Consumption

the assumption is:

I NEED this.

So I feed on this

and your bullshit tastes

MMmmmmmmmmm,

so good.

What I should

do,

you say

is:

    want this,

    flaunt this

          I pay for

Excess and

this Bitch

             This BITCH

is a customer,

this seat’s for her.

Well,

lick it up

               Baby

and maybe

You’ll get

that

wet Dream that haunts you

I know

It daunts you

                        don’t it?

The shedding your skin

this

what you’ve done for them

has defined you.

I wade through

my fishbowl

eating my soul

The untold

is flushed

and rushed

to the waste

and the taste

of your sweets,

tempting treats

lingers

on My useless fingers.

I’ve got to eat

       got to eat.

Tell me

             what you expect.

Tell me

that I’m next.

I’ve got to eat

       got to eat

I’ve got to eat.

You’ve got the fuel,

You make the rules.

Bring your tools 

and build my world

while this little girl

learns to redefine

the sun’s shine

I’ve got what I need

I’ve seen

            My affliction

            My addiction

This glass junkie is

An American Flunkie

This is a hunger strike.

m.hampton
2000

I am        An American Product

A Consumer Affair,

An MTV ad on primetime.

I’ve bought and sold my religion

fighting the System

for making Me choose

Between Pepsi and Coke or that

righteous campaign that just said

NO.

I’ve got to

cling to that thing

that won’t ever

Be

cause what the hell else

do I have?

Gun Smoke and

a Sweet Toke

make Me choke but

how the hell else

could I breathe?   and

I  heave

at the sight of

the Diplomat fights

the Political Icons

engineers of the carnage

They must not be human

like Me.

I’m tied to my couch

with Nike shoelaces

My dainty feet

bound in newsclippings.

can’t you see

Society andConvention

bound round

My weary will?

Poisoned by the daily digest

I note the urgency

compelling Me to

design

The Defeat of the Enemy

past the Peace Treaties.

So you see,

I can’t,

I simply just can’t

Do it.

I am        far too busy.

m.hampton
2000

The day you died.
Baby hadn’t cried

You have been gone now
For some days
or dog years
In just a tick
You’ll sit here
next to me
on this couch
or across from me
on the floor looking
up with pulsing warmth
and whispering petals
you’ll tell me a secret
that’s just ours
and I’ll follow you softly
into the kitchen where
you’ll eat me alive

or I’ll probably just ignore you
like I did before
you were lost at sea
just like I do now
and have
for dog years
and ticking minutes
because I never told
anyone
about your kidnapping
because I knew
it was my fault
you wrote me poetry
my skin had no tears
it’s still hard to breathe
2 consecutive sentences
later

This time
i sit here
In my plaster  box
clinging to myself
as if the flesh were yours

I feel you now
and do not neglect a measure of you
I hold you hard
with my hands moving
through your hair
over your back, your arms
your eyes
your calves
your sides
your palms
your fever
your spirit
your depth
your ache
I do not release you
this time
we drown together

you evaporate again
& I continue to
inhale your revenge
unaffected
as your void advances on me
a growing puddle
residing in the cracks on the tile

m.hampton
2/2004

Soldiers wage war
with less training,
less time in the field.

“hand – to – hand”
is child’s play
to a veteran flea

on the back of
this mangy breed
You’ll see

It gets warmer
before the frost sets in
lead names fade
on paper memorials
our skin stones in remembrance

We bleed and break
recover and reopen
wounds and scars
grow thick
and hard

We become less
casualties
of our own
affairs
than victims of
resultant reluctance

m.hampton

2006

I’m
waiting for sleep

In this dark, smothered cube;

In this black, cluttered corner

Locked in from the alley,

Red lights and wails.

Secured from envy

Barred from those heavy

              “powers that be.”

In this flimsy,

Silent box

           I’m waiting for sleep

The sure equalizer.

In silent adventures

We can be everyone and

The great creator.

Possibility, desire enacted

In this square theatre

I run the show.

It’s no one’s fault but my own

When sleep comes

so does all that I dream of.

Into my box

Thunders a dusky mare

With horror ablaze in its eyes

It steps on my throat,

Bleeds in my eyes

Tears at my flesh with its teeth

It asks me what I want.

