Poet

It’s All Relative (Anthropological Spoken Word)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

For the last ten years I’ve been teaching college courses in Anthropology and Geography. But last month I signed on to join Teach for America where I will transition into teaching middle school or high school. Sometimes at the end of the semester I would recite this poem for students, to try and capture everything we’ve learned in the entire term. Also, I wrote this about two years ago, and I realized recently that I never actually posted it even though it’s one of my favorite pieces that I’ve written.

This spoken word poem is inspired by the core message of Anthropology so artfully put by Horace Minor many years ago. he said that anthropology is, “Making the strange familiar and the familiar strange.”
This poem also appears in my book, A Luminous Liminality: A Collection of Poetry and Art

It’s All Relative

It’s all about relations,

No I don’t mean sexual intercourse,

I mean how people build their foundations

How they relate to causation, or build a nation

And what they consider freedom and liberation

The tracks of humanity don’t just stop at one station

The imagination is filled with endless destinations

Everyone has hopes and dreams, sorrows and frustrations

Everyone wants to experience the sensation of cessation of suffering and damnation

Options

We are a range of cultural options

Our choices are the result of a kind of cultural adoption

Humans are a wonder to be sure

We explore, go on tour, only to identify what we consider pure and impure

We fight wars because we are insecure, but wait there’s so much more.

For every detour we endure, we can also find the cure

For our madness

For every act of hate, there one of love pushing back against the sadness

The thoughts people carry are the result of causes and conditions

A steady diet of enculturation a kind of cultural brain nutrition

Of what’s clean and dirty, right and wrong

How best to gather food or sing a song

How to unify a community and get along

Culture is about adapting and understanding where you belong

So much of it is arbitrary but we claim tradition is important because it has. Gone. On. So. Long.

But tradition is selection of past perceptions

Rooted in imagined past and cultural objections

There’s nothing inevitable about the paths we choose

The things we keep, the things we loose,

Or how we use and abuse one another

When we forget that all beings have once been our mothers

And we yell and scream and blame one other.

For our problems

And so it’s relative, the way we know

Our goals, dreams, aspirations, the places that we go

Flow below the assumptions and you will find a place to grow

But take it slow.

Because if you think you know,

You’re wrong.

Relativism is a practice,

lifelong

And that beginners mind, keeps you from getting too headstrong

Don’t assume right or wrong

Just be curious, instead of furious.

Cultural relativism is poison, a disease?

Oh please, I’ve got no interest to appease

The keyboard warriors whose agenda is to throw feces

Like our primate cousins…

Relativism doesn’t mean you allow ignorance to thrive,

It means you contrive to understand what it means to be human and alive

The things we do to survive and strive for

Opens the doors to more

Possibilities

Because every culture is a library of wonder

They all have lessons and wisdom bright with lightning and thunder

So shut up,

listen,

and put down your hands

You don’t have to like, but you should try to understand

Growth (Spoken Word Poem)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

Fresh this morning at the end of February of 2024, here is a piece of spoken word poetry titled, Growth. Text is below the video.

@authormichaelkilman

A spoken word poem titled Growth #spokenpoetry #spokenword #alliteration #growth #growthmindset #technology #poetry #poet #authorsoftiktok #authormichaelkilman

♬ original sound – Michael Kilman

Growth

Organic,

Certified fresh on grocery store shelves,

Shopping in civility,

In and out like seashells,

On sea shores with shifting tides,

Circulating trash.

There,

Standing over there,

Something untenable,

Titanic,

Trembling walls of plastic,

Like tumors,

Like free trade,

Growing beyond the boundaries of what was always bountiful.

Circulating wealth into the center,

But consecrating that concentration cannot hold,

Beyond borders,

Beyond beauty,

Creeping towards climaxes of cataclysm, catastrophe,

Coffins at higher costs.     

Then,

Virtual panoramas rise,

Hiding villainous views.

Prisons of perspective,

Pluralities of Plutocracies,  

Lending to lingering hours,

 days, weeks, months, years,

of long, lonely lifetimes.  

A gaping maw of similarity,

Simulations without suspense of belief in the simulacra.

Marvels generated in single seconds,

For sensual,

Bread and circuses.

Divide and conquer,

Squabble and squander,

The grass is green of yonder,

Keeping you somber,

Silent, with overtly simple explanations,

Of Black and White thinking.

So you can,

Demonstrate your diligence.

Your dedication, and deliberate reconstruction,

Of that simulation,

Of that model,

Of the other,

So that,

Nothing ever grows in you.

Because,

Your certainty shopping at certified organic store shelves,

Is the only ritual you need.

