Never Ask a Poet Directions (Digital Poem Version)

“Never Ask a Poet Directions” is a digital poem that resulted from a collaboration between M. D. Friedman and SUB(liminal) Space Research Group. The poetry, sound art and video were created by M. D. Friedman. The choreography was created by SUB(liminal) Space Research Group and performed by dancers, Caitlin M. Gill and Kim Cunningham in conjunction with Boulder Fringe Festival’s 2011 Poetry in Motion Project. Caitlin M. Gill’s and Kim Cunningham’s performance of their artistic response to M. D. Friedman’s “Never Ask a Poet Directions” poem was videotaped August 13, 2011 by M. D. Friedman as part of the Poetry in Motion Project event. The video was edited and original sound art for the piece was created by M. D. Friedman in December of 2010 and January of 2012. The text only version of “Never Ask a Poet Directions” was first published by Liquid Light Press as part of M. D. Friedman’s Leaning Toward Whole chapbook released in June of 2011. It has since been released as a digital poem video embedded in an enhanced multimedia e-book version of Leaning Toward Whole. See http://liquidlightpress.com/mdf.htm for details.

Self-Portrait

I finally did a self-portrait:

Self-Portrait by M. D. Friedman

 

 Please see www.mdfriedman.com for more digital art by M. D. Friedman.

Ghost

I haunt the poet. No, I own the poet.


I make him cry or sneer his wry grin.


Each morning I carefully fog his eyes


like bathwater layers gray on pale porcelain.


One would think I could find a better body to possess,


but I grow fond of this one. As long as this old guy thinks he’s a poet,


I can speak without a Ouija. I have always hated that game


with all its yes and no questions. With this poet, there’s no need


to spell letter by letter. I give him my surreal post cards,


and he eagerly scribbles on the back. You may ask


why waste my time when I could be climbing clouds


or rippling through walls. Eternity is boring, and the dead


love company. How about you? Why are you reading this?


Maybe we share the same motives. We need to feel alive,


to subdue our loneliness, to accept the inevitable darkness.


Perhaps there is something missing in our hollow, thumping hearts.


Maybe we’ll find the beauty we long for in a poem.


It is brazenly ironic how we draw fresh life from these hoary words,


bristle with the ghostly rustle that stalks our breath,


choke on the cold smoke of the deepening night.


There is something worth staying for, even as we fade.


 

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

One Last Chance

First there is a mountain. Then there is no mountain. Then there is. – Donavan


After sexual subduction


and igneous flirtation,


one would hope not much


would shake our latent core.


We think we can do what we want


as long as we want because we can.

 

 The drunken forests swagger


out of the thawing permafrost.


The dog of extinction buries


its bones at their feet.


Like a giant slushy machine,


rivers of ice-melt pump Greenland’s


glaciers into the Gulf Stream.


Holland is building floating houses


and Venice is booking scuba tours of it ruins.


The Earth is warmer now than any time


in the last thousand years. The warmer it gets,


the faster it gets warmer, the warmer it gets.


In less than ten years global warming


will be able to feed off of itself,


snacking on polar bears and caribous


along with thousands of other animals and plants.

 

We see no reason to change. B. P. will take care of us.


Fill the oceans with oil so we can fill our S. U. V.’s.


Turn up the A. C. and bring us more beef.


What more needs to happen before we understand?


There is no time to waste.


Our world flutters like a fly in the silken web of our greed.


 

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

It’s Easy to Be Normal

I can pass for normal if I really try. Sometimes, I even put on deodorant.
Just yesterday, someone asked me for the time, and I said, “1:36,”
even though I always carry a sprig in my pocket
in case that question comes up. It’s easy to be normal.


A husky voiced phone survey woman asked, “Sex?”
I told her, “Male.” Just like that. At the grocery store, though,
I lost it. The bagger inadvertently brushed my hand and said,
“Paper or plastic?” I said, “It’s skin. Isn’t that normal?”


Most of the time, if I concentrate,
I can ignore all those variant
meanings words evoke,
and figure out what others want from me.


Isn’t that what normal is,
doing what others expect instead of being who I am?
The most important thing is to try to be like everybody else.
My biggest problem, perhaps, is I don’t watch television.


In polite conversation, I have found it helps
to nod often, even if nothing makes sense.
I probably shouldn’t even talk
about peppers. When the waiter asks,


“Ground pepper?” I say, “Please.” Simple enough.
The problem comes when he says, “Just say when.”
I usually say nothing. When he gets tired, he walks away,
What I want to say is, “Whenever the grinder is empty.”


Lately, I have started to carry
my own bottle of pepper sauce
for places where ketchup is the only
condiment. It makes things easier.


I wonder if anybody is really normal,
if other people nod because nothing makes sense.
I think I would fit in if everyone stopped
pretending. Why do some people take everything so seriously?


I could be normal, if it paid enough, but it is truly overrated.
It is certainly no way to raise children. I guess I should spend more time
worrying about how things look. Also, it would probably help,
to occasionally be on time, but then there is always


that poem I am working on that won’t let me go.
Somehow, I get by. I have a good life, I must say.
There is really no reason to change,
unless, of course, I spill hot sauce on my shirt.

Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

Going Solar

It is so quiet
I hear the yellow fish sing.
Spring swims inside me.
As I step, the grass whispers.
Grass feels no sadness
as we waste our paradise.
The animals come
and go and always the green
returns. The trees do
not hesitate to burst bud.
Wind lifts the grey gull,
as the white bear stalks seal on
the last floe of ice.
Why does grief fall heavy as
I walk with beauty
through this breaking swarm of green?
What more do we need
than father sun that powers
all that lives on earth?

Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

March Triptych

God designed the month of March to show people who don’t drink what a hangover feels like. — Garrison Keillor (2010)

Eye

Dream hands
claw the shift
ing field
dig in

That which is
can be known
without open
ing the eye

Reach

My hands scoop
to my face clear water
rolls through fingers
down over itself

I catch color
in the formless
splashes, each
drop topaz

I always reach
for what
cannot
be held

This day like
no other
this moment gone
as I grasp it

Hold

A single crust
of snow left over
from October
refuses to melt

I am amazed
how the earth
swells like
a black sponge

Opens at
thaw’s edge
to take
more in

There is
reason
to hold
on

To hold what
we may
as close as
we can

Nothing
resists this
yearning to be
made new

In this
we are
all the
same

Even after
long winter
life stirs
in the last ice

After being told I look good for 67 (on my 57th birthday)

damn fluorescent light
carpet seam carpet
gray on grey
air machines hum
the building thinks it is alive
damn fluorescent light
bright eyes open

to a dimming world
veins ridge skin
it takes longer to chew
almost everything
creaks yet the mind
grows younger
the heart more childlike
the longer we hang on

our engines slow
as the scenery
speeds by
there are no breaks
aging is a paradox
a wind bitten rag
dancing on a stick

the grim reaper
telling jokes
window glare window
knock knock
no one is there
everyone is moving
damn fluorescent light