I Have Seen The Best Minds Of My Generation Destroyed By Madness

Too many people stomping around—
fractured herds mucking the rivers,
shitting the highways,
killing the grass.
They think they know when they don’t.

They rode lame in a hot race and wept when their HellCat lost.
Now they cry from twit-faces in their concrete castles filled with Eisenhower plastic,
drowning their DTs in anger
and lamenting that their cultivated habits didn’t make them rich.

Money for the populace is the reason Owners obsess over property and selfhood.
They muck the rivers,
shit the highways,
kill the grass,
and count their dollars made of starvation, suicide, failure, death—

Dusty professors moan that I speak Ginsberg—
tragedy reduced to numbers big as vagina
while the world riots to muck the rivers…
eating the life from their own butchered bodies
and lamenting that their cultivated habits still don’t make them rich.

Photos, Writing

Come and Visit

The other day I found a treasure of old photos, some of my old blog posts I’d saved on Microsoft Word, and a plethora of unfinished poetry. Since then, I’ve been rescuing my blog posts and adding them to my site. As many of you know, I deleted those old posts years ago and I’ve regretted it. Not everything from those files is well written—I wince a lot when I read my old stuff—but it’s all a record of who I was and the growth and changes I’ve gone through.

I think I miss most the comments from my followers. Those are gone forever.

Anyway, I’ve been plugging those holes, rebuilding the past. Lots of old poems, art and photographs to look at. And more on the way.

So stop by, leave comments at my About page, and don’t be a stranger.

I’ll end now with a sunset photo at a lake near my home. A perfect place to collect my thoughts and find peace.



When I Came With You (Revisited)

It was here one night
among white blossoms and junipers
that we lay touching
while the rest of the world
snored in their small beds

We breathed frost words to breezes on branches
breathing deeply in the deep woods
with no earthly destination
hidden behind the pulse of dawn
throbbing on a trigger’s touch

You were delicate incense I lit alone

In silence
my fingers found the sweep of stars on bare skin—
a house-warmth murmur of Christmas gold when you breathed

You were a bird
whose only cry came in color in the company of starlight
whistling up the violets
in a garden wilderness of dawn’s yellow daylight
flowering into streaming pinks
and fleshed with rose petals when I came with you

Photo Credit:
 Meireles Neto





The Poet

The boy who lost his mother gnarled like a bear—
tough bear he

But away from the bestial
he had softness in his eyes—
they laughed even when he and his words were sharp
and sometimes ambiguous

He showed the plumpness of his belly to his closest friends
and grunted like a pig and poet
laughing behind his scars
with eagerness to taste color from afar

He took from the sunglow like an artist hunched at his easel
and painted everyone—
even the ones who had no power to imagine

He painted deaf-mutes with love that ran down his breast
ripping chords from the constellations
and opening creation’s ingenious blindness
to music that volleyed beyond his art that transcended ages
and volleys still
in us all

Photo Credit:
 John Lennon




Car Hysteria (Seduction Revisited)

Earlier today
shopkeepers seduced pot-bellied old men
with sleek
brand-new cars
that rubbed and kissed their trousers
and guaranteed to stop lonesomeness

Erstwhile minds backpedaled on leather seats
where stale memories surfaced and breathed new air
striking deals in brown cubicles
under the breath of fresh coffee

What she feared most
kicked and scratched
and wanted to grow big enough to crawl
from the backseat of a yellow Pantera
and seduce her all over again
while her husband and she waited
for his father to sign the lease
as wordy as Shakespeare but lacking any color

She stayed away from the thing of her past
that once bit her crotch for the taste of her sex

Some memories are the turmoil
of a soul knotted like hair in vomit
where forlornness and tumultuousness sting

Photo Credits:
 Tiko Giorgadze
 Matt Glm





Dream Voyeur

When I sleep
you hide paralyzed in the shadows of my bed
where your courage to live vanished long ago

In your world of mocking corpses
you rub against me
in wingless dreams and knitted walls
and empty stares
that run from the drum of my heart

You bleed broken knuckles
against your hidden door to empty stairs
that led you once to a girl like me

You bring me fists of her dead flowers
and promise me a future of your past faded worlds

You wear her memory around your neck—
the noose of every man hanged by rejection
to bleed broken
among all the eggs of the future

But you live your death
in these halls of feeble footsteps
outside my room
where your twitching fingers bleed to open empty cameras
and nail me to the windows of your eyes

Photo Credit:
 Alex Boyd



Artwork, Writing

The Blogger Me

It feels good to blog again about my poems and art. Although I have been blogging since 1996, I feel like a stranger blogging again and reaching out and meeting new bloggers here at WordPress.

I pen mostly free verse poetry—poems written in open forms sometimes called “Naked Poetry,” a term coined from the anthology books Naked Poetry: Recent American Poetry in Open Forms (1969) and The New Naked Poetry (1976) by Stephen Berg and Robert Mezey. My maternal grandmother had them and other books about poetry in her library. Robert Frost was my favorite poet when I was old enough to read, but I soon favored the “naked poets” and their open form styles and began creating my own free form poems at nine years old. I won a few awards when I was a teenager and at college, but winning accolades and gaining fame was never my motivation for writing poetry. And honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever been motivated by anything more than a calling to write down the words that fill my mind day and night and to structure them into forms that please my sight, tongue and hearing.

I write fiction, too, but not often. Storytelling involves rules of structure that restrict me from developing anything comparable to the sight and sound of open poetry. In that sense, I’m probably more of an artist than a writer. And I do enjoy making art, whether I’m drawing or painting.

Like every kid growing up in North America during the 1980s, music surrounded me, whether it was on the radio, TV, or thumping from my dad’s stereo with speakers as large as our refrigerator. My dad taught me how to play guitar, so I turned some of my poems into songs. That’s when I created my nom de plume Colleen Ackerman from my middle name and my mom’s maiden name. I liked it better than my real name. I went through a phase when I despised the name Lola because of (1) the song Lola by The Kinks, and (2) the song Copacabana by Barry Manilow. The Kinks’ song is about a man falling for a transvestite named Lola. The Manilow song is about a showgirl named Lola with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there. She danced at the Copacabana north of Havana where she and Tony the bartender were lovers until some guy named Rico came along, killed Tony and sent Lola on a 30-year downward spiral into depression and alcoholism. People still make comparisons of those songs and me. If I had a nickel for all those times someone asked me “Are you a dude?” and then laughed, I’d be a millionaire. And I’m still a little irked at my cousins who set me up on two blind dates on the same night when I was 16. The one date’s name was Tony. The other date was a boy named Rico (if that was his real name—I have my doubts). Anyway, when two boys show up at your house at the same time to take you to the local dance, it’s painfully awkward and embarrassing and not very funny.

I began blogging my poems and art when I was a girl in California so I could stay connected with my relatives and friends around the country. (Anyone from the old Geocities’ Paris neighborhood? If so, Lola Fae/Colleen Ackerman says hi.) I met many people in many guises whom I termed the friendliest ones as “blog pals” and spent countless hours reading their writing and looking at their art and photography. That’s when I fell in love with the Internet. And that’s why I’m here twenty-one years later—I’m still in love with it!

As I mentioned, it feels good to publish my poems and art again. I hope to do so for a long time.

Love and peace to all.