I See A Buddha (Poetry)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

Sometimes we see things that aren’t there. Sometimes we see things we want to see. And sometimes if we know how to look, we can see a Buddha. This poem is about learning to look, even in the most chaotic of places.

I See A Buddha

I see a buddha in the mess of words I wrote above,

Though,

I’ve veiled them from you.

It’s personal okay?

But let me say that it was all about,

How often I get to hear sparrows sing,

Or taste the morsal of a good word from book or craft,

Or chase the geese like a wild man again so that every passer by thinks me mad.

I see the buddha in the mess of words I wrote above,

Because my sadness is symmetrical,

For I know not which path is the mindful one,

And there are more than two besides.

But weave weave weave weave,

I must learn to weave,

Because I see a buddha in the mess of words I wrote above.

Pronouncement & Ruin (Poetry/Art)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

This pair of poetry and art come together as a pair. The poem is titled, I Sat And Watched The Pronouncement Of The King For The Last Time and the artwork it inspired is titled Ruin. More recently, I’ve been putting the poems up on Tiktok but unfortunately this one is a bit too long for that format.

I Sat And Watched The Pronouncement of the King for the Last Time

I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time

From a tower up on high

Little rose pedals cascaded below, showering corruption alongside their scent

From the eager promises lolling on the lips of a lunatic dictator

The crowd hung on every word

Oh my!

Could he rally such a cry

From tears and jeers of all those who loved him,

And loved to hate him.

But no one seems to be able to get enough of his blather

They consume his every word,

And let it bring warmth and hate to their hearts

I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time.

For the queen held no power these days,

A living, moldering corpse, propped up by high fashion

Her distraction lives in the expectations of pomp and circumstance

A role model?

No.

A comedy,

A farce,

A prop.

Her righteousness is twisted through a veil made of her undergarments

We lust after her curves and seek to suppress her for our lecherous gaze

So we can make use of her body and discard it when finished

She’s not expected to perform anymore,

For her silence is more desirable.

I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time

When art hung in tapestries like dead hanging flesh on a rotting corpse

Its soul depleted for the pleasant, the normal, the expected,

Its lukewarm flavor brought to you by your favorite sponsor

Did you see them?

There, below the dais, the mistrals sat in rows of confused passion

Blowing trumpets, bent by the will of the dictator, to change their sound for his delight

And soon their skins will be stripped by the costs of commonsense

Their only sin, to create,

Instead of creating profit

I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time

When horses were quartered to feed the starving in the streets

So that the poor could dine on the less desirable entrails

And “use the whole animal.”

Undercooked and underpaid they gobble without napkins and nod in agreement when told,

No one wants to work anymore

All the while, the dictator’s allies swim in rivers of gold and blood

With naked slaves serving their whims

And women and children work in foreign lands to satisfy their superficiality

The lords and ladies dance until their decadence destroy all civility

And the enemy is exaggerated to hide their own extravagance

Squandering potential, they let others bet on a maybe, as they cross borders,

For More Empty Promises

I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time

As fires consumed forests faster than fracking could till the blood of the earth

And men sat in armor on pale horses, blaring lights and sound in the spaces where hope is barren on the storeroom shelves

Where those who protect water were doused and drenched until the last barriers crumbled

And no decency was left

They will die thirsty,

Drenched in the water they needed,

Sucking water from cloth, they will taste the dyes as their eyes close one last time

I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time.

When the dictator’s corruption grew to great heights and fed on the flesh of all the loathsome worshipers,

As they cast the names of gods around like so many useless hens clucking

When outrage was worth its weight in gold among the bards of the king’s courts, where they made empty promises to capture a captive audience

And whispers of ‘Gods’ will” gagged those who would speak against his crimes

For what is divinity but tyranny,

When they quack about “the Secret”

When change is promised at every step if you just visualize harder,

But theft was the only true golden rule.

I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time

For the torches are already burning in the hands of those who see the truth

And the trumpet trumps his lies when blown from below

Where the wisdom of crowds grows in magnitude

And so, I sat and watched the pronouncement of the king for the last time

For his end is at hand

It’s Release Day for A Luminous Liminality!!!

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

It’s release day for my newest (and sixth) book, A Luminous Liminality: A Collection of Poetry & Art. The book represents 10 years of my artwork and poetry and is my very first collection of poetry and art. This last week I got the first proofs of the book and I’ve included some pictures of the final product. A Luminous Liminality has both an ebook version and a paperback version. I recommend the paperback version to get the full experience of all the color images. Please note that prints are always available for my artwork. You can find my artwork at this page if you’re curious about it.


