Monday, October 09, 2006

Cricket ..

I've recently discovered that more and more people are clicking their way over here and that's a very encouraging thing! My apologies then for my recent MIA-state, I made the big move to Brooklyn (me and everyone and their mother, I know) and have yet to get an internet connection set up. All in good time. Anyway, here's the skinny:

- Had a fantastic summer full of performances throughout New York. Made some fabulous connections and created some work that really speaks for me as an artist. Also got to spend some time wrestling with the muse of writing and got a hefty amount of work done. Most of this is now being revised and edited and will soon be here.

- I'm back in classes, being blessed enough to study poetry this semester under the talented Donna Masini and doing a lot of work in school, for school, because of school and out of school.

- My website (http://patricemillerny.tripod.com) is updated with my next performance dates and such.

- I'm submitting some work this season and looking to read at some open mics. When all that happens, I'll post.

- I choose to put my work on the internet for a number of reasons. For one, I enjoy the advantages of self-publishing, but, additionally, I love the ability to get my work out to so many people. It's like a giant workshop. So feel free to leave me feedback! Click the comment button on the bottom of entries or drop me an email. I'm always open to hearing what you're thinking when you read my work. Just obey the workshop rules ;)

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Wane

wane: the period of the decrease of the moon's illuminated visible surface; a defective edge of a board caused by remaining bark or a beveled end.

your half moon fingers
graze the edge of
this porcelain case:

we are fabled to be
made of marble, but
a darker purity
lies in our mold.

tiretracked,
the orchard lies
hidden, like some
forgotten menagerie.

glass apples,
glossed over
with an iridescent gaze:
the illusion of paradise.
a soft scent of apothecaries
the sweetest poisons
are coated over in
pitiful beauty.

your iron claw branch
reached through the strings,
plucked, arched, sanded down
these dimensions
to a single space existence.

flattened as if by stone,
the trees cower
beneath the weight of
their vial fruits -
the branches arch
unwillingly to the ground.

these fairytales,
your reasons compiling upon
these rubber grounds,
your finger to my heart, arching unwillingly,
an acute angle, spilling enlightenment
over these roads,
nearly gnarled,
forgone by craft.

i will meet you
in these lost corners
when our china faces
bend the light in
some twisting of,
some dancing with those unmasked, unspoken parables
tales of how we were,
how we could have been.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

this needs a title (and some editing?)

our crossing paths
caused me to lose
faith in the
labrynth,
your bull head
stunning in
my subconscious sun;
to my mind's eye,
little else
rests upon these
stumbling stones
of faith.
transformation,
recreation.
a mighty song
of fallen gods,
unrequited walls
barring our
statures.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Inbetween a Day

i spent midnight in the cathedral
(sprawling stone, the workman's dignity
in the eyes of heaven)
realizing that it is not
the presence of marble standing tall
that is great
but rather
the vastness created in
the hollow absence of
it,
the void that brings us
to our knees.

i left,
adjusted
to the sun that
scratched the skyscrapers
and recalled
your last words

we'll meet again

loving you is religion

the void of you now
my pending salvation.

but
i don't want religion.

i ache
for some 2x4x2
unsquare,
filled reality.

the vastness of our
unexplored dimensions
grows with each dawn

though i sing you
prayers of pity

the sin of reality
bleeds through daily
as my salvation delays
and my penance prolongs itself.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Fifth Season - in progress

it is the season of skinny girls
like mad tulips, mini
skirts and stalk
legs appear and dance
on the concrete,
on the tiled floors of bars,
that 3 out of 4
seasons
are occupied
by old men. but
it is not their season.
(it is the season
of skinny girls)

i sit, curved about
in this wasteland
of here and now.

you ask me
what it is like
to be recycled, refound
and i cannot
reply.

i switch-stop weekly,
abandoning this vessel
or cradling it,
wishing for the grave
or baptism.
i am not one of them.

that life is not mine,
i have abandoned my
stalk legs -
i prefer to let
my blood crawl and drip
sometimes over folds,
often under
my own bones' light.

i do not dance
on concrete,
i am a creature of
the fifth season
for which
there is no bloom.

Scenes

I.
he sighed entering the room
his long coat resembling
her forlorn expression
he longed to hear
some tune of Chopin,
Haydn, Mozart
but only silence pervaded.
she did not know what
she lost, he thought.
she couldn't understand,
broken,
a long coat kissing
a lost breeze.

II.
she stared blankly ahead
focusing actually at his
coat's dangling pockets,
empty if for some crumbled papers
(she imagined) l
ost revelations or prophecies.
he stood as if he had known
this was coming.

III.
an inconsiderable loss,
a father, still the silence
prolonged, no notes produced,
his hands ruffled in long
pockets full of
dead matches and butt-ends
relics of secret anxiety.
(if only the moment could take hold ! )
he wondered
if beyond this inscrutible gap
anything more existed
loss of time, space, place.

IV.
she was at once full and empty,
at a complete loss of
life, explanation
replete of rest, pain
numb.
her mind a blanket of
white canvas,
existing only to wait
for his affirmation of
some outer shell of
life
as if their interior were simply
some addition, some embellishment
of truth, rather than the reverse.

a variation on reality

a piece of you departs
with each parting word
taking more of me
and i wonder
if those silent nights
left me with more of
you, me
who am i left, anymore
than what this
frogstance, leaplining
communication bears?
reaching across for
your replacement
a bottle, a book,
placing yellow bricks
and donkey head alike
in your empty chair,
the 5 o'clock shadow
grows, if not
around your cheeks
bearing your toothful
grin truth,
then around my s
oft, irredescent
secrets, stamped and
waiting for your approval.