I saw a man
and then I heard this dog.
The sounds were coming from somewhere around me,
it was early in the day.
The dog was howling
as if in great pain. It sounded like someone was taking him away
to be beaten or tortured
or killed, and this man lumbered up the hill, dog at his side;
this was the dog to me. This was the man.
But then I saw this dog, whose sounds were coming from
everywhere in the morning,
and, oh, it was not
the dog but the man whose bark I heard, whose howl,
and everything was calm in my mind.
Time swayed together, this dog was old
as was his man, and they went up the hill together,
lumbered up the hill.
The holy
leaves were the ones who howled, and it was this
voice reminded me of that man I knew lumbering up the hill toward
the easy sun, who welcomes
the dog’s
face.
9.30.2007
Breakfast With The Lovers of Life
The breakfast becomes everything there is to know,
the smiling egg balanced and
quivering under the minds that are collective,
six of them in all and totaling
any number of years.
There is knowledge in putting food in mouths, lipstick
on lips, dye in hair,
the mustaches and glasses of orange juice are coming through some thick cloud,
they were at the window,
and they talked while they waited.
Some thought of it as waiting
but I saw, they thought waiting was called
laughing, laughing at the small
bird they found in the complex tree, and sitting there
in chairs
it was a miraculous breakfast,
chairs facing one another on a day called themselves.
They had become day, and they had become the complex bird.
the smiling egg balanced and
quivering under the minds that are collective,
six of them in all and totaling
any number of years.
There is knowledge in putting food in mouths, lipstick
on lips, dye in hair,
the mustaches and glasses of orange juice are coming through some thick cloud,
they were at the window,
and they talked while they waited.
Some thought of it as waiting
but I saw, they thought waiting was called
laughing, laughing at the small
bird they found in the complex tree, and sitting there
in chairs
it was a miraculous breakfast,
chairs facing one another on a day called themselves.
They had become day, and they had become the complex bird.
Death In Review
The sun
slithers away behind the old house,
and the house isn’t there anymore,
it was gone last year.
Inside
the man sleeps and the
cat crawls over him in a great movement of death
as he is close,
as the house
had somehow found itself here
in this remote locus.
Why is no one else here?
the man thought.
What happened to me?
How will I explain this to my wife, that I
ended up here, in this house
all by myself?
slithers away behind the old house,
and the house isn’t there anymore,
it was gone last year.
Inside
the man sleeps and the
cat crawls over him in a great movement of death
as he is close,
as the house
had somehow found itself here
in this remote locus.
Why is no one else here?
the man thought.
What happened to me?
How will I explain this to my wife, that I
ended up here, in this house
all by myself?
gray
and my mother
called me squaw-boy
and my thoughts drained
like hanged flowers.
she is lost in the horse field
walking with the herd of
cremated beings,
huge in their chains
and their death,
chips in
buckets.
flies gather
round and
cover them.
it is almost gone now
under there.
it is all
just about
gone.
called me squaw-boy
and my thoughts drained
like hanged flowers.
she is lost in the horse field
walking with the herd of
cremated beings,
huge in their chains
and their death,
chips in
buckets.
flies gather
round and
cover them.
it is almost gone now
under there.
it is all
just about
gone.
9.29.2007
Cold Stew
Cold beef stew
makes the dead sting
more
on a
cold day.
Above,
flags shiver
like flies in web.
The garden is in remission
cancer
lives.
makes the dead sting
more
on a
cold day.
Above,
flags shiver
like flies in web.
The garden is in remission
cancer
lives.
Winter
The beautiful gray bones show up erected in the cabinet
shaped like a house.
I think of the heart
within my own chest and
why is it still beating?
The fallen out hair of your dead relatives cannot help
but pass its way across the floor at odd times
of the night,
starting arguments, passing
out party favors, making sure you
remember them.
shaped like a house.
I think of the heart
within my own chest and
why is it still beating?
The fallen out hair of your dead relatives cannot help
but pass its way across the floor at odd times
of the night,
starting arguments, passing
out party favors, making sure you
remember them.
The Moon
The ingenious moon
shines in the paper house,
the little chairs made out of
balsa wood are flattened, smashed
to bits on their faces
in the hands of happy children.
Go away and be the moon,
kiss the moon’s face,
pet her head like a
duck’s head.
Go ahead and strike the moon,
shoot it with a BB gun, make
holes in it, little holes
so water can sift through there
and catch our silt, our grime, our dust.
The stuff left over
in the holes of the moon
will pile so high it will make another
earth, and we will sit on it
with our asses, and stand upon it
with our scorched feet.
shines in the paper house,
the little chairs made out of
balsa wood are flattened, smashed
to bits on their faces
in the hands of happy children.
Go away and be the moon,
kiss the moon’s face,
pet her head like a
duck’s head.
Go ahead and strike the moon,
shoot it with a BB gun, make
holes in it, little holes
so water can sift through there
and catch our silt, our grime, our dust.
The stuff left over
in the holes of the moon
will pile so high it will make another
earth, and we will sit on it
with our asses, and stand upon it
with our scorched feet.
What Happened Last Night
Usually, I remember little else
but this feeling I did something,
something that didn’t make any sense.
The no sense part
bothers me, and when I remember it,
it makes me think I must have scared you.
I know I sat up in bed
but I don’t remember sitting up,
I just remember being there, sitting up,
and thinking there was something
lost in the bed.
I start sifting through the covers,
flattening them out, looking
for this something, though I
don’t know what this something
is. Then it occurs to me.
Is there really something there?
I can’t exactly answer that
but something tells me
to go back to bed, find this
something later. Then in the morning it’s,
what happened last night?
And she’ll tell me, you sat up in bed.
You were acting weird.
Right.
Why were you doing that?
And I say
I do not know.
but this feeling I did something,
something that didn’t make any sense.
The no sense part
bothers me, and when I remember it,
it makes me think I must have scared you.
I know I sat up in bed
but I don’t remember sitting up,
I just remember being there, sitting up,
and thinking there was something
lost in the bed.
I start sifting through the covers,
flattening them out, looking
for this something, though I
don’t know what this something
is. Then it occurs to me.
Is there really something there?
I can’t exactly answer that
but something tells me
to go back to bed, find this
something later. Then in the morning it’s,
what happened last night?
And she’ll tell me, you sat up in bed.
You were acting weird.
Right.
Why were you doing that?
And I say
I do not know.
9.28.2007
There Is
There is something sad
in nearly everything
we do.
Waiting for the walk
sign
to turn.
Cutting the hedge.
Making change.
Throwing away half an apple,
or a whole apple,
or just the core.
Making murals
for churches.
Visiting the houses
where our grandmothers chose
to sit in chairs.
In blindness,
in fishing,
in dissecting an owl pellet;
in poison ivy
still,
in an inch worm reaching.
The face of a woman
like a seashell,
and she isn’t even that
old
really.
Or, in carrying an umbrella
like an ax
through the cemetery
and finding the grave
pressed into the ground there,
like the head of a nail on a
board.
And soon,
it doesn’t matter
if your feet are wet.
It doesn’t matter if your head is heavy
or if your car is far away.
You can go back,
you can take it off,
you’ve got time,
you can.
And there is something sad
in that too.
And you know what I mean by
sad—
in nearly everything
we do.
Waiting for the walk
sign
to turn.
Cutting the hedge.
Making change.
Throwing away half an apple,
or a whole apple,
or just the core.
Making murals
for churches.
Visiting the houses
where our grandmothers chose
to sit in chairs.
In blindness,
in fishing,
in dissecting an owl pellet;
in poison ivy
still,
in an inch worm reaching.
The face of a woman
like a seashell,
and she isn’t even that
old
really.
Or, in carrying an umbrella
like an ax
through the cemetery
and finding the grave
pressed into the ground there,
like the head of a nail on a
board.
And soon,
it doesn’t matter
if your feet are wet.
It doesn’t matter if your head is heavy
or if your car is far away.
You can go back,
you can take it off,
you’ve got time,
you can.
And there is something sad
in that too.
And you know what I mean by
sad—
Crisis
A fearful mother
makes a fearful child;
he is that child
I am not him.
Somehow, I doubt her fears.
I doubt her phobias
and what haunts her,
the ghosts and the rattlesnake skins
rolling out from underneath her bed and scaring her
when she is all alone in the house,
and the voices on the answering machine and the
glum days, her devils and her dreams
and her depressions.
Urns full,
urns full of everything.
Choking up the ashes of the many urns:
dogs and parakeets and horses and
husbands.
She will not
go in that
room.
Then I think,
yes--nudged toward death each day,
that’s what it is:
lanolin and unbrushed cats with their
memories like floating clouds of hair.
The kidney failure.
And full dishwashers.
The same food for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
the same house and the same
mistrustful bowels.