The book is broken down into three seasons. A season of sentimentality (poems and art about emotional life), A season of reflection (Self reflection and reflection on our culture) and, A season of transformation (realization, personal growth, change). I really wanted to show many sides of my life and experience in this book. There are poems about love, loss, hope, bitterness, frustration, hope, persistence, growth, and meditation. Oh, there’s even a poem on anthropology. The book is really about my journey over the last ten years.

I hope you enjoy it. You can find it on Ebook from all your favorite digital stores and on paperback via Amazon all at this one link. Simply click whatever service you’d like to use.

A Luminous Liminality Book Cover
A Luminous Liminality Book Cover

How To Lose A Debate On Purpose (Poetry)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

A piece of poetry and artwork both titled “How To Lose A Debate On Purpose.” A quick note, a number of these pieces of artwork and poetry are being compiled into my first poetry book at the moment. It will be out before the end of 2022. More news soon!

©Loridian’s Laboratory LLC and Michael Kilman 2022

How to Lose A Debate On Purpose

It’s time to lose,

To concede,

To let the important human connections supersede

Our need,

To. Be. Right.

Our need to be right?

All that does is cause endless fights.

Until we cut the power and turn off the lights,

On. Our. Rage.

We can never get on the same page.

It’s easy to forget that the world is full of our siblings,

And get caught up in all the quibbling.

It’s all our relations beyond just sisters and brothers.

From other fathers

And other mothers

Hurting them means we will never recover..

All. Our. Souls.

And If winning is always your goal,

Then all that says is that you have a desperate need to take control

Rather than roll,

With the punches.

There are no free lunches

There are only connections,

And they are clear,

Upon. Further. Reflection.

Everyone wants to be happy,

No matter how confused,

They are in it to win it and never want to lose.

So you must be soft and yielding aligning with Taoist-like views.

Flow like a river and you will find a way to defuse,

These culture wars before people choose to…

Take. Up. Arms.

Our whole culture is sounding an alarm.

Whether you live in a city or a farm,

You need to learn to listen to prevent harm.

Listen. To. Understand.

That’s the best plan.

If you listen to win all you do foster opinion.

You never get below people’s skin ,

In a way that makes the space for compromise to begin.

Listen. To. Understand.

Instead of making demands,

Choose to lose in conversation,

When it makes sense to understand someone’s fixation.

Their obsession isn’t going to go away,

If you just block them and ignore what they say,

That way just leads to more disarray.

Listen to practice empathy

It doesn’t mean you have to agree

It doesn’t mean you will ever see

Eye. To. Eye.

But you cannot deny

The people come to their views to try and feel satisfied

And to avoid pain,

Even if they are driving in the wrong lane,

Or maybe they just got on the wrong train.

People are people wherever you go

And most just want you to sincerely know

Who. They. Are.

A Land of Fortresses (Poetry)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

I wrote this last week during a poetry workshop at the High Plains for Applied Anthropology. This poem is dedicated to Howard Stein, who always inspires us to remember how powerful poetry is as a tool for understanding our humanity. Thanks Howard!

A Land of Fortresses

We are a land of fortresses,

Solitary, we treat only with those who think like us,

We are surrounded by a moat of toxic water,

Where the corpses of diverse ideas fester.

Our noses burn with their smell.

So we plug them and avert our eyes,

Staring only at the safety within our walls.

It is safe in here,

Like in the dark ages.

The world out there is dangerous,

Trolls pick their teeth with the bones of their victims,

The ones who wandered too far from their fortress,

They gorge under crumbling overpasses at the intersections of cyberspace.

Hoards of hairy monsters circle the walls,

Pounding on the portcullis.

Longing to cut their teeth on fresh fleshy argument.

Their wicked smiles gleam,

But only at 2 am, with beards unshaven,

Their cry of, ‘actually’, screamed at rhythmic intervals.

In the moonlight mist,

Even robots wait in ambush.

With strange requests for our most intimate knowledge,

To be used against us.

Your mother’s maiden name,

Your first pet,

Your high school mascot,

A way inside.

Our memories are our vulnerability.

There, waiting in a tower of thorns we hide behind walls.

Ignoring the needy who gather at the gates by day.

We stay closed for business,

To those with needs unmet.

Never pondering,

Only pontificating from the ramparts.

And the guards pay no mind,

Until the siege weapons arrive,

Well past the time of asking.

They erect the weapons just beyond our reach,

With great desperation.

Then we dig in.

Prepare the boiling oil,

Prepare the volley of flaming arrows,

And slings, to keep our outrageous fortunes,

To ourselves.

But know,

The walls will fall.

