  19. Whew! What a write!~ Well for sure...there goes my sleep...again. Almost Blake-ean imagry here in spots. I especially like that penultimate stanza.

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  20. First time visiting here and this is quite some introduction! I was gonna whip through, say hello and make a nice comment... but I'm stopped dead in my tracks. Your work is so raw ... visceral... yet, well... I don't have the words. I'm still processing. Your life experiences,... you write from it so painfully beautiful.

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  21. @GlennButtkus had issues with posting a comment, so tweeted this:

    As Tommy Chung said, "Hey man, I know that dude." At least you incapsulate [sic] every beggar on freeway ramps, subway, train, and bus stations, squatting in every city park, and feasting off dumpsters in Chinatown; all to the strains of get-down blues and jazz, the sax tremolo vibe won't leave us alone, can hear it still; and you add the madness to spice the ... [sic]

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    1. This comment has been removed by the author.

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    2. TY Glenn for trying to put in the comment. I think the rest of the comment got lost. Glad to hear you hear the jazz. Is that Rush Limbaugh I hear playing bass in the background of your vibe? :)

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  22. BRILLIANT!!! My favorite part of the whole piece was the ending...
    Truth dies with you
    in the grave and burns like an ember slowly
    losing its glow. Only then do angel voices
    open the gates of heaven or hell.

    Awesome read!

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  23. Lady Nyo could not comment via the blog so sent this via email:

    A complex yet straight forward poem that runs without seam.  A perverse beauty in this, and a haunting reality. Beautiful.   Powerful poem.

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  24. This is chilling, Charles... reminds me a little of The Host by Stephenie Meyer. Have you read that? You really should expand this piece.

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  25. gripping write, as others have expressed this piece does overtake one as they meander through its lines. wonderful write ~ Rose

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  26. I'm having trouble commenting and maneuvering through your blog. So I'm going to leave multiple comments to make it easier.

    I love the first four lines:
    "Needing to be seen, I find my face
    in the mirror and shave away the edge.
    The lunatics on the street know me.
    They whisper my secret name and splutter"

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  27. Love this as well:
    "mine played as perverse desire
    to warm my self in its own burning ruins.
    Criminally flawed, I'd bury my bone of deceit
    in your chest and dig it out to chew on"

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  28. This is another great thought:
    "being seen
    is not being seen, and not being seen
    reveals our nothingness"

    And that last bit is powerful! "to reveal another part of me that might be or not"

    True madness ensues when one begins searching for self and meaning; if one wants to remain sane, he/she should stick with the mundane function and form of life, steering clear of thought and introspection. Those are dangerous boats to row.

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  29. Fabulous. I'm not sure I can comment beyond what has already been said other than Bravo! Thoroughly enjoyed the expertly crafted piece.

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  30. @annehedonia13 tweeted the following comment:

    @shralec re: "Angel Voice" ~ ...revelatory (small "r") and possibly Revelatory as well. An old friend said to me years ago, "We're all ax murderers," and I didn't find that statement to be unusual or off-putting it all. Inside each of us is contained all possibilities - BUT - it takes courage and a lot of honesty to own that, and express what it feels like, as you have here. Confessional, in a way that allows room for compassion.

    I always marvel at the intensity of the realities you create, and especially at your facility at switching between them as you have here. Great stuff. Lit from the inside with the harsh and soft light of the human condition.

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    1. Thank you for the amazing comments. I think the first point about seeing that possibility is a statement about human nature that many find unpalatable these days. The lines themselves are a pretty free paraphrase of a remark by Simone Weil.

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  31. Goodness Goodness..powerful narrative, almost an 'thus spake' feel, which carries one between 'voices' ~ I too can see the story element expanded upon, although, in its current tight form, it may just be perfect!

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    1. Hi Miss K, I'd like to think that the feeling of more which you experienced in reading the poem might not necessarily be a need for more story as much as a space in the poem where the reader can escape to and find their own mind outside the poem. I don't want the poem to be self-enclosed, representing itself as something it's not: immutable truth. Instead, I want it to open up a psychic space, a nothing place, where the reader might find themselves facing the task of becoming themselves.

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