The same baths. The same sexual organs.
The same friends who pretend to
commiserate
but are off thinking of their own husbands,
dogs, weddings, children, death.
The water heater that seeps blood into the basement.
The wet leaves.
The squirrels and chickadees that are endlessly
hungry.
The clutter.
The snowfalls and rains and sunshine.
The swimming pool that is covered in plastic.
The microwave that is out-of-date.
And all the men that come as close to passion
really
as they can muster, but
life isn’t for passion.
No.
No. It all died, and it’s
all
going to die again.
I understand her plight
then.
And I understand how her plight can become a crisis
occasionally.
makes a fearful child;
he is that child
I am not him.
Somehow, I doubt her fears.
I doubt her phobias
and what haunts her,
the ghosts and the rattlesnake skins
rolling out from underneath her bed and scaring her
when she is all alone in the house,
and the voices on the answering machine and the
glum days, her devils and her dreams
and her depressions.
Urns full,
urns full of everything.
Choking up the ashes of the many urns:
dogs and parakeets and horses and
husbands.
She will not
go in that
room.
Then I think,
yes--nudged toward death each day,
that’s what it is:
lanolin and unbrushed cats with their
memories like floating clouds of hair.
The kidney failure.
And full dishwashers.
The same food for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
the same house and the same
mistrustful bowels.
The same baths. The same sexual organs.
The same friends who pretend to
commiserate
but are off thinking of their own husbands,
dogs, weddings, children, death.
The water heater that seeps blood into the basement.
The wet leaves.
The squirrels and chickadees that are endlessly
hungry.
The clutter.
The snowfalls and rains and sunshine.
The swimming pool that is covered in plastic.
The microwave that is out-of-date.
And all the men that come as close to passion
really
as they can muster, but
life isn’t for passion.
No.
No. It all died, and it’s
all
going to die again.
I understand her plight
then.
And I understand how her plight can become a crisis
occasionally.
Florida, 1984
The ocean started tearing apart
its geometry.
The ocean, a
sideways head
dead on a dinner plate
looking out at us
through the silver sheath,
set far back in the dunes,
incongruous fray of shell bits and
coconut parts and dry leaves on sand plateau.
It woke up.
White eyebrows and white
whiskers about the mouth
opened wide and shut,
yawned
at the passing feet of me
when I was not much
more than
three.
A gull cawed,
then,
hoisted in the pitch of the
wind before it rained and we
could not take our bicycles out
of the oil stained garage.
its geometry.
The ocean, a
sideways head
dead on a dinner plate
looking out at us
through the silver sheath,
set far back in the dunes,
incongruous fray of shell bits and
coconut parts and dry leaves on sand plateau.
It woke up.
White eyebrows and white
whiskers about the mouth
opened wide and shut,
yawned
at the passing feet of me
when I was not much
more than
three.
A gull cawed,
then,
hoisted in the pitch of the
wind before it rained and we
could not take our bicycles out
of the oil stained garage.
9.27.2007
He Knows
The child lifts an entire
earth up in his little arms.
He lifts it like a pumpkin in a
cemetery, or the corpse head
of a giant full of leaves.
He laughs and he knows how he
plays with the earth
as it is lifted in his little arms,
he knows--it’s delightful lifting
this earth, this head, this
pumpkin even if it is dead,
and playing with it as the
laughter comes.
earth up in his little arms.
He lifts it like a pumpkin in a
cemetery, or the corpse head
of a giant full of leaves.
He laughs and he knows how he
plays with the earth
as it is lifted in his little arms,
he knows--it’s delightful lifting
this earth, this head, this
pumpkin even if it is dead,
and playing with it as the
laughter comes.
Salt Lake Devils
One
black shape
circles
circles wide
the airport
at
Salt
Lake City, Utah. It is a hawk
or an eagle
or some such thing,
some such terrible devil in the
blue sky.
He circles, poignant, god-
like, but still sad
like a burst balloon on a fence,
a penguin preening his oil-stained
feathers,
a useless machine,
like trying to hand a crazy man
a piece of paper.
Indoors,
pregnant women
wait and suck their fingers,
and worry about their husbands
who look like they’ve spent
years
tied to the
sun and stone.
Elsewhere, I know
fire talks in cities,
grapes hang, children
gag
and any
number of
celebrities
are newly airborn.
black shape
circles
circles wide
the airport
at
Salt
Lake City, Utah. It is a hawk
or an eagle
or some such thing,
some such terrible devil in the
blue sky.
He circles, poignant, god-
like, but still sad
like a burst balloon on a fence,
a penguin preening his oil-stained
feathers,
a useless machine,
like trying to hand a crazy man
a piece of paper.
Indoors,
pregnant women
wait and suck their fingers,
and worry about their husbands
who look like they’ve spent
years
tied to the
sun and stone.
Elsewhere, I know
fire talks in cities,
grapes hang, children
gag
and any
number of
celebrities
are newly airborn.
The Piano Tuner
Started at 76.
dead wife
once a bi-
ologist before dementia
took her mind.
She had theories on
bacteria and viruses
that were never finished, and they crawl away in his dreams.
The name was
Maggie
o Maggie bluebird
he used to say.
Maggie bluebird in the grass.
Her hair had been blonde then turned
white like a mated dandelion.
Cool your frost
were her last words, before slipping into something
simply no one understood.
dead wife
once a bi-
ologist before dementia
took her mind.
She had theories on
bacteria and viruses
that were never finished, and they crawl away in his dreams.
The name was
Maggie
o Maggie bluebird
he used to say.
Maggie bluebird in the grass.
Her hair had been blonde then turned
white like a mated dandelion.
Cool your frost
were her last words, before slipping into something
simply no one understood.
You know it's the first fine day when they all come out
It’s like rain
or
death
in a jungle; pulls the
fungus
and the
ants
and the
scavengers together.
They eat, grown, fuck,
fart, laugh, beguile,
pick their teeth;
today
it’s the disturbed eating ice cream,
shirtless hobos
blue
tattooed,
sallow musicians playing sallow
guitars in the park,
old women riding bicycles
with
dresses on
and no shoes.
Oh, they’ve come out
out!
And all their
madnesses have come along too. The hang-ups,
hold-ups,
pushups, pin-ups,
winter ferment,
homicidal thoughts,
suicidal thoughts,
sociopathic thoughts,
thoughts of charity,
thoughts of love,
and each one looking for a way to do it.
Each one looking for a way out. For a way into the next
season.
They’ve come out
and the rest are forced to mingle.
The bluebird and the aphid dangling,
the clover and the walking
stick,
mothers breast-
feeding babies,
bulldogs breathing the light of air,
war heroes courting bullshit on the fountain
ask for a match,
beg for food, trade jokes,
hold skirmishes,
chess matches,
dog fights,
cock
fights.
Everyone is happy in their own way
even if that means hysteria.
It’s Ok,
the first good day.
It’s needed
like an
enema.
or
death
in a jungle; pulls the
fungus
and the
ants
and the
scavengers together.
They eat, grown, fuck,
fart, laugh, beguile,
pick their teeth;
today
it’s the disturbed eating ice cream,
shirtless hobos
blue
tattooed,
sallow musicians playing sallow
guitars in the park,
old women riding bicycles
with
dresses on
and no shoes.
Oh, they’ve come out
out!
And all their
madnesses have come along too. The hang-ups,
hold-ups,
pushups, pin-ups,
winter ferment,
homicidal thoughts,
suicidal thoughts,
sociopathic thoughts,
thoughts of charity,
thoughts of love,
and each one looking for a way to do it.
Each one looking for a way out. For a way into the next
season.
They’ve come out
and the rest are forced to mingle.
The bluebird and the aphid dangling,
the clover and the walking
stick,
mothers breast-
feeding babies,
bulldogs breathing the light of air,
war heroes courting bullshit on the fountain
ask for a match,
beg for food, trade jokes,
hold skirmishes,
chess matches,
dog fights,
cock
fights.
Everyone is happy in their own way
even if that means hysteria.
It’s Ok,
the first good day.
It’s needed
like an
enema.
Erich
I remember this kid Erich
from Oregon.
He was friends with my cousin
and they lived in a small town out near the coast.
The town had one little store that sold
ice cream and other sundries, plus a school that
every kid seemed to attend (and there weren’t even that many kids around)
where the teachers were all referred to by their first names. Not
Mr. or Ms. so-and-so. But Bill. Or Janet. Or
Vince.
Anyway, what I remember
most about Erich
was that he had blonde hair and a nice, healthy face.
I also remember being at the beach with him—
now, the beach in Oregon is a lot different than the beach in
Florida or Massachusetts.
It’s foggy, with blackish sand. It almost feels
prehistoric.
He taught us how to skim-board, ride
the plane of water between the sand and your board.
