Little violin,
despite your sturdy, resolute hull
and those
two ghostly ear holes,
you're not quite
a skull
built to house the restless brain
of some long-dead master,
or an envelope full
of brutally honest letters
to the editor of a sleepy magazine
called Sunrises and Sunsets.
No—to me, you're the tiny
wooden room
where one determined writer
can just barely fit,
provided he sits hunched
uncomfortably enough,
to listen to
your distant singing
and hopefully scribble
a few poems—fantastically
alone, and most likely by
virtue of you.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Thursday, December 20, 2018
CRYPTOGRAM
Though firmly constrained by
its impregnable container,
the mind is wild, and it can't help
but slip, on days like this
out through the gaze
through the eye's hibernal windows
and down below to where the whole body
might one day coat the landscape—
strange, the hard sensibilities
of solitude and safety
mingling with the sensual taste
of soft wetness and escape,
of wild excess,
then discomposure, then extinction—
it's the last good mouthkiss
from someone
we knew we'd never saw again,
it's some exquisite candy's
slow dissolving
in the dark palace of the tongue—
the whole of this
divinely-given binary
riddle of existence
comprises something Dionysian,
as pure raw milk—
safely contained
in its sturdy Apollonian bottle.
its impregnable container,
the mind is wild, and it can't help
but slip, on days like this
out through the gaze
through the eye's hibernal windows
and down below to where the whole body
might one day coat the landscape—
strange, the hard sensibilities
of solitude and safety
mingling with the sensual taste
of soft wetness and escape,
of wild excess,
then discomposure, then extinction—
it's the last good mouthkiss
from someone
we knew we'd never saw again,
it's some exquisite candy's
slow dissolving
in the dark palace of the tongue—
the whole of this
divinely-given binary
riddle of existence
comprises something Dionysian,
as pure raw milk—
safely contained
in its sturdy Apollonian bottle.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
GOOD KING WHAT'S-HIS-FACE
Deep and crisp and even—now that's
the kind of snow for me.
Though I think maybe I'd
also add "laughing a little," most likely
at me while I'm trudging along talking,
perhaps to my mom
on a hands-free call, reciting
a dull litany of groceries needed
for the holiday dinner's infamous
broccoli cheese casserole
instead of discussing the refugees
who's pictures she'd just seen,
crouching near a chain-link
fence at the border and eating
a can of beans for dinner—or
the Christmas Eve truce of 1914
and the mirth that oozed up
from the foxholes of Belgium
when soldiers gin-anointed voice boxes
were the only things exploding—or even
entertaining such a miracle's inverse:
the ludicrousness of the ineluctable light
of our shared universal consciousness
getting momentarily stuck in the throat
of a disconsolate baby. Though perhaps
the snow laughs because it suspects
I'm not really on a phone call at all,
but just careening down the street
and mumbling out-loud to myself about
the exact same things.
I'm not really on a phone call at all,
but just careening down the street
and mumbling out-loud to myself about
the exact same things.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
COUNTING TO A HUNDRED
I remember being instructed
to count to a hundred
to pass the time in that roadside
restaurant—the one whose
hostess would give the good kids
free balloons—waiting after Sunday mass
for those much more appealingly
flattened discs of bread.
I still do this sort of thing.
Even though it's no longer a challenge,
it does the trick—makes me think
of childhood as the perfect
pang of hunger, the one finite thing
buried deep in the infinite dirt of me
that can still retain logic's
gleaming immediacy,
and the only thing which,
having already come this far, I can
neither bring myself to abandon
nor ever quite seem to find—before time's up.
to count to a hundred
to pass the time in that roadside
restaurant—the one whose
hostess would give the good kids
free balloons—waiting after Sunday mass
for those much more appealingly
flattened discs of bread.
I still do this sort of thing.
Even though it's no longer a challenge,
it does the trick—makes me think
of childhood as the perfect
pang of hunger, the one finite thing
buried deep in the infinite dirt of me
that can still retain logic's
gleaming immediacy,
and the only thing which,
having already come this far, I can
neither bring myself to abandon
nor ever quite seem to find—before time's up.
Monday, December 17, 2018
STOLEN LYRICS
I often wonder about the effortless songs
we write while we're sleeping alone.
I'm not trying to say that it's easy,
just that the melodies are always so strong,
the chords so even and clean, as to resemble
the beautiful rooms in those formidable
19th century buildings which catch and hold
the resplendent afternoon sun on their roofs
of carefully rusticated stone.
The thing is, although these old structures
are still in great shape, we know we could never
live inside them, because they don't contain
a stick of furniture. It's usually at this point,
that we begrudgingly realize: we're going
to have to leave the house. We must
abandon that living room, which is, after all,
empty of everything (save that sturdy piano
which holds all the family photos). But
we don't actually need to go outside to do it,
we just need to start reading a lot;
then, we need to write a bit; switching
the order here, tweaking the vowel sounds
there, maybe sipping a little more hot coffee
from the newly visible and always-full mug
at the gradually solidifying kitchen
table and chair, gesticulating and nodding
and believing our current living situation
could have been otherwise.
we write while we're sleeping alone.
I'm not trying to say that it's easy,
just that the melodies are always so strong,
the chords so even and clean, as to resemble
the beautiful rooms in those formidable
19th century buildings which catch and hold
the resplendent afternoon sun on their roofs
of carefully rusticated stone.
The thing is, although these old structures
are still in great shape, we know we could never
live inside them, because they don't contain
a stick of furniture. It's usually at this point,
that we begrudgingly realize: we're going
to have to leave the house. We must
abandon that living room, which is, after all,
empty of everything (save that sturdy piano
which holds all the family photos). But
we don't actually need to go outside to do it,
we just need to start reading a lot;
then, we need to write a bit; switching
the order here, tweaking the vowel sounds
there, maybe sipping a little more hot coffee
from the newly visible and always-full mug
at the gradually solidifying kitchen
table and chair, gesticulating and nodding
and believing our current living situation
could have been otherwise.
Friday, December 14, 2018
LITERARY INFLUENCE
I've just got to say, I'm really sorry
to have suddenly interrupted
whatever decent little aura
of silence had been haunting you
prior to picking this thing up
and singing it this far
with that puffy cantor
who lives in your head. I know
how earnestly you'd been tracking
the simple dark swinging pendulum
of your breathing, or inviting the illicit
swivel of candle flame to illuminate an old
newspaper, or just staring straight ahead,
parsing the mercifully uncomplicated
texture of burgundy
paint on the drywall
of the room you were standing in
when you first heard the news.
If it's any consolation—
I promise to return you
to a more burnished quiet,
to a reverie even more hopeful
and pregnant and profound,
to an even deeper silence
than the silence whose fierce
gaze had refused to quit
pleading with you before.
It turns out, this is a special feature
of even the least imaginative poetry:
all you have to do
is read this last sentence, then
cut the music
and don't move a muscle
while all the forces of white space on earth
suddenly rush in to surround
and shoot down the final period,
and listen for that faint ache
of a recoil—it won't sound like much,
so you've really got to listen.
to have suddenly interrupted
whatever decent little aura
of silence had been haunting you
prior to picking this thing up
and singing it this far
with that puffy cantor
who lives in your head. I know
how earnestly you'd been tracking
the simple dark swinging pendulum
of your breathing, or inviting the illicit
swivel of candle flame to illuminate an old
newspaper, or just staring straight ahead,
parsing the mercifully uncomplicated
texture of burgundy
paint on the drywall
of the room you were standing in
when you first heard the news.
If it's any consolation—
I promise to return you
to a more burnished quiet,
to a reverie even more hopeful
and pregnant and profound,
to an even deeper silence
than the silence whose fierce
gaze had refused to quit
pleading with you before.
It turns out, this is a special feature
of even the least imaginative poetry:
all you have to do
is read this last sentence, then
cut the music
and don't move a muscle
while all the forces of white space on earth
suddenly rush in to surround
and shoot down the final period,
and listen for that faint ache
of a recoil—it won't sound like much,
so you've really got to listen.
Thursday, December 13, 2018
THE MANEUVER
I need you
to keep picturing this
small ugly catamaran
with its galley lights stuck on
bobbing up and down on
the huge silent water!—
orders the fierce little
white-bearded captain
who's crazily trying
to ford the pure rushing
stream of this
imponderable consciousness.
to keep picturing this
small ugly catamaran
with its galley lights stuck on
bobbing up and down on
the huge silent water!—
orders the fierce little
white-bearded captain
who's crazily trying
to ford the pure rushing
stream of this
imponderable consciousness.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
CLAP ON, CLAP OFF
Yesterday, I impulsively
purchased a Clapper (As Seen on TV!)
from my local Walgreen's,
whisked it home directly, eager
to automate several bedroom appliances,
and just as quickly went to pieces
when it didn't function as intended.
When I woke up this morning,
begrudgingly switching on my bedside lamp
and small box fan manually,
I realized—this is exactly
why I write poetry. It isn't
the blessed rage for order found
in a freshly plowed field of
perfect straight lines,
or the seductive dance of a
brand new shape
undulating down the length
of a virgin-white page,
or the drowsing hymn-like quality
of sonorous vowel sounds
repeating comfortably at regular intervals—
though those things too are interesting.
No; really it's because
life is already so filled
with poetry's exact opposite,
I desperately need to balance it out
to keep me—and everyone else
from toppling right off
the pages we've been writing
and landing, with a flat little clap
in the trash can—and perhaps accidentally
triggering the Christmas lights
or the television to turn on
in the empty home
of a single man in his 30s
who's so profoundly lost in thought
he might never make it home again.
purchased a Clapper (As Seen on TV!)
from my local Walgreen's,
whisked it home directly, eager
to automate several bedroom appliances,
and just as quickly went to pieces
when it didn't function as intended.
When I woke up this morning,
begrudgingly switching on my bedside lamp
and small box fan manually,
I realized—this is exactly
why I write poetry. It isn't
the blessed rage for order found
in a freshly plowed field of
perfect straight lines,
or the seductive dance of a
brand new shape
undulating down the length
of a virgin-white page,
or the drowsing hymn-like quality
of sonorous vowel sounds
repeating comfortably at regular intervals—
though those things too are interesting.
No; really it's because
life is already so filled
with poetry's exact opposite,
I desperately need to balance it out
to keep me—and everyone else
from toppling right off
the pages we've been writing
and landing, with a flat little clap
in the trash can—and perhaps accidentally
triggering the Christmas lights
or the television to turn on
in the empty home
of a single man in his 30s
who's so profoundly lost in thought
he might never make it home again.
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
CONVERSATION STARTER
As its black tip question-marks,
and then dwindles, I just have time
to wonder: have I really ever
made a fire? Or was it
always just—the match.
And
who invented these things anyway?
And did that person ever consider
all the future generations—brightly
going around feeling like creators
when actually, that gleam
of genius in their eyes
was preemptively put there—
by starlight, by manure
and cow's milk
and carbon and cod liver,
by the bodies of two strangers
just out for a good time—just for one
headless goddamn moment—
in the more pleasurable dark.
and then dwindles, I just have time
to wonder: have I really ever
made a fire? Or was it
always just—the match.
And
who invented these things anyway?
And did that person ever consider
all the future generations—brightly
going around feeling like creators
when actually, that gleam
of genius in their eyes
was preemptively put there—
by starlight, by manure
and cow's milk
and carbon and cod liver,
by the bodies of two strangers
just out for a good time—just for one
headless goddamn moment—
in the more pleasurable dark.
Monday, December 10, 2018
CAREFUL
Listen, don't make a sound—
there's a starved silver beautiful
wolf who's been pacing
and snarling outside the moon-
lit window of this poem
like some lunatic wraith. He’ll never
pass under this warm drowsy
doorframe though—not even
close, I can
promise you that, dear—and neither
will I, no, and
neither can you.
there's a starved silver beautiful
wolf who's been pacing
and snarling outside the moon-
lit window of this poem
like some lunatic wraith. He’ll never
pass under this warm drowsy
doorframe though—not even
close, I can
promise you that, dear—and neither
will I, no, and
neither can you.
Sunday, December 9, 2018
DEGREES OF DIFFICULTY
If you want to know the difference
between poetry and prose,
you've simply got to spend
the better half of an afternoon
skating over the silver-plated
park playing ice hockey—then,
return home and, as the frosted rose
sky fades to puce through the
block windows—just you try
resuming that same game
down in your semi-finished
basement—in stiff socks.
between poetry and prose,
you've simply got to spend
the better half of an afternoon
skating over the silver-plated
park playing ice hockey—then,
return home and, as the frosted rose
sky fades to puce through the
block windows—just you try
resuming that same game
down in your semi-finished
basement—in stiff socks.
Friday, December 7, 2018
SLANT-RHYMING QUATRAINS
Seemingly unable to speak
the right mantra, to see
the edge of sky inside
for the top of the ceiling;
yet there must still be
some silent intelligence—
drooling and rummaging
around the hackneyed
and shopworn attic shelves
inside me, about which these
cleaner and more articulate
selves—can say nothing.
the right mantra, to see
the edge of sky inside
for the top of the ceiling;
yet there must still be
some silent intelligence—
drooling and rummaging
around the hackneyed
and shopworn attic shelves
inside me, about which these
cleaner and more articulate
selves—can say nothing.
