Phillip Carriere

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Sky Lines

(lines written in honor
Of the outlandish language
That so colors the clouds of children)

How can the clouds be
So un-pretentious
As to represent everything,
Swimming, at times, along
Like a gangly monster fish?
 
In a pre-pubescent sky
The flurry of clouds
And an occasional sun
Make a stew of the heavens
Unrecognized by wisdom.
 
We all dance in potato sacks
Until we fall before we finish
Under the undulations of the atmosphere
Where all possibility is counted.
 
So we have that first encounter
At some undefinable point
That begins a heady fermentation
That becomes some other world,
And our last sip of wind.

I Cannot Offer You

Here the winter taps me,
sings sour in the crippled bark,
down to an empty root,
bears the burden in the wrinkled wasted years,
makes thin and runny syrup
that pours upon the cakes
but fills no losing mouth
with taste.
 
Here with rheumy eyes,
deliberate piles of ruin,
the words can fill no crest
with florid feathers
blown by early wind
nor change the chancre
of the sullen waiting grave
no matter the childish flower plucked.
 
Here in deviled brain,
Red Knight seas fall
into mosquito hummed deserts
and the last mask river is torn
from the vein blasted face;
I cannot offer you a painted harbor
nor gentle wind, nor song, nor grace.
 

Lover

On Tuesday talked like Friday
mean like Monday
and maybe holy enough.
She was like the sun’s combustion,
eternally chaotic
and shiny in sweaty glory.
                                                 
Passion comes with coffee and spoons for every mouth
entertains our myths,
romping dreams of wild rides, kicking ass,
plays internal games quaintly
and lets us believe the rose
when it blesses the thorn.

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Phillip Carriere Profile    

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Everything is Fine

I take a jet
to one of the fattest
of our fevered cities.
It is a sweat built July,
a hum of frustration and anger
swirls about the cab.
The driver, glancing once in the mirror,
takes me to a comfortable
air conditioned room,
the unit stutters but works,
the curtains moving with uncertainty.
I write my wife: Everything is fine.
 
Outside the window
the pig-iron minds keep rolling,
the sirens fly to and fro,
the half-dressed teen
smiles her stained teeth
at the stoic doorman
and two alleys down
a twelve year old is raped.
On the other side of town
a fat kid takes a forty five
and blows himself up
surrounded by pipes and papers
and the dust of eternal joy.
I write my wife: Everything is fine.
 
There is no dancing on the worn carpet,
no music in the bar,
and my sing-song mind is constantly disrupted
as I try to arrive at my door.
In the dark street a passing derelict
with pants torn from crotch to ankle
salutes the statue in the park
just down the street, just around the corner.
I am feeling the fangs of pain strike and strike.
I write my wife: Everything is fine.
 
Tomorrow I will go to the blue building
and sell my wares.
Tomorrow I won’t have today in my eyes
or constantly have to blink.
A beautiful woman dressed like a goddess
will walk past the workmen,
past the dust covered bulging crew
and they will stare after her amazed.
I will have marmalade with my toast
and smile into that damn window.
She will be a hero.
I will be a falling mountain.
Tomorrow I will write my wife:
Everything is fine.
 

Laughter in the Crypt

We are generations
  Of the weary,
  Quiet of eye,
      Slipping between
           The born                                                                                                               
  And wandering as Jewish as the bog,
      Keeping violence forever in the eye,
      A montage,
      Large and virulent, infinite.
  We have a different rhythm
            Keyed by chip and bone,
            And though alive, alone.

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