RABBIT IN THE WOODS


RABBIT IN THE WOODS
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved.

I.
I am.
I am the rabbit.
I am the rabbit who lived in the woods!
The one whose life was kept hidden in shame,
Whose name was thought once but soon became
Another by a decree oh so most fucking royal,
Whose plan became one loyal to those who reigned
Regardless of the pain and lack of claim
Held by those who stood holy by the first rail
Holy, holy, holy!
Holy blessed art thou
That sensed the stain somehow painted
Amid the soft fur tainted, and thereby named the path
Towards where the box was hidden, buried deep,
Deep within a sleeping soil
A sleeping soil whose very nature
Did recoil
Recoiled, was spoiled, soiled, and perished in the closed in space
And left the world unloved and untraced
Asleep, asleep, I am asleep
In a box hidden buried deep
I am the rabbit in the deep, deep soil,
Apart from the woods, asleep in the soil,
Tucked in a box shut out to hold in my shame.
Their shame and I lie in a box without any name.
I am the rabbit that lived in the woods.
I am the rabbit.
I am.
I.

10/27/2013

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UNWASHED


UNWASHED
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All Rights Reserved

”I am an angry man!”
He said to me.
“I am in a rage!
I burn inside!
Memories of painful events,
Unwashed from my soul cry out.
Every day, every day, every day!
From here to a country distant traveled,
To the taste of war,
To the love of war,
The taste of blood in my mouth.
To a mountain with scattered body parts.
The shouts of joy and of sin and of fear.
They live within and,
Unwashed from my soul cry out.
The parent beating their spouse,
Blackened eyes, bloodied nose.
Be a man. It is what men do.
You aren’t a man unless….
Holes in the drywall
And in the doors.
Fist marks left there.
Where is the model?
Not here. Not there.
The drunk in the gutter there,
Lies in a pool of rain water.
Heaving puke in a toilet bowl.
Sleeping on the floor.
Trying to love and
Failing at such a simple task.
Trying to learn to love,
Trying to fit in,
To be like him, like them, those over there.
To be someone—I will never be.
And yet—I am unwashed and—my soul cries out
Where is the child? What happened to him?
When did fun stop and the question of what is fun began?
When did the realization that a puppy tossed in a river
Tossed in with a rope and rock tied about its neck
Tossed in and left to die in the cold and dark
Was simply—in the end—really me?”

WHICH


WHICH
Copyright 2013 by Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved.

It’s past midnight and
The moon slips behind a shadow blanket
My mind drifts with the ice formed clouds
Brooding islands upside down miles high above in the air
Drifts with dark and dangerous thoughts
Dark spoken for want of understanding
Dangerous for what answer might be heard
Cleft between two opposing reactions there
Which one should I follow and to where
Which is the one to lead upon the path
And which is the one to off road dare.

EVIL SPORES IN FILTH ARE BORN


EVIL SPORES IN FILTH ARE BORN
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved.

Two women sat in an open chair,
Arms looped in loathing paired.
Like lovers whose favorite game was pain,
They toyed with each other’s blame of shame.
They drank each other’s poison pooled,
And pledged their hatred for one to share.
They spread their evil upon a scene,
Vampires whose very souls were dead;
Whose slime coated wings they both doth did spread.
Spread wide as lifeless flies took to air,
And formed a world of lies and dread.
Not caring the damage done to one.
Not caring for the slanderous harm t’was done.
He guiltless of the assault upon him they led
A nightmare made in a nightmare dream
Brought first by a she devil birthed malcontent,
Who dripped slanderous slime from her lips.
There sucked upon by her counterpart.
Each feeding upon the others filth filled breasts.
Tits licked clean as they both grew close as lovers did
To attack one who nothing did,
Or deserved they who crossed the line.
These close-bound lovers;
These false mothers whose malicious spawn
Straight from hell their evil had come
To do their dirt owning in their filthy vileness.
How sad creatures like this do abide within our midst
To cause such cruel unkindness as was this.

WHEN I WAS YOUNG — ONE


WHEN I WAS YOUNG — ONE
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved.

When I was young,
I once ran naked into the sea,
And swam as far as I could swim,
Almost drowned! But I was young.
And that was then.

When I was young,
I drank a lot of beer,
And held in my pee,
Until the drinking was long done.
But that was then, how silly of me.

When I was young,
I loved the open sea,
And fell asleep one mindless, youthful day
And was burned as burned could ever be.
I was young, and oh so foolish back then.

When I was young,
And most immature,
I hooked onto the world
And ran towards the sun.
But that was way back then.