Thursday, December 6, 2018
EMBLEM POEM FOR WHICH YOU HAD TO BE THERE
It's too late, I've already decided
I'm not going to write this
poem about it. I'm telling you:
it was nothing. A paltry commodity,
hardly suitable as an article
of deep contemplation—just something
ubiquitous, easy to miss
as a mustard seed buried
in halfway-decent soil—like one
of six dozen flathead screws
holding great grandma's baby
grand piano together—
like one little pretty pink
earlobe of a seashell,
on one of those endless glossy
Thomas Kincade shores
on which there's millions;
even now, I can't even explain
how it managed to worm its
way into this sentence. There was
no reason to keep it—it wasn't
a memento, there's nothing in it
which suggested my favorite
corporate logo in its shape,
no connection to some
old girlfriend's
light-thirsty birthstone,
no talisman of those
couch-surfing, "No School
Special" good old days.
It's just something
I almost stumbled over
earlier this morning while walking,
head down, furiously toeing
the slick razor's edge of the
overly-urbanized avenue,
trying to picture
my hypothetical reaction
to sudden loss
of cabin pressure, and
rather too aggressively
trying
to get the hell out of
my own
way a little faster.
I'm not going to write this
poem about it. I'm telling you:
it was nothing. A paltry commodity,
hardly suitable as an article
of deep contemplation—just something
ubiquitous, easy to miss
as a mustard seed buried
in halfway-decent soil—like one
of six dozen flathead screws
holding great grandma's baby
grand piano together—
like one little pretty pink
earlobe of a seashell,
on one of those endless glossy
Thomas Kincade shores
on which there's millions;
even now, I can't even explain
how it managed to worm its
way into this sentence. There was
no reason to keep it—it wasn't
a memento, there's nothing in it
which suggested my favorite
corporate logo in its shape,
no connection to some
old girlfriend's
light-thirsty birthstone,
no talisman of those
couch-surfing, "No School
Special" good old days.
It's just something
I almost stumbled over
earlier this morning while walking,
head down, furiously toeing
the slick razor's edge of the
overly-urbanized avenue,
trying to picture
my hypothetical reaction
to sudden loss
of cabin pressure, and
rather too aggressively
trying
to get the hell out of
my own
way a little faster.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
COPENHAGEN INTERPRETATION
Could there ever be
a singular idea
that peers securely from behind
two or more sets of eyes—at one time?
Is it "like" something
to be one wisp, one arbitrary gleaming
velocity arrow—in a silverwhite cloud
of arctic herring?
Do the stars
have inner lives?
I wonder—those silent nuclear processes
going on inside them
just seem so much bigger
and more
difficult than ours.
a singular idea
that peers securely from behind
two or more sets of eyes—at one time?
Is it "like" something
to be one wisp, one arbitrary gleaming
velocity arrow—in a silverwhite cloud
of arctic herring?
Do the stars
have inner lives?
I wonder—those silent nuclear processes
going on inside them
just seem so much bigger
and more
difficult than ours.
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
THE ONE THING I CAN NEVER FIND INSIDE
Oh sweet and
brilliantly
soft brush of eagle's
wings, oh warm,
light
breath of dawn, please!
back-off my
neck, I'm trying
to sleep.
brilliantly
soft brush of eagle's
wings, oh warm,
light
breath of dawn, please!
back-off my
neck, I'm trying
to sleep.
Monday, December 3, 2018
HOW CAN I EVEN GO ON?
Please help me, I think
I must be suffering
from Man's Disease—
I keep saying "God knows"
when all I really mean
is that I don't,
and I can't seem
to express any of that
supposedly unbounded love for
immediate family; they're perpetually
having to settle—for this small
soundless fealty.
I must be suffering
from Man's Disease—
I keep saying "God knows"
when all I really mean
is that I don't,
and I can't seem
to express any of that
supposedly unbounded love for
immediate family; they're perpetually
having to settle—for this small
soundless fealty.
Friday, November 30, 2018
ALARM CLOCK
Every morning, I hear that
damn siren singing—with its inane
refrain repeating the lyric
about existence
being a guarantee—of nothing
more or less than itself;
with its singsong-y melody rising
only to fall a little more tragically
due to the specific gravity
that comes from measuring
the density of a pound of love
suspended in a pound of duty;
its thick counterpoint of doubt
and certainty weaving the texture
of a certain wine dark area rug,
the one I've been drifting on—
the one I soon begin to see dimly
as the one I must
eventually abandon ship
and whip the soles
of my cold and disbelieving feet at
to discover once and for all
whether they'll stick there
or fall right through
and sink at last
into that ocean—of unabridged
sleep beneath.
damn siren singing—with its inane
refrain repeating the lyric
about existence
being a guarantee—of nothing
more or less than itself;
with its singsong-y melody rising
only to fall a little more tragically
due to the specific gravity
that comes from measuring
the density of a pound of love
suspended in a pound of duty;
its thick counterpoint of doubt
and certainty weaving the texture
of a certain wine dark area rug,
the one I've been drifting on—
the one I soon begin to see dimly
as the one I must
eventually abandon ship
and whip the soles
of my cold and disbelieving feet at
to discover once and for all
whether they'll stick there
or fall right through
and sink at last
into that ocean—of unabridged
sleep beneath.
Thursday, November 29, 2018
BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS
I wonder—after we're pierced all over
with with the stupefying fingers
of proximate winter,
sterling bells ringing sharp as needles,
snow and ice fierce and extravagantly
silent as diamond
necklaces draping the blue neck napes
of the noblest pagan goddesses—
what on earth is there left
to feel?
Famous-sounding words like these
were never iterated
concerning noisy inchling birds in spring
or the stubbly bushes clinging
to the lurid face of autumn
and those stagnant summer
gutter puddles, all steeped burnt umber
with fermented dogwood leaves
would certainly make pretty unappealing
greeting card illustrations.
with with the stupefying fingers
of proximate winter,
sterling bells ringing sharp as needles,
snow and ice fierce and extravagantly
silent as diamond
necklaces draping the blue neck napes
of the noblest pagan goddesses—
what on earth is there left
to feel?
Famous-sounding words like these
were never iterated
concerning noisy inchling birds in spring
or the stubbly bushes clinging
to the lurid face of autumn
and those stagnant summer
gutter puddles, all steeped burnt umber
with fermented dogwood leaves
would certainly make pretty unappealing
greeting card illustrations.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
JEERS
Cheers—
to that most
magnificent glacier,
somehow
equally
aimless and dignified—
the imperceptible
pace at which our
styles changed,
so we could
always
wear the same size.
to that most
magnificent glacier,
somehow
equally
aimless and dignified—
the imperceptible
pace at which our
styles changed,
so we could
always
wear the same size.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
GRAND SCHEME
Outside the range
of salvation
army bells' stilted ringing,
the lows
approaching
record-setting—after dark,
you
and me
slowly stripping
in front of
our deadpan beds, feeling
pretty average.
of salvation
army bells' stilted ringing,
the lows
approaching
record-setting—after dark,
you
and me
slowly stripping
in front of
our deadpan beds, feeling
pretty average.
Monday, November 26, 2018
FLOOR PLAN
Listen: somewhere off the hall,
a cramped bathroom
faucet seems to be mumbling,
an angel-
white radiator is crawling
in a heap in the corner, weeping softly,
a brusque fridge compressor
is taking a grand pause—before
launching into the adjacent movement;
true, maybe that's not
the movement you signed up for.
But that's the one you
could afford. That's the sound
of everyone around you
making of their inner lives, a song.
And look: you too
are doing it.
In your case, of course
it's just a tiny little song,
most well suited
to a tiny little room—
but at least
it's got lots of wonderful pictures
of wide-open spaces
someone in your
family must have visited once
on its tiny little walls.
Friday, November 23, 2018
UNTESTED
Maybe I'm the secret
omnipotent king
of all the sunlight
resounds into
sight with its
triumphal song;
so benevolent!
and secure
and carefree—I've never once thought
to try
forbidding it to
do anything.
omnipotent king
of all the sunlight
resounds into
sight with its
triumphal song;
so benevolent!
and secure
and carefree—I've never once thought
to try
forbidding it to
do anything.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
LUX AETERNA
That precious
brittleness
of a little
white gash—can never
hope to appease
the vast
pestilence of black;
that's why—it's
unceasingly
unceasingly
encouraging
to the observer—how
redundant the stars are.
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
PROTEST POEM FOR GENERAL PURPOSES
This poem
is like the air:
it's just
what was there—
when the first word
drew its next breath
and exhaled
the subsequent one
in consequence—and so
on, inexorably
for a
finite lifetime—unexceptional,
incorruptible—
and fair.
is like the air:
it's just
what was there—
when the first word
drew its next breath
and exhaled
the subsequent one
in consequence—and so
on, inexorably
for a
finite lifetime—unexceptional,
incorruptible—
and fair.
Monday, November 19, 2018
A STICKY NOTE
to write a fresh simple poem
using the leftover ring
of the coffee mug
on this
nicked up but otherwise stark wooden table
as its edgeless center
I jotted this morning
after the second cup
with hasty
notes toward indelibility
of seeming infinity plus
its remainder
a good reminder
of pure luck and a good
frame to focus
on how loss works.
Some telescopically deep
task for an image—now
how in the whole of hell
is this rumpled old secretary:
my afternoon self
supposed to go
about tidying up after
a boss like that?
using the leftover ring
of the coffee mug
on this
nicked up but otherwise stark wooden table
as its edgeless center
I jotted this morning
after the second cup
with hasty
notes toward indelibility
of seeming infinity plus
its remainder
a good reminder
of pure luck and a good
frame to focus
on how loss works.
Some telescopically deep
task for an image—now
how in the whole of hell
is this rumpled old secretary:
my afternoon self
supposed to go
about tidying up after
a boss like that?
Friday, November 16, 2018
NEXT LEVEL
Lost forever—in the dark
water temple, guzzling midsummer
droughts by the dram
and cordless phone riffing
the most spectacularly
ineffectual songs
while clad in those magically
discolored vestments—bet you
never thought
for a second: this kind
of a puzzle
may never come again.
water temple, guzzling midsummer
droughts by the dram
and cordless phone riffing
the most spectacularly
ineffectual songs
while clad in those magically
discolored vestments—bet you
never thought
for a second: this kind
of a puzzle
may never come again.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
PERSONAL TRUTH
There's a silver heaven out there
just for you;
that's the one
you're going to.
No one else
is in there—swearing
and taking up two seats
on the bus and
fucking with your stuff;
it's just
for you. Pinky-
promise you: no one,
no more
worries, ‘cause
nobody else. Absolutely
no one—whosoever.
just for you;
that's the one
you're going to.
No one else
is in there—swearing
and taking up two seats
on the bus and
fucking with your stuff;
it's just
for you. Pinky-
promise you: no one,
no more
worries, ‘cause
nobody else. Absolutely
no one—whosoever.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
PROCESS OF ELIMINATION
Rest assured, somewhere in the middle
of your poem—the search for perfection
will consume itself completely
and leave whatever burnt up
lump of your-
self that's left inside
feeling perfect-
ly insatiable
at the same time. Even though
this radical new rhythm,
which you can neither imagine
nor define, keeps ringing true;
either the impossibility of the sound
stops you dead—or else
the realness of it
keeps leading you on. As it must.
Until, finally you approach
the end of the last line,
still lacking in the love
you were desperate to find,
though all curiosity
has been extinguished
and each open end
has been punctuated.
But the lingering question
what was it all for?—blazes forth
brighter than it ever has before,
since now, it can only be answered:
whatever is left
that it isn't.
of your poem—the search for perfection
will consume itself completely
and leave whatever burnt up
lump of your-
self that's left inside
feeling perfect-
ly insatiable
at the same time. Even though
this radical new rhythm,
which you can neither imagine
nor define, keeps ringing true;
either the impossibility of the sound
stops you dead—or else
the realness of it
keeps leading you on. As it must.
Until, finally you approach
the end of the last line,
still lacking in the love
you were desperate to find,
though all curiosity
has been extinguished
and each open end
has been punctuated.
But the lingering question
what was it all for?—blazes forth
brighter than it ever has before,
since now, it can only be answered:
whatever is left
that it isn't.
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
FAIT ACCOMPLI
Lately, the increasing-
ly lowering ceiling
of clouds
has pressured me
into something like
a lotus position,
having bequeathed its
most immoderate gift: time
to consider
how best to construct
one's life, beside
the sturdiest dam
of grief
one can find—without so much
as a thread
of hope
for recompense.
So I figure,
as long as I'm living
out of my mind—that means I
can't die. However,
to be still, to lie
supine—even with
all the bombs going
off all around—that's
not exactly
an unshakable feeling;
that's more like
me—unmistakably
moldering away.
ly lowering ceiling
of clouds
has pressured me
into something like
a lotus position,
having bequeathed its
most immoderate gift: time
to consider
how best to construct
one's life, beside
the sturdiest dam
of grief
one can find—without so much
as a thread
of hope
for recompense.
So I figure,
as long as I'm living
out of my mind—that means I
can't die. However,
to be still, to lie
supine—even with
all the bombs going
off all around—that's
not exactly
an unshakable feeling;
that's more like
me—unmistakably
moldering away.
