Category Archives: Poetry

I Dove In | Hybrid Flash

Who wants to dive in? The monstrous conversations firing missiles and bombs across continental divides require your opinion now. Drop everything. Don’t think. Write your opinion!


Michael Dickel


Dove-In-Cubism

I Dove In – 1
Digital art from photos
©2017 Michael Dickel

Of course, that ad attracted my attention.

I wanted to leave my thinking cap in the brain-washer and drain my commonsense down the tubes; but the tubes turned into transistors and some chipped silicone took over the flip way I looked in the house of mirrors—interactivity leading to the monkey house on steroids, where advertisers don’t care about credibility, so long as you get with the click and join the cliques to which, of course, I would not want to belong, if they would have someone like me.

So, I figured the eight ways to solicit the attention of the ad-meister who wanted to hire a blogger—oh web-logger clear-cutting the civility forest into another barren desert chorus, eroding the floor until walking becomes treacherous and only traitors run away, seeking search-engine optimization.

Yes, I would love to be your dog…loving you is easier than rolling off a log…how much do you pay per posted blog?

I dove in.

I longed to fly missiles with alternative-facts and drop bombs across cyber-real fake-towns, across continental decisions divided—creating rifts with precision and dancing opinions on the heads of pins and needles, stitching together movie-scenery reality with microwave-ovens turned into spy-cams.

I Dove In – 2
Digital art from photos
©2017 Michael Dickel

It’s these special effects that affect our specialists, analysts of their own opinions and promoters of their sponsors’ narcissistic promotions.

I got the job that required me to not have evidence.

Cheesy gee-whizzes and long lists of coprolite anomalies, combined with contretemps dissent and troll binges of corporate-lite bridges, to rally the choir and preach to the troops—singing ditties, theme songs, and jingles jangling the long roots of the fake news.

Writing opinions I felt so free to despair, disparage, and dis-repair, all in fortississimo dissonance. I dropped everything—and everything dropped me—while I wasted away and waited for my just-desserts.

But I’m not any richer at a fiver per pitch, so the pitcher on the mound, on the way to a no-hitter, decided to leave town with a pitcher of beer.

Unpaid, tired, fired again, all my friends lost and me feeling lame…

I slid out of my gutter, stooped over I walked to the end of my talk with a stutter. The social meteors mediated my vacuity, and I consulted with campaigns, if they paid a large gratuity.

I Dove In – 3
Digital art from photos
©2017 Michael Dickel

It didn’t matter the theme, it didn’t matter the cause, I marshaled their resources and sent them off to Oz. The pawns moved the game, but the fans gave them fame, shouting and yelling without any words, “follow the gold-brick road.”

I came to the opinion that time chimed for warlords, loot fell to soldiers, and the boot landed on the bugler’s throat. But the consultant collected fees, no matter who died.

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The Raging Storm | Poem

storm-sea-fb-web

Sea Spray, Old Akko (Acre), Israel
Digital art from photos
©2017 Michael Dickel

Storm sea


Michael Dickel

The storm-startled sea splashed space-ward,
rose above the stone walls and metal rails,
appeared to touch the low-hung dark clouds,
before the white-foam spray collapsed into
shiny reflections of those gray behemoths—
sky-whales fallen to the flat earth below.

Even as a bit of sun and blue breaks the mood
at an acute angle, we seek the intimacy of couples,
private moments in poetry, the inward gaze that
turns its back to the thunder, wind, rain, hail and,
mostly, to the terror invoked by the raw power
so easily capable of destroying us and all we know.

Akko Waves

Old Akko (Acre), Israel
Photograph ©2016 Michael Dickel

We took our children to the Old Port of Tel Aviv
to watch the predicted high waves roll in. He
took his backpack into a store, and when ready,
pulled out an Uzi, walked into the street shooting—
in the same city, not so far, not too close. We turned
our backs and walked away as the border police went

door-to-door, knocking at each apartment entrance.
The news reports that they broke in if no one answered.
He gave them the excuse, and they opened those
intimate places absent their owners, absent reason
or folly, as though a power of nature eroding rock,
splashing against our resistance. I want this poem to send,

to turn,

to turn us into the spray, the wave, the sea.