Well, then a few years back
I asked my uncle what’s going on with Erich? Do you know?
Yes, he said. Erich had a very serious car accident.
Oh, I said. What happened?
He had a head on collision up in the mountains during a snowstorm, he said.
Then he went on to tell me how
Erich had developed Schizophrenia since the accident, and
some people thought the two might be related. No one knew that for sure
though.
Erich has had a tough life since then, my uncle said. He’s found it
hard to adjust to things.
He couldn’t hold down a job and his parents aren’t
the most adult of adults I’ve ever come across, so they don’t help much. I stopped
talking to the father altogether, he said.
I said, I see.
A few years went by.
I saw my uncle at Christmas.
They’d since moved from the coast and now lived in a little
neighborhood not far from downtown.
Have you heard anything about Erich? I said.
Yes, said my uncle. See, Erich—I told you he’s a schizophrenic, right?
Yes.
Well, see…Erich started thinking that someone wanted him to rob a bank.
He thought that someone was telling him to get a gun
and rob a bank
so that they could use the money to save someone
or something or other.
So, Erich got a gun and robbed a bank.
He took some twelve-thousand dollars, then sat outside on the curb
and waited for the police.
What did they do to him? I asked.
Well, they dropped the charges once they found out about his condition. And the money
was returned.
Then my uncle said, Remember when you guys went skim-boarding?
Yes, I said.
Erich could really
glide
on that black
sand.
from Oregon.
He was friends with my cousin
and they lived in a small town out near the coast.
The town had one little store that sold
ice cream and other sundries, plus a school that
every kid seemed to attend (and there weren’t even that many kids around)
where the teachers were all referred to by their first names. Not
Mr. or Ms. so-and-so. But Bill. Or Janet. Or
Vince.
Anyway, what I remember
most about Erich
was that he had blonde hair and a nice, healthy face.
I also remember being at the beach with him—
now, the beach in Oregon is a lot different than the beach in
Florida or Massachusetts.
It’s foggy, with blackish sand. It almost feels
prehistoric.
He taught us how to skim-board, ride
the plane of water between the sand and your board.
Well, then a few years back
I asked my uncle what’s going on with Erich? Do you know?
Yes, he said. Erich had a very serious car accident.
Oh, I said. What happened?
He had a head on collision up in the mountains during a snowstorm, he said.
Then he went on to tell me how
Erich had developed Schizophrenia since the accident, and
some people thought the two might be related. No one knew that for sure
though.
Erich has had a tough life since then, my uncle said. He’s found it
hard to adjust to things.
He couldn’t hold down a job and his parents aren’t
the most adult of adults I’ve ever come across, so they don’t help much. I stopped
talking to the father altogether, he said.
I said, I see.
A few years went by.
I saw my uncle at Christmas.
They’d since moved from the coast and now lived in a little
neighborhood not far from downtown.
Have you heard anything about Erich? I said.
Yes, said my uncle. See, Erich—I told you he’s a schizophrenic, right?
Yes.
Well, see…Erich started thinking that someone wanted him to rob a bank.
He thought that someone was telling him to get a gun
and rob a bank
so that they could use the money to save someone
or something or other.
So, Erich got a gun and robbed a bank.
He took some twelve-thousand dollars, then sat outside on the curb
and waited for the police.
What did they do to him? I asked.
Well, they dropped the charges once they found out about his condition. And the money
was returned.
Then my uncle said, Remember when you guys went skim-boarding?
Yes, I said.
Erich could really
glide
on that black
sand.
Legs in the Lamplight
There they are,
the same legs there
on the same sofa. The same legs,
narrow, long, lumpy with
two paddles of feet at the ends,
the same feet that are always there, wired with hair.
And in the dark
I reach toward one
and bring it to me,
the movement of a foot and hand
in the dark of a room like music
or fragrant pools,
and my hands reach out to
pick at the big nail.
Work at it.
And my thoughts just go to
what?
The cat is there on the ottoman
under the window. She watches me
and somehow this makes sense in her
cat mind. Perhaps I’ll
push that screen out of the window
and let us both leave.
I won’t be there when she leaves,
and the same goes for her.
I will float through the canopy.
The future isn’t anything
that is
and isn’t anything
that isn’t;
it must be imagined
and before it is imagined
it is invisible.
the same legs there
on the same sofa. The same legs,
narrow, long, lumpy with
two paddles of feet at the ends,
the same feet that are always there, wired with hair.
And in the dark
I reach toward one
and bring it to me,
the movement of a foot and hand
in the dark of a room like music
or fragrant pools,
and my hands reach out to
pick at the big nail.
Work at it.
And my thoughts just go to
what?
The cat is there on the ottoman
under the window. She watches me
and somehow this makes sense in her
cat mind. Perhaps I’ll
push that screen out of the window
and let us both leave.
I won’t be there when she leaves,
and the same goes for her.
I will float through the canopy.
The future isn’t anything
that is
and isn’t anything
that isn’t;
it must be imagined
and before it is imagined
it is invisible.
Memories
The state fair has gone
Into the nasty underground.
The wet dirt, the bedrock
Its hat,
Then on top of everything the
Aromatic grasses
So everywhere is the
Aromatic grass of summer.
Underneath
Pig snouts and horse hooves cut off,
Beer boiling in cauldrons,
Hunters
I smell you
In love with me,
I smell
The black dog’s ashes in a bucket, the parakeet’s
Ashes
In a
Takeout box,
The waveless beach that only slightly opens in my favor.
Goodness, non-goodness
Gone away
Into the nasty underground.
The wet dirt, the bedrock
Its hat,
Then on top of everything the
Aromatic grasses
So everywhere is the
Aromatic grass of summer.
Underneath
Pig snouts and horse hooves cut off,
Beer boiling in cauldrons,
Hunters
I smell you
In love with me,
I smell
The black dog’s ashes in a bucket, the parakeet’s
Ashes
In a
Takeout box,
The waveless beach that only slightly opens in my favor.
Goodness, non-goodness
Gone away
Everything Is Instruments
Bodies burn
still in empty trains,
the car is empty
and the seatbelt pulled out like a rotted tooth
from its hole. The water
sloshes up high
upon its wells, spills
over the edges,
meeting with time.
Without practice
it botches the surgery,
we were burnt
and we burned well from the inside out, our heads
upright, our hands still attentive in their positions
on the wheel,
and our eyes are lovely white buds
on the volcano, but
that is all and we’re still inventing,
we’re still here.
still in empty trains,
the car is empty
and the seatbelt pulled out like a rotted tooth
from its hole. The water
sloshes up high
upon its wells, spills
over the edges,
meeting with time.
Without practice
it botches the surgery,
we were burnt
and we burned well from the inside out, our heads
upright, our hands still attentive in their positions
on the wheel,
and our eyes are lovely white buds
on the volcano, but
that is all and we’re still inventing,
we’re still here.
The Forest
The ground
was the back of a woman’s head.
The needles there,
fine little things, fine little twigs,
spread out hair of my beauty.
Young women are the same as old women,
hair pressed so gently to their heads.
She is sleepy underneath me,
maybe just a head down there, and an ear
moving then going to sleep.
Sleeping ground of dirt,
air of sounds, doing up dreams—
whipping them up in a fury
like running feet.
A bee encircles the canoe of my sleep,
a peaceful bee flies about
my nodding head.
I smell the hair of the earth,
the hair of dead women,
log bones
decomposed.
Leaf, leaf, little
leafs,
leaves in the cemetery,
leaves in my present state
falling make a sound
like a man swimming in the distance,
his head bobbing, his arms curling in
white spray.
was the back of a woman’s head.
The needles there,
fine little things, fine little twigs,
spread out hair of my beauty.
Young women are the same as old women,
hair pressed so gently to their heads.
She is sleepy underneath me,
maybe just a head down there, and an ear
moving then going to sleep.
Sleeping ground of dirt,
air of sounds, doing up dreams—
whipping them up in a fury
like running feet.
A bee encircles the canoe of my sleep,
a peaceful bee flies about
my nodding head.
I smell the hair of the earth,
the hair of dead women,
log bones
decomposed.
Leaf, leaf, little
leafs,
leaves in the cemetery,
leaves in my present state
falling make a sound
like a man swimming in the distance,
his head bobbing, his arms curling in
white spray.
the never ant
there is an ant in my brain.
he does not move
miles
he does not
hold communion or exercise some form of
work.
he crawls and is so
small
he is the never ant. the never
ant
of my moments.
he is
gun shy
like a horse. he is thin. he is not an
arsonist. he does not tell good jokes.
his body is cold and black and asexual. his mind is
non*worthy of
god.
he feels like charlie chaplin’s mustache. he looks like
abe lincoln’s
dead
tongue.
he does not move
miles
he does not
hold communion or exercise some form of
work.
he crawls and is so
small
he is the never ant. the never
ant
of my moments.
he is
gun shy
like a horse. he is thin. he is not an
arsonist. he does not tell good jokes.
his body is cold and black and asexual. his mind is
non*worthy of
god.
he feels like charlie chaplin’s mustache. he looks like
abe lincoln’s
dead
tongue.