Monday, November 12, 2018
THE SIMPLEST THING IN THE WORLD
The simplest thing in the world,
is not the most straightforward
thing in the world—
flip your trusty
ball cap upside-down
and catch a little sunlight,
instead of blocking it out;
notice the profligate
shuffling of your feet
against
the unstoppable stillness
of the ground;
look up
and out beyond churches
whose pointed rooftops reach,
but don't ever touch
the obdurate clouds—
and try to feel
certain (without yet knowing how
to parse it in a sentence)
that help is not on the way—
help is all around.
is not the most straightforward
thing in the world—
flip your trusty
ball cap upside-down
and catch a little sunlight,
instead of blocking it out;
notice the profligate
shuffling of your feet
against
the unstoppable stillness
of the ground;
look up
and out beyond churches
whose pointed rooftops reach,
but don't ever touch
the obdurate clouds—
and try to feel
certain (without yet knowing how
to parse it in a sentence)
that help is not on the way—
help is all around.
Friday, November 9, 2018
DON'T LISTEN TO THE WIND
Of course—
your soul
is a brimming bowl
of pure fruit juice;
just remember—a lemon
is a fruit too,
and so
is every
single
little green bean—
and so's a goddamn tomato.
your soul
is a brimming bowl
of pure fruit juice;
just remember—a lemon
is a fruit too,
and so
is every
single
little green bean—
and so's a goddamn tomato.
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
UNPROTECTED
Instead of a poem, maybe today
I do a nice sort of swerve
so as not to hit this
impetuous kid—
gray eyes on the
gray street
and pink cheeks
to illuminate
a painted-on doll's frown—
which begs, I think
to brag
of the secret
splinters buried in their palms—
an obscure result
of too much casual
raising high the roof beams.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
EXPERIENCE IS UNAVOIDABLE
To think—this whole mess, it
might have happened just like
Virginia Woolf said: time passes.
Many many suns
traveling their predictable matter-
of fact paths—though each one
is its own immeasurable dream
blinding bright as
untarnishing silver—
eventually blur, run
together, are forgotten.
It's a mercy
we are no longer
astounded by Copernican theory,
even a little disappointed
to finally behold
the Rhodes Colossus—and the
many alternate possibilities
which must invisibly ride along-
side every sunrise,
are necessarily discarded
if we're to ever to get
the day started—except (perhaps)
for the one exquisite fantasy
in which—neither we
nor the sun
ever bothered.
Monday, November 5, 2018
WANTS NOT MET, NEEDS NOT NEGLECTED
Soon
we'll be dead—we aren't
right now;
we are
solitary—we're all
connected;
the irregular sounds—
of rain
on my
windowpane—exhilarating!
we'll be dead—we aren't
right now;
we are
solitary—we're all
connected;
the irregular sounds—
of rain
on my
windowpane—exhilarating!
Saturday, November 3, 2018
ITCH
Something keeps tickling me.
Something unhelpful, vestigial, no
longer living,
but nevertheless
beguiling, being so perfectly
preserved in time's mellow amber:
this frail ancient
wisp of me that never
stopped loving her. But it's
not so much the artifact
and how its becalming beauty is all
bound-up in its hopelessness
as the accompanying
sense in which—all life on earth, right
up to this moment,
might have unfolded
purely as a reaction—to the littlest
inopportune encounter.
Something unhelpful, vestigial, no
longer living,
but nevertheless
beguiling, being so perfectly
preserved in time's mellow amber:
this frail ancient
wisp of me that never
stopped loving her. But it's
not so much the artifact
and how its becalming beauty is all
bound-up in its hopelessness
as the accompanying
sense in which—all life on earth, right
up to this moment,
might have unfolded
purely as a reaction—to the littlest
inopportune encounter.
Friday, November 2, 2018
OVERTURES
Dark dead of morning,
and already—before the bus brakes
squealing F#
and the trains peeling-
off in high C—there's the distant
rhythms of many
hungry engines, the heavy rattle
of a battery
of big trucks coming,
the uniform clandestine
clomp of filthy
work boots hustling—to get
the dissonant
language of the
streets all picked-up
quickly—before the heart-
beat in the
womb is detected,
before the ghoulish
neighborhood priest
and the squeaky-
clean politician
can hear it
and get started.
and already—before the bus brakes
squealing F#
and the trains peeling-
off in high C—there's the distant
rhythms of many
hungry engines, the heavy rattle
of a battery
of big trucks coming,
the uniform clandestine
clomp of filthy
work boots hustling—to get
the dissonant
language of the
streets all picked-up
quickly—before the heart-
beat in the
womb is detected,
before the ghoulish
neighborhood priest
and the squeaky-
clean politician
can hear it
and get started.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
INTEREST COMPOUNDED DAILY
Wearied as young
debutantes
leaving the grand ball,
all the trees—from
the smallest red dogwood,
to the shapeliest
catalpa—heave sighs
and shed their extravagantly
crumpled vintage coats,
draping the fall sidewalks
in such preposterous
and superabundant fortunes
of pure gold,
of sturdiest
rust and tart persimmon—
that the lowliest woman
and most distracted man
no longer know where
to look, or how
to feel poor—while just
enjoying the simple.
debutantes
leaving the grand ball,
all the trees—from
the smallest red dogwood,
to the shapeliest
catalpa—heave sighs
and shed their extravagantly
crumpled vintage coats,
draping the fall sidewalks
in such preposterous
and superabundant fortunes
of pure gold,
of sturdiest
rust and tart persimmon—
that the lowliest woman
and most distracted man
no longer know where
to look, or how
to feel poor—while just
enjoying the simple.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
GROWN-UP PROBLEMS
Back—in that place
before the aftertaste
plotted its daring dislocation
from the taste,
before the sun hung
hemoglobin-red
at the end of an anniversary
date's unsympathetic tether;
back in the old apartment,
the one with the stucco
walls, the one above the Starbucks;
back before the utterance's disintegration
into its inexorable silent answer
and Paul Simon's (incongruous)
hit song about the sound of that;
there in the secret lookout place
where you'd hide, bare-kneed, still,
and breathless, behind the orange drapes,
to watch them as they first envisioned
the impressive dam they'd build
against the fat muddy middle
finger-shaped river of their grief—
that's the only
place where you could travel
to catch—and tenderly
caress—that gently curving little c,
that very first malignant letter
of their current condition.
before the aftertaste
plotted its daring dislocation
from the taste,
before the sun hung
hemoglobin-red
at the end of an anniversary
date's unsympathetic tether;
back in the old apartment,
the one with the stucco
walls, the one above the Starbucks;
back before the utterance's disintegration
into its inexorable silent answer
and Paul Simon's (incongruous)
hit song about the sound of that;
there in the secret lookout place
where you'd hide, bare-kneed, still,
and breathless, behind the orange drapes,
to watch them as they first envisioned
the impressive dam they'd build
against the fat muddy middle
finger-shaped river of their grief—
that's the only
place where you could travel
to catch—and tenderly
caress—that gently curving little c,
that very first malignant letter
of their current condition.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
PRETTY SUNSET POEM
Red—is not even
a thing.
And yet,
there it is—in the world;
defensible murder,
at five
in the evening—
the heroically
crumple-
edged face—of that
slowly
asphyxiating man.
And yet,
there it is—in the world;
defensible murder,
at five
in the evening—
the heroically
crumple-
edged face—of that
slowly
asphyxiating man.
Monday, October 29, 2018
UNDER COMPULSION
Looking out at immortal
dawn, it's dis-
quietingly easy—to imagine
the countless lives
which must be
buckling
under the weight of its bracing
horizon line—
above which,
cast in autumn
air's fierce clarity,
cut countless
genuine arrows;
but those
migratory animals
must never
leave home either, if
they don't care
a bit
what state they're
in—or which.
dawn, it's dis-
quietingly easy—to imagine
the countless lives
which must be
buckling
under the weight of its bracing
horizon line—
above which,
cast in autumn
air's fierce clarity,
cut countless
genuine arrows;
but those
migratory animals
must never
leave home either, if
they don't care
a bit
what state they're
in—or which.
Friday, October 26, 2018
FACING WHAT'S THERE
Most perfect thing I do
all day—fling
open every gray
curtain in the morning, smoothly
avoiding any
picking and choosing.
all day—fling
open every gray
curtain in the morning, smoothly
avoiding any
picking and choosing.
Thursday, October 25, 2018
LAUDS
Cold light on wood, on texture
of blank paper, rough as the mountain
tops of an old gray monk's finger tips.
Black coffee, slow two-stepping itself
too cool to drink
in its antiseptic white ceramic.
Seconds ticking—the distance inside each
one of those foggy mountains, crags in
complete shadow, can't see the summit.
Just two or three
sentences, no more—and nothing was ever
the same after that.
Could just eat.
But then—will only have broken
a fast
and still not received what
is needed—or badly
wants to be.
of blank paper, rough as the mountain
tops of an old gray monk's finger tips.
Black coffee, slow two-stepping itself
too cool to drink
in its antiseptic white ceramic.
Seconds ticking—the distance inside each
one of those foggy mountains, crags in
complete shadow, can't see the summit.
Just two or three
sentences, no more—and nothing was ever
the same after that.
Could just eat.
But then—will only have broken
a fast
and still not received what
is needed—or badly
wants to be.
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
FULL STOP
I think I can picture
those bees down there, drowsy
with cold, hovering in those costly
sunny patches still remaining;
and across the street, there's
the chilly flutter
of the yellowing trees
and the drably colored
menial birds, arrowing back
and forth underneath,
suspicious of stasis,
manic for breadcrumbs.
High in a windowed tower,
in which no one living
still believes in Jesus,
a short sort of prayer
just barely finishes
coming together—far less
believable, and more oblique
in its way of asking
than either of us really
deserves or cares for. There's a sense
of relief just after
distant church bells
finish tolling noon—this time
of year, at least
for me, it's only just
now a new morning.
those bees down there, drowsy
with cold, hovering in those costly
sunny patches still remaining;
and across the street, there's
the chilly flutter
of the yellowing trees
and the drably colored
menial birds, arrowing back
and forth underneath,
suspicious of stasis,
manic for breadcrumbs.
High in a windowed tower,
in which no one living
still believes in Jesus,
a short sort of prayer
just barely finishes
coming together—far less
believable, and more oblique
in its way of asking
than either of us really
deserves or cares for. There's a sense
of relief just after
distant church bells
finish tolling noon—this time
of year, at least
for me, it's only just
now a new morning.
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
ASTIGMATA
I've only just now
come fully alive—having
found myself stumbling alone
in this hazardous land.
And I feel—not amazed, but
amazed I understand.
Dark angels, hawklike
haunting street corners
seem to want to meet
and shake hands.
Don't you see? I tell them,
it’s not—having a problem;
it's having a problem—no
one else has.
come fully alive—having
found myself stumbling alone
in this hazardous land.
And I feel—not amazed, but
amazed I understand.
Dark angels, hawklike
haunting street corners
seem to want to meet
and shake hands.
Don't you see? I tell them,
it’s not—having a problem;
it's having a problem—no
one else has.
Monday, October 22, 2018
UNAMAZING GRACE
I hope this is how that same melody
happens to us every morning
as we continue
to grow, impossibly: older but stronger
and more and more sure
of the notes that are still missing;
like we cannot possibly still be
asleep—our inclination feels so much closer
to wakefulness;
like we cannot forget
what a joy it can be—just to recall a merely
copacetic dream,
to be carried piggyback
all the way home, or that the biggest adventures
always happen on the inside;
like every belief—fragile, icy
silver, as the faraway stars, starts off
so small
way out somewhere dark—
and inevitably explodes
in a splendid bedlam of wind chimes,
like the ones ringing out just now
in the tree
of pure mind
outside
the dirty living room
windows—of our eyes.
happens to us every morning
as we continue
to grow, impossibly: older but stronger
and more and more sure
of the notes that are still missing;
like we cannot possibly still be
asleep—our inclination feels so much closer
to wakefulness;
like we cannot forget
what a joy it can be—just to recall a merely
copacetic dream,
to be carried piggyback
all the way home, or that the biggest adventures
always happen on the inside;
like every belief—fragile, icy
silver, as the faraway stars, starts off
so small
way out somewhere dark—
and inevitably explodes
in a splendid bedlam of wind chimes,
like the ones ringing out just now
in the tree
of pure mind
outside
the dirty living room
windows—of our eyes.
Saturday, October 20, 2018
SHORT SONG
Fine but indiscriminate
night mist rising,
moistening these lowered lids
of deep black sky,
as if to dye them—somehow even
deeper black.
night mist rising,
moistening these lowered lids
of deep black sky,
as if to dye them—somehow even
deeper black.
Friday, October 19, 2018
PISSING WITH THE DOOR OPEN
Separate harbors,
only one light source;
peculiar movers,
always that
same flawless
singular stillness—
now, exactly
how many beholders
do you dare
imagine there are?
only one light source;
peculiar movers,
always that
same flawless
singular stillness—
now, exactly
how many beholders
do you dare
imagine there are?