           I’m waiting to wake

In this dark, smothered cube,

The globe secured outside my door.

m.hampton  2002

Poised. Prepared for show

           Elbows chafed, knees bruised

                      sleeved & stockinged

                                              unknown

the gloss glares

boasting orange & blue

           with softer hues

           in batting eyes & open mouths

           bumping pink

                      rubbing beige & brown

warm seaweed winds

blow past sculpted muzzles

                      the wishing

                                              wound

                                                         in words.

M.Hampton
5/2006

To This Woman

Every woman is a Mother

Full with love and life

Full of joy and creation

Every woman is a Mother

she will come to a 5^th minute

that will penetrate and fill

her cocoon with unknown body

she will stretch with hospitality

until her frame taps out; mercy

bursting and spewing life blood

she gives herself to creation

what she was no more is now you

a servant and a vessel to your love

Mother,

you will not art now, anymore

your creativity ultimately

manifest in this pulsing word.

It will be Dee, Kai, Darl

no matter because you gave it

It will never belong

It is the constitution you cannot amend

the will beholden to your desist

the past to your undying future

It will not know what you have done

so it will be and right

because you’ve been wrong

It is all now

It is how you know what love is

It fills a thing that was not before

It will not know until it can’t return

you will hate it ferociously

for being you and not knowing

for not being what you never were

your nights have past

your days have slept

you do not fear

you do not sin

you do not holy

you do not want

you do not need

you do not good

you do not bad

you do not in-between

You are now.

You have been full

You have been the word

You have been.

m.hampton 2002

One Pair of Shoes

One Pair of Shoes

  is all I ever had

One Pair of Shoes

         to wear

         to school

         to church

         to meetings of House & Senate

One Pair of Shoes

         to wear

         to play

         to camp

         to France with a bag full of Yen

One Pair of Shoes

         have walked

         down one narrow path

         by signs pointing

         toward much broader regions

stepping on toes

in suit

         in rows

   before sprinting

                   toward the sea

where a grain of sand  &  Me

relinquish our righteous needs

untie our knots

remove our souls

and set them aside

as a gift

for some passer-by

 who just might

         make them fit.

m.hampton 

2003

It’s simply better when it rains.

The chorus of oceans raised

in a heated frenzy

rushes back to its nature,

its formative home and

plays softly on my tarred roof

The Silence is harder and warmer this night

when leaded words are

fuller than woofers.

        I walk through grocerys

on nights like this

with fluorescence

and Dionne Warwick

I see:

        Angel Cake & Whipped Cream

        Onion Skins & Rice Crackers

        Again and again & again.

Shoppers mill about me,

amidst the cans & boxes,

avoiding my eyes while

the soles of our shoes

play the linoleum in

staccatos,falsettos, in concert

we pass w/in inches

waiting our turn

humming our apologies

as we knock about the narrow isles.

m.hampton

2001

We smile back at ourselves

From our reflections

 In the TV

We marvel at the good

We’ve done

The values

We’ve fed

 Worldwide

I’m nauseous

Our self is disintegrating

Under the weight

Of our hypocrisy  and

The mask

 Dropping over our eyes

We pretend these days

That we all have

               Opportunity

That we all have

               Respect   for one another

As we rehearse for

The new roles we play.

Hear This:

                               Your picturebox fibs.

 Muffyour ears again if you like,

My teeth hurt

               And it spreads to my eyes

               Everyday

               Of no consequence

the nausea

               Vomits an answer

               Sometimes

               No matter

We’ve none left

The weight is now commonplace

We won’t notice it for days.

We’ve lived together for too long

Us and the stench

Of man’s arrogance

It’s time for the guilt to move out

He will never make amends

For everything that’s been done

America has no remorse

I’ve grieved for you

So many times

Knowing

your rape can never be undone.

So I’m done

I’ve taken too many pills

For the ache in my head

They’ve
exacerbated my nausea

My hand is carpal tunneled

This is my final Apology.

I won’t anymore.

still responsible

For the shape that my place holds

But,

I’m not sorry.

Not anymore.

Not sorry.

