There's this poem about Craig 
Stalking me lately 
But I haven't written a word of it thus far, 
I reckon I don't trust its coyote paw prints 
Or it’s shadow moths kept in a jar.
I remember the day Rick Ivy called me 
And how I didn't even cry 
For Craig by then was right there beside me
Some shine tricksters never die.
It's a poem about the Ones, who ride the side Other, 
No one wants to believe that I see
On how I saw sweet Brady Green dancing 
In a Memphis cosmic sky-mist Xmas tree 
Or her face shining 1000x from the chapel door Exit 
How Aunt Elisabeth in her wake smiled at me 
Something I could never fully describe.
It's the one that explains how it's really beyond words 
That I’d best make a painting instead
Some Ones have a way of living unspoken, 
Eternal visions remaining unread.
So a poem is no measure, 
For this that I owe you,
Nor dances, or paintings one-step beyond
It is the Light-show connecting the Love that you gave me
To others, when they come around.
Long after I left you without looking back
Your care kept me living a life above ground
Now you know that’s why I do what I do
You helped me back then so that I’d stick around
And be here for someone else too.


You’re strong as an ox he groaned

Southern backstreet bad

Guttersnipe boned

I was wrestling my dad 

 

I had double vision

He was triple tired 

I was nimble in quicksand 

Cornered he was mired

 

Coins tossed for his reasons to fight

My runaway jaunt 

Made Ma’s hair ghost white

She was grieving and gaunt

 

Greyhound busted 

Back from out west 

Mama had missed me like 

I’d been in the cuckoo’s nest

 

Dad would’ve thrown me out

But he was torn

Between the woman he adored and

The daughter he scorned

 

And I was just like him

A renegade spin

Proverbial haystack 

Needled in gin

 

Space between my teeth

Button nose slim

My dad and I were thick as thieves

Way back then

 

He was an orphan 

I was not 

His past life of misery 

He never forgot

 

Until I awoke like a sage 

Uncanny outrage

For the government settlers

Who made our people rot

 

Our underground ancestors

Grew into trees 

I roamed through their roots 

On my hands and my knees

 

I knew I was born outta

Dust weeds and grit

A twisted old oak

Said don’t feel so different

 

In a whisper, the tree spoke

To my spinning redhead

Your father & mother

Will someday be dead

 

Like your grandma your grandpa

Like all theirs and bleaker

We hear you loud and clear

We know you’re a seeker

 

A tribe is a circle 

Unbroken. Untamed.

And you’re strong as an ox 

As your dad once proclaimed

 

dianegreen©   

 

 

 


I'm a poet and I know it

Smacked in the jaw

By Robert Browning's glove

Now Bob Dylan can sew it

 





As if all those other poems

and paintings and jobs and songs 

were shavings

for the night maid to sweep up. 

This is it. Quality. Perfection. 

No shit.

Look it over.
Look it up and down.

Under, behind, inside and out.

Lovers friends children ancestors ghosts demons and angels

This one's for you,

Stay thirsty my friends.

The best student always failing,

loves failing again,

Her spiraling human disfortune has floundered diving into pools of

gone

madness is not only a myth a burden

a caricature of itself

it is the lifeboat

sinking and rising

again and again



It seems like only yesterday. Fencing boxing crashing breaking and burning anything in my way to hold onto love or to steal its ghost in the mask.  The proverbial Rebel throwing the lug wrench off a cliff, I jumped into music writing singing & playing while my paintings kept me alive. Friends tolerated my insanity. An Odd Job or one of the Hellcats.

Now I know a girl in the 'hood, if she doesn't watch out she's gonna get diced or take out someone else. It's like someone took me off the shelf and dusted me off like an old encyclopedia, opened it up to the page on Diane Clones. Except she's not an artist or a musician. I think she's going to die of soul starvation.

What goes around comes around. I can only thank my lucky stars to be alive. They thought I was a goner too.

 


 

 


At Blue Island & 16th Street: 

Deep down inside. 

You know the place 
with faces in the walls 
that you can't really see 

you know they are there 
and they can see you 
but you don't really care 

because 

you've been there too 

the cool damp dark hard dirt grit 
twisted metal rust
stone walls grind away 
any memory of a home 

if you ever had one 

2008  Pilsen/Little Village in Chicago.