COURTNEY ROHAN YOGA

                                        Can you find the bird? I rub my back against the wall Into the deeper recesses Of muscle My shoulders and back aching For attention Rocks hard in my back rocking Up and down Back and forth Across the edge of the wall And initially it feels good Real good Like cutting layers Of past out of present Clearing new ground Pieces of history Fall at the base of the wall Some Great Wall falling And the liberation of hundreds Of thousands whose faces Never saw this type of light But it took years for the whole Wall to crumble Hitting pieces that refuse To give light I decide to write My muscle-story My history Read scratches and carvings On rock Like tablet Or ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic wall And it is clear As I write...

I can no longer reach into my pocket And pull out the contentment Assumed of buying happiness I recognize it Not there Nor does illusion last When it comes From the pocket of collection There is no resolution Buying away troubles Money gone and bags full I am not happy for anything But a new outfit I might wear once Twice if I can buy new shoes to match Each time Worn out by this cadence I am beat down by the humdrum Of collecting nothings Making them needs-wants I distastefully swallow Without so much as a gulp It is easy to digest Doing what everyone else is doing When there exists a choice To change the channel The baby in Kenya With flies on his food and face How could we be so smothered How have we lost our ability To view truths without A plan to change anything But the channel We have become a society Engrossed in name And heightened Void of consequences And reality We have become trees without stumps Clouds without buo...

Moving to South Carolina has put me in Close proximity to nature Noticing how roots grow Squirrels bound tree to tree Scratching upon the beauty Of a Redwood Natural canopies The sound of water Soothing Here I melt into Earth Take root To enjoy some beasts Dogs some cats Things I can pet or look at Through glass But squirrels Their rapid movement Well rodents Make my toes curl And not orgasmically I am afraid Of their claws and their teeth Forcing me to consider I have no idea of their next move What tree they might wander to next What branch they might slide down To me In South Carolina When they jump from the branch Hanging near my balcony I am sure that one of them Is not going to respect The fact that I am human That I am in charge Of the makings of this earth However indirectly That they are not to fuck with me When I am sitting on my balcony Lacking the protection of glass And the sound of water Cause maybe then I would be able To deal...

                                                                    Light Under Tunnel My sister’s fiancé began convulsing “Huah” She was not sure Maybe he was mocking her Tired of new twins sleepless nights She asked him What are you huah-ing for But he was not there “Huah” before he began growling His brain removing this place While his body found Away to deal with the impact Of tight jaws and trauma Needing removal like dead limbs Gangrene Anyone is welcome to A disease The edge of a political-religious statement Like late high school shootings Bomb laden terrorists And the brainwashing Brainstorming that goes into such e...

My father likes to cut the mold off Of deceased fruit. A vegetable or two Make dinner out of the dead Leave just a bit of a piece of a food A meal He’ll brag So little can produce so much At least the whole bit wasn’t lost He’ll pop into his mouth whatever is left From a refrigerator Gross for cleaning Chew all Swallow Wishing he had more Of the artifacts ripeness Mushy and easy to swallow More sweet More flavorful he’ll say He wishes he had more to share You would not eat it anyway You are glad you are the adult You are now No longer subject To the granite lie countertops Where knife meets mold And the dead a little water For clean allusions You still appease him though You love him So you nod ok Try to cut out Your disgust.

Surgeon General's Warning: Smoking light cigarettes is not better for you-- I contemplate having more kids for my son And somehow in my mind unjustifiable Lay down Push blood Reopen wombs and space Send down a being for my other being People say such obscenities about an only child Some which are witnessed Others nightmared Like running butt necked Through the paternity ward looking for somewhere To deliver Nightmare down In a book of comical atropism Greek genius Made only from a mother Whose child wants her To make him a god Having a child for a child Butt naked in a ward that doesn’t exist LMAO Screaming and hoping that the things An only child must endure are fictional For mine Or reversible and that I am dreaming When he knocks kids down at the bus stop Or lets little girls push him down Ringing their hands at him on the bus Take his toy Pussy!! My resignation only more ok Because I am inadequate How come I can’t teach my son That ...

There is nothing like water I am told-- Here, is nothing unlike itself Though I am searching for things That might be like other things I am looking for somethings That do the samethings. I have found that water Is like nothing else It is a primary color Red only made of Red Blue, Blue Yellow, Yellow. It is in all nature It is in all nature naturally Not unlike the syrup of Maple Trees Or the milk of cows But it is in those that water is found And when extracted Leaves substances of powder Like lifeless body Ashes. There is nothing like water There is nothing else that we can Not live without With water we are Clean We are Quenched, Full, Purified, Baptized Like John the Baptist And Jesus His body lifted Like water to clouds Rendering rain like talents To those he chooses The measure he chooses The power that God has given water Exceeding its bounds Like floorless oceans And condensation Am I to believe That we are really in cont...

Bonus for Reading Day 3: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6b801PrRcac

He likes to dance His dancing only including Someone watching He likes to be watched. I am not sure he does it for the feeling Of pure dancing Like leaves in wind or hot water boiling. Dancing without anyone paying attention Is not worth the pay for him And a glance is not enough When he is rocking out rhythm-less To “Beat It”. I justify it-- “No one can do Michael like Michael could”. But he is not great at dancing for others’ eyes. If only he could privately like his spins and stomps The feeling of the wind when he turns Or his heart beat over boiling The longer and harder he pounds. He throws his hands in the air and sweat drips Down the sides of his face Dancing flats in ¾ time And sharps in ½ time like waltz dances b-boy And Jackson “Thriller” If that’s possible. And I find myself watching He -- basking in the watching Digging holes with his sneaks- 1-3 or 2-4 or some weird combination tempo I watch Not sure why. Am I smiling at him ...

It’s no wonder that today’s youth Are obese or sickly-- I think-- As I walk as close to a variety Of cars made big enough to hide The wide array of weighties Or malnourished stick figures We keep feeding Tasty Cakes And WHOLE fat milk As a snack or for dinner For their necks and bellies Or the receptacle. We expect them Cardiovascular health And GREAT skin Yet the parking lots Just keep getting bigger And every intestinal pore Facial pore More filled with cars that hide Our bodily harm and the lines Often thought to designate space Just keep getting wider So as not to spill over the edges. I am feeling A rush to get to my car I walk faster I can and do Beat out the 10- 20 Year olds who can Barely drag their bellies Under the appropriate Spaces each shirt is made To provide No safe crevice To occupy In this parking lot Every spot is gulped down Like the security Of food or a finger down a throat The filling of the space Between the space Where only nonexistent small cars Can fit or m...

I’ve been extracted. I know it sounds funny But like a alien Spaceship invasion I’ve been sucked out of my world And dropped almost abruptly Into a new place where Accents are so strong I can not understand A language that appears To be my own. I’ve been abducted From all that I know In order to entertain Southern hospitality Farms and extreme heat And there are times When the little bits still Left of myself miss The smog, mice And frequent hollerings Of a mad taxi driver “Move the Fuck out the way” Honk, Honk-- loudly With banishes That are not the sound These aliens make Where they drive snail slow In an attempt to get somewhere. But I recognize demon speeds I even know how to avoid them Or make them happen And it doesn’t bother me I can make it home safe there. But here Where the clouds Sun red as Pluto, moon, stars are always Beautiful and close and the rain Pounds like waterfalls and then Crickets I am clean and hot again And unsure I will ever make it Home The roads go on for ev...