Thursday, October 18, 2018
POSTURE
I'm not sure
there's a lone cool pine
out there
who doesn't hold gracefully
true—from the
top of its ornamental
emerald crown, to
the tip of its fiercest
primeval root—
just what I mean
when I
say—it ain't easy
looking so outwardly
fine all the time.
there's a lone cool pine
out there
who doesn't hold gracefully
true—from the
top of its ornamental
emerald crown, to
the tip of its fiercest
primeval root—
just what I mean
when I
say—it ain't easy
looking so outwardly
fine all the time.
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
NOWHERE TO HIDE
I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!
-William Carlos Williams
Since I no longer remember
***
being created, I eventually decide
I must always have
been here already—a shambles
and alone
and content as such
to be: less
than I might be, more than
I was—and I suppose it's high time
to make for myself a nest
of this useless
old beggar's hat.
I try my best to sit back
and pine
at my new writing desk
over some perfect-
ly inscrutable
personal experience—
but almost immediately, I begin
to feel
stirring within me
the faintest thump, a pang
of something wider,
a feeling buried deeper
than hunger;
the redoubtable
little kick of new life—not mine,
the whispered beginning
of a brand new line,
a strangely
consonant pain: the desires
and strife—of all of my
neighbors.
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
NO LOIS LANE
Remember how
Clark Kent would always
change his clothes in public
in an instant—say,
in a revolving door,
in the back of a yellow
cab stuck in traffic, etc?
Well, I do it differently—
by slowly
and morosely drinking
cup after cup
of black coffee.
I do this all alone
in a small apartment somewhere;
there's no Lois Lane,
no primary colors.
And when I do it, I do it slowly—
it takes several hours.
But eventually (half the time, maybe),
Superman emerges.
I only know
this transformation has taken place
because
he—feels free
enough to leave
the house for a while,
boldly forgetting
that all flight paths are circles,
and he foolishly believes
he's super strong—as if
he could change what is
already the case.
Clark Kent would always
change his clothes in public
in an instant—say,
in a revolving door,
in the back of a yellow
cab stuck in traffic, etc?
Well, I do it differently—
by slowly
and morosely drinking
cup after cup
of black coffee.
I do this all alone
in a small apartment somewhere;
there's no Lois Lane,
no primary colors.
And when I do it, I do it slowly—
it takes several hours.
But eventually (half the time, maybe),
Superman emerges.
I only know
this transformation has taken place
because
he—feels free
enough to leave
the house for a while,
boldly forgetting
that all flight paths are circles,
and he foolishly believes
he's super strong—as if
he could change what is
already the case.
Monday, October 15, 2018
NECESSARY HALO
Give this poem
a break—just like
you: it had to wake
up in the morning,
find pants, and
piss—while still so
foggy in the mind—
of its beholder.
a break—just like
you: it had to wake
up in the morning,
find pants, and
piss—while still so
foggy in the mind—
of its beholder.
Friday, October 12, 2018
HUNGRY GHOSTS
Sobering to remember: that same
bright carafe of starlight, as it
tilts and starts to pour
a softer and sweeter slow amber
from its bewitching procession
of lower and lower angles
also makes
the shadows grow—
longer and thinner, somehow
increasingly ravenous and unstable
the more of geometry's logic
they devour;
but then, once the whole pitcher
is empty—less enigmatic, and more
realistic.
bright carafe of starlight, as it
tilts and starts to pour
a softer and sweeter slow amber
from its bewitching procession
of lower and lower angles
also makes
the shadows grow—
longer and thinner, somehow
increasingly ravenous and unstable
the more of geometry's logic
they devour;
but then, once the whole pitcher
is empty—less enigmatic, and more
realistic.
Thursday, October 11, 2018
WIND CHIME
After the rain storm,
some curious bird—likely still hidden
beneath the pulpy
hood of a
neighboring porch—
is singing
such an impressive melody!—
I immediately
begin making-
believe—I created it.
some curious bird—likely still hidden
beneath the pulpy
hood of a
neighboring porch—
is singing
such an impressive melody!—
I immediately
begin making-
believe—I created it.
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
DUDE THE OBSCURE
The trick I perform best
goes like this—
the list of things I don't believe
grows ever longer,
while the words I use
keep shrinking down.
Some nights, my performance dress
is a bodysuit which consists of
the shredded pages
of a homemade thesaurus;
other nights, a DIY tux
made of dollar bills and ticker tape.
And the tight rope lines
I stumble over,
while sideshows of scientists
blow on their slide whistles
and cavalcades of doctors
and lawyers beat drums,
keep wobbling dramatically back
and forth between
the perilously careful
and the trivially absurd:
I don't know;
but I'm sure.
goes like this—
the list of things I don't believe
grows ever longer,
while the words I use
keep shrinking down.
Some nights, my performance dress
is a bodysuit which consists of
the shredded pages
of a homemade thesaurus;
other nights, a DIY tux
made of dollar bills and ticker tape.
And the tight rope lines
I stumble over,
while sideshows of scientists
blow on their slide whistles
and cavalcades of doctors
and lawyers beat drums,
keep wobbling dramatically back
and forth between
the perilously careful
and the trivially absurd:
I don't know;
but I'm sure.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
COOL POEM
Feeling both
divided and fully-
realized by the Autumn wind
gusting neither
warmly
nor cold across my rough-haired limbs—
I first become small
and afraid
and thin as the under-fed
mouse on the garden path—and then,
bold as the high speck of red-
shouldered hawk slowly whirling
and finally—unruffled
as that nameless twinge of tender
firmness in the same wind
that allows the latent purposes
of both of those things
to be right.
Monday, October 8, 2018
IMPASSIBLE
Pain is a strange flower
whose truth
is its color—
its fierce petals
are languages—always
and already
unfurled before us
in sheer space—but only
picked up
in time—and never
purely in terms of themselves
discussed.
whose truth
is its color—
its fierce petals
are languages—always
and already
unfurled before us
in sheer space—but only
picked up
in time—and never
purely in terms of themselves
discussed.
Friday, October 5, 2018
ALLELUIA ALLELUIA ALLELUIA
Slotted spoon—
unbeknownst
to you,
all those savage wounds!
lend themselves
so decorously
to—some much more specific
definition
of sufficiency.
unbeknownst
to you,
all those savage wounds!
lend themselves
so decorously
to—some much more specific
definition
of sufficiency.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
THE SEERSUCKER SUIT
This is
his high gloss
quarter inch
american flag lapel pin—
a smart
sort of poem,
thirteen skinny lines—laid out
precise,
in the upper left
corner of a milkwhite page, so they
say it right—but don't
leave room to
explain anything.
his high gloss
quarter inch
american flag lapel pin—
a smart
sort of poem,
thirteen skinny lines—laid out
precise,
in the upper left
corner of a milkwhite page, so they
say it right—but don't
leave room to
explain anything.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
LUCY
Stooping as usual,
to ruffle your fugitive
salt-pepper-turmeric
summertime coat—
I start to think (as I often do):
Lucy, I suppose
if I'm lucky,
I'll outlive you
by a pretty huge
and consequential stretch—but then,
the sure drift
of those soft hairs
down their invisible cross-
breezes reminds me—it's not really
like that; I'm not some puzzle.
And you're not
a little piece of me
liable to go missing.
The truth is—I am a tall
and a lukewarm tap-
water glass. And you're a small
ornery ice cube;
and after you've finished
imbuing me
with your best attributes—
I shall continue
to bear the full weight of you
as we sweat here together
on the surface of this huge table,
awaiting evacuation:
down the hatch—of whatever
parched throat
flippantly motions
to swallow us both.
to ruffle your fugitive
salt-pepper-turmeric
summertime coat—
I start to think (as I often do):
Lucy, I suppose
if I'm lucky,
I'll outlive you
by a pretty huge
and consequential stretch—but then,
the sure drift
of those soft hairs
down their invisible cross-
breezes reminds me—it's not really
like that; I'm not some puzzle.
And you're not
a little piece of me
liable to go missing.
The truth is—I am a tall
and a lukewarm tap-
water glass. And you're a small
ornery ice cube;
and after you've finished
imbuing me
with your best attributes—
I shall continue
to bear the full weight of you
as we sweat here together
on the surface of this huge table,
awaiting evacuation:
down the hatch—of whatever
parched throat
flippantly motions
to swallow us both.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
RADAR LOVE
To the man on the street in front of
my house, idling
in a white Chevy
Silverado—revving it
a few times
while
listening to Golden Earring—
I want to shout
a few things
from the sidewalk:
science
is observation!
art is just
a specific arrangement!
information is only
estranged experience!
the next Buddha—will be
all the people!
But what good would it do?
The only things
he'd be able
to home in on
would be—the ends
of my sentences,
the raising and lowering
of my hands
and my eyebrows
in narrow and offbeat patterns
before their inevitable return
to stasis—as if
the goal of all sound
was just: the location
of our own bodies
in endless
waves of blind ocean;
as if
the goal of all our music
was silence.
my house, idling
in a white Chevy
Silverado—revving it
a few times
while
listening to Golden Earring—
I want to shout
a few things
from the sidewalk:
science
is observation!
art is just
a specific arrangement!
information is only
estranged experience!
the next Buddha—will be
all the people!
But what good would it do?
The only things
he'd be able
to home in on
would be—the ends
of my sentences,
the raising and lowering
of my hands
and my eyebrows
in narrow and offbeat patterns
before their inevitable return
to stasis—as if
the goal of all sound
was just: the location
of our own bodies
in endless
waves of blind ocean;
as if
the goal of all our music
was silence.
Monday, October 1, 2018
INGATHERING
The blushing russet cheek
of harvest time nearing, the main street bakery
loosely maintains its outdoor seating—like an idea yielding,
dusty and dimmed as the all-day afternoon light
diffused through its incorporeal uniform of clouds,
and searching for shelter,
perching on an interior
limb of a largely abandoned mind. Only the fatted
white crowned sparrows
and maybe a few gaunt finches still hop, a little
manic, around the entrenched feet
of cheap imitation wrought-iron, willing to eat anything.
of harvest time nearing, the main street bakery
loosely maintains its outdoor seating—like an idea yielding,
dusty and dimmed as the all-day afternoon light
diffused through its incorporeal uniform of clouds,
and searching for shelter,
perching on an interior
limb of a largely abandoned mind. Only the fatted
white crowned sparrows
and maybe a few gaunt finches still hop, a little
manic, around the entrenched feet
of cheap imitation wrought-iron, willing to eat anything.
Friday, September 28, 2018
UPON CLOSER INSPECTION
Like morning's light,
the singing of the muses
is surprisingly astute
and unromantic—ranging
from the thin swivel
of coffee steam
and unshorn texture
of good book paper
to the mangy treetops and pink
shingles and ivy-
laden brick edifices
just outside the window—
then, like the translucent
morning glory folding, all
receding through interior
hallways of the mind—
doors behind doors
behind doors behind
doors—until deep
in the dark operating theater
and undivided by shadow
from what they once were
and whatever else they could,
with the dawn of a new sun, become
my eye pierces nothing
but—nets of things, tangled in
undogmatic rays—or is it
the other way around?
the singing of the muses
is surprisingly astute
and unromantic—ranging
from the thin swivel
of coffee steam
and unshorn texture
of good book paper
to the mangy treetops and pink
shingles and ivy-
laden brick edifices
just outside the window—
then, like the translucent
morning glory folding, all
receding through interior
hallways of the mind—
doors behind doors
behind doors behind
doors—until deep
in the dark operating theater
and undivided by shadow
from what they once were
and whatever else they could,
with the dawn of a new sun, become
my eye pierces nothing
but—nets of things, tangled in
undogmatic rays—or is it
the other way around?
Thursday, September 27, 2018
THE BENEFACTORS
In the gold and
ruby orchestra hall,
a small solo
violin—henna
tattoos and the
whole thing—
adroitly melting
all the calcium
off the opulent
walls—of their arteries.
ruby orchestra hall,
a small solo
violin—henna
tattoos and the
whole thing—
adroitly melting
all the calcium
off the opulent
walls—of their arteries.
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
EXCERPT
Every morning,
before things begin,
invariably, to get their
own ideas—this workable
excerpt, this gloss of an unshaven
face reflects upward
on a perfectly circle-cropped
veneer of black coffee.
I gaze back down
at the hole in the mug carefully,
without reservations, abiding in
the unrealistic shape
and feel ever so slightly
unnerved
by my confidence—that there's
really nothing
unusual
to worry about anymore.
before things begin,
invariably, to get their
own ideas—this workable
excerpt, this gloss of an unshaven
face reflects upward
on a perfectly circle-cropped
veneer of black coffee.
I gaze back down
at the hole in the mug carefully,
without reservations, abiding in
the unrealistic shape
and feel ever so slightly
unnerved
by my confidence—that there's
really nothing
unusual
to worry about anymore.
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
OR SO IT WOULD SEEM
It's inevitable. Every time
I try to
do a New Thing, I
wind up
remembering some Old Thing—
cold grapes, perhaps
to chill the mouth and mind—first,
so-arranged on a plastic-
wrapped disposable
plate by some invisible hand,
then—warm, caterpillar-
yellow, on the vine
across the alley from mom's
girlhood backyard, brown hens in noon
sun carousing nearby;
sun carousing nearby;
thus, I transcend
space and time. But only
in a way that's useless and benign: only
inadvertently, only in reverse
and backwards.
and backwards.