5 Years
When I think of it sitting on the carpet there, behind me
like a fat, immense tomato,
I do not marvel at the tomato, nor its size,
nor do I hear its gurgling 5 years deep.
It isn’t worth 5 years of funds, I argue, or
5 years of food, or molecules or air-conditioning, or
wash cycles at a dollar
seventy-five-
cents-a-piece.
It’s more like a building with tenants calling themselves
on phony telephones, and writing their names falsely
on forms at the DMV:
Bruno & Hardy & Jamaica and
other names of their own silly fashioning.
I like them but I do not know them.
Spiritually, it is hard to recognize;
we have been a variety of different souls
and our combinations have
spidered and spiraled out, in,
down and about our heads.
It is not one
hunk of something
rather
it is divided and the
sum of our love
happens to arrive at that.
like a fat, immense tomato,
I do not marvel at the tomato, nor its size,
nor do I hear its gurgling 5 years deep.
It isn’t worth 5 years of funds, I argue, or
5 years of food, or molecules or air-conditioning, or
wash cycles at a dollar
seventy-five-
cents-a-piece.
It’s more like a building with tenants calling themselves
on phony telephones, and writing their names falsely
on forms at the DMV:
Bruno & Hardy & Jamaica and
other names of their own silly fashioning.
I like them but I do not know them.
Spiritually, it is hard to recognize;
we have been a variety of different souls
and our combinations have
spidered and spiraled out, in,
down and about our heads.
It is not one
hunk of something
rather
it is divided and the
sum of our love
happens to arrive at that.
Christmas Trees in New York City
They’ve got the Christmas trees
Lined up
At a hardware store off
Canal Street.
Wrapped in twine
And lined up,
Leaning on their sawed off knees
From a tree farm.
As they come off that truck, they are
Handled by a number of men
Who look like they could
Just as well
Be handling
Bags of birdseed,
Pig carcasses or
Kegs of beer,
They look like
People tied up pretending
To be dead.
But the eyes, that’s what gives it away;
They’re wide as hell
Saying,
Get me out of here.
The shag
On those trees
Reminds me of my
Many brothers.
It’s the hanging
Wisps of graying hair
That makes me think of it.
And all the times
I saw them when I was home,
And all the times
I did not.
Lined up
At a hardware store off
Canal Street.
Wrapped in twine
And lined up,
Leaning on their sawed off knees
From a tree farm.
As they come off that truck, they are
Handled by a number of men
Who look like they could
Just as well
Be handling
Bags of birdseed,
Pig carcasses or
Kegs of beer,
They look like
People tied up pretending
To be dead.
But the eyes, that’s what gives it away;
They’re wide as hell
Saying,
Get me out of here.
The shag
On those trees
Reminds me of my
Many brothers.
It’s the hanging
Wisps of graying hair
That makes me think of it.
And all the times
I saw them when I was home,
And all the times
I did not.
9.26.2007
Hotel
God was in Paris
on the weekend of our mother’s
visitation.
He went in and out with the trees
and scooped ice cream, flooded the
rivers and crawled beneath the bridges. I
asked him to beers on the floor next to the bed
where you slept. He accepted. Then He dodged me.
Made me wait it out.
I hung in there
and played solitaire
until He entered, a bloated goon
with tuberculosis.
We went ahead,
hallucinated with men inside, men drunk,
men laughing.
I carried the flesh of a bull in my belly, licked the brown
flame,
unzippered the meaning of true perversion
on your dry lips, in the
bath, in between God’s
toes.
And when we woke up,
no one remembered anything but
that.
on the weekend of our mother’s
visitation.
He went in and out with the trees
and scooped ice cream, flooded the
rivers and crawled beneath the bridges. I
asked him to beers on the floor next to the bed
where you slept. He accepted. Then He dodged me.
Made me wait it out.
I hung in there
and played solitaire
until He entered, a bloated goon
with tuberculosis.
We went ahead,
hallucinated with men inside, men drunk,
men laughing.
I carried the flesh of a bull in my belly, licked the brown
flame,
unzippered the meaning of true perversion
on your dry lips, in the
bath, in between God’s
toes.
And when we woke up,
no one remembered anything but
that.
New Love
Steak was served on a white plate.
It was well,
Blood
Gone
.
This is the best way to hold a conversation, he said
And touched her underpants with his toe.
It was well,
Blood
Gone
.
This is the best way to hold a conversation, he said
And touched her underpants with his toe.
Gruesome Spring
Their white skin is slimy underneath the leaves,
it’s corpse skin, corpse toenails, purple
corpse cud.
Their eyes are blue and still,
spinning underneath the leaves, snorting,
groping ass and belly and
the sound is like salt burning,
ground into the table with a palm leaf.
Tree roots stretching out
buried with a 50 year old bear jaw,
still complete with teeth.
The attrition of dirt lets us breath
but the gloom, oh, the gloom and the
landfill of oh sweet landfill dreams.
In there they all shift against one another
and finally, they exit after canoodling,
exit the leaves and rise into the sunshine
for a day riding bicycles.
it’s corpse skin, corpse toenails, purple
corpse cud.
Their eyes are blue and still,
spinning underneath the leaves, snorting,
groping ass and belly and
the sound is like salt burning,
ground into the table with a palm leaf.
Tree roots stretching out
buried with a 50 year old bear jaw,
still complete with teeth.
The attrition of dirt lets us breath
but the gloom, oh, the gloom and the
landfill of oh sweet landfill dreams.
In there they all shift against one another
and finally, they exit after canoodling,
exit the leaves and rise into the sunshine
for a day riding bicycles.
Another Strange Night Experience
I sat up
around 3 some
AM
on the edge of the bed and looked down.
I saw legs, my legs
like warped bows
and clothing on the floor,
my clothing
I’d left there last night.
I started picking up the clothes
and putting them in piles: clean and dirty
or something close to it.
I was very confused and did it
over again,
a second then a third time.
Then I sat there some more
looking at the piles I’d made.
She woke up and from behind me and said, are you alright?
Yes, I said
I really am.
And as I said it
I felt very sad, more sad than I do even
for those dead and divorced parents and kidnapped children,
Labradors stuck in sleeping bags on mountains,
ipecac
cancer
doldrums
(all kinds)
What’s wrong with me?
around 3 some
AM
on the edge of the bed and looked down.
I saw legs, my legs
like warped bows
and clothing on the floor,
my clothing
I’d left there last night.
I started picking up the clothes
and putting them in piles: clean and dirty
or something close to it.
I was very confused and did it
over again,
a second then a third time.
Then I sat there some more
looking at the piles I’d made.
She woke up and from behind me and said, are you alright?
Yes, I said
I really am.
And as I said it
I felt very sad, more sad than I do even
for those dead and divorced parents and kidnapped children,
Labradors stuck in sleeping bags on mountains,
ipecac
cancer
doldrums
(all kinds)
What’s wrong with me?
A Block of Ice in the Sink
Where did it come from?
Perhaps it grew from the man’s
silver beard
and got so large
it fell off
like a rotted tusk
or a cancerous flower
the size of a watermelon.
And now it is there
melting in the sink next to a few dirty dishes.
It is gigantic in its miracle,
but a symbol too sad to even
think about any more,
this block of ice from the
old man’s beard
(he’s old now)
at least
without some sense of humor.
Perhaps it grew from the man’s
silver beard
and got so large
it fell off
like a rotted tusk
or a cancerous flower
the size of a watermelon.
And now it is there
melting in the sink next to a few dirty dishes.
It is gigantic in its miracle,
but a symbol too sad to even
think about any more,
this block of ice from the
old man’s beard
(he’s old now)
at least
without some sense of humor.
Sleeping in the Afternoon
It started raining while I was sleeping,
the violets and the clams slept too.
The umbrella, the sand moaned
in her sleep and
the stones clapped for cluttered dreams,
a plane whistled and roared up there
and the idea
of ten miles blew up
to a golden amount, some perfect amount.
I start dreaming on how
there is always so much standing between me
and the weightless moments of life
when I hears a guitar start strumming
through the air, somewhere in the neighborhood
I hears a guitar, I hears a harmonica
as the sharks move nude under the water,
as the clams shut their shells and muzzle their ghoulish songs.
As I look, miraculous, into the puzzle of the trees
and overhead a jet sings, whistles and
roars bringing in the idea, and the idea
of ten miles or even
more seems wasted, whiff,
not a far off ending, not a far off thing, not an
important thing altogether either.
the violets and the clams slept too.
