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Oct. 31st, 2007

Erte Temple

No more mathematical genuflections.
Yet, for a Moment,
I still kneel.
T’is greater, this ‘thing’ that‘s the ‘Word’,
Less the reason there is to construct it,
To raise empire, block by block of marble and rock.

Deep in the flush of a dhow,
Held tight on the Wheel of the Tao,
The bitch of my Dance is the purple - the bruises,
My heel unlaced from the black-polished veins,
The gold, concrete, and the slate.

Unknown by a physics of fate that, in spires, ordains,
The unknown is known by a moment outside
The belly of Buddha
And the breadth of a thousand year Reich
Where time is rent
And space is made for saints inside
A garbage scow.
Naked, check it out. Stand in the draught of the hall
Of an Erte Temple, and look at the ‘letters’ he paints.
CC Ryder
Revised October, 2007

Aug. 28th, 2007

(no subject)

All the Kisses, all the Hugs, They’re Killin’ Me, Larry
Perfectly manicured curve, not her breast but her brow, the only one visible because of the standard right ‘bang hang’, just covering half the big brown eye. Life is an opportunity - take it.
The consistent look of surprise makes her wide eyed expression perhaps mysterious, or stupid, maybe just silly. We’re just having fun, aren’t we!!!??? Life is a game – play it.
Yet, when she smiles at you, face forward, it’s a nice smile, an innocent pose that is perhaps misleading because of the perfectly white teeth. The slight cleft in the chin may make her uncomfortably nude before us. Boy, what would she give for dimples? Life is a puzzle – solve it.
That straight bleached-out white hair doesn't quite hide a true naiveté peeking , one-eyed, from beneath the surface of so brown, such smooth skin. And always contrasting is the white, silky satin of the negligee she isn’t wearing, you know, the one posing as a dress, white with black lace just under the breasts where the gathering is so slight one may not notice it bunches in just such a way as to make her breasts appear fuller than they are.  Life is a beauty - praise it. 

Wonder why she likes posing with those ‘sisters’ older than she is? Their aged sun-baked skin makes hers look so much more inviting. Just one touch is all it would take to seduce the unwary.  Life is a mystery – unfold it.
Perchance even a little Asian?  Look to her high cheekbones and slightly slanting eyes, or is it purely hypoallergenic eyeliner helping to form the angles and lines that flow so nicely to a very pointed chin. Or is it Indian? Life is a journey – complete it.
And when she sips from that straw, her lips almost disappear into her mouth, while her nostril draws back, the skin taut, just enough to show it’s made up inside, too. Oh so fair, and matching the line of beauty that is running through the delicate bones of her neck. So many angles, so many lines of beauty, but none of them classic, not so much because of a lack of genes, but more because of how she has been taught to wear them, her genes, you know.   Life is a challenge – meet it.
And when she lies sleeping, we realize why she had chosen that particular dress with the black lace. It doubles as her negligee. She must be cold, this one, for she has covered her legs. Short negligees are such bothers, don’t you think? Life is a struggle – fight it.
Her ears aren’t bad, when she lets us see them. But, being attractive is not the same thing as being beautiful. Her mother seems to have taught her well about what it takes to meet the fashion of the day, to mold the flaws together to create a magnetism that matches the challenge of life in the bars, near the booze, next to a pack of cigarettes where all the glamour of society bubbles over into a simulacrum of life and humanity. Life is a goal – achieve it.
Contemporary beauty is not hard to find when it is defined as how socially attractive we can make ourselves be. You know, like going to the trouble to purse the lips into a loving kiss for the liquor bottle hanging upside down from its liquor tree alongside its fellows in the variety pack. Life is a spirit – release it.
No amount of smoothing and silking can create a pose that is seamless enough to bear the weight of reality, unless the world she lives in is also so smooth and silky creating its own magnetic attraction that the seduction is mutual. But, then, in that case, there is no seduction at all, is there? Just mutual senseless attraction. No, beauty does not attract us; it consumes us. Beauty does not seduce us; it loves us, and unlike she says about life being a sorrow that must be overcome, beauty cannot be overcome. The pure gravity of beauty is not magnetic at all, is it? It attracts nothing less than itself with its black hole mystery, an infinite and indefinable, glorious chaos that cannot be managed or pushed into a pose for the sake of being seen, becoming apparent, or creating meaning. Beauty understands there is no need for judgment, no need for meaning. 
Whatever life is, it isn’t a cliché, is it?
Are you buying? Or, is it my turn? After all – life is a duty – perform it.