Monday, September 24, 2018
THE ALARM
Huge and hot and
engorged
as the sun is—
so showy
in its own violent ruination,
it is also
fiercely and
completely silent.
Can you just imagine
consuming your own raging actuality
in such a spectacular quarantine
as that?
No fate
could be worse, no vanity lonelier,
no lamentation more pathetic—to have
not even the forlorn moan
of the solar wind
to soundtrack your misery, not even
the terra firma
of embarrassment to fall
back on—really nothing
you can do after that
but get out of bed
and put a clean-ish t-shirt on.
engorged
as the sun is—
so showy
in its own violent ruination,
it is also
fiercely and
completely silent.
Can you just imagine
consuming your own raging actuality
in such a spectacular quarantine
as that?
No fate
could be worse, no vanity lonelier,
no lamentation more pathetic—to have
not even the forlorn moan
of the solar wind
to soundtrack your misery, not even
the terra firma
of embarrassment to fall
back on—really nothing
you can do after that
but get out of bed
and put a clean-ish t-shirt on.
Friday, September 21, 2018
DEMANDING COMPLACENCY
Less than an hour
after the Farmers'
Market is over—gaunt finches
inhabit the park—
without prestige
or heed, they hack
the beige dirt
and scour each
stiff patch of matted clover
which swells cheerily
around the pre-
fab path,
at once both
systematic
and desperate—for just one grain
of our collective stab
at self-
satisfaction.
after the Farmers'
Market is over—gaunt finches
inhabit the park—
without prestige
or heed, they hack
the beige dirt
and scour each
stiff patch of matted clover
which swells cheerily
around the pre-
fab path,
at once both
systematic
and desperate—for just one grain
of our collective stab
at self-
satisfaction.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
EVERYBODY STALFOS
You think
you're scared now—just wait
til the grimacing silver-
hooded
moon disappears—and I'm
still here,
undetectably
feeding these dewy blank
fields—
from beneath.
you're scared now—just wait
til the grimacing silver-
hooded
moon disappears—and I'm
still here,
undetectably
feeding these dewy blank
fields—
from beneath.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
SAPPED
Huge resolute spears
of leaves—that grew over
where we walked
together—are shriveling now
and liable
to drop from these
palpitating branches.
Next year, I struggle
to wonder—
what weird
new shapes? they could
possibly bear.
of leaves—that grew over
where we walked
together—are shriveling now
and liable
to drop from these
palpitating branches.
Next year, I struggle
to wonder—
what weird
new shapes? they could
possibly bear.
Tuesday, September 18, 2018
PARTY'S OVER
Oblique strategist, it’s apparent now,
the whole point of what you are
was never very sharp.
At the eleventh hour, made flat
the whole point of what you are
was never very sharp.
At the eleventh hour, made flat
and dizzy by the increasing slipperiness
of sound and image,
you stumble stoned from the mise en scène
and approach at last—the solidity
of things,
the imperishability of one certain object:
with your whole soul, you grasp
the handle, crank the handle, and see—
how patiently the white porcelain
the handle, crank the handle, and see—
how patiently the white porcelain
bowl—newly pregnant with her gleaming
water—always gazes back.
water—always gazes back.
Monday, September 17, 2018
NOPLACE
When cool nights arrive, I'm
finally free
of the self-
assured afternoon's harsh
loneliness
and gloom—together we sigh
and crouch,
hang out high and munch
peanuts, and slink
like cowards
across the blue-
and-yellow-checkered couch—
for now,
I share this shitty apartment
with the irresolute
halfmoon—
and if I'm lucky at all,
when morning
comes, I
still do.
finally free
of the self-
assured afternoon's harsh
loneliness
and gloom—together we sigh
and crouch,
hang out high and munch
peanuts, and slink
like cowards
across the blue-
and-yellow-checkered couch—
for now,
I share this shitty apartment
with the irresolute
halfmoon—
and if I'm lucky at all,
when morning
comes, I
still do.
Saturday, September 15, 2018
IN THE TIME OF THE RESISTANCE
Stubborn old
rain puddle—abetted
by these
untamed weeds, it never
seems to leave—many days later,
gaunt autumn bees
still pause
and nose around the rust-
and nose around the rust-
sweet water.
Friday, September 14, 2018
THE UNREASONABLE WILL
Autumn blossoms—
blithe mum
and nimble
morning glory—
speak a crisp "yes, hi"
to No; anything
goes—nothing
abides.
blithe mum
and nimble
morning glory—
speak a crisp "yes, hi"
to No; anything
goes—nothing
abides.
Thursday, September 13, 2018
ELLIE UNCOMBED, WITH INSIGHT
Even solid gold
hair appears
messy with unknowing
when she sleeps,
without caring—
not so much dreaming
as floating
just below
or above
an idea—you
and I
likely
would have discarded.
hair appears
messy with unknowing
when she sleeps,
without caring—
not so much dreaming
as floating
just below
or above
an idea—you
and I
likely
would have discarded.
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
I NEED THE CHANGE I FEAR THE MOST
The birds, the sparse
park grass, those meager
city tress—
all possess
the mentality—to teach
not of other things, but
only (finally)
of themselves—
without words
or lessons;
no translators, zero traitors
hiding from stinging bees
in the zinnias, or hanging
dead from the catalpa branches.
Why can I not seem
to do that?
Why shouldn't
the music
of this very
rhythm? rattle
swiftly on without me.
park grass, those meager
city tress—
all possess
the mentality—to teach
not of other things, but
only (finally)
of themselves—
without words
or lessons;
no translators, zero traitors
hiding from stinging bees
in the zinnias, or hanging
dead from the catalpa branches.
Why can I not seem
to do that?
Why shouldn't
the music
of this very
rhythm? rattle
swiftly on without me.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
THE SLIDING SCALE
Heaven's
sake, I would like
to have said
to my old
friend the raven,
before he took off
for the upper
peninsula—
these forehead demarcations
are growing
both
keener—and somehow
ever
ghostlier, don't
you think? Its as if
the farther apart
a hard-hammered wish seems
to have been beaten
from its antecedent,
the finer and neater
are the filaments needed
to connect them,
and that's all;
until
the distance
between—
the ridiculous despair
which haunts
a dislocated
brain such as
this one—and its
favorite
quiet spot
at the neighborhood
coffee shop
is never
very great.
sake, I would like
to have said
to my old
friend the raven,
before he took off
for the upper
peninsula—
these forehead demarcations
are growing
both
keener—and somehow
ever
ghostlier, don't
you think? Its as if
the farther apart
a hard-hammered wish seems
to have been beaten
from its antecedent,
the finer and neater
are the filaments needed
to connect them,
and that's all;
until
the distance
between—
the ridiculous despair
which haunts
a dislocated
brain such as
this one—and its
favorite
quiet spot
at the neighborhood
coffee shop
is never
very great.
Monday, September 10, 2018
LOOSE
Whenever—and to the absolute
extent that it
can
the sun's speedy
dissipated
light will touch everything;
not only
is that
the truth—it lands nice
and flat—upon what
the truth
is.
extent that it
can
the sun's speedy
dissipated
light will touch everything;
not only
is that
the truth—it lands nice
and flat—upon what
the truth
is.
Sunday, September 9, 2018
Friday, September 7, 2018
VULGAR DISPLAY OF POWER
Small consolation
for the dark
horses—born of a billion
furnaces' hysterical burning
and after taking
so many
strange alternative
years to finally arrive here,
the tardy afternoon
light can still
plausibly appear to fall
so cold—
and impersonal—
against the back neighbors'
brick wall.
for the dark
horses—born of a billion
furnaces' hysterical burning
and after taking
so many
strange alternative
years to finally arrive here,
the tardy afternoon
light can still
plausibly appear to fall
so cold—
and impersonal—
against the back neighbors'
brick wall.
Thursday, September 6, 2018
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
REALISM IS THE DIVIDEND
The Real, in these hands—
divided by several
floozy ideals
from that intangible
pink and cream
palace of somewhere—
always yields
(in black
and white ciphers)
the same petite quotient
and its
hideous remainder
which seems
to keep on
divising forever
and repeating
the equation, like the
purr of a mantra:
words
over
the sounds of those words
might
help you to live a less
frangible life.
Thus, I become
emperor
of leftover numbers;
here,
I have complete
and unlimited power—
to stand back
and let—the next thing
occur.
divided by several
floozy ideals
from that intangible
pink and cream
palace of somewhere—
always yields
(in black
and white ciphers)
the same petite quotient
and its
hideous remainder
which seems
to keep on
divising forever
and repeating
the equation, like the
purr of a mantra:
words
over
the sounds of those words
might
help you to live a less
frangible life.
Thus, I become
emperor
of leftover numbers;
here,
I have complete
and unlimited power—
to stand back
and let—the next thing
occur.
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
THEORY OF HISTORY
Think about it:
even the lonely executioner—who,
with all his
might, must press—and split
some kid in half;
then sift around the slag
until he finds
the soft white music,
the subcutaneous stuff, the
timeless kind;
then, taking his guileless
knife by its handle,
cleanly trim and toss it—
must sometimes find,
washing his face and hands
a long half an hour later,
he cannot keep his lips
from whistling—
having
instinctively
picked-up from somewhere,
some moribund self-
indulgent tune.
Friday, August 31, 2018
A STRETCH
Maybe
Einstein, sleeping
back in the
last century, dreamed me
in 2018,
abandoned—out here,
where the
woods meet the city.
Though they seemed perfect-
ly detached
and helpful, each of his small metal
ovals of thought
over time, formed these
linked chains of facts,
which now constrain my head,
holding me back
from bowing low
to drink
at the moss-shielded fountain
form which
nonsense is gushing,
in endless flourishes
of formlessness
and lazy adherence to relativity
which moisten and
glisten across these
terrible rings of metal—
giving me the shivers
and keeping me
from sleep,
despite the deep
night riding
in on the the cool starry wind—
and accelerating
out into the strangely
ill-defined distance.
Einstein, sleeping
back in the
last century, dreamed me
in 2018,
abandoned—out here,
where the
woods meet the city.
Though they seemed perfect-
ly detached
and helpful, each of his small metal
ovals of thought
over time, formed these
linked chains of facts,
which now constrain my head,
holding me back
from bowing low
to drink
at the moss-shielded fountain
form which
nonsense is gushing,
in endless flourishes
of formlessness
and lazy adherence to relativity
which moisten and
glisten across these
terrible rings of metal—
giving me the shivers
and keeping me
from sleep,
despite the deep
night riding
in on the the cool starry wind—
and accelerating
out into the strangely
ill-defined distance.
Thursday, August 30, 2018
OUT OF ORDER
Maybe, a heart
doesn't break—it falls in mid-flight
and punches
another small hole
out of midnight;
pure darkness
falters, and the temperature
inside our sleeping
skulls goes
up a little;
the next day—there's a new crow
on the power line
coughing and razzing
slightly shorter
bluegray snakes
of traffic
in dull rain.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
NATURAL CALM
If you really need
an authentic sleep
and really need it
fast—try counting
not blessings or sheep, but
the billions
and billions
of other people's
exquisite
crepe paper eye lids—
which, by now,
have already crumpled closed—
so peaceably,
and tasteful
as a runner-up rose—for the
very last time.
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
THE STAKES ONLY GET HIGHER
Would dancing
ourselves to death
be a pleasure
it it were under-
taken purely
by instinct?
Better
come back
to the
same old oak
tree in the park—
where we
once swung
and laughed
easy, picnic-
lunching,
with sticky red
jam around
our mouths—
and ask
those same
bees again
at the brisk end
of September.
ourselves to death
be a pleasure
it it were under-
taken purely
by instinct?
Better
come back
to the
same old oak
tree in the park—
where we
once swung
and laughed
easy, picnic-
lunching,
with sticky red
jam around
our mouths—
and ask
those same
bees again
at the brisk end
of September.
Monday, August 27, 2018
LEISURE-READING TOLSTOY
Take a good look
at this
ad hoc bird's nest—see it's
just scraps
of the little things
nestled neatly
inside the big abstract one
they create.
Here's a large cavity
which seems to resemble
an ancient fish's
skeletal signature,
impressionistically
swimming beneath
the verminous John F.
Kennedy overpass,
all the vomit, piss, and
diarrhea—neatly organized
into a new form
of orgasm.
And right over here
is another
small pocket
stitched out of how it's
still possible—
to eat M&Ms
while you
read War and Peace
and discreetly
check the Cubs score
from the anti-gun rally
(just try not to
think about
how much larger
and louder
that other crowd is,
or abstraction
might crumble
back into
garbage again.)
at this
ad hoc bird's nest—see it's
just scraps
of the little things
nestled neatly
inside the big abstract one
they create.
Here's a large cavity
which seems to resemble
an ancient fish's
skeletal signature,
impressionistically
swimming beneath
the verminous John F.
Kennedy overpass,
all the vomit, piss, and
diarrhea—neatly organized
into a new form
of orgasm.
And right over here
is another
small pocket
stitched out of how it's
still possible—
to eat M&Ms
while you
read War and Peace
and discreetly
check the Cubs score
from the anti-gun rally
(just try not to
think about
how much larger
and louder
that other crowd is,
or abstraction
might crumble
back into
garbage again.)
