Carnival

the damnation
carnival . . . 
rope slackens
clowns fall
break balloons
echos reverberate
trapped people
mute screams - 
trapeze falls
no net 
no nothing
red splotch
soon brown
soon gone -
pitch another tent
another spike
driven in
loosens -

lion-trainer
misinformed
black cloak settles - 
another missing spike -
elephants
tumble off
walls in
to stands
red stains
soon brown
and gone again -
what remains
shattered spikes
unfilled holes
another fading mark - 
sword-swallower's
crooked necked
apendectemy
red pool
come another fool -

flame eater belched
lost his mind
flesh stains no-
longer real -
martyr muscleman
maimed mutant
faulty barbell
real
fell
splintered bones
broken spikes
lost splotch
empty hole
never fills
season's close -
another soon to come

~ james rich
hollywood california, 1960s

Sculpture

sculptured in flesh
she lay
her hair folded
among the stars
drying out the moist
of after love

~ james rich
hollywood, california 1960s

Fog folds

her olive face huddled in army-green,
she rapidly paces the gray alley between
the Chinese-red diner and indigo health food store.

a lanky form shivers in tan; he circles, blocks;
disconcerted by his rage.

"I'm really angry," her husky voice travels on fog folds.

i watch them, slowing my steps.
she shouts, and tense jet-sparkles fall from her black eyes,
the half-moons of purple staying in shadow
on her face.




regan lee
oregon, 1980s

Blue Lights

         Blue Lights

photo: regan lee

unexpected, blue lights appear
in this isolation, and through
the thin cracks in the rough wood,
glowing mists invite, even while repelling

a cold silence makes itself known, waiting
we hear its breathing

dreams, night walking, forgetfulness
only slivers of mists and light beams remain

jarring realities intrude, mundane violences, abrupt commands
we don’t understand, we don’t remember
but sense invisible connections anyhow

we believe there’ll be a reveal in the retelling, no matter
how fragmented

memory has a sentience all its own

~ regan lee 

  october 2010

Olive

long and lean, bony really,
Olive arranges herself languidly in the coarse brown chair.

her tied dyed dress made of sheer scarves reveals bare legs, furry armpits and all
 her hair is a dark-massed orchestra wildly out of tune.

she's demanding uppers and coffee and, getting up, heads down the hallway calling out
"Is this your bedroom?" and her best friend Samantha, so damn voluptuous 
in her pink quilted vest, leans over to me, she's whispering assurances:

"It's all right, her mother's an opera singer" but
I don't feel any better.


~ regan lee
 sometime in the 1980s

the black green sea

my mother voluptuous in summer dress,
thick ankle straps,
shoots a man, 
some man there, on the pier

night lights reflecting on black sea water
at eighteen dark, raven haired, 
a hibiscus behind her ear

"Listen, I must tell you
I like to lose control," 
and she falls into the ivy, 
falls into the black-green sea
salt corroding red petals red hibiscus red the red
of blood.

~  regan lee, 198?

Haiku Zasshi Za Publication

From Winter/Spring issue, 1988 of Haiku Zasshi Za, a little publication that came out of Seattle, WA. They published a haiku of mine:

an open window

a telephone rings

cold night air


                                     ~ regan lee

For Jack

For Jack

I already wrote this, gypsy man,
jukeboxes dark, falling off trucks,
tales, spinning,
turquoise shirts glinting in the dark below
following the music, the dance, the fights, the
well behaved, now, on another coast, but just.

Lights out, gone, an eye lost, and a life
Good night, Jack, we ended up badly, booze does that, and fear,
but children and lovers remain, remembering love, passion, drive, of a sorts, creative
churnings around red vinyl tables.

Although, there was that one phone call, facilitated by a friend, across the country,
and tales of Hawaii, Dorthy Dandridge, songs and Catholics oh hell I don’t remember
but you laughed, as you did, and about that eye, we knew that one was coming.




regan lee
october 2010

Word: "Murder", Covert Experiments

related to post below. realized after I wrote on one word "murder" the word assumed by most was: murder. death killing dying dead violence crime. I however, wrote of birds; as in a 'murder of crows.'

and of the 'one word' find site, my spouse casually wondered if that wasn't a social engineering experiment by various psy op factions. 

oneword.com - StumbleUpon

this is a neat exercise: oneword.com - StumbleUpon.


first one I did; the word was murder:

Of crows. They flew, no, swooped, crying their caws, down onto the rooftops, through the trees, landing with soft thuds, branches swaying. The grey skies full of crows, black shapes oily bright shimmers, following each other, understood where each was to go, to do… I stood there, watching, hypnotized by the sheer dark magic of their number.