Namal Waves

At the Namal (Old Port), Tel Aviv, Israel
Photograph ©2015 Michael Dickel

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Chai equals eighteen

Double life


Michael Dickel

I mention an image that for some days now has been mounting in the sky of the revolution…Chantal’s image is circulating in the streets. An image that resembles her and does not resemble her. She towers above the battles.

—The Envoy in Jean Genet’s The Balcony

Your lost lover becomes a martyr—
a new revolutionary cause—
as the judge, an abandoned father,
conceives the child’s anarchistic calls.
Balconies crack, begin to falter
while the white rose petals start to fall,
and the soft dust now rises up to
cloud our bishop’s visionary realms.
So you saunter down to the twelfth bar.

It’s not very far for you to go—
down the road to the mausoleum,
where knowledge no longer wants to flow,
and wisdom the police chiefs promised
evaporates in blue cloudiness.
My forlorn lovers take one last look,
executioners seal sacred books,
and we dream that time will return us
again to where Chantal’s dance began.

We slip on ice in larch swamps covered
by fog, which obscures the histories
unfolding Irma’s worn tapestries—
lies of the victors, lies of the lost.
We change the general’s blank dance card,
then drop three photographers’ needles
into a heavily falling snow.
Your martyr turns into a lover—
an evolutionary lost-cause.

An old father begins his judgement
with many anachronistic flaws.
And Carmen’s petals flake slowly off
like snow melting in a beggar’s tale
of the freed slave’s magic midnight sun
where my desire has never failed.
And the rose petals? The bruised petals
from the flowers you took the envoy
cover the gravel under your feet.

At first, people were fighting against illustrious and illusory tyrants, then for freedom. Tomorrow they’ll be ready to die for Chantal alone.

—The Envoy in Jean Genet’s The Balcony


Note: In each of the two days I have been working on the poem above, the ones just before I am posting it, exactly 18 people visited this blog. The poem has four stanzas of 9 lines each, for 36 lines (double 18), not counting the epigrams from Genet. Each line has 9 syllables. The total number of syllables is 324, plus the 36 lines, equals 360—the number of degrees in a circle. Chai, Hebrew for life, equals 18 according to gematria. So, 36 lines, double 18, is double life. Or, perhaps, a double life. Genet may offer a key element to this equation.


double-life

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Amber Ekphrasis | Poem

A segment from the feathered tail of a dinosaur that lived 99 million years ago is preserved in amber. A Cretaceous-era ant and plant debris were also trapped in the resin. PHOTOGRAPH BY R.C. MCKELLAR, ROYAL SASKATCHEWAN MUSEUM

A segment from the feathered tail of a dinosaur that lived 99 million years ago is preserved in amber. A Cretaceous-era ant and plant debris were also trapped in the resin. PHOTOGRAPH BY R.C. MCKELLAR, ROYAL SASKATCHEWAN MUSEUM source

Amber


Michael Dickel

I am lost, awash in honey-light and stopped-time—
hardened, a fossil that once lived before tasting
sugary sap, becoming caught as it turned to stone.

Sunlight trapped millions of years ago has turned cold—
my desires mineralized with sublimation, my body a frozen
footprint sold at market, worn on a chain around a neck.

These words stick in their own sweet clock, less real than paint—
colorless, caught in a mind that believes itself full of pigment,
while truth remains a slippery canvas brushed from memory.

 

PHOTOGRAPH BY ROYAL SASKATCHEWAN MUSEUM

PHOTOGRAPH BY ROYAL SASKATCHEWAN MUSEUM source

 

Drawing by Judith Appleton (The opening of her show at the Baaka Natural History Museum occasioned this poem.)

Drawing by Judith Appleton, used with permission, all rights reserved.
(The opening of her show at the Baaka Natural History Museum occasioned this poem.)

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Resist! —2 Poems

False prophecy


Michael Dickel


Beware false prophets as disquiet permeates the land. Two shadow armies have taken command, their soldiers drifting in and out of our daily lives barely noticed while their hooded officers send dispatches of despair breaking across all fronts. Wave upon wave, dutiful servants wash red into battle, crashing upon every shore. Drowning. Resistance—not despair. depression—one army from east, one from west, each beast, none rest. Shadow armies. Putin in the night. Secret armies of terror online and ready to go. Armies of secret evidence, (un)reliable reports, covert and discovered actions. Contested and embattled identities circling around a theme, a nationalist tragedy, internationalist agenda – globalization, multi-national corporate-control motivational strategy—trans/nationalist—more than America (us) as the transnational identity of (with) (us) (or against us Trump against us Putin). Oh Fascism, of thee I sing. Ah, Mr. Hughes, let America be America again.

