Gleaming white
jet planes
maneuvering around
towering jigsaw
of sky-
scrapers downtown;
snow
landing faintly
on rows of slate stones
in a church yard
in December, in the
slight evening sun—
the music ends,
but someone
still remembers
how the words went:
nothing—ever has to
be a certain way.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
TINKER TAILOR
Count it all you want to;
it'll never
add up to anything—
time
isn't here
to satisfy;
time
is not flattering.
If anything,
time is this
super-sheer
spool of organza—
which
we cut up
and make into
tasteless, in-
decorous
clothes and handbags—
then walk
(and watch others
walk) around in,
pretending we all look fine—
pretending
to conceal stuff,
pretending—
they fit.
it'll never
add up to anything—
time
isn't here
to satisfy;
time
is not flattering.
If anything,
time is this
super-sheer
spool of organza—
which
we cut up
and make into
tasteless, in-
decorous
clothes and handbags—
then walk
(and watch others
walk) around in,
pretending we all look fine—
pretending
to conceal stuff,
pretending—
they fit.
Monday, December 18, 2017
DESCRIPTION OF A PARADE
Try not to envision
the scene; try to
imagine the feeling.
It's vague,
but that
very vagueness
is what provides it
with solidity—
A small white
sun rises,
then it
falls quickly; birds fly
past, and are quickly swallowed
up by endless sky.
Below, people come
and people go.
Everything gets dirty—
some things
become filled;
others, used up. Still
others—are emptied.
While you stand off to the side,
reality processes,
is deliberately celebrated.
Before your eyes (slowly)
these lumbering filaments of history,
stripped of their
own rough mythologies,
are displayed,
are saluted—
are thus purified,
sorted, and
laundered
as they drive by—
into nature.
the scene; try to
imagine the feeling.
It's vague,
but that
very vagueness
is what provides it
with solidity—
A small white
sun rises,
then it
falls quickly; birds fly
past, and are quickly swallowed
up by endless sky.
Below, people come
and people go.
Everything gets dirty—
some things
become filled;
others, used up. Still
others—are emptied.
While you stand off to the side,
reality processes,
is deliberately celebrated.
Before your eyes (slowly)
these lumbering filaments of history,
stripped of their
own rough mythologies,
are displayed,
are saluted—
are thus purified,
sorted, and
laundered
as they drive by—
into nature.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
DISSOLUTION
Look—how the pathos
of the living world gets
anesthetized by stony winter.
Your sorrow
cut deep, felt intense—but
in the end, like a
sweet scent carried on the tender air,
it vanishes.
It consisted of no particles
you could point to. It was, quite possibly
never even really there.
of the living world gets
anesthetized by stony winter.
Your sorrow
cut deep, felt intense—but
in the end, like a
sweet scent carried on the tender air,
it vanishes.
It consisted of no particles
you could point to. It was, quite possibly
never even really there.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
KILLING ONE BIRD WITH NO STONES
Intercourse—a word like this
fits nicer,
permits a more comfortable, every-day
sort of constriction.
The veneration
of all of those books on the shelves,
the projection of another you
who reads them;
then,
the playing chess against yourself,
and the folding more clothes
than the both of you own—
gradually,
something is being torn down;
a license is revoked,
a structure
is demolished.
And yet, slowly
One heals—re-learns
after the explosion,
somehow, to once again
throw—only, this time
a little less
than one's hand is holding.
fits nicer,
permits a more comfortable, every-day
sort of constriction.
The veneration
of all of those books on the shelves,
the projection of another you
who reads them;
then,
the playing chess against yourself,
and the folding more clothes
than the both of you own—
gradually,
something is being torn down;
a license is revoked,
a structure
is demolished.
And yet, slowly
One heals—re-learns
after the explosion,
somehow, to once again
throw—only, this time
a little less
than one's hand is holding.
Saturday, December 9, 2017
EKPHRASIS HITS A WALL
A precious
but a
treacherous lie—
the sky-
blue ocean,
honeycombed salt-white,
the interposing
reef of
coral sky—
O'Keeffe horizons
like those
don't actually stop.
but a
treacherous lie—
the sky-
blue ocean,
honeycombed salt-white,
the interposing
reef of
coral sky—
O'Keeffe horizons
like those
don't actually stop.