Not after this

               Next line 

m.hampton

1/2007

I will whisper with you softly
as tomorrow draws again
as all the times before
passing to tomorrow again
I will whisper with you softly

my raised voice spent
with squandered pennies and bonds
I tiptoe lightly to your room
to spend the evening with the breeze
and you
the breeze and you

I will whisper with you softly
as these full days wear on
I will lay beside you intently
I will feel your presence gently
consistently with loyal memory

I will hear your words contently
break each dawn with ease
willing the stillness in my mind
that your hands imbue my body
I will be simple as the days wear on

and I will whisper with you
softly.

m.hampton
7/2008

Former Ex-Patriate

I think:

It’s rather strange

that We

Point fingers

at the Middle East.

In the face of conflict,

We proclaim Peace?

A nation of bigots

justified and judgmental

certain of its own mental clarity?

Capitol Hill:

Gives us just enough

to shadow the bluff,

pacify the masses,

keep us passive and under

the watchful eye of big brother

legislation incubating the

gestation of domination.

What do I have to prove

opposite a target that moves?

Why do I even bother?

I say:

same nation, different father;

He’s got a videocam

in the kitchen down the street where

daddy beats his kids on the ass

for smoking that grass,

convincing us to be glad

that’s not our dad.

“Well Pops,” You can give me a beating

if you’ll stop repeating

those bullshit phrases abusing my brain,

from this point I refrain

from my organized protest

of international contests

I’m back in my own affairs,

now envious of those aware

of their enemy’s shape

recalling your fundamental rape

because to conquer someone must submit

I admit – I can’t catch you

so difficult to see

perpetually shifting the meaning of

equality.

Keeping my eyes on that fool’s golden dream?

Remind me of my opportunity?

Your education conforms me,

healthcare ignores me,

technology replaces my mind

young overworked, underpaid

prozac keeps me at bay

for a 5 dollar copay

hey, this is livin’

You’ve given me nothing to fight for,

use those 5 star word rights for

because I can’t see

how you’ve conditioned me

into passivity

with TVs

and wax-paper democracy

This job is not for me.

“Well honey,” you say:

If you insist on that way

you’ll never get paid

So you don’t like glass ceilings

and superficial dealings,

you’re still cute, why don’t you marry rich?

“Well buddy,” this bitch

ain’t getting hitched

to any notion prescribed by who?

I Do  not

pledge allegiance

to your token convenience

Your canon,

Your politics

or Your priest

I refuse to feast

on your ill-inducing toxins

that have boxed in

my health and my concept of free

You won’t develop in me

that crucial dependency

on your favors and sweet-tasting lies

I’m rubbing my eyes

on pages of a new open text

I mean to share with the rest

We’re coming Big Brother

                     We’re next.

m.hampton 2001

Ham at Sunday Market

  Pokes at me

With its brown sugar glaze

  It wants to eat me

            Pig.

I try another aisle

  Cold & Green

Cartoons shout at me

  & Dr. sax G.

            speaks his piece

There’s enough to eat.

  This is not endurance

Instinct abandons me

  To preference

I hold my head

Because its shaking wildly

Or I’m shaking it

Instead      I’m chosen

& snacked on for a while

then left to starve

in aisle 4.

M.Hampton

2005

Last Night

The house was gorgeous

Huge and empty

So many white walls and halls

From ‘Better Homes and Gardens’

This house with

A carpeted spiral staircase and

For the first time

Since memory

The whole portrait was there,

all of us.

No: place

To unload,

Rest

Peacefully for the night

Somehow

The Kin

had stained the walls.

The men

Were marching through

The house

Invading all the

Rooms with windows.

Matron

Was reading

Art books

Trying

To relax

Upstairs.

She Wore a robe

Like Sophocles’

Players would,

Set her books on the

wood milk

crate before her.

You Saw the shine in her eye

As she picked up the

bread knife

With both hands

you th vainly begging

No

you gave her the rusty sewing scissors

Thinking to take the butter knife.

Down the stairs caught in alternate shadows.

So she wouldn’t see

Light

            Step

Dark

            Step

It flashed over her face

As she slowly tore down

The spinning staircase

No

No

No

No

No

The virile inventor

And apprentice

Rise to her room

Then lean over the rampart rail

To declare:

She’s done it.

In this homeless place

The windows face the alley

Full of empty boxes

And soiled mattresses

And those rained wet

Art books

Still, the closet

Is big and dirty enough to be

A New York City apartment

And I think about how

I can

Make it home.

m.hampton   1999

In this hour of love

                              And this one of truth

In this hour of Love

        Will you speak to me?