CC Ryder

Aug. 11th, 2007

Been Down Down Down that Lonesome Road

I've not been posting lately.  I'm more or less crawling along, fingers and toes, clutching at at the sand at the bottom of the Pacific, it seems.  Crab-like and all Prufrock feeling (T.S. Eliot figure, and not a pretty sight, either).  One minute I think I may finally have my spiritual feet on the ground, and the next, it's like floating down into a labyrinthine abyss where it's so deep in the earth and so close that it doesn't take long before the sun has disappeared and it becomes darker and darker, pitch and coal black.  I'm at an age that I can never go back and begin again, so mistakes are hard on one.  So,  every decision I make, I put myself through the ringer, trying to be perfect, again.  I thought I was over that, but maybe I never will grow up.  I've been having alot of dreams lately, but some of it is coming from all the friggin' pills I have to take for back pain.  I wish it was only that.  If I could be sure of it, I would feel alot better about myself, but when you wake up moaning from fear and emotional pain, it has to be more than just medication.  I woke up last night with the sudden realization that my life is so dysfunctional it makes the Hannibal Lector seem normal.  I looked around at my lifestyle, the way I live at home versus the way I pretend to live at work, and realized that the difference  between the way I was brought up and the way I have been living for the last ten years is so contradictory that there was no justification that could explain it.  What makes it so sad to me is that I don't think I can do anything to change it.  I mean, really change things in a substantive way, a way that would make me feel different than I have for a long time.  In my youth I had no doubt that I was going to have a good life, a fruitful one, laden with accomplishments, things to remember me by, and that seems utterly ridiculous now.  I catch myself wondering how many people would actually think it would be worth going to my funeral.  Ha.  Now, that's morbid.  But, that is where it's at for me right this minute.  Don't know what I'm gonna be able to do about it, but maybe something will change to make me feel more real.

Jul. 22nd, 2007

(no subject)

God WeepingGod Weeping

The Omnipetence of Tears

Jul. 21st, 2007

Writer's Block: Bump In The Night

What is he afraid of?

He's afraid of so many things, but he supposes he's most afraid his best friend will not understand the most horrible fear he has:  that he would betray the trust that has been given him about their relationship.  Believe him, he wants to do that for selfish reasons, but what kind of friend would he be if he allowed his own frailty and loneliness to put their deep abiding affection at risk.  For this is all he can have though he wants more.  There are questions that he must not answer. Note, I say, he must not answer, for he could.  Answer them, answer him, I mean.  I'm not sure I know what he means. But he must not.  The power that compels him to betray this trust given him, is almost overwhelming, as it confronts the most powerful of beings, love and all the passions that come with it.  I am much too drained from all the years he's lived, to be asked to be put in this his place between, between me and him.  

He tenaciously holds on to what he has.  I gratefully accept the limits that have been placed on him.  . . . because the lose of it would mean neither of them would have anything left to hold, no meaning, no love at all.  I and he, we are too old and haggard to be left with this kind of emptiness.  He's only just now been able to grab for the ring again, on the merry-go-round life has been.  My best friend, my best friend wants to know if I love someone he doesn't know.

Jul. 20th, 2007

Summer Silk Corn

A virulent mass of reproduction
Metered imitation, in asymmetrics
It hangs on the head from its root
Tucked or tied away from the eyes,
As if forbidden fruit.
But, though---sometimes,
If the currents are just so,
It beats the eye in a rush
To feel . . .
Like silk --- in summer corn.
In the sand of its waves
Uncut, untucked and untied
The eyes flinch
And wink at the wildness.
Fingers that bath the face.
Fingers that braid the lace,
comb it back into place.

CC Ryder

Poll #xxxx The Mystery of a Poem
Open to: all, results viewable to: all

What is being described in this poem?

What kind of poetry is this type called?

Jul. 19th, 2007

The Thorazine Shuffle

“Loose change, man?  Can ya spare a dime?”

Ya got any loose change, man?”

I heard his noise shuffle off in the nighttime.