The umbrella, the sand moaned
in her sleep and
the stones clapped for cluttered dreams,
a plane whistled and roared up there
and the idea
of ten miles blew up
to a golden amount, some perfect amount.
I start dreaming on how
there is always so much standing between me
and the weightless moments of life
when I hears a guitar start strumming
through the air, somewhere in the neighborhood
I hears a guitar, I hears a harmonica
as the sharks move nude under the water,
as the clams shut their shells and muzzle their ghoulish songs.
As I look, miraculous, into the puzzle of the trees
and overhead a jet sings, whistles and
roars bringing in the idea, and the idea
of ten miles or even
more seems wasted, whiff,
not a far off ending, not a far off thing, not an
important thing altogether either.
The Battlefield of Morning
Black birds
step in rows
and layers
through the grass,
an army of them,
picking at the ground
like they are
making searches
for the still-living,
the bladed and shot,
the blown up, the
wailing. These are the
ambulance birds, the
drones of multitude
kindness—but really,
anything large just
frightens them away.
step in rows
and layers
through the grass,
an army of them,
picking at the ground
like they are
making searches
for the still-living,
the bladed and shot,
the blown up, the
wailing. These are the
ambulance birds, the
drones of multitude
kindness—but really,
anything large just
frightens them away.
Caution
I do not recognize the man
eating in the courtyard.
He is a bodiless church
sitting there, the middle burned out
and just the roof left
and draped in
hair, skin, eyelids,
waiting for his meat to barbecue.
His arms and legs are down,
his mouth is open just a little bit.
It is as if he is on the edge of a cliff.
The smoke is representative of his thoughts,
they rise in some cipher,
cool and blue as his waiting viciousness.
My mind curls around him then
like a rope around a cinderblock.
Under us, the ants, the worms, the
rats crawl in some parade of death,
celebrating us and our meeting, and celebrating
how we’ll go on to sleep thinking
maybe, perhaps,
of one another.
eating in the courtyard.
He is a bodiless church
sitting there, the middle burned out
and just the roof left
and draped in
hair, skin, eyelids,
waiting for his meat to barbecue.
His arms and legs are down,
his mouth is open just a little bit.
It is as if he is on the edge of a cliff.
The smoke is representative of his thoughts,
they rise in some cipher,
cool and blue as his waiting viciousness.
My mind curls around him then
like a rope around a cinderblock.
Under us, the ants, the worms, the
rats crawl in some parade of death,
celebrating us and our meeting, and celebrating
how we’ll go on to sleep thinking
maybe, perhaps,
of one another.
I Am
I go out into the desert night,
I am the purple moon
imbued with blood.
I am saguaro,
I am
spider web
dangling
in
forsythia.
I am the purple moon
imbued with blood.
I am saguaro,
I am
spider web
dangling
in
forsythia.
Life Like a Fan
I see it
like I see trees waving
darkly on the hills,
the funeral man
clapping
in the rain,
and the small pair of shoes
unworn
on the closet floor
talking to each other;
all is irregular,
all is irrelevant and is faint.
Vibrations and echoes are
dead because there are no walls.
It is not a tomb. It is not sad or even cynical—
That’s just it. It’s just that. It is
just that.
like I see trees waving
darkly on the hills,
the funeral man
clapping
in the rain,
and the small pair of shoes
unworn
on the closet floor
talking to each other;
all is irregular,
all is irrelevant and is faint.
Vibrations and echoes are
dead because there are no walls.
It is not a tomb. It is not sad or even cynical—
That’s just it. It’s just that. It is
just that.
The Dirty Marigold
The soil is covering a rotten art.
The unkind yellow stinks with dust, mold and
Pointless thoughts.
You remind me of time that has been allowed out of a jar
And disperses and floats senselessly into the air. Spores.
Your roots are roots and it is
Not miraculous,
A brain is used or unused, and our memories retain
Some of what was once sickening and wounding.
Where are the marigolds
That flourish?
Where are the glad faces that are immortal?
Where are the police? Where is the ambulance?
The unkind yellow stinks with dust, mold and
Pointless thoughts.
You remind me of time that has been allowed out of a jar
And disperses and floats senselessly into the air. Spores.
Your roots are roots and it is
Not miraculous,
A brain is used or unused, and our memories retain
Some of what was once sickening and wounding.
Where are the marigolds
That flourish?
Where are the glad faces that are immortal?
Where are the police? Where is the ambulance?
The Journey of the Flies
They carry a weak music in their wings.
It flies over the Midwestern crops
and delivers its silt, and it puddles there
in our breakfasts, in our coffee,
in the empty buckets of our
eyes.
The morning is full of blades.
The night too is full of blades;
that is what light is—the fullness
or the removal of blades.
Your brotherhood, flies, is
admirable, your army is impressive.
It makes me wonder if one soul
has had the courage yet to form
under your black armor, to
come together.
Or if it takes some new turning of
years for that to happen.
It flies over the Midwestern crops
and delivers its silt, and it puddles there
in our breakfasts, in our coffee,
in the empty buckets of our
eyes.
The morning is full of blades.
The night too is full of blades;
that is what light is—the fullness
or the removal of blades.
Your brotherhood, flies, is
admirable, your army is impressive.
It makes me wonder if one soul
has had the courage yet to form
under your black armor, to
come together.
Or if it takes some new turning of
years for that to happen.
Doldrums
It rained
and we
didn’t
do a thing about it.
What could we do?
What is there
to do
then?
It rained and we let it rain.
The sky was pink
and how could it
not be?
How could the sky not be
pink?
Yes
there was
something
nightmarish
in the way those lights
across the parking lot
flashed on and
off.
I’ll admit that. There was something terrible in the clouds.
In the windows of the hospital
the
walls
pounded the walls pounded
the walls.
And what did we do?
Pounded back.
Pounded too.
Ate sandwiches and
drank coffee.
Talked about mothers and
their bogs and their
prayers and their
sicknesses.
Moved like elephants
into sleep,
elephants on the
Serengeti.
But well, then
almost too well
it rained.
And I’ve really almost had it.
and we
didn’t
do a thing about it.
What could we do?
What is there
to do
then?
It rained and we let it rain.
The sky was pink
and how could it
not be?
How could the sky not be
pink?
Yes
there was
something
nightmarish
in the way those lights
across the parking lot
flashed on and
off.
I’ll admit that. There was something terrible in the clouds.
In the windows of the hospital
the
walls
pounded the walls pounded
the walls.
And what did we do?
Pounded back.
Pounded too.
Ate sandwiches and
drank coffee.
Talked about mothers and
their bogs and their
prayers and their
sicknesses.
Moved like elephants
into sleep,
elephants on the
Serengeti.
But well, then
almost too well
it rained.
And I’ve really almost had it.
Formation
My father explained
how they flew in formation.
You were not to leave the formation
no matter what happened,
he said.
That’s it.
So one time
they’re flying
in formation
over Berlin
or the oil fields of Ploesti
or
I don’t know where,
blasting away rail yards,
ball bearing plants or homes, or
laundromats,
and I don’t think
coming anywhere
close
to laughter,
when something
hits
the plane in front of them
(anti-aircraft fire, I guess)
and the whole thing blows up.
But remember—
you’ve gotta fly in formation.
Or else it’s like murder
sabotage and
suicide
all in one.
So
he stays on and
plows through the explosion.
He said, as they passed through it all,
one tire hit the windshield
as did
the pilot’s seat.
His was one of nineteen planes or so
to return safely from that mission.
The rest got caught.
And when they landed,
the men unfolded him
from
the cockpit
(he’d been up there some
twelve hours
and no hydraulics, remember,
in those planes)
and then a man came by
with a tray
full of whiskey
and he drank one down
right there on the tarmac.
I can see why—
the next day
‘round 3 AM
they’d be awoken, shown a
map
and
sent up again.
how they flew in formation.
You were not to leave the formation
no matter what happened,
he said.
That’s it.
So one time
they’re flying
in formation
over Berlin
or the oil fields of Ploesti
or
I don’t know where,
blasting away rail yards,
ball bearing plants or homes, or
laundromats,
and I don’t think
coming anywhere
close
to laughter,
when something
hits
the plane in front of them
(anti-aircraft fire, I guess)
and the whole thing blows up.
But remember—
you’ve gotta fly in formation.
Or else it’s like murder
sabotage and
suicide
all in one.
So
he stays on and
plows through the explosion.
He said, as they passed through it all,
one tire hit the windshield
as did
the pilot’s seat.
His was one of nineteen planes or so
to return safely from that mission.
The rest got caught.
And when they landed,
the men unfolded him
from
the cockpit
(he’d been up there some
twelve hours
and no hydraulics, remember,
in those planes)
and then a man came by
with a tray
full of whiskey
and he drank one down
right there on the tarmac.
