Provenance

By: Gabriela Anaya Valdepeña

Of an amoral moon
Of a sinister and seedless tree
Of an undeniable wound
A gratuitous plague
Of a small heart that dreamt
Too big not to fail
Of a sun that cannot endure
Of a great hole in God’s heart
Of indiscreet winds
Of love and its fragments
Of entire cities buried in tradition
Of pyramids
Ice hotels
Numbers, tusks, and dead end streets
Of super-surrealism
Water, forgiveness
The kiss you gave
Of loud flowers
False optimism
Of contrived irony at a moment that
Calls for direct speech
Of a mystic’s third eye
Of the blind, indefatigable reaper
Of your obscene handwriting
Well-formed brows
Your heart’s endless lending and my poor credit
Of Einstein’s red door, glial cells
Film noire
Of this voice that is not mine
Of these fingers that type
Of the world that starts again
Each time you kiss me
Of these beautiful scars that are all yours
Of empty cathedrals and impotent statues
Of my ability to change into everything I am
Of your sins
Of your past
Of a future in which war is a gross abstraction
And leaders negotiate at the poker table
Of your lies that grow like phalluses
Of the women who repent you
Of the magniloquent sea, the night of a million moons
That delivers you to my door
Of floral scents that feed nostalgia
The rook in your palm
The alleyways of love
Of the silver leaf of pleasure, this living death
The wish to move into your soul and displace all others
The need to be possessed, to be delivered, ex machina
Into the nothing that survives.

Our Wood

Our Wood...

Is a magical place
where I laid my head...
in your lap... and ran my
fingers through your hair...
I told you my greatest dreams
and cried my saddest songs...
where my dreams came to...
nothing

I dreamed of finding you
in our wood...
of birches and firs
of sunflowers and golden bumblebees
who buzzed and buzzed
around two ghostly figures
that sought to find one another
and almost did...

I cried for the peace of our wood
by a brook of crystal waters
formed by tears of...
anguished hearts who roam and roam
the valleys and hills of life
in search of ...
a dream too good to be true...
and it is.

The slumber of drunkenness
provides no relief, nor brings me closer...
to our wood, where we sought to join
in a place that time stood still
where joy would last...
but whose magic is short-lived

That I’ve resigned myself to a life...
of... dreams, slumber, dizzing heights
and deepest lows...is but a dialectical process.
A statue in our wood dries... ever harder
and harder... the plaster conforms
to fate’s unseen hand that...
shapes a mold it did not choose.
My contribution is...
the tear in its eye.

By:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

Two Poems for Richard Brautigan

Number One

A perverse mystery...
in the afternoon of my life
I see the road ahead...

I don’t want to take it
but I have no choice...
it is my fate.

the end


Number Two

I stopped breathing the other day
It seemed the right thing to do;
My taxes are paid,
only death remains providing...
that the IRS doesn’t
come after me.

I would have to return because...
litigation outside a courtroom is
not allowed: it infringes upon a lawyer’s
right to their fees.
Not even death will prevail.

Brautigan is writing another book:
In Watermelon Sugar II or...
Trout Fishing in America II;
He won’t tell me.

In an age of clones
I’m not sure if it’s Brautigan’s Ghost or...
Brautigan’s Ghost II.

the end too

By:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

My Spirit

O memory of the heart! You are stronger
than the sad memories of reason.
And often from a far-off country,
you bewitch me with your sweetness.
I remember the loved voice sounding.
I remember the eyes of azure.
I remember the careless
curling strands of golden hair.
My shepherdess, without a rival,
I remember her simplicity of dress,
the unforgotten, the dear image
that stays beside me everywhere.
My guardian spirit – granted me by love
to bring me solace in separation:
do I sleep? Bending over my pillow,
it will ease my saddened rest.

Composed by:  Konstantin Batyushkov
Copied, pasted and loved by:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

How Few Hairs a Man Must Have to be Bald?

As I exited a local mall, where I had been shopping for widgets, i.e., nothing of significance, I noticed a man standing on the corner. He was looking at the sky, but I didn’t look.

Rather, what captivated my attention was his lack of hair: he was bald. Big deal you say. I would have thought the same except that he had a few strands of long hair carefully plastered in a forward direction; towards his forehead. Was he a bald guy? A guy going bald? Or a bald guy with some hairs plastered on his head?

It seemed that because he once had blond hair, he was likely considered bald. If his hair had been dark brown for example, he might not have been considered bald but rather going bald or perhaps having a bouffant hairdo—a crucial distinction.

On the other hand, it’s clear that from his point of view that he wasn’t. If he was, he wouldn’t have carefully plastered the few strands of hair on his head and combed them forward.

I walked up to him and said really loud, “Excuse me, but how few hairs must a man have to be bald?” He looked at me with surprise then anger. The other people walking frowned at me, except for two young black kids who were laughing.

As I combed my deep brown hair on the store window, I reflected, “Which grain makes the noise when corn is tipped from a container?”

Just a thought... by:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

My Name

I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is in your mind.


If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer.
That is my name.

Perhaps it was raining very hard.
That is my name.

Or somebody wanted you to do something. You did it. Then they told you what you did was wrong—“Sorry for the mistake,”—and you had to do something else.
That is my name.

Perhaps it was a game that you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near the window.
That is my name.

Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around.
That is my name.

Perhaps you stared into a river. There was somebody near you who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened. Then it happened.
That is my name.

Or you heard someone calling from a great distance. Their voice was almost an echo.
That is my name.

Perhaps you were lying in bed, almost ready to go to sleep and you laughed at something, a joke unto yourself, a good way to end the day.
That is my name.

Or you were eating something good and for a second forgot what you were eating, but still went on, knowing it was good.
That is my name.

Perhaps it was around midnight and the fire tolled like a bell inside the stove
That is my name.

Or you felt bad when she said that thing to you. She could have told it to someone else: Somebody who was more familiar with her problems.
That is my name.

Perhaps the trout swam in the pool but the river was only eight inches wide and the moon shone on IDEATH and the watermelon fields glowed out of proportion, dark and the moon seemed to rise from every plant.
That is my name.

And I wish Margaret would leave me alone.

Composed by:  Richard Brautigan
Copied and pasted by:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

Sign of the Times

It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
it was the age of wisdom,
it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief,
it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,
it was the season of Darkness,
it was the spring of hope,
it was the winter of despair,
we had everything before us,
we had nothing before us,
we were all going direct to Heaven,
we were all going direct the other way--
in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

From "Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens
Always remembered and loved by Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name