April, 1997
Bottled Air
pardon my respiration, a vintage year B.C.
yes it makes you cough, me too, Golden Rule
I'm multiplying opposite signs and fooling myself
monopolies pulled this creature from the tar pits
carbon dating in a prom dress, a perfect match is lit
venous cities beckon travel
fire is the power, but this tuberculates
adaptation is calloused, suffocated
developing the eggshell, gearing for natural rebirth
reversion or immersion
consider a subtle change of fuel
decrease gestation, it just sells so fast
now it can breathe on our life scale
no more tarring up the streets
no more sucking on bottled air
The Mother Road
maternal materials, the instinct is widespread
there for a reason, though sometimes it slides
little ones, empty mouths; violence and scorn understood
the wave is tidal, it sweeps up land and stars
possessions, deathly matter, are breast-fed and crying
more, more; spill your life in me
in this equation one and one do not increase
contractors pound nails; a palatial monument indeed
contractions extrapolate a beating heart by grace
when the line is crossed they live on their own
day by day until eaten away, the flags are down, the race is on
necessary instincts balance on dominance
fruit of knowledge; too much weight too soon
the scales are tipped; judges become kings
cunning deceit; truth tricks and lies devolve
in exile, banned; unfair game is trapped
willing a way, maternity wins the last hand
not laughing, but sad
now all paths are paved
once all were saved
Escaped
escape granted, fingertips scanned, protection money transferred
barbs of bait slowly dance the random fluid step
reflex snaps the meal; the hindsighted witness powerless
possession leads the law, only darkness will hold their bars
meaning they're already closed
open falls mirror the edge of time
perpetual gravity of constant mass
from the cell of either blood or steel these sands are seen
but instants snap like machine gun fire
escape for real lives and grows in this cage, from the light of both truths
there for taking...
climbing the satellite's tether end to end
puts physical limits outside
so apparatus must be worn
to survive the climb
freedom of the Law, in the path of Its breath
reforms paper into trees
the yoke instead is made
rooted among the breeze
rockets blast past the dimensions of the stars
in a war beyond our infinity; the number line stands upright
composting negativity; catharsis largely providing absolute value
on relative to this absolute escape is afterburned
an extra contraction pushing the way
UnBiased
Rain around, hope it's good for the ground
sun comes up and it's all the same
but the air we breathe has a different name
and these rays cut through
they're larger than blue
but we can handle it; there's nothing we can't take
if there's nothing made that lasts...
bitter irony chokes the freshness of birth
preoccupied, wasted, cut and dry; token expressions of warmth do decry
but what is real; escapes from eyes, not to be caged
it passes through open minds.
Wood grubs like popcorn
soda straws are monuments to an antiseptic land
cleaning the air, cleaning the water
for the unknown, the next man
as will and flesh refuse to be sterile
what scales will hold the pleasure and pain
the thought incorporeal like steam from a still
drunkenness until purity and a change of phase
savor the grubs
your friendly snack, they just slide back
molecules cleave, there's no bias at this front
Copyright © Daniel Spear
All rights reserved.
Portland native Daniel Spear is a mechanical engineer and poet. He is currently writing a book on alternative fuels.
Copies of his first collection of poems, "Active Abstractives," are available by contacting him via e-mail.