I can see why—
the next day
‘round 3 AM
they’d be awoken, shown a
map
and
sent up again.
9.25.2007
No Lights
I entered and turned on the light
But it did not go on.
So I stayed in the dark.
It smelled like damp laundry
And I felt around for
The toilet bowl.
It would be alright.
I moved
Forward
Toward the millennia, the
Mirror.
There was
Something
Growing
In my face
Shaped like a circle, like a
Cloud
And I leaned in to see it better.
It had never looked like that before; the way I saw it.
Like the slow turning on of a lamp, the bottom of an empty paper cup.
Luckily,
The seat was up.
But it did not go on.
So I stayed in the dark.
It smelled like damp laundry
And I felt around for
The toilet bowl.
It would be alright.
I moved
Forward
Toward the millennia, the
Mirror.
There was
Something
Growing
In my face
Shaped like a circle, like a
Cloud
And I leaned in to see it better.
It had never looked like that before; the way I saw it.
Like the slow turning on of a lamp, the bottom of an empty paper cup.
Luckily,
The seat was up.
Early Again
The city yawns
and when it does, it
crawls into its own mouth.
Who luminescent,
thunder sucked itself out of the sky
to give us this,
another movement of the sun?
and when it does, it
crawls into its own mouth.
Who luminescent,
thunder sucked itself out of the sky
to give us this,
another movement of the sun?
A Pretty Good Scene
I saw this show
on
apes.
See what they do is:
they set out in packs
and they march single-file
into the jungle,
sniffing the earth, their balls enlarged,
like dwarf monks
climbing to the waterfall.
They go to the edge of their circle.
It doesn’t take too long
till they decide, go ahead,
go beyond the circle, yes,
and the day changes then--
screaming, galloping, beating of tree trunks
ensues
until they find a lone male of the enemy pack,
converge upon him.
They beat, stomp,
tear him apart.
Bite him.
Take turns biting him.
His face is the face of the hunted.
By the time they’re done,
this boy is splayed
dead,
artistically as Christ (this is the part I remember most).
His throat is ripped out,
his genitals, gone
(just a red triangle there)
erected like some
dead star
sucked out on the forest ground.
They do not eat him this time, though that isn’t rare.
Sometimes they do that. Yes,
sometimes they eat him.
on
apes.
See what they do is:
they set out in packs
and they march single-file
into the jungle,
sniffing the earth, their balls enlarged,
like dwarf monks
climbing to the waterfall.
They go to the edge of their circle.
It doesn’t take too long
till they decide, go ahead,
go beyond the circle, yes,
and the day changes then--
screaming, galloping, beating of tree trunks
ensues
until they find a lone male of the enemy pack,
converge upon him.
They beat, stomp,
tear him apart.
Bite him.
Take turns biting him.
His face is the face of the hunted.
By the time they’re done,
this boy is splayed
dead,
artistically as Christ (this is the part I remember most).
His throat is ripped out,
his genitals, gone
(just a red triangle there)
erected like some
dead star
sucked out on the forest ground.
They do not eat him this time, though that isn’t rare.
Sometimes they do that. Yes,
sometimes they eat him.
The Gila Monster Dances in the Moonlight
fire gallops through fire
drowsy in the sand.
it dozes in old cotton wood,
a drowsy poison bath curdling
at the edges of the drawn pot,
down from a boil, and then
there’s its own ghost
in the kitchen.
the dance disconnects from the dance
and the night moves
with little light somewhere else,
inside something else…
I cannot make it out
but I imagine it is there—
a dandelion next month,
this place where there isn’t night
and there isn’t the opposite either,
for a few seconds it comes to you
like smoke in the blue corners of your vision.
drowsy in the sand.
it dozes in old cotton wood,
a drowsy poison bath curdling
at the edges of the drawn pot,
down from a boil, and then
there’s its own ghost
in the kitchen.
the dance disconnects from the dance
and the night moves
with little light somewhere else,
inside something else…
I cannot make it out
but I imagine it is there—
a dandelion next month,
this place where there isn’t night
and there isn’t the opposite either,
for a few seconds it comes to you
like smoke in the blue corners of your vision.
The Last Rain
run down
run down,
down
the railroad tracks of course,
down into the throats
and the gullets of the cities.
The last pump organ,
which is 10 years old and making noise,
is hard to flood
but getting close—
the loose brown water
sloshes around the
bottoms of our boots
like hallucinations
in the eyes
of medicated dying men;
expelled from the blowholes
of humpback whale calves
on their journeys from Ant-
-arctica
to Greenland
trying not to drown.
One man escapes
the blast furnace of water
and runs
mad
with a black umbrella
across the grass
and up a hill
where there is no house,
only a
black Lab
on a square of wood
guarding a white box
containing her old friend:
small ashes and the
skull
of a green parakeet.
He pats her hard head
and thanks her,
and hears the sound of a 1 dollar bill
screaming at the bottom of a
goldfish bowl.
run down,
down
the railroad tracks of course,
down into the throats
and the gullets of the cities.
The last pump organ,
which is 10 years old and making noise,
is hard to flood
but getting close—
the loose brown water
sloshes around the
bottoms of our boots
like hallucinations
in the eyes
of medicated dying men;
expelled from the blowholes
of humpback whale calves
on their journeys from Ant-
-arctica
to Greenland
trying not to drown.
One man escapes
the blast furnace of water
and runs
mad
with a black umbrella
across the grass
and up a hill
where there is no house,
only a
black Lab
on a square of wood
guarding a white box
containing her old friend:
small ashes and the
skull
of a green parakeet.
He pats her hard head
and thanks her,
and hears the sound of a 1 dollar bill
screaming at the bottom of a
goldfish bowl.
The Water is Poison, The Ground is Soft, What the Hell?
blind men
take baths in
the park,
they wear swimming caps
while it rains and
laugh with pigeons
in the
cellar.
dancing alone, Paris is as good as
one apple,
one match,
one dress.
a man dies from too much
love,
cats commit crimes and thrive in the
shrubbery/
citizens condemn their
leaders
and their enemies
equally,
and condemn the god they think exists,
or the god that
doesn’t.
ministers
complain.
mice sniff floors for a deadly taste.
actors fail.
fathers fall asleep.
all feel cheated.
arabs squint their eyes against the gold
whites
flash pocket knives to their wives,
the killers in all of us
blast away our grievances
as quickly
as quickly
as we can.
thank you
thank
for all of it.
thank you for making all of it.
take baths in
the park,
they wear swimming caps
while it rains and
laugh with pigeons
in the
cellar.
dancing alone, Paris is as good as
one apple,
one match,
one dress.
a man dies from too much
love,
cats commit crimes and thrive in the
shrubbery/
citizens condemn their
leaders
and their enemies
equally,
and condemn the god they think exists,
or the god that
doesn’t.
ministers
complain.
mice sniff floors for a deadly taste.
actors fail.
fathers fall asleep.
all feel cheated.
arabs squint their eyes against the gold
whites
flash pocket knives to their wives,
the killers in all of us
blast away our grievances
as quickly
as quickly
as we can.
thank you
thank
for all of it.
thank you for making all of it.
Quiet
The sun
Was just a white area in the sky
With a whiter center.
I contemplated the gray light switch over there.
It was far. It was arbitrary.
Call it dumb, I said, make a sound
Across the room,
Some animal ogre sound. A grunt. A killer’s mule song.
Rape the nothing wind in the
Bedroom.
It is flat. It is still.
Wait. Everything in the house exists. O my.
Eat the last of the eggs then
Throw the carton away: none of this takes very long.
I imagine the sun up in Los Angeles
Above some meadow where it is summer
And maybe a courageous man, a happy man in a plaid shirt,
Boots, bluejeans, eyeglasses
Three brass fillings in his molars and hair on the tops of his hands
And
A wallet, 1/3 full of money,
Has shot himself with a rifle in the face.
He has turned all beautiful colors:
Blue, green, yellow, purple, black.
It will take two weeks to find him and the coroner says
I’ll move to Vegas after that one.
Cooled in the light of some weird morning
He packs and leaves, walks his suitcase into the sun
And does not say goodbye to his children.
My hand moves to the light switch,
The moon is the same
And
Change it from
Where it stood. Nothing happens.
Was just a white area in the sky
With a whiter center.
I contemplated the gray light switch over there.
It was far. It was arbitrary.
Call it dumb, I said, make a sound
Across the room,
Some animal ogre sound. A grunt. A killer’s mule song.
Rape the nothing wind in the
Bedroom.
It is flat. It is still.
Wait. Everything in the house exists. O my.
Eat the last of the eggs then
Throw the carton away: none of this takes very long.