Friday, December 8, 2017
SKEPTIC
A fragile winter sky—
the kind which is
everywhere
and nowhere
at once—spare,
polar blue,
and fissured
through
by high contrails—
might well
crack and
unburden itself
any minute—
depending on
whether certain words
whispered down here—
are scalpels
or stitches.
the kind which is
everywhere
and nowhere
at once—spare,
polar blue,
and fissured
through
by high contrails—
might well
crack and
unburden itself
any minute—
depending on
whether certain words
whispered down here—
are scalpels
or stitches.
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
COME ON-A MY HOUSE (AFTER ROSEMARY CLOONEY)
Ten forty five, ten
forty seven, ten fifty—
the blond singer
sleeps fitfully.
Part-victim
part-perpetrator—
she feels
run-over
but guilty.
People say:
she doesn't actually
have a job, which must be
why she's pretty
sure she's
never been on vacation, either.
Waking up wishing
you were as dull
and dry as everyone else
must be the worst
feeling.
When you're this
talented and pretty,
the world is so
slick, round, and shiny
that you can't
get a grip.
nothing is discrete, no knob
ever clicks.
This must why,
it's a relief when
once in a while,
ordinary questions
yield ordinary answers.
What time is it right now?
Ten fifty five.
I mean—
Ten after eleven.
Close enough
for jazz.
forty seven, ten fifty—
the blond singer
sleeps fitfully.
Part-victim
part-perpetrator—
she feels
run-over
but guilty.
People say:
she doesn't actually
have a job, which must be
why she's pretty
sure she's
never been on vacation, either.
Waking up wishing
you were as dull
and dry as everyone else
must be the worst
feeling.
When you're this
talented and pretty,
the world is so
slick, round, and shiny
that you can't
get a grip.
nothing is discrete, no knob
ever clicks.
This must why,
it's a relief when
once in a while,
ordinary questions
yield ordinary answers.
What time is it right now?
Ten fifty five.
I mean—
Ten after eleven.
Close enough
for jazz.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
MISTER NARRATOR
Sometimes, there's no structure,
no storyboard,
no reason.
All we're left with
are characters.
One resembles Bob Dylan—
Pumiced by bitter dusty
wind,
eviscerated
by gravity,
and left for dead somewhere
outside Graceland.
He'd give everything
to have made it there.
He'd give everything
for a mouthful or two
of clear, lubricating water
so he could
speak again
and tell you his story.
But again—it doesn't
make sense; the explanation
isn't satisfying.
It isn't even
that
the vandals took the handle;
the pump
just doesn't work any-
more;
it's old. And it's
broken.
no storyboard,
no reason.
All we're left with
are characters.
One resembles Bob Dylan—
Pumiced by bitter dusty
wind,
eviscerated
by gravity,
and left for dead somewhere
outside Graceland.
He'd give everything
to have made it there.
He'd give everything
for a mouthful or two
of clear, lubricating water
so he could
speak again
and tell you his story.
But again—it doesn't
make sense; the explanation
isn't satisfying.
It isn't even
that
the vandals took the handle;
the pump
just doesn't work any-
more;
it's old. And it's
broken.
Monday, December 4, 2017
HAUNTED
These nights, I'm not afraid
of feeling alone
so much as of—alienation
feeling
utterly intimate,
thick
and familiar.
Often, I
feel in by bones—
this is not the same wind,
but it is
the same kind;
like a notorious melody
played on two very
different evolutions
of one instrument.
Friday, December 1, 2017
LUDDITE LOOP
Too bad—how
God keeps getting trapped
inside his own creation;
his lofty moods,
his purest, most
ethereal ideas—pulled back
slowly but surely
to the dirt,
weighed down
by his own invented
animal drag.
Slowly but surely, that
which is clever
seeks divorce
from what's kind.
Worship becomes desire
for distraction.
So now, he stabs—
with intent
to wound and
scar the planet, then
harness its cries
to power the latest
electronic devices.
God keeps getting trapped
inside his own creation;
his lofty moods,
his purest, most
ethereal ideas—pulled back
slowly but surely
to the dirt,
weighed down
by his own invented
animal drag.
Slowly but surely, that
which is clever
seeks divorce
from what's kind.
Worship becomes desire
for distraction.
So now, he stabs—
with intent
to wound and
scar the planet, then
harness its cries
to power the latest
electronic devices.
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