They always do eventually.

Even with our pride bolstering them.

Even after they crumble,

We cling to their illusion of solidity,

And believe everything we think.

Until it rots us through to the core.

Then, we stand amongst the rubble wondering why.

Screaming in the darkness at some imaginary god to save us.

Requesting thoughts and prayers,

Rather than doing anything at all.

And so we join the lost,

The homeless.

For we have no home in ourselves.

Wandering,

Pounding at the gates of another

Begging for entrance,

Pleading for compassion.

Cut by the thorns as we try to scale their walls.

And we construct siege weapons,

To topple the towers,

And bring all to ruin,

Because we have been ruined by our indifference.

I have built a wall

I have dug a moat,

Made of algorithms.

To cling, to avoid,

Both are poisons.

I have turned away,

I have clung until my fists bled.

My own life, slipping through my fingers.

Only to find Saturn return and demolish my walls,

With the weight of its gravity.

Open the gates.

Smash the walls.

Feel the freedom of the open-air,

Of strange conversations in dense forests,

And find the wisdom in the unkempt grass,

Or roll in the mud until you are baptized.

There is no choice.

To ignore is only to delay.

To ignore is to forfeit your will,

Your choice in the matter.

Go Then,

Be forced naked into a wilderness that no longer wants you,

But claims you anyway.

We will make good mud.

We are exiles of our own making.  

The Argument (Poetry)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment
The Argument ©Michael Kilman 2022

The argument

There they are!

A few glimmering words, circling the inside of my skull

I reach… Pluck… Pluck… Pluck

Butterflies churn and excitement grows stirring me from near slumber

Something new to be born as the stars circle overhead.

Forget it.

You cannot grasp them.

Your tongue is swollen and thick from too much use

Your body aches from a endless maddening hustle

And your fingers dare not toil at their sacred assemblage

Liar!

Look at how they shimmer!

They are bright in the dark that they will arrange themselves as oceans often do

They caress me in all the right ways

And I long for their knowledge, their truth

I cannot ignore their cultivation.

Weep then,

Weep for hours on end for they will not flow from your lips or fingertips  

They will leave you a widow, after a lifetime of promises,

Moaning at all your loss

And then, kick you to the shadows where you will linger long waiting for a promised sun

That never shines

But I must!

For what else is to be done now at this late hour?

The clock maddens my mind with it’s ticking taunts

What fruit could this debate lay naked and open

It is best to embrace when the eyes will not close

I submit to their shimmer and ally myself to their cause.

Blocked

That is where you will find yourself,

Outside the door of an illustrious mansion, hearing the clambering and laughter of guests.

But with no key for entry. In vein you will jostle the doorknob.

Lusting after them with no passage.

You chase in vein fool, how many have you plucked?

Oh my good sir,

I have plucked them all in argument.

I have found peace in your taunts.

They are settled, nestling against my heart.

And they are alive.

A Wintered Heart (Narrative Poem)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

A Narrative poem titled A Wintered Heart. The artwork I created goes by the same title.

A Wintered Heart

A heart of winter, a wintered heart,

She lay quiet, the letter torn apart.

Her tears streamed, like rivers to the sea

And she tried to make bargains, and made endless pleas

An age had past, and cold crept in

No smiles, no warmth, and no new life could begin

The fresh dark tears of the next mornings song

Rose up her cheeks and sapped her strength so that she could not go on.

There she lay, no warmth and no light

A mistress of time, without the slightest delight,

Waited, she waited, with her breath deeply bated

But once the cold crept in, her permafrost was fated

An act so unkind had birthed her present dread

And soon, she had sores from her long days in bed

That act of greed, and a lust for glorious stone

Had left her heart broken, now widowed and alone

She sat there all winter, in endless defeat

She lay so still, mice nested at her feet.

And as the spring time came, the sun drew in

And pressed on her face, lighting her skin.

It planted a seed below her dread,

And as the sun shone that morning, she swung out of bed

Her pain, had nested rot in her heart

And she could not bear the thought of no more love

AND no more art

And so that day, she made her demands

At the canvas she threw red paint and smoked contraband

But from her mess, came a new kind of love

A love of life, hard won, from travels above

Her wintered heart still, held great sway,

But she got a little better with each passing day

And new mediums of art caught her attention,

And she found small victories with her creative affections

So she took one step, and then one more

And one day soon she found herself outside her front door

And found a new canvas to shed her grief,

Though when she spray painted her mural, the cops chased her, called her a liar and thief

Though she had not finished and ran and hide

She planted a new seed on the cities west side,

New murals sprung up in tangent with her own,

And she started a club, and though at first people groaned

About the “grafetti” and the murals, it became a place for many to call home.