Friday, August 24, 2018
THE POEM OF THE MIND
Gradually, I will learn
to set aside blackbirds,
one by one, shut each
obsidian eye,
leave every bead
of humid dawn water
hanging suspended
in redolent cedar branches,
let the moon and the sun
collide and trade places
allow those tiger lilies to go on
purring in the dark—locked
away, one inside each of my
four heart chamber drawers.
The poem of the mind
is pure steady light;
no snow-
storms, zero love affairs.
The one undying gaze—which beholds
the source of the situation,
looks without urgency, sees
without interest.
Still, though—even about that, I have
to wonder.
to set aside blackbirds,
one by one, shut each
obsidian eye,
leave every bead
of humid dawn water
hanging suspended
in redolent cedar branches,
let the moon and the sun
collide and trade places
allow those tiger lilies to go on
purring in the dark—locked
away, one inside each of my
four heart chamber drawers.
The poem of the mind
is pure steady light;
no snow-
storms, zero love affairs.
The one undying gaze—which beholds
the source of the situation,
looks without urgency, sees
without interest.
Still, though—even about that, I have
to wonder.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
A HAIKU TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
Here is a fresh poem—
it's pure and spontaneous
as a late May snow
only—
way more complicated.
it's pure and spontaneous
as a late May snow
only—
way more complicated.
PARABLE OF THE TWO FICTIONS
Day after day,
season
after season—hour
after hour,
that same familiar
changeling, her intelligence,
would bid her—
look, think, remember.
Remembering things
brings them back to life;
The early and eager-
to-bloom glories of today
may simply be
the dream of last night.
But wait, she thought,
last night, the moon
that hung up in the sky
was bright
yellow, three
dimensional—and full
with all our collective
memories of morning;
another invisible
thing made visible.
Meanwhile, the one which was still
reflected in her eye
was full—of black and white
photos of flowers.
season
after season—hour
after hour,
that same familiar
changeling, her intelligence,
would bid her—
look, think, remember.
Remembering things
brings them back to life;
The early and eager-
to-bloom glories of today
may simply be
the dream of last night.
But wait, she thought,
last night, the moon
that hung up in the sky
was bright
yellow, three
dimensional—and full
with all our collective
memories of morning;
another invisible
thing made visible.
Meanwhile, the one which was still
reflected in her eye
was full—of black and white
photos of flowers.
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
AFTER FACT AND REASON
Eventually,
it must be alright.
It's got to be
possible—
to call it a night,
to lift up
and kiss
each majestic peak
of these blisters,
to tan
for ten to twenty
in front of the television,
to give
each bulbous blue
moon of a brain lobe
an honest-
to-goodness
epsom salt soak.
At last, it must be
the right thing
because it's
the same thing,
the real thing,
the honest thing.
A little light
music—or perhaps
no sound
would be more
appropriate—
to accompany
empty feeling drifting,
knots of gray
wet rope untying.
God knows—
even J.S. Bach,
for all his leaping,
kept falling
back on
the same dozen notes.
it must be alright.
It's got to be
possible—
to call it a night,
to lift up
and kiss
each majestic peak
of these blisters,
to tan
for ten to twenty
in front of the television,
to give
each bulbous blue
moon of a brain lobe
an honest-
to-goodness
epsom salt soak.
At last, it must be
the right thing
because it's
the same thing,
the real thing,
the honest thing.
A little light
music—or perhaps
no sound
would be more
appropriate—
to accompany
empty feeling drifting,
knots of gray
wet rope untying.
God knows—
even J.S. Bach,
for all his leaping,
kept falling
back on
the same dozen notes.
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
SONG OF THE INDEPENDENT SURVEYOR
In the wild west
known as
plain ordinary Tuesday,
the myriad
looks coming at me—from the mirrors
and the glazed windows of closed
shops—are all shady.
If even this gray rain
is not just the gray rain,
then surely
there must be something
that I could symbolize.
I keep joking
like pacing wet tennis shoe
laps around
the dark formidable
landmass
of what I knew,
until I've got a few more
of the landmarks
sorted out—the blank silent looks
are a meditation, a prayer
for less dependence
on supplication;
the laughter
is a chattering river—cutting deep
enduring canyons.
Monday, August 20, 2018
DANTE'S LUNCHEONETTE
Beatrice!—the white
dress,
red cherries
printed on it—coolly
palming egg
salad.
dress,
red cherries
printed on it—coolly
palming egg
salad.
Friday, August 17, 2018
REFRACTIONS OF THE HONEYMOON
Isn't it odd—the first six
or seven colors were
given to us
there in the ooze puddling
underneath Grandpa
Joe’s red F-150—
the rest, we have been left
on our own ever
since to dream about
through dilated mind's eyes
gauging candlestick strangers on
Edward Hopper nights
to pick-up piecemeal from the street-
side markets of Florence
and France
to taste in the igneous curry sauce
the boss's wife coaxed us
into trying
or, to listen for, driving home
from the two-bedroomburial place
of a memory
dewy and alone, in the midst of
static night, after all the stations
have signed off—or died out.
or seven colors were
given to us
there in the ooze puddling
underneath Grandpa
Joe’s red F-150—
the rest, we have been left
on our own ever
since to dream about
through dilated mind's eyes
gauging candlestick strangers on
Edward Hopper nights
to pick-up piecemeal from the street-
side markets of Florence
and France
to taste in the igneous curry sauce
the boss's wife coaxed us
into trying
or, to listen for, driving home
from the two-bedroomburial place
of a memory
dewy and alone, in the midst of
static night, after all the stations
have signed off—or died out.
Thursday, August 16, 2018
THE VOICE OF REASON
Over time, many odd
choices
and opinions
coalesce into one chorus
transforming
raw advice—
into the pure voice
of reason:
abandon your virtues;
when all chained
together, even
they constrain you.
Don't push this
load, pull it—slowly,
as old
Issa's young snail would,
take the levelest
possible road
to the
top of the tallest mountain.
choices
and opinions
coalesce into one chorus
transforming
raw advice—
into the pure voice
of reason:
abandon your virtues;
when all chained
together, even
they constrain you.
Don't push this
load, pull it—slowly,
as old
Issa's young snail would,
take the levelest
possible road
to the
top of the tallest mountain.
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
WILL
August is a bloated apathetic animal—
having killed
and blood-let and feasted and
sucked
on the meat
of a tender young June
and a huge July's utters
and fat tangles of rib marrow.
Moist dust from the scuttle
clings to the air, subtly
darkening the sun.
Weary now, even of the
sheen of cherries
and the insistent musk of a
honey dew melon,
it lies still, breathes
shallow,
sleeps, dreaming—in circles
of a dimly
apprehended tomorrow:
the cool prevalence
of inevitable
September—and its plums.
having killed
and blood-let and feasted and
sucked
on the meat
of a tender young June
and a huge July's utters
and fat tangles of rib marrow.
Moist dust from the scuttle
clings to the air, subtly
darkening the sun.
Weary now, even of the
sheen of cherries
and the insistent musk of a
honey dew melon,
it lies still, breathes
shallow,
sleeps, dreaming—in circles
of a dimly
apprehended tomorrow:
the cool prevalence
of inevitable
September—and its plums.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
ELEMENTAL, AS IT WERE
Experience may be haunted
with the ghosts of inclination,
but the literal is (really)
the strangest caprice of all.
After all,
I'm not a crow,
I am not
some bumbling bee
I am rooms and spires
filled with old spores;
I am blue mold,
hungry and stubborn.
I might have been outlawed
but I am also sheriff
and game warden
of this space on the page.
Right now, I'm all of the
dark feelings you could mention
which stand for themselves
and don't require poems
to get attention.
Nothing in these lines
is levitating. Even the most
fantastic books
don't just magically
fly off the shelves.
The most prolific words
describe lack,
a crying need
for help.
I am long past giving
up
writing
about myself.
with the ghosts of inclination,
but the literal is (really)
the strangest caprice of all.
After all,
I'm not a crow,
I am not
some bumbling bee
I am rooms and spires
filled with old spores;
I am blue mold,
hungry and stubborn.
I might have been outlawed
but I am also sheriff
and game warden
of this space on the page.
Right now, I'm all of the
dark feelings you could mention
which stand for themselves
and don't require poems
to get attention.
Nothing in these lines
is levitating. Even the most
fantastic books
don't just magically
fly off the shelves.
The most prolific words
describe lack,
a crying need
for help.
I am long past giving
up
writing
about myself.
Monday, August 13, 2018
CATHEDRAL TUNES
Everywhere I look,
every small thing has got
a piece of the whole
infinity in it,
every translucent amber window
oozes doleful music—
then there's
the awed hush of limestone
and the shadows
of low-bowing arches
unspooling into garden hedges
to darken wild thoughts—
until I'm so weary
and oppressed, I can barely
believe I don't
believe it
when, high above
and far
away, the bells toll—no, no, no, no
and in the
spaces between, I hear what
impossible sounds like.
every small thing has got
a piece of the whole
infinity in it,
every translucent amber window
oozes doleful music—
then there's
the awed hush of limestone
and the shadows
of low-bowing arches
unspooling into garden hedges
to darken wild thoughts—
until I'm so weary
and oppressed, I can barely
believe I don't
believe it
when, high above
and far
away, the bells toll—no, no, no, no
and in the
spaces between, I hear what
impossible sounds like.
Saturday, August 11, 2018
HIERARCHY OF A SATURDAY AFTERNOON
At the edge of the
park, swollen
pigeons bully finches
away from the provident spoils—
six monolithic
hewed husks of hard sourdough,
until the gargantuan Ford Explorer
toiling past
with the windows down
shatters at last the holy war
with its peace
accord—of reggaeton bass.
park, swollen
pigeons bully finches
away from the provident spoils—
six monolithic
hewed husks of hard sourdough,
until the gargantuan Ford Explorer
toiling past
with the windows down
shatters at last the holy war
with its peace
accord—of reggaeton bass.
Friday, August 10, 2018
CATHOLIC WITH A LOWERCASE C
congregated
on a moldy pear core
forsaken
in the alley—
a hundred flies, or
maybe more—
lord, hear our
rotten prayer
for a scrap
of their rapport.
on a moldy pear core
forsaken
in the alley—
a hundred flies, or
maybe more—
lord, hear our
rotten prayer
for a scrap
of their rapport.
CONSTITUTION
That uniform sky,
that distant blister
for a raw sore planet
you're supposedly under—is it
gray?
Or is it silver?
Does the rain have a point?
Or does each drop
have the perfect caliber?
Depends.
How many grounds
in your coffee cup this morning?
How much like a circus
does the word "fickle" still sound?
And what is the current
starting lineup?
of those slippery ticklish
bacteria in your guts
which have never seen the sun
in their fugitive lives?
that distant blister
for a raw sore planet
you're supposedly under—is it
gray?
Or is it silver?
Does the rain have a point?
Or does each drop
have the perfect caliber?
Depends.
How many grounds
in your coffee cup this morning?
How much like a circus
does the word "fickle" still sound?
And what is the current
starting lineup?
of those slippery ticklish
bacteria in your guts
which have never seen the sun
in their fugitive lives?
Thursday, August 9, 2018
IT DIDN'T HAPPEN
Day after day,
I'm ashamed
of that
most derelict of affluences
I call—my austerity.
With care, I turn
on the old boombox
and a little
Frigidaire window unit,
then leave the apartment
to go out for fresh air;
I log on the the pubic
library's free WiFi—
and just sit there;
do any of you know
what I'm
talking about here?
If so, maybe we could get together
and compare
the delicate grain of our
solemn wooden innocence
or else x-rays
of our lungs, so black
with the tar of
the unsure.
You know what they say:
pictures, or it didn't happen.
What good is our privacy
if it cannot be demonstrated?
I'm ashamed
of that
most derelict of affluences
I call—my austerity.
With care, I turn
on the old boombox
and a little
Frigidaire window unit,
then leave the apartment
to go out for fresh air;
I log on the the pubic
library's free WiFi—
and just sit there;
do any of you know
what I'm
talking about here?
If so, maybe we could get together
and compare
the delicate grain of our
solemn wooden innocence
or else x-rays
of our lungs, so black
with the tar of
the unsure.
You know what they say:
pictures, or it didn't happen.
What good is our privacy
if it cannot be demonstrated?
Wednesday, August 8, 2018
NIRVANA
Blue blades
of sprats
arrayed tail-
to-neck
in neat silver-
plated beds—
do you even
miss your heads?
I don't think
I would.
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
FUTURE IMPERFECT
Granted, life without a sabbath
is an unbroken
series of weekdays
a melody
decomposed
into—just notes;
but inchoate ears
hear old music
in new and fictive ways
and immature voices
proclaim old truths
in new and fantastic tenses.
It makes their under-
ripe throats feel soothed
to proclaim
not that which is,
or will come—but that
which ought to be;
theirs is an impervious god
who must
never be addressed
but instead
is—sometimes
listened to.
is an unbroken
series of weekdays
a melody
decomposed
into—just notes;
but inchoate ears
hear old music
in new and fictive ways
and immature voices
proclaim old truths
in new and fantastic tenses.
