I have a new friend, Angela Khan, who uses chat software. I am getting used to it. We banter about projects, poetry, and philosophy on these little pop-up boxes in the morning.
The other morning, she tells me also is chatting with Andrea Van Cleef.
This is my Northern Italian rocker buddy. I know social media makes it infinitely easier for anybody to be a catalyst, but as an O.C. (Original Catalyst), I still pride myself in connecting people up.
Khan is getting mobbed up in our project Poetry Scores, so I told her Andrea is the one musician who has scored me. I populated our chat box with a link to a demo of his song to my poem "I used to be precocious".
Then, I really got to thinking. Khan had just sent me some of her own poems. My first thought was that they would be fun to sing. So I told her I would post her poems and send the link to Andrea and see if he could come up with some songs.
The Quiet Room
By Angela Khan
Murderous imaginings are suppressed in the light blue room
Confined shadows compress against the break room’s skin
slaloming through the silence, a slavish floor to broom
echoes race but time always wins
down the hallway donning a boyish grin
and stooping yet strong, the figure’s work never ends
sweeping accusations - life's blind custodian
begins to whistle woes unforgivable
in the coded key of Zen
Kind of reads like a Natalie Merchant lyric to me.
Bastille day is today
By Angela Khan
Come to think of it, that also has a touch of early Natalie.
Bastille day is today
ever heard of this celebration?
You think you’re the King; I'm French; pay attention---
Behead thee King and drama Queen
I'm casting thy booty to the sea
your riches nil value and useless to me
Let us chisel this date into your dull memory
Rest your neck upon it's cold nape
Run through your lines just one more time before never
it is too late
to tip me
Learn from the stillness of the stone
and its silence
Even your darkest knights are lame
like your face we've saved from the
wages of slaves
Tails down You lose!
Heads off!
just proves
today is the day Bastille!
I'm melting the molds of victory waxes
paid for with your Icarus' taxes
Bastille!
Hone the blade
then bury the axes
Mark my face with Pheonix' ashes!
I'm writing you off with the ink from your spill
take a hard look what's come from this quill
thank you
thank you
thank you
Today we celebrate my Bastille!
red on red
By Angela Khan
Moving away from or coming towards depending on the wave length in colors and the speed at which I hover contemplating red I pull the covers over my head and the blackbirds aren't birds they were rats in a dream I once had when I was running over past events in my memory bare feet protected by angels didn't cut over bottles broken in an alley careless of the crime motion blurred visions of one time when I hadn't a dime or second to spend running through alleyways in my head it didn't matter much because my feet were tough and I owned no watch on the wrist to say late to the party to tell a story so great about love and loss of no blood and the police breaking rules to give me a lift and wishing me well in this here district why didn't I tell them? that My favorite Italian shoes were in that bag too. And what of the artwork that took a semester to do? Nevermind my faith in humankind and nevermind all of those things once called mine. Nevermind. Nevermind. Nevermind. Back to
contemplating red on red
And that one even has "Italian shoes"! Come on, Van Cleef, you can do something with that.
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