He couldn’t get it right, ya know?

He used to say, “Are you a fan?

Ya gotta dime?

Ya gotta nickel?

I needa bag, man.

I needa go down the hall,

Needa make a call.”


Now, all he wanted was a Snickers Bar,

Or he’d take the subway for Mars.

Shufflin’ off to Buffalo.


“Me,” I ask the boy.

“No, man, long time passed, echoing, past,

And I got my change,

But it won’t last.

It ain’t for you,

My change, you can’t use,

Y’already blew your fuse.


Ya don’t need a dime, nomore, ma friend.

Ya can’t change the call,

And the call can’t change you.”

“Hey, ya got’ny change lef’, Buddy?”


He wadden list’nin’ anymore.

He danced the tune of the shuffle,

The Thorazine Shuffle.

An’ he shuffled offta Buffalo.


He’d walk on down, walk on down.

He couldn’ remember to make change,

But he did afine piano, man.

He remembered to play a mean piano,

And tickle the ivory.

I heard ‘im play a beautiful piano.


He knew I was changing,

He even knew I could try.

He wanted ma loose change,

But he couldn’ remember why.


“You gotta dime, I’ll take a nickel.

I need the change, I need the ruffle.

I don’t need a bag.”

He got the shuffle, the Thorazine Shuffle.


“I can use the change,

I don’t need the bars,

But I’ll go for Mars

Dancin’ this shuffle,

The Thorazine Shuffle,

Shufflin’ offta Buffalo.”


“Can ya spare some change, Bro?”


“No, man, ya gotta shuffle.

Remember the keys, it takes ya downtown,

To dance, man, dance to yer tune.

For you, ma friend, bein’ lost, is bein’ found.”


CC Ryder


In a Dance on White Ash in the Wind

Pause, an untilled moment –

The hoary spider, she freezes in the heat on a tree,

Wait, a smaller degree in her feet.

One leg into the future, the rest in the past,

It makes her look hydraulic, robotic,

Sister of Tarantella, a profane recluse

In her queen’s walk, she rides, eight-legged and cloaked,

Naked on a stalk, and an Ash, her strain is a stall, in the white,

The tension, her art, and the dance,

Ah, the dance:  rhyme, offbeat, sublime.


An angel hair weaver, Divineress of the Span,

She bridges a moment for glory 'n beast.

Her carbolic tongue, fire to ripen the gory 'n feast.

Counterfeit standing, one's soul commencement

Unfolding her impending shift.

Making her century forestall the moment,

Folding that moment, to stall the century,

A crawl, a stay, her web in the day.


The Spread, her milling in space, her legs-all-asplay,

Is the coming, in time with the Wheel,

While it’s going, each step, in the space of her threading.

Is the oblong, circular work of waiting.

As the bark is the skin, on the tree,

And the dance of White Ash in the wind.


CC Ryder © 1992/2007


Jul. 18th, 2007

Between Daylight and Dawn

From my memories of you

I smell a scent

Of Cherokee and swamp,

Flooding what seamed my life.

A time and essence without the glory

I hunted, the honor I wanted.

Between moments, instances,

From the frost of a near dead heart,

To a clarified honesty,

Came you, with a rarified air

For whom there springs

From the hosts, a near dread.

Between the dawn

You have been the metaphor

For the conflict of betweens and betwixts.

The distance between cars and cares

And the daylight.


CC Ryder


Why the White Whale's Ululations

To have forgotten the soul’s painful hurt in childhood innocence, keeps us from crying our way through life.  And, so, having to hide that hurt behind cruel curtains of behavior, we grow into the corruptions of reality, finally understanding more about the necessity for forgiveness and mercy, and then those memories are brought back to us in whispers that sometimes feel like thunderous bolts of lightning thrumming through our being.  The pain that comes along with it, lies in the space between the wounded flesh, not from the flesh itself, answering the questions, “Where does pain come from?  Where does it live inside us?” It’s always at the edges of our being, and is not part of us, though it feels so, reminding us that we are not completely ruled by society as well as by a genetics of fear, those chains that bind us to terror in living and loving.  There is also a genetics of memory that goes beyond pain, reminding us of others from whom we come.  Those whose lives are lives of beauty and grace.  We go back a long way, to Paradise.

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