It makes their under-
ripe throats feel soothed
to proclaim
not that which is,
or will come—but that
which ought to be;
theirs is an impervious god
who must
never be addressed
but instead
is—sometimes
listened to.
Monday, August 6, 2018
WATER WORKS
After the dawn, moon-
white foaming, the lake mist
rolls in—
to power-scrub the skyscrapers
and cleanse the roiled
attitudes of
a million forsaken weekenders.
And soon, gently quickening
through the new
monochrome downtown—here
a mint green
rain boot—there,
the jocular nonchalance
of a miniature pink umbrella,
lifting soiled tensions,
sweetening
the savory
tang of wet asphalt,
making, in the vague
mind of the multitude, a Monday
morning possible.
white foaming, the lake mist
rolls in—
to power-scrub the skyscrapers
and cleanse the roiled
attitudes of
a million forsaken weekenders.
And soon, gently quickening
through the new
monochrome downtown—here
a mint green
rain boot—there,
the jocular nonchalance
of a miniature pink umbrella,
lifting soiled tensions,
sweetening
the savory
tang of wet asphalt,
making, in the vague
mind of the multitude, a Monday
morning possible.
Friday, August 3, 2018
USELESS
That blue
with the perfect baked
white that
curdles through it
can't you just
see it?
couldn't you just
about take a
mouthful?
It's a cute yellow
breakfast plate
sun. baby
it's a
real eggs
and bacon kind
of sky.
How about
that? seven grains—
all at once
what'll they think of next?
soak
it in. sop it
up.
Buzz buzz—another
espresso
from the bar
buzz buzz
a small puffed-
up stinger scar
its owner, remember
died immediately
upon the impact.
Last night's aggravations
somehow now
both—bittersweet
and untasteable.
with the perfect baked
white that
curdles through it
can't you just
see it?
couldn't you just
about take a
mouthful?
It's a cute yellow
breakfast plate
sun. baby
it's a
real eggs
and bacon kind
of sky.
How about
that? seven grains—
all at once
what'll they think of next?
soak
it in. sop it
up.
Buzz buzz—another
espresso
from the bar
buzz buzz
a small puffed-
up stinger scar
its owner, remember
died immediately
upon the impact.
Last night's aggravations
somehow now
both—bittersweet
and untasteable.
HUBBLE'S LAW
1.
On the
plus side, all the old
wishing stars
are still up there.
it's just that—
at this
very moment,
they've never been
farther.
2.
Far from
being useless,
thoughts and prayers
do exactly
what they're
supposed to do—magically
keeping the weak
and the wounded
at arm's length.
On the
plus side, all the old
wishing stars
are still up there.
it's just that—
at this
very moment,
they've never been
farther.
2.
Far from
being useless,
thoughts and prayers
do exactly
what they're
supposed to do—magically
keeping the weak
and the wounded
at arm's length.
Thursday, August 2, 2018
PIONEER
Dreamed I lived out
in a bucolic village
on the fringe of a bigger
and even
more bucolic village—
inside of a still-
larger and much
prettier one—which functioned
as some sort of an ad-
hoc spacecraft.
My concerns, though, were still
quite provincial—coffee, walk
the dog, grip her leash a little
harder rounding the corner
apartment with the
two keyed-up corgis, feel
the rough old nylon
chafing my skin, causing
me to wonder how each
of your freckles is doing—are they
still migrating? and where
in the universe yours
and my fingerprints might
be mirrored in the geography of
a galactic super-cluster. And then
look down again and realize
that, in this particular universe, I don't
have a dog, you do; and I have
that exotic new-world
disease—which causes me
to stay indoors half-asleep
all day in front of a muted TV
or laptop computer,
putting all I remember
of a dream I had
on mock-paper.
in a bucolic village
on the fringe of a bigger
and even
more bucolic village—
inside of a still-
larger and much
prettier one—which functioned
as some sort of an ad-
hoc spacecraft.
My concerns, though, were still
quite provincial—coffee, walk
the dog, grip her leash a little
harder rounding the corner
apartment with the
two keyed-up corgis, feel
the rough old nylon
chafing my skin, causing
me to wonder how each
of your freckles is doing—are they
still migrating? and where
in the universe yours
and my fingerprints might
be mirrored in the geography of
a galactic super-cluster. And then
look down again and realize
that, in this particular universe, I don't
have a dog, you do; and I have
that exotic new-world
disease—which causes me
to stay indoors half-asleep
all day in front of a muted TV
or laptop computer,
putting all I remember
of a dream I had
on mock-paper.
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
POMP + CIRCUMSTANCE
Dazzling august mid-
morning sun—
boiling the sweet cream
skin under-
neath—all that
baggy funeral black.
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
FIGURES
Pissed off and in-
transigent, my shoulders are stiff
as a pair
of antediluvian boulders,
the coffee
in the little blue
cup is scabbing over,
the room has turned a blank
gray, and even
the nonsense words are refusing
to come
together over me.
But the moment I relent
and delete
everything I've written,
the sun swaggers
out, its inarticulate light
pouring down to bury me
alive—in the most
inexplicable
thing of all: a warm
feeling.
transigent, my shoulders are stiff
as a pair
of antediluvian boulders,
the coffee
in the little blue
cup is scabbing over,
the room has turned a blank
gray, and even
the nonsense words are refusing
to come
together over me.
But the moment I relent
and delete
everything I've written,
the sun swaggers
out, its inarticulate light
pouring down to bury me
alive—in the most
inexplicable
thing of all: a warm
feeling.
Monday, July 30, 2018
ANIMATION
Ground mists
of Olympic
National forest
and bright spume of Puget
Sound seafoam
and the thick piebald clouds
housing an over-
polluted mid-
western freight town—are one,
are all present
here in the
sound of the voice that's speaking,
are all simultaneous-
ly something
and nothing,
are all really only
made from electricity
and a few numbers—and are all,
like us, simply longing
to prove to the west wind
they exist.
And this breath—which is nothing
but the animation of a feeling, exists
in relation to none of them.
But still
the oneness persists, the oneness
resists, is pushed west
by that same wind;
the very same oneness
which was
when the first lone globule
started speaking,
and which now, at the ending
still is. Because there can never
be an end
to a thing—that's one thing.
of Olympic
National forest
and bright spume of Puget
Sound seafoam
and the thick piebald clouds
housing an over-
polluted mid-
western freight town—are one,
are all present
here in the
sound of the voice that's speaking,
are all simultaneous-
ly something
and nothing,
are all really only
made from electricity
and a few numbers—and are all,
like us, simply longing
to prove to the west wind
they exist.
And this breath—which is nothing
but the animation of a feeling, exists
in relation to none of them.
But still
the oneness persists, the oneness
resists, is pushed west
by that same wind;
the very same oneness
which was
when the first lone globule
started speaking,
and which now, at the ending
still is. Because there can never
be an end
to a thing—that's one thing.
Friday, July 27, 2018
IRRITATION
This is not
an idea
or even a feeling,
but only just
a thought—that smallest speck
of dirt
around which
the great pearl of all
personhood is built:
no matter
what, I will
never be enough.
an idea
or even a feeling,
but only just
a thought—that smallest speck
of dirt
around which
the great pearl of all
personhood is built:
no matter
what, I will
never be enough.
Thursday, July 26, 2018
EXPOSITION
Muggy out
of focus
dim July mornings—
urge to write
lines about
one's inner life rises—
poems come out
long—
and badly.
of focus
dim July mornings—
urge to write
lines about
one's inner life rises—
poems come out
long—
and badly.
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
SONG LYRICS TRANSCRIPTION
I'm a sick and indentured
entertainer, always
coughing blank paper
and spewing
about freedom—vapor
into more vapor.
The hit song of the season's
called Out of Control,
and its really dumb
chorus goes—later, baby, later;
but if I'm not a musician
without any instruments, then
maybe—I
don't want to be one.
entertainer, always
coughing blank paper
and spewing
about freedom—vapor
into more vapor.
The hit song of the season's
called Out of Control,
and its really dumb
chorus goes—later, baby, later;
but if I'm not a musician
without any instruments, then
maybe—I
don't want to be one.
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
THE GREAT I AM
Frozen in shadow
on the row of sharp flatscreens
which borders the outdoor seating,
the right fielder—
a lone, somber,
perfectly pitched-
forward alphabet letter—
manifesting perfectly
the very first word
known to the world;
while in the sunlit foreground,
we—the sea
of floundering artless spectators,
transfixed
in our unspeakable
wishing to be known
as right fielders, and only
right fielders—
each do our despondent best
never to speak it.
on the row of sharp flatscreens
which borders the outdoor seating,
the right fielder—
a lone, somber,
perfectly pitched-
forward alphabet letter—
manifesting perfectly
the very first word
known to the world;
while in the sunlit foreground,
we—the sea
of floundering artless spectators,
transfixed
in our unspeakable
wishing to be known
as right fielders, and only
right fielders—
each do our despondent best
never to speak it.
Monday, July 23, 2018
WORRIED SICK
The scariest thing about
pale floating ghosts—those hollow mute phantoms
of old malignant religions
is their tacit admonition
for not stopping to contemplate
the difficult questions,
for always touching, but never really meeting
or summoning
the ground,
for always being too afraid to scream
in your own voice,
for never loving
the rare and precious
dark parts of your body—that no one else living
ever gets to see.
pale floating ghosts—those hollow mute phantoms
of old malignant religions
is their tacit admonition
for not stopping to contemplate
the difficult questions,
for always touching, but never really meeting
or summoning
the ground,
for always being too afraid to scream
in your own voice,
for never loving
the rare and precious
dark parts of your body—that no one else living
ever gets to see.
Friday, July 20, 2018
KEY CHANGE
Like an abhorrent larva, I crawl
and I climb—
blind, toward modulation;
a feeling with no corners, not known,
only felt after.
only felt after.
Does anybody even know
that I'm up here
on the roof of this house now?
I don't have to prove it;
I know I'll soon love
everything inside it
everything inside it
(the hard carbon and cold calcium,
the warm blood and soft spit)
only barely—
that way
there'll always be enough left
that way
there'll always be enough left
over for my
next move.
Thursday, July 19, 2018
ACCORDING TO PLAN
Sunbleached and drooping,
the whispering ancient
treetops insist—earth's air grows
heavier with vapor
nearer to where
the truth is;
even the brash
light racing
from a cataclysmic old star
will center the still
and nurture the starving—until,
one day, under their prodigious shade,
insect travelers—tired,
myriad-eyed,
from far reaches of outer space—
alight and find
temporary safety—in the jaws
of a shaded lily.
the whispering ancient
treetops insist—earth's air grows
heavier with vapor
nearer to where
the truth is;
even the brash
light racing
from a cataclysmic old star
will center the still
and nurture the starving—until,
one day, under their prodigious shade,
insect travelers—tired,
myriad-eyed,
from far reaches of outer space—
alight and find
temporary safety—in the jaws
of a shaded lily.
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
DEEP THOUGHT
The exact moment I try
to get relaxed—sitting cross-
legged in this
wide open glen
I sense—the tickle
of the expeditious green bottle fly
who, upon landing—spits,
rubs his stick-
hands together methodically,
then whips-
out a serviceable,
practiced proboscis—and commences
vacuuming
every dingy
apartment he finds
in the poor tenement
cracks of my
derelict shin skin.
to get relaxed—sitting cross-
legged in this
wide open glen
I sense—the tickle
of the expeditious green bottle fly
who, upon landing—spits,
rubs his stick-
hands together methodically,
then whips-
out a serviceable,
practiced proboscis—and commences
vacuuming
every dingy
apartment he finds
in the poor tenement
cracks of my
derelict shin skin.
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
GOD IS MY JUDGE
I guess most people still think
a boy can never
be named for a flower.
I guess. But I
am not some lion tamer—I am a meat-eater
who's also a gardener.
I guess most people still think that art
and science and religion
can all reconcile, can meet in the middle.
I guess. But I tried hard once
to make them curve toward one another
through lenses of words—and they didn't.
And I guess most people
still think that this is some sort of
glamorous process.
I guess. But it's not. For instance,
the voice in this poem—is the voice come
from nowhere. Sure, with a cup-
shaped fist, it seems
to reach up and pluck
from thin air, all sorts of
humid invisible fruit—
and yes, it then willingly
hands this to you; but still
it says nothing
about whether
it's edible—or forbidden.
a boy can never
be named for a flower.
I guess. But I
am not some lion tamer—I am a meat-eater
who's also a gardener.
I guess most people still think that art
and science and religion
can all reconcile, can meet in the middle.
I guess. But I tried hard once
to make them curve toward one another
through lenses of words—and they didn't.
And I guess most people
still think that this is some sort of
glamorous process.
I guess. But it's not. For instance,
the voice in this poem—is the voice come
from nowhere. Sure, with a cup-
shaped fist, it seems
to reach up and pluck
from thin air, all sorts of
humid invisible fruit—
and yes, it then willingly
hands this to you; but still
it says nothing
about whether
it's edible—or forbidden.
