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.
Friday, August 31, 2018
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.
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