at the Edge of America

There is a voice in the trees

i can hear it from the asylum window

the priest is at odds with himself

about my condition

there is a voice in the trees

it hovers just beyond the river’s bend over there.

the world is at odds with itself

about situation like this

there is a lady in a room of no windows

there is a lady in a room purged of love

i am at odds with priests and worlds

there is a humming lady,

in a room,

in the trees,

where the river bends,

over there. – T C Cannon

Cannon, who died when he was just 31, made enduring and vibrant works melding Native American and more mainstream artistic and pop culture imagery.
Cannon, who died when he was just 31, made enduring and vibrant works melding Native American and more mainstream artistic and pop culture imagery.

Dark Room

misconduct-5

He had an eye for these things.

But I had the soul.

The art of the moment, wasted with lies.

With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.

Exposures in a dark room.

You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.

Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’

As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.

The question still remains,

‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’

With a generation, come and gone,

I will right your wrong.

Teacher,

with all your attempts to school me…

All your photographed Rockwell ideology…

The shuttering speed of Americana.

All this and more, such great expectations.

Not a single tutored self-portrait.

Yet,

a guild full of

artistic misconduct.

a Fevered Mind

Petals in the pines…I have come here…once again

with your loving colors for the fevered mind

And, the circling of blackbirds to speak to me of the shape I am in

A little girl’s dream of…

lime and lemon hue

Spinning in the dance under the moon’s harvest

and

the autumn of sun’s riches

Wonder Woman’s Eraser

the blinds of my mind…lilt

a storied plot of disconnect and bad vertical holds fresh with scant static

I interviewed, repeatedly…the main character on merits

on fishbowl houses

and

smiling goldfish with one shoe

I keep coming back to these indoor graveyards

scrutinizing testimonials  from dead poets

at graffiti’s basement of cheap thrills

stirring up banshee’s with last centuries news

I have lit this vigilant firecracker so often just to watch it explode

someone else

anyone else

would have taken a powder by now

but this actor, this skinny cow reminds me

overturned stones eventually turn cold

I will come back at least three times more

first, with a left hand cane to pry open all the good that remains

second, with a stronger back to carry a weighty blind frog

third, with Wonder Woman’s eraser to remove my name

Drained of Your City Ways

Dark the wood aching for sun

So many conversations we have had

Derelicts of the times, both good and bad

You and I, cloaked in a nasty game of hide and seek

In this, warring courtyard, curves and cushions of fodder

In this, crumbled down streets, forks and flexure and fixtures

I bend to breathe

Hollow becomes my rasp

Sharp is my bath water

Obstructed is my throat…

I quarrel with the words I say

Naked and ravenous, I take to the sodden road

drained of your city ways