        Soft words touching

        of my eyes

               my lips

                       my hair

In this hour

        Will you forget?

        that I’m broken, discarded

        wise and untrue

        that I’m only lonely

This hour of love,

        is it me?

        You, my saviour

        healer  and all things

        with white light and soft focus

In this hour

        may I promise?

        to believe all of this

        empty my experience

        know only yes words

        and my senses

in this hour of love

        could we confide?

        full and ripe

        even living,

        satisfied .

In this hour of truth

        we will be without

        bells and whistles

        a sort of total     naked

        unable to see

                       the other’s eye

In this hour of truth

        we are grey and uncommon

        we cannot touch

        for our baseness and age

        we’re terrified

In this hour of truth

        we have other things

        other lives

        we are hopeless, w/out

        subtext, context

                                      or story line

in this hour of truth

        we’ve forgotten

        worship, affection, devotion

        we are you and i

        you and i are only

in this hour of truth

        i will try

        as hard as i

        have ever

        and render ruin.

m.hampton    2004

The thing is

           The Wasted Way We Talk

with weathered words

 and spoken gestures

a lifetime of caution

 and dismembered regret

our tainted memories

 paint the room with

the results we¹vechosen to become.

Like robed lions

 we navigate our losses

smelling fear

 craving flesh

and a monument in ourname

we speak on lonely things

 with bitter sounds

and preserve our hope

 with wasted words

we waste our truth

 on pretty things

that tickle for a time

then fade to silence

           where

we can rest for a while

avoiding the sound

of the smoothed round

boulder on the bed

that rallies our thoughts

‘round the sillysimplicity

of a lilted tongue

that speaks with

eyes ablaze

we turn to ash

turn our words to dust

our lust to fear

and speak in prose liketext

like toys

like trinkets

children’s story books

like things we leftbehind

in mounting piles ofdebris.

There was a bitter storm

when 

I set foot for Canada

 my carriage late

 but still timely

It stormed straight through

my travels with wind

hail

I wrote you letters along the way.

I haven’t heard back

-I was on the road-

but I know you’re

  still there.

I’m writing this last

to let you know the climate

is more pleasant

  milder here.

I’m writing this last

to state and share

things are as they could be

here.

m.hampton

2008

i am in awe of the Humble Man
Who kneels on the stone steps
of Labor and Charity.

i am in awe of this Man
in his plain clothes
worn at the knees and elbows.

I believe I love him.

i am in awe of the Humble Man
and his love for jesus
who has not turned
My Fiery Passion from
my own crucifixion

i am in awe of the Humble Man
who lightly burns his path each day
with trust and loyalty.

His answers are thorough,
brief and fueled by faith

i am in awe of the Humble Man
my own humility enlightened
yet tempered by
my burn for validation
what I put to this page.
The Humble Man’s quest
a Humble Trade.

The prayers of the Humble Man
wake me each morn
with the lingering taste of
My Own Prayer
to draw him near.

m.hampton
8/2008

    Is it all right with you?

If I plain say enough.

    Would you be just fine?

If I stop for one line.

                     enough.

    Would you consider it rude

If I stop for one line

    Could you pull through

    Would you consider it rude

If I enjoy the silence and break it

    Could you pull through

If I give voice to my mind

If I relish the silence and break it

    Would you take it hard

If I give voice to mind

    Couldn’t you understand

    Would you take it hard

If I hold solely myself in the dark

    Could you not understand

If I step outside myself a while

If I hold solely myself in the dark

    Could you take anymore

If I step outside myself a while

    Would you still say you know me

    Could you take anymore

If I cry till my eyes bleed

    Would you still say you know me

If I lose in my humanity

If I cry till my eyes bleed

    Would you be just fine

If I lose in my faith

    Is it all right with you

m.hampton
1999

Little Ache

            right there     again

where it shouldn’t.

            Little Ache

wormed its way in

like first frost

spreading over

            lawn green

                                    Little Ache

Little things

            Little pieces

                                    browning

                        Little Ache

eating pink things

  eating soft things

Little Ache

You shouldn’t

                        Little Ache

You should leave

                        Little Ache

uninvited

            unreciprocated

                        un-reposed.

Now, Little Ache           

i keep thinking

                                    We’re through

i keep thinking

                                    i’m clean

You keep making

                                    me dirty

You keep making

me dream.

m.hampton

2006