And though many of the wealthy had made their gripes

Soon the color that flooded the city brought new life

Community gatherings of collaborative art,

Helped her to get a kind of political start

She found that art brought so much relief

To help people shed the weight of their tragedy and grief

She started centers all over her city

And named them Wintered Heart, to make light of her season long self-pity

For she knew that seeing the signs swinging above

She would always remember her long lost love

And She would honor him with every stroke of a brush

Or spray can, or clay, or charcoal or the burning of sagebrush

Her wintered heart had planted a seed of hope

In place where so many felt at the end of their rope

And they loved her, and taught her a new kind of joy

That’s found in friends hearts, without any romantic ploys

Winteredheart… they chanted her name,

With love and respect and begged her to enter the political game,

Soon after elected mayor she made the city her new project,

Used art, music, theater, and poetry to help them remember self-knowledge and respect

Through her acts, she brought great change,

For the city filled with color and it helped her to rearrange,

The divides and the differences that people perceive

And she taught them that it was, in each other they should believe.

Still her wintered heart held great sway,

For she barely forgot about her lost love for more than a day

Her heart still long for his eyes and his lips

Or to run her hand through his hair with her fingertips

But she smiled, and felt, the joy of all she’d done  

Many victories, in her community, she had won

And her heart was frozen but happy at the same time.

For even a Wintered Heart, can find new rhythm and new rhyme.

TuT! TuT! (Poetry)

/ michaelkilman / Leave a comment

My first piece of poetry for 2022. The artwork is a photo collage of several images. Enjoy!



TuT! TuT!

There is a theme to be found in the hollow cheeks of children with their wide vacant eyes. Their gaze fixed on concrete with only the occasional stare as you walk past, curious, and ever certain of the sins of the last age.

Their tear ducts are empty from an era of dispossession, obsession.

Tut tut

Their dreams are the broken glass you walk on with bare feet.  

I traverse hulking skeletons along their spine. In hidden highways I stride past the corridors of indifference. Saturated with knowing.

The markets make gamblers of us, casting bones in cups, with aged, choked knuckles, that align our lots with one unblinking eye.

Tut tut

Nerves splice open and raw, and in the light, only exposure

There was failure there in the corner, passing for a human, with arms outstretched in asking, looking for any reason to find two solid feet to stand on.

His teeth were clean but his thoughts were of days when the fix was fresh. When color nourished every pour. He is poorer for it.

Tut tut

I turn my head, not wanting to see a possible future.

You don’t hear the children play anymore between these concrete monsters, it is the commerce, the smell of flat wages, caffeinated mornings, and empty bottles in the evening, that drive us to wanting

And any hope of fresh air rots in our complacent cowardice

Tut tut

My stomach aches, the pill caused a hemorrhage again

There is a trembling in my pocket, and as I slide my hand against it, to quiet it’s nagging, I realized I’ve lost all the silence and stillness, maybe forever.  

I cannot adjourn from this court of chaos. There is no detachment, just desire.

Tut Tut

The engines scream in my ears as the gears grind for another cycle. My anger is but a thumbprint away.

What should you feel as you pace through passageway of the damned? All the sulfur stinging your eyes in between rows of unkind smiles, glaring at you like idiot passengers on a doomed train car.

Drink it in, for the fountain must not overflow and everyone’s stomach must be distended before the sun kisses the earth.

Tut Tut

The screams always die before my throat can catch them.

Grass, fields, pasture lay ahead, the eye of the storm. With shouting, rasping, chuckling fervor, I pass through the gates.

There are ducks lolling just out of the reach of so many unleashed hounds, and people pampered in concrete corners.

Tut Tut

Their grief has no knowledge here.

Sitting, I wait for the fall, for a stall, for anything. But I am left waiting and wasting, sitting in the center of the eye and staring at the hulks on my periphery. Knowing they are watching every minute of rest. Flailing me with their guilt.

They are always looming, day or night, they block out stars and dreams

Tut Tut

They were built with rage in mind, and a coffin around the corner.  

I hear it. A close, friendly conspiracy. Shoulders pressed together and whispers of the young for an honest days work. They stand, run, in search for sign in splashing creeks. They hunger for the chase of minnows between toes, with plastic cup in hand.

Dunking, wishing, smiles, even in the mistakes. In folly they fly past the skeletons, and into the forest to where they always belonged.

Caring not, to Tut Tut.

Yearning to breathe free, I breathe with them.

I stand.

I join them.

My hand will be my cup.

And it will fill with joy.