running headless,
a body parts ways only
through force of will
as my head
puckers for grandiose
acts of conscience
before speaking
for or against
that righteous cause
or this perceived injustice
while the body rolls
down hills that sport
Easter Island sculptures
eyeless to the brilliant
Sun relaxing
behind the waves
until my body
is buried
and my head
is asleep to
ideas and dreams,
finally,
free.
by
Rod C. Stryker
This is a recent piece. Hope you like it.
art photograph by Rod C. Stryker
she waltzes through
a change-up phrase,
deep-seated metaphor,
some cliche’d sentiment,
each night
she sings hieroglyphics
born of indigestion
and anxiety
until slumber’s lake
is still, calm,
at first light,
she courts
as lover, enemy,
bares sinner and savior
w/both shoulders,
a sacrifice to memory,
every poem
she bleeds
I gain.. me
by
Rod C. Stryker
The poem and the art photograph were published in my book, Lucid Affairs. Hope you like it.
If you’re interested in getting a copy, click here: https://squareup.com/market/sun-arts-press
photo by David Lund
The crop duster
sprinkles loving
bug-chemicals,
confusing me,
losing me among
small towns (Pleasanton)
and officers
w/lips
burned beyond recognition,
awarding me w/a ticket for
my troubles,
I see the charred
slivers of flesh peel away
from yellowed teeth
that ask me:
“-where ya comin’ from?
-where ya goin’?
-is this your car?”
I doggedly trail
my bug duster
through
more backwards hamlets,
searching feverishly along
roads that stretch
scrub brush and sage bush
from blue-haze
horizon
to cloud-covered
sunset.
Duster lets me finally
discover my
McAllen connection,
Joey, Tina and I break bread
and inhale American Standard coffee
by palm trees
and a bookstore
discussing wayward poets,
Joey’s Review
and Tina’s Dilemma.
Afterward,
I check into
a motel that has
aged and echoed
since ’59
w/senior citizens
who scowl at foreigners;
a classy joint.
The clerk
asks in the usual
anal retentive sneer:
“-how many nights?
-who will be joining you?
-do you own a CAR?”
I sleep w/sweaty dreams
of bug-juice
and charred lips
waking in a rush
to take my leave
of Valley life.
I pick up the smell
of bug-poison once again
and border patrol agents
promptly pull me over,
one w/cheeks
scarred and pock-marked
like a road map, eyes glazed
from the heat asks:
“-where ya comin’ from?
–¿Habla espanol?
-where ya goin’?
-IS THIS YOUR CAR?”
And I’m not surprised
Senor Pock-mark
let the anglo family
pass,
as they drive their probable drug-filled
truck to more of America’s youth
while I wait patiently
for the drug-sniffing dog
to thoroughly
inspect my car,
finally giving his special
yellow-tinted seal of approval.
I get wise to her and ditch
my bug-dusting nemesis,
kiss the goddess, San Antonio,
And finally admit: “YES, IT IS MY CAR!”
by
Rod C. Stryker
This poem was originally published in my book, Exploits of a Sun Poet. The short film for the poem (see link above) was produced by PrimaDonna Productions.
Grizzly Bear photo by Ricardo Reitmeyer
Favored by
close ties
to
animal gods,
I plod
through the
peat-bogs,
enjoy
the fog somewhat
reminiscent
of roasting intelligence.
I trip into
paradise
once foretold by
prophets and paupers
but return to
the river of bees
honey and stings
embracing me,
slosh
towards the forest of lies
where
bears and coyotes
debate the finer points
of screaming salmon and
bitter partisan politics.
Once my swollen
carcass
lands the shore,
I stumble
for city lights
winking seductively,
as they tease and tempt
all us honey-swollen
animals
to our corruption.
by Rod C. Stryker
This poem was published in my book, Exploits of a Sun Poet. Hope you like it.
photo by Rudra Mandal
That
I want you
makes me race
to rip my
clothes off,
but slowly…
trade my work clothes
for my birthday
overalls,
entice you
to flaunt your
Sunday best
if Sundays were
for nudists,
grab an apple
as I chase you
in glee
and bare skin
through
bewildered crowds
of oak trees
and
conservative pastors,
assume
treasonous attitudes
and cavort
w/peace-lovers
from the train track’s
other side,
patently enjoying
our uninhibited selves.
Yes,
that I want
you makes me… Free.
by
Rod C. Stryker
A more recent piece. Hope you like it.
Artwork by Dmitriy Denysov
Decadent lifestyles of
the miffed and heinous
take center stage
with bells and chimes
a-ringin’.
Singin’ the blues
in textured pastels,
they descend to greater
feats of misery
and mayhem.
Pay them their due
or suffer
the likes of a
World Trade Center massacre
or a despot-led riot.
And quiet the whispers
of the love and peace
we crave
so we remain sane
in our depths of depression.
by
Rod C. Stryker
An older poem. Hope you like it.
The Palestinian woman
in her black
hijab walks alone.
Her mind and heart
longing for her Jewish
lover and consort.
Soon
she’ll walk beside him
in the open air,
hijab discarded,
dreams unfolding.
But her family suspects
and his government
disapproves.
For the blood
runs free and long in
years past.
Their love is strong, but
will it survive the wars
of God and Allah?
by
Rod C. Stryker
An older piece. Kinda speaks for itself. Hope you like it.
Expletives as you please
pollute my sky
and rain acid on
uncovered lovings.
Stuffing my ruined hopes
in a side pocket,
I look elsewhere
for that special,
commercialed coupling.
Over the rainbow and under the street
sewer,
I find this lust
is a horror
and a need.
Rank with smooches,
I also am wizard
of oohs and ahhs.
by
Rod C. Stryker
Here’s a short piece I wrote a few years ago. Hope you like it.
photo of Red Hat Execution Chamber by Lee Honeycutt
The guards laugh and chide
each other;
who gets to throw the switch?
Yes, I hear their echoed remarks
at night,
in my dreams.
When I’m in the hole, I sense their
thoughts through my tears,
burning in my mind.
They fear me and my friend.
All of us on the row know her,
intimately.
We’re brothers and sisters walking.
And I see her during the day,
as much a part of me now.
Her quiet, constant vigil
in robe and sickle.
And God won’t forgive me.
I see his back to me.
My pleas have fallen on deaf ears.
The priest beside me drones on
as we walk hand in hand
like blood brothers.
I smile at his supposed
delusions of savior.
My altar stands before me
with straps and buckles newly
polished.
Somehow this comforts me.
As I await my electric connection
to hell, I recall the guard’s
chill exclamation as I
stepped from
my cell;
dead man walking.
by
Rod C. Stryker
Never one to shy away from controversy, this piece was written in response to a story of a condemned prisoner. I attempted to place myself in his shoes. Although death via electrocution is in decline, it is still an alternative to lethal injection in a few US states.
photo by Jeremywhat
There goes the
last picture poet,
pants limp below
his knees,
losing his faith,
yet gaining
all those mountains
aimed
at the heavens,
tears racing
past his chin.
His laughter
echoes through valleys,
forgetting
his last poem’s
last line’s
inspired silence.
He stumbles blindly,
tripping over
shoelaces and pant legs,
allowing
ascendant and damnable
ideas to flood
his vision
and rips his common sense
free of the
many-splendored superstitious
beliefs,
relishing
his mind,
changing itself
in dark corners,
as he
dives off
the mountain,
eager to glimpse
himself,
and begs Fate
to come out and play,
one last time.
by
Rod C. Stryker
This was published in my book Exploits of a Sun Poet (Pecan Grove Press). Hope you like it.
Rod C. Rodriguez (Stryker) 