An earlier version of this poem appeared in Synchronized Chaos, December 2012.

democracy-in-america-2


Amerika for special lies


Michael Dickel


double digit inflationary photos fleeing federal reservation borderless travel nostalgia dancing on the head of a pin-stripe suit decorated for flesh-eating bacteria infrastructure highways blasting bombs destroying the bridge of the nose around in other people’s business and borders become battle ground pepper on your salad word salad delight stream of unconscious from the concussion of the literary canon boom-box gift-wrapped sandwich style us in the groove of the palm of the hand dates the reading railroading hoboes hubbub centering the wheel of fortunate people for the people by the people of the people we the people wee people pee pole wee wee international conflagration flag con flag con flag gradation con flag de con flag de gradation con flag Gary says dig? gradation of fire power degradation of humanity come hither to the bronze New York lady’s dripping loins and drink deep of the myth of Amerikan dreaming while slaving slaving slaving in the status-less illegality of your sperm spilled upon the ground breaking construction project globalization globe alien nation all is alienation nation nate neonate neonatal neoconservative natal naval navel nave knave knives of war once again drawn to the slaughter of the sacrificial beast sacrificial bees sting sacrificing their lives to protect the honey sweet sweet honey in the rock my soul in the bosom of a lover who wants something other than reflections of images of screens of filters of self denied to self-denial to self to deny self to deny self-denial de Nile is not just a river in Africa oh Africa come out come out wherever you are oh Asia oh Middle East oh Europe oh the Americas not fucking Amerika oh fuck Amerika trump trump America fuck trump America sing it out loud with agony in horrors of empirical evidence aside this side that side all around the mulberry bush trump sides with enemies Amerika for spatial lies for ambling waves of greed for purple prided death’n’disease resistant to ev’ry brain Amerika Amerika God leave that place to fleas that crowns the hood with homogeneity from see to shiny see
amen amen ayyyy—men

trump-democracy-in-america


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an (anti-)Inauguration Poem

Strange Fire


Michael Dickel

strangefiretrump-fb

Strange Fire
Digital art from photos
©2017 Michael Dickel

smoke and flames of Yahweh flash lightning thunder screams across winter forecast severe weather storm (nothing) volcanic blast (Vesuvius) tamed focused through a lens of incomprehensibility a sense of language (meaning that now what is offered is then consumed) in one moment’s nuclear flash—the people fall down on their knees and the towers’ dusty ash clogs inspiration (screams) despair and fearing everything (knowing nothing) i place my freedoms in a protective pan burning their incense to the most high exalted beasts of commerce and hoping to see my way through the smoke—mirroring truth distorting lies until all of a sudden i can no longer catch (inspiration) choking on my own vomit as darkness closes around me and i wonder who will speak up for me and regain these ashen moths from the shells of glowing cocoons—

cacophony
collapsing sense
and words weapons
wielded against reality

one
at
a
time

until

they
mean
(no)
thing

An earlier, slightly different version from Sound Cloud.

 

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15 January 2017— Poem

Breakfast at the end of capitalism


Michael Dickel

It rained last night. This morning, cloudy skies may yet rain some more. I drink coffee in En Kerem. Moshe’s class presented a program on Bialik earlier, singing a poet’s songs—considering poetry already at age 6. My grown daughters, activists, oppose a president of doubtful legitimacy. Poets will read today all over the US as part of (at least) two national organizing efforts protesting this corporate pretender. In New York City some will read at the library, some at city hall. Each empire in its time comes to an end. We survive and move on. Poets will sing this with harmony and dissonance. Someone writing a history of all this will show that we do not understand more than a few train-car lengths of Benjamin’s wreckage. The Angel of History always weeps, but we manage to make love and to raise children and to continue. The 5% cottage cheese promised by the menu was missing. In its place, labeneh—a better choice. The breakfast at En Kerem turns out to be very good.

paul-klee-angelus-novus-1920-collection-du-musc3a9e-disrac3abl-jerusalem

Angelus Novus
Paul Klee
1920 monoprint
The collection of the Israel Museum in Jerusalem

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