I imagine the sun up in Los Angeles
Above some meadow where it is summer
And maybe a courageous man, a happy man in a plaid shirt,
Boots, bluejeans, eyeglasses
Three brass fillings in his molars and hair on the tops of his hands
And
A wallet, 1/3 full of money,
Has shot himself with a rifle in the face.
He has turned all beautiful colors:
Blue, green, yellow, purple, black.
It will take two weeks to find him and the coroner says
I’ll move to Vegas after that one.
Cooled in the light of some weird morning
He packs and leaves, walks his suitcase into the sun
And does not say goodbye to his children.
My hand moves to the light switch,
The moon is the same
And
Change it from
Where it stood. Nothing happens.
Palm
slow palm
achy palm, spinning
like a clock,
leaves like
tongues
wave in front
of
wild boars mating,
mutilated bombardiers
hung in your
rafters
as
skeletons
basking,
burning
too much oil
for their
dinners…
this
equator
waits
ten days
for rain
to
roar.
achy palm, spinning
like a clock,
leaves like
tongues
wave in front
of
wild boars mating,
mutilated bombardiers
hung in your
rafters
as
skeletons
basking,
burning
too much oil
for their
dinners…
this
equator
waits
ten days
for rain
to
roar.
Plans
When I bury you, I told her,
I will put you in a bed
atop the chopped off heads of
sunflowers—your favorite.
Thank you, she said.
What will you do? I said.
Well, I hope you don’t mind…she said, but I may take a few liberties.
Not at all…
Then I would buy you a new shirt.
Crisp. And put a fly in the breast pocket
or some other such secret between us.
It’s fine, I said. I like it. And what flowers?
White, she said. Goddamn it.
For you? White.
And I said goddamn it too
because that was going to happen some day.
I will put you in a bed
atop the chopped off heads of
sunflowers—your favorite.
Thank you, she said.
What will you do? I said.
Well, I hope you don’t mind…she said, but I may take a few liberties.
Not at all…
Then I would buy you a new shirt.
Crisp. And put a fly in the breast pocket
or some other such secret between us.
It’s fine, I said. I like it. And what flowers?
White, she said. Goddamn it.
For you? White.
And I said goddamn it too
because that was going to happen some day.
The Weary Cicada
When will he finally
just die?
All that buzzing, moping,
dwelling on the past--
it’s obnoxious.
Perhaps I’ll have him killed again,
but you know what happened last time:
he was resurrected
overnight
then came after me, wanting to hurt me.
He would have done so, too
had I not convinced him
that it wasn’t me
who’d made the attempt on his life.
Then who was it? he asked.
I don’t know,
I said.
Then, strangely,
I pointed at my father.
But try him out, I told him,
and see what
he’s got to say
about this so-called
assassination.
He did. He went over and
addressed my father.
And, well, it couldn’t have gone
too good
because later on I saw him in the barn
clinging to a wall.
His wings were quivering
and he was wearing my father’s hat.
What happened? I asked.
Your father was a liar, he
replied,
and climbed further up
into the dark
where it was
cool and comfortable.
just die?
All that buzzing, moping,
dwelling on the past--
it’s obnoxious.
Perhaps I’ll have him killed again,
but you know what happened last time:
he was resurrected
overnight
then came after me, wanting to hurt me.
He would have done so, too
had I not convinced him
that it wasn’t me
who’d made the attempt on his life.
Then who was it? he asked.
I don’t know,
I said.
Then, strangely,
I pointed at my father.
But try him out, I told him,
and see what
he’s got to say
about this so-called
assassination.
He did. He went over and
addressed my father.
And, well, it couldn’t have gone
too good
because later on I saw him in the barn
clinging to a wall.
His wings were quivering
and he was wearing my father’s hat.
What happened? I asked.
Your father was a liar, he
replied,
and climbed further up
into the dark
where it was
cool and comfortable.
Tree Burning
I remember watching my father burn
our Christmas tree.
He took it out of the house.
It was shedding needles
and dry twigs all over
the tiles.
He had it half covered in
a pale red plastic bag he got in the attic.
My mother followed him with the vacuum cleaner
until it didn’t reach anymore.
Then she unplugged the thing
and put it back in closer to
the laundry room where the cats
were balled up for warmth.
He dragged it through the door
and into the garage.
He yelled something when
the bag came off
and left it there
under the car tire.
One cat looked at it,
pawed it,
then crawled into it
and went to sleep.
Down a short hill he went.
His hat was almost off his head.
There was no snow
and a bright night sky.
A big white moon.
He took it all the way out to a field
by the stub and
when he dropped it down and it went
half flat into the ground.
I could not hear him out there.
His movements were quiet,
his breathing quiet.
He did not light it directly
but took a rolled up slip of newspaper,
lit the end of that
then applied the flaming tip to a few
different parts of the tree.
It went up slowly first
then all of a sudden
as my father walked backwards
away,
grew so fast into one
immense flame
that I put my arm up in front of my face.
It towered in the middle I’d say
to almost 20, 30 feet.
It was the biggest flame I’d ever seen.
I must have been standing
more than 50 feet away
as I was instructed to do
but
I still felt the heat.
I held out the palms of my hands to warm them. It worked almost too well.
The sound was this terrible
crackling.
The tree had become so dry because
he stopped watering it
the day after Christmas.
Pieces of the tree glowed
and started floating off into the purple air.
The crackling continued and my father
stood aside with a bucket of water
in case something happened or
got out of control.
It did not take long, though.
Soon the whole thing shrank
and cooled and I couldn’t feel it anymore.
Once it was allowed,
I walked closer
and stood over the burnt
husk and embers.
It became little
and nothing then
to me.
A cold little heart.
A cold, dark body.
our Christmas tree.
He took it out of the house.
It was shedding needles
and dry twigs all over
the tiles.
He had it half covered in
a pale red plastic bag he got in the attic.
My mother followed him with the vacuum cleaner
until it didn’t reach anymore.
Then she unplugged the thing
and put it back in closer to
the laundry room where the cats
were balled up for warmth.
He dragged it through the door
and into the garage.
He yelled something when
the bag came off
and left it there
under the car tire.
One cat looked at it,
pawed it,
then crawled into it
and went to sleep.
Down a short hill he went.
His hat was almost off his head.
There was no snow
and a bright night sky.
A big white moon.
He took it all the way out to a field
by the stub and
when he dropped it down and it went
half flat into the ground.
I could not hear him out there.
His movements were quiet,
his breathing quiet.
He did not light it directly
but took a rolled up slip of newspaper,
lit the end of that
then applied the flaming tip to a few
different parts of the tree.
It went up slowly first
then all of a sudden
as my father walked backwards
away,
grew so fast into one
immense flame
that I put my arm up in front of my face.
It towered in the middle I’d say
to almost 20, 30 feet.
It was the biggest flame I’d ever seen.
I must have been standing
more than 50 feet away
as I was instructed to do
but
I still felt the heat.
I held out the palms of my hands to warm them. It worked almost too well.
The sound was this terrible
crackling.
The tree had become so dry because
he stopped watering it
the day after Christmas.
Pieces of the tree glowed
and started floating off into the purple air.
The crackling continued and my father
stood aside with a bucket of water
in case something happened or
got out of control.
It did not take long, though.
Soon the whole thing shrank
and cooled and I couldn’t feel it anymore.
Once it was allowed,
I walked closer
and stood over the burnt
husk and embers.
It became little
and nothing then
to me.
A cold little heart.
A cold, dark body.
The Silo
You emerge from this blackness,
a silo full and heavy with feed,
with thoughts like shucked
corn heads
it begins.
It comes like friends through the door
talking.
You hear them and you think of dread. Or
like grocery shopping, unloading the cart
and putting it all in plastic bags.
$21.89 for gas
or even a funeral;
I do not want to mourn the dead,
yours or mine.
I do not want to commiserate with friends,
mine or anyone’s.
I do not want to plan meals, even my next.
Or call the ambulance
when you have hurt yourself
badly.
I do not want still daisies on my birthday, or a long song describing my life.
The love of fire, blasting in the incinerator is far gone,
too hot to understand,
whiskey and friends, mother, brothers,
blue sighs of dogs: they never stop finding me.
Leave me out of it, leave me be
and I’m going to
SEE SOMETHING.
The dementia of an old woman in a chair.
Tumors. Olive pits. Too much
fiber and coffee which
gives you the shits
first thing in the morning.
That’s all.
Call it done, don’t talk. Find the
silo and sleep.
a silo full and heavy with feed,
with thoughts like shucked
corn heads
it begins.
It comes like friends through the door
talking.
You hear them and you think of dread. Or
like grocery shopping, unloading the cart
and putting it all in plastic bags.
$21.89 for gas
or even a funeral;
I do not want to mourn the dead,
yours or mine.
I do not want to commiserate with friends,
mine or anyone’s.