Monday, July 16, 2018
Friday, July 13, 2018
SIDEWALK SALE
Under the drowsy eye
of noon sun,
gleaming
gold and complex aquamarine
planets—of eccentric green
bottle flies
describe
the near-perfect
outlines of cylinders—pirouetted around
an abstract center,
the action-paint splatter
of forest-
green and titanium-
white bird shit.
of noon sun,
gleaming
gold and complex aquamarine
planets—of eccentric green
bottle flies
describe
the near-perfect
outlines of cylinders—pirouetted around
an abstract center,
the action-paint splatter
of forest-
green and titanium-
white bird shit.
Thursday, July 12, 2018
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
GONE WITHOUT THE WIND
Just like that—some grimy cookies
and cream-colored pigeons
are gobbling down the sidewalk shade,
leaving droppings in their wake
like greasy clues
to secret undiscovered neighborhood
places—storm drains stuffed
with leaves and cigarette
packs and old beetle shells,
erased bus stops, and the smelled
tang of dog shit and some
nearby dead rat—all linking
like keys to locks, with these
nauseous and
depressing spells; how dare we care
for one another? Does every book
need a cover? How do I say I don't care
in a way that still matters?
Then, something warmish
and sudden: a flap. The littlest
ripple, and they are gone—with
or without the wind—on wings
they could only have
stolen from me.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
DAY TO DAY
Faint,
amorphous, and
far away
as abstract concepts—the clouds
have nothing
important
to say
about my affairs.
amorphous, and
far away
as abstract concepts—the clouds
have nothing
important
to say
about my affairs.
Monday, July 9, 2018
REMAIN
The terra cotta
pot—which underlies
and engenders the flowers—
does not
challenge; it does not
object, but
applies its
clay-dull concentration
to the task—
breathing in,
then exhaling, bulging
outward again—
it touches
the bare earth
at all times,
no matter what—leaving
absolutely
no space in between
(it is an expert at that).
It knows
it is
a miracle—a revelation
to grow
and to change
and to stay
and to leave—but
it is a discipline
to remain
content
to play the same bit part
in every
consecutive moment.
pot—which underlies
and engenders the flowers—
does not
challenge; it does not
object, but
applies its
clay-dull concentration
to the task—
breathing in,
then exhaling, bulging
outward again—
it touches
the bare earth
at all times,
no matter what—leaving
absolutely
no space in between
(it is an expert at that).
It knows
it is
a miracle—a revelation
to grow
and to change
and to stay
and to leave—but
it is a discipline
to remain
content
to play the same bit part
in every
consecutive moment.
Sunday, July 8, 2018
Friday, July 6, 2018
GIRL, YOU'LL BE A WOMAN SOON
Violent,
but achingly
sweet-
ly, a changeling's
eye-
teeth
breach the quivering
red flesh
of their
first nectarine.
but achingly
sweet-
ly, a changeling's
eye-
teeth
breach the quivering
red flesh
of their
first nectarine.
Tuesday, July 3, 2018
GENERATIONS
Going out
my front door each morning,
I bow
to you, slight
callow sapling—who meekly haunts
the cusp
of a tainted
stump—and whose obdurate shade,
when my bones
are loam, may fall
toward the shoulder of my great-
grandson.
my front door each morning,
I bow
to you, slight
callow sapling—who meekly haunts
the cusp
of a tainted
stump—and whose obdurate shade,
when my bones
are loam, may fall
toward the shoulder of my great-
grandson.
Monday, July 2, 2018
SHELL
You do not have to
make up your mind, because I've
made mine up for you.
Like a stubborn old mollusk—who's
been dredged up
from the stony dark ocean bottom
and disabused
of all hope and ambition
because he's never
seen the starlight—this is
my only gift, my greatest
lasting favor:
I swear not to wonder
where I am going? I'll just pose
the question: where did I come from?
Everyone walks around knowing
so very little, but they pretend like
that's a lot.
My body is closed; I will not
debate that. Perfectly,
I'll maintain this ebony silence.
I'm not your
salvation. I am not your hell.
I don't exist
to make the feeling of existence
any easier to take.
I simply exist
to make the feeling of existence
a little less hard
to illustrate.
make up your mind, because I've
made mine up for you.
Like a stubborn old mollusk—who's
been dredged up
from the stony dark ocean bottom
and disabused
of all hope and ambition
because he's never
seen the starlight—this is
my only gift, my greatest
lasting favor:
I swear not to wonder
where I am going? I'll just pose
the question: where did I come from?
Everyone walks around knowing
so very little, but they pretend like
that's a lot.
My body is closed; I will not
debate that. Perfectly,
I'll maintain this ebony silence.
I'm not your
salvation. I am not your hell.
I don't exist
to make the feeling of existence
any easier to take.
I simply exist
to make the feeling of existence
a little less hard
to illustrate.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
BLUE
Those occasional
moons, which ought to be
waning, but go on
unmercifully hanging,
haze-distorted
and fuller than usual
in the humid still-
blue gloaming—only prove
to me now
how I never loved you
more than those
nights you weren't home.
moons, which ought to be
waning, but go on
unmercifully hanging,
haze-distorted
and fuller than usual
in the humid still-
blue gloaming—only prove
to me now
how I never loved you
more than those
nights you weren't home.
Friday, June 29, 2018
NEW
These days
after long rains—fecund smells
on the humid breeze,
and between
the sagging trees dart
yellow finches—wings beating
a few
soft ripples
across the face—of the
parking lot lake.
after long rains—fecund smells
on the humid breeze,
and between
the sagging trees dart
yellow finches—wings beating
a few
soft ripples
across the face—of the
parking lot lake.
Thursday, June 28, 2018
TETHER YOUR HOPES
Say a little prayer
that—
furious, the feral cat
keeps
napping
in those daffodils.
that—
furious, the feral cat
keeps
napping
in those daffodils.
INCIDENTAL
Brisk chains of eighth notes
chiming down the treble staff—brown finches
on the power line.
chiming down the treble staff—brown finches
on the power line.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
SCHOOL'S OUT!
Still-vibrating
with the smoldering
residual energy
of a brash profusion
of high
summer night fireworks—a plangent constellation
of residual translucent
rainbow-
colored
gummy bears—now stains
the blue-
black
void of playground asphalt—
attracting
rats.
with the smoldering
residual energy
of a brash profusion
of high
summer night fireworks—a plangent constellation
of residual translucent
rainbow-
colored
gummy bears—now stains
the blue-
black
void of playground asphalt—
attracting
rats.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
REFLECTION
Little sun-
silver mirrors
hung—all along
the out-
stretched length
of this
waxy palm
leaf—what do you
have
to teach?
silver mirrors
hung—all along
the out-
stretched length
of this
waxy palm
leaf—what do you
have
to teach?
Monday, June 25, 2018
NONESSENTIAL GOODS
In the cool of the
evening,
after the last day
of the
yard sale, God walks
the back
garden patio,
ringed round
with nascent
venereal blossoms
and hailed by ancient star-
burst candy-
colored flowers—
and gazes out
and down
with dismay
at all
the stuff that didn't sell.
evening,
after the last day
of the
yard sale, God walks
the back
garden patio,
ringed round
with nascent
venereal blossoms
and hailed by ancient star-
burst candy-
colored flowers—
and gazes out
and down
with dismay
at all
the stuff that didn't sell.
Friday, June 22, 2018
CHICAGO BUT NOT BY CARL SANDBURG
Hog butcher, wheat stacker,
freight handler—doesn't matter
how far
you've fallen,
what sort of miserable
scoundrel you are,
there's always a weathered neighborhood
stoop around here somewhere—
that's warped
and sunken just low-
down enough to suit your posture—
with lots of peeling paint
designs, to hallucinate
their
disappointed faces in—
and a nice red white and silver
Pabst can
for the butts and ashes.
freight handler—doesn't matter
how far
you've fallen,
what sort of miserable
scoundrel you are,
there's always a weathered neighborhood
stoop around here somewhere—
that's warped
and sunken just low-
down enough to suit your posture—
with lots of peeling paint
designs, to hallucinate
their
disappointed faces in—
and a nice red white and silver
Pabst can
for the butts and ashes.
Thursday, June 21, 2018
PURGATORIO
In one corner
of the warped overcrammed deck
which still marries
this doorstep
to the back alley,
that gaudy glass
bowl
fills slow
with gray rainwater
which used to hold
more
bright fruit and windowlight—back
when much sweeter
mouths than mine
still lived here.
of the warped overcrammed deck
which still marries
this doorstep
to the back alley,
that gaudy glass
bowl
fills slow
with gray rainwater
which used to hold
more
bright fruit and windowlight—back
when much sweeter
mouths than mine
still lived here.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
INCUMBENT
After repeated
late season
bouts of raging
rains and
antagonistic sun-
shining—
vacant
lot-kingdoms
of toppled old stone
are veined—
with such thick
moss, sweet
grass, and
opportunistic clover—
as to
reanimate
the king
of butterflies.
late season
bouts of raging
rains and
antagonistic sun-
shining—
vacant
lot-kingdoms
of toppled old stone
are veined—
with such thick
moss, sweet
grass, and
opportunistic clover—
as to
reanimate
the king
of butterflies.
Monday, June 18, 2018
HELLSTRIP
How fierce-
ly! the blood-mawed
streak of tiger
lillies—stands guard
at the tree-
shaded verge's perimeter;
each, a lithe formidable
snarl of angles merging—
and perfect-
ly sharpened—
to frighten
witless goslings
from wandering
thickly
out into traffic.
ly! the blood-mawed
streak of tiger
lillies—stands guard
at the tree-
shaded verge's perimeter;
each, a lithe formidable
snarl of angles merging—
and perfect-
ly sharpened—
to frighten
witless goslings
from wandering
thickly
out into traffic.
Friday, June 15, 2018
OMPHALOS
Gazing down long
at an empty home-
made mauve mug,
its enameled clay speckled
like so many nameless
galaxies smudged across
the Hubble Deep Field,
its shadow-
black mouth, like
god's, not talking but still
piercing my
guts with pure significance—
all those lofted
thoughts of yours,
where have they
brought you?
fierce-postured, on a low stoop
of warped rotting
wood in the morning, contemplating another
cup of coffee.
at an empty home-
made mauve mug,
its enameled clay speckled
like so many nameless
galaxies smudged across
the Hubble Deep Field,
its shadow-
black mouth, like
god's, not talking but still
piercing my
guts with pure significance—
all those lofted
thoughts of yours,
where have they
brought you?
fierce-postured, on a low stoop
of warped rotting
wood in the morning, contemplating another
cup of coffee.
Thursday, June 14, 2018
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
MOTIVATION
A fresh airy silence,
stirring the stale gunmetal
vault of my memory
and stirring
in the gentle breeze—
old black holes
and new
spring leaves—
I feel a burning need
to move
with the mystery
of each of these
swirling—ringing
the edge
of the pool of my knowledge
just like
the fire burning deep
in the woods which surround it requires
each precious little infinity
of empty
space between its blazing arms.
stirring the stale gunmetal
vault of my memory
and stirring
in the gentle breeze—
old black holes
and new
spring leaves—
I feel a burning need
to move
with the mystery
of each of these
swirling—ringing
the edge
of the pool of my knowledge
just like
the fire burning deep
in the woods which surround it requires
each precious little infinity
of empty
space between its blazing arms.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
SHOW AND TELL
Encouraged
by more than a little
smattering
of applauding rain,
the pink-
tickled rose petal—increases
the spill
of its gingerly spiral,
thrusting the gradually
stiffening design
half an
insect wing's-
length farther upward,
as if
to prove
the Milky Way.
by more than a little
smattering
of applauding rain,
the pink-
tickled rose petal—increases
the spill
of its gingerly spiral,
thrusting the gradually
stiffening design
half an
insect wing's-
length farther upward,
as if
to prove
the Milky Way.
Monday, June 11, 2018
SLEEP MASK
Black as pure thought,
and just
as uninteresting,
that silent interval—once it's passed
so irreversible—
between the deep and
generous inhale
and its shallow
exhalation, proves it's
far too dangerous
to use these
time-bomb imaginations we've got.
But neither
do we dare speak—even to the pitch dark,
of that most secret wish
to be rid of them,
afraid to take things any further,
and seeking instead for the
mushed and damp middle-ground
of sleep's calm shore, as if
groping in the dark
for the redundant explanation:
if that release into the silence
is really so total,
then why is the darkness
still always haunted
by those faint apprehensions
of the light?
and just
as uninteresting,
that silent interval—once it's passed
so irreversible—
between the deep and
generous inhale
and its shallow
exhalation, proves it's
far too dangerous
to use these
time-bomb imaginations we've got.
But neither
do we dare speak—even to the pitch dark,
of that most secret wish
to be rid of them,
afraid to take things any further,
and seeking instead for the
mushed and damp middle-ground
of sleep's calm shore, as if
groping in the dark
for the redundant explanation:
if that release into the silence
is really so total,
then why is the darkness
still always haunted
by those faint apprehensions
of the light?
Friday, June 8, 2018
AT ALL
Polished silvery
mirror of mid-
June
afternoon—the cool translucent
rain
drops
falling
so ginger-
ly down
on the—irreducible
fact that I am
down
here under-
neath them.
mirror of mid-
June
afternoon—the cool translucent
rain
drops
falling
so ginger-
ly down
on the—irreducible
fact that I am
down
here under-
neath them.
Thursday, June 7, 2018
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