When I was young,
I helped pick up the remains of those
Left laying in the dirt, once upon a day,
And drank that night to forget the sight.
When I was young and unafraid.

DRIFTING


DRIFTING
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved, Poet in the Rain.

I find myself adrift, alone, with feelings
Feelings that simply will not leave me alone
And so I drift in an odd cloud of recall and
Wonder what my father would have thought
Or my mother, for that matter, who struggled
With a family that left her alone in her feelings
While they blamed her for their ills and
Misunderstandings and
Misconceptions and
Then there was me
To cloud and confuse the landscape
Standing by the roadside, in the dust
Wondering if I were truly a family member or
The child of a guest who came to dinner and
Then, disappearing into the mist of night,
Left the baby in a bag by the door. 10/13/2013

THE APARTMENT ABOVE OAK STREET BEACH


The Apartment Above Oak Street Beach
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved, Poet in the Rain.

Oak Street Beach lays lazy in the sun
The breakers rolling softly flowing in
The boats of guards flipped belly up
Formed hideouts for giggling children’s fun

While up from where lake ripples run
The sand dark where bare feet have come
The sound of traffic coursing on asphalt near
Warmed and soft beneath the sun.

Yet, a sidewalk stroll to the lonely point of rocks
The curve where lay red painted warning slots
A rip current has its home there in flecks and rolls of foam
But above it all is where I sensed a terror mocks

Greyish mantle, brown stone and steel
Stands atop, reveal, and stares out coldly
The building at the corner, just there
In its topmost rooms a horror that I feel.

A distance not far from where sharing children play
And swimmers float calmly above the fish hiding below
I find my body shivers as I gaze up at the apartment there
Something, something hurries me, makes me want to run, I cannot stay

DEPRESSION 101


DEPRESSION 101
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All Rights Reserved
U Toucha My Poem I Breaka U Face

Depression comes to visit and
Finds me sleeping on the floor
On the floor near the door
Sleeping on the floor near the door
A pillowed blanket colored sand
In the bedroom by the bed
Where such dreams I find I’m fed
To show past terrors I am led
And depression slips in without notice
Slips in without warning forming
Deep into my head,
My mind conforming
It found and easily opened an unlocked door
And led me through the flowers there
To outskirts of dismal country spread
The dread of failing at my task
Was the doorway into my sleeping head
And there I lay and dream of dead
Until I wake in sweat of dread. 10/12/13

RAGS BY THE DOOR


Rags by the Door
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
Poet in the Rain, All rights reserved.

It’s fucking 3 AM!
I growl at it
—I growl at him,
There,
There, the reflection by the door.
I should be in bed!

I should be in bed, but I’m not.
I’m not!
Instead—
I’m drinking beer,
At a solitary party.
And it’s fucking 3 AM!

What would they say,
If they would know?
What would they think?
That the injury is so thin?
And yet they cannot even see,
The shadow by the door,
The bundle of rags,
Left by me years before,
Left in a pile,
Added to each day.
Just inside the door.
The injury is so much more.
The injury is so damn much more.

Over there,
Beside the door.
It rises up,
And speaks its mind
Once more.
Its rush is to remind,
To drive the dagger of memory
Deeper cut than before.

Don’t tell me to hush!
I‘ll tell you in a rush.
Just who the hell are you?
To speak to me from way back when.

Give me a piece of cheese.
Give me my bottle standing there.
Don’t you dare judge me.
If you please.
If I please.
I’ll drink it down
In a gulp.
It’s fucking 3 AM.

The beggar lays there,
Lays there near the door.
All crumpled, he lays upon the floor,
And wants me to comply with his wish
To visit spaces known to him,
Known to him and thought I so very dim
In my mental category of time and dates
Known to him, but lived by me.
And it’s fucking 3 AM.
And I rail at him.
And I rail at me.
And I drink my beer
And it’s fucking 3 AM.

And thus clouds fell upon the mind
To straight up fog the evil from design
The melancholy from repentance fled
And acted as if the soul were dead.

Twice spoke the prophets to the crowds
Twice came the loud resound
And there and then the prophets died
And there and then all were denied.

Raindrops Falling


Raindrops Falling
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved, The Poet in the Rain.

Raindrops
Thick, fat, doomed rain drops
Falling blindly from the sky
Not knowing they will die
Thumping drops
Bumping drops
Hunting drops
For a dry place to land
Falling still
Not know they will die
And spread out on the landing
The zone of impact
A body falling
Falling in the rain
Falling in the pain
Falling with the stain
That cannot be erased
Or
Undone. 10/6/2013