I do not want to plan meals, even my next.
Or call the ambulance
when you have hurt yourself
badly.
I do not want still daisies on my birthday, or a long song describing my life.
The love of fire, blasting in the incinerator is far gone,
too hot to understand,
whiskey and friends, mother, brothers,
blue sighs of dogs: they never stop finding me.
Leave me out of it, leave me be
and I’m going to
SEE SOMETHING.
The dementia of an old woman in a chair.
Tumors. Olive pits. Too much
fiber and coffee which
gives you the shits
first thing in the morning.
That’s all.
Call it done, don’t talk. Find the
silo and sleep.
McAuliffe, McAuliffe
I felt his friendship with McAuliffe die
Through him.
Through him and out of him,
Off of him, emanating from him like light.
Like steam. Like the boiling of bones.
McAuliffe, McAuliffe
On a mountain.
Splayed across a mountain in his soreness.
This young man
Who had been his closest friend
From what I’d heard,
Hugged me and I felt the death he returned to
over and over in his sleep.
It flaked off of him like plaster.
Trees had been stripped that morning
Of leaves,
And the ground was littered in sticks.
McAuliffe, McAuliffe
On a mountain.
Remembering the name spoken in a feast of trees.
Dried up leaves above our broken heads,
Echoing,
Calling back a spent blast
The crack of wasted fuel,
Burnt in the earthen birthing process.
Dead face of the dead young man,
He was on his way to a lovely transformation.
A mask had been applied
Then,
And could not be uncemented from his flattened face.
It occurred to me that a flood of thoughts ought to be arriving,
But, really, there was nothing.
There did not seem to be anything particularly brave about it.
Only softness and gold reincarnate remained.
Blue eyelids filled his coffin,
Powdered wax collected on our surfaces like
Oak leaves cold after a fire,
Like autumn arriving and staying for a while.
Like the stillness in a glass of water.
I did not know him well
And I did not know his friends.
Still, I found out in their sadnesses.
It occurred in the unvast space between us.
I was drawn to the
Center of things
Where their collection of feelings had huddled like
Rain at a water drain.
Shined his unending wish not to die,
And for me not to die.
McAuliffe, McAuliffe
On a mountain,
Spread on the upward face.
Through him.
Through him and out of him,
Off of him, emanating from him like light.
Like steam. Like the boiling of bones.
McAuliffe, McAuliffe
On a mountain.
Splayed across a mountain in his soreness.
This young man
Who had been his closest friend
From what I’d heard,
Hugged me and I felt the death he returned to
over and over in his sleep.
It flaked off of him like plaster.
Trees had been stripped that morning
Of leaves,
And the ground was littered in sticks.
McAuliffe, McAuliffe
On a mountain.
Remembering the name spoken in a feast of trees.
Dried up leaves above our broken heads,
Echoing,
Calling back a spent blast
The crack of wasted fuel,
Burnt in the earthen birthing process.
Dead face of the dead young man,
He was on his way to a lovely transformation.
A mask had been applied
Then,
And could not be uncemented from his flattened face.
It occurred to me that a flood of thoughts ought to be arriving,
But, really, there was nothing.
There did not seem to be anything particularly brave about it.
Only softness and gold reincarnate remained.
Blue eyelids filled his coffin,
Powdered wax collected on our surfaces like
Oak leaves cold after a fire,
Like autumn arriving and staying for a while.
Like the stillness in a glass of water.
I did not know him well
And I did not know his friends.
Still, I found out in their sadnesses.
It occurred in the unvast space between us.
I was drawn to the
Center of things
Where their collection of feelings had huddled like
Rain at a water drain.
Shined his unending wish not to die,
And for me not to die.
McAuliffe, McAuliffe
On a mountain,
Spread on the upward face.
Others Crossing the Grass
There are other leaves
flattened in other doorways,
strange doorways holding strange
people behind them. Strange because you do not
know who they are, and you cannot conceive of that.
Their faces are flattened like the bottoms of
shoes, years and years
old. Who knows
when they were swept there,
and who knows who did the sweeping.
Does that tree even exist anymore?
Is there any way to tell?
What if a tree could become fossilized
sanding up? We’d be in a quarry of
stone trees. A cemetery of heavies.
The steps in the doorway
are drawers full of skulls,
the tops of the heads of the good
ancestors, their houses have grown hair.
I start to think, perhaps that the
paint splattered on the ground is the shape
of their voices, and it was fossilized, hardened like the
skulls.
In the field, others
crossing the grass feel like ghosts,
and it makes me wonder, what if they’re there
only for now, and
then they aren’t there anymore
when I can no longer see them?
flattened in other doorways,
strange doorways holding strange
people behind them. Strange because you do not
know who they are, and you cannot conceive of that.
Their faces are flattened like the bottoms of
shoes, years and years
old. Who knows
when they were swept there,
and who knows who did the sweeping.
Does that tree even exist anymore?
Is there any way to tell?
What if a tree could become fossilized
sanding up? We’d be in a quarry of
stone trees. A cemetery of heavies.
The steps in the doorway
are drawers full of skulls,
the tops of the heads of the good
ancestors, their houses have grown hair.
I start to think, perhaps that the
paint splattered on the ground is the shape
of their voices, and it was fossilized, hardened like the
skulls.
In the field, others
crossing the grass feel like ghosts,
and it makes me wonder, what if they’re there
only for now, and
then they aren’t there anymore
when I can no longer see them?
Small Chorus
The ingenious
moon
called herself upon
herself
and the bed was full of
graves.
Sleeping angels, dead
fat pigeons, the remembrance
of her
selves, her images.
Dang it all, she said, dang it all to hell,
and took to the direction that was dark.
moon
called herself upon
herself
and the bed was full of
graves.
Sleeping angels, dead
fat pigeons, the remembrance
of her
selves, her images.
Dang it all, she said, dang it all to hell,
and took to the direction that was dark.
Lumber
Why are the cars parked
where they are parked?
Why did they get assigned those little
areas?
The ones that are quiet
in winter as gassed beetles,
their eyelids dark purple,
their shoulders gloomily sagged?
Are there engines in there?
Seats?
Carburetors?
Or is it just a husk?
A bin with bodies
upright, unfucked
seed pods
scattered in the bright field…
When will they get picked up by the wind
and carried off?
Rats in the jaws of eagles
going to heaven.
The chimneys through which
they will fall
are rammed shut with black
feathers,
the palm leaf broods,
flaps its waxy wings meaninglessly
against a white wall
& in the yard
the wood waits,
sawed up and young
and full of pink marrow.
Good blood. Solid brain.
Providence.
where they are parked?
Why did they get assigned those little
areas?
The ones that are quiet
in winter as gassed beetles,
their eyelids dark purple,
their shoulders gloomily sagged?
Are there engines in there?
Seats?
Carburetors?
Or is it just a husk?
A bin with bodies
upright, unfucked
seed pods
scattered in the bright field…
When will they get picked up by the wind
and carried off?
Rats in the jaws of eagles
going to heaven.
The chimneys through which
they will fall
are rammed shut with black
feathers,
the palm leaf broods,
flaps its waxy wings meaninglessly
against a white wall
& in the yard
the wood waits,
sawed up and young
and full of pink marrow.
Good blood. Solid brain.
Providence.
9.24.2007
For the Love of One Song
I think it is
the theme song
of
Harry Houdini
who panics
in a box;
a mural of violins
at rest.
the theme song
of
Harry Houdini
who panics
in a box;
a mural of violins
at rest.
Default
Having no heroes
I am erased,
I write without
seeing the page.
I am the blind man,
writing with a spoon
in ice
made of air.
I am in other worlds,
not just this one, and
your mirror has no opposite
image. It is its own
image, it has its you
and you’ve burned up, turned into sleep,
the hanged and bleeding
calf over the sheet.
I am erased,
I write without
seeing the page.
I am the blind man,
writing with a spoon
in ice
made of air.
I am in other worlds,
not just this one, and
your mirror has no opposite
image. It is its own
image, it has its you
and you’ve burned up, turned into sleep,
the hanged and bleeding
calf over the sheet.
love before lost gone
When you scissor the ribbons of your childhood apart,
ask them when they were formed…
Ask them when and how they were tied
and strengthened
and with what epoxy.
Wandering alone in woods.
Forgetting Halloween.
Cutting your knuckles.
Getting lost.
Hungry.
When did this moment blast so fully away
to reveal itself?
I do not know.
I do not know.
But when it did
I heard a sound like myself
crawling from my own dead skin,
and then I looked back on my dead skin self
and it was sleeping in my bed
next to my girlfriend, and
she touched it, thinking she was touching me.
So I wandered out into the night,
my new white self unaccustomed to air
and because of that, I dispersed.
ask them when they were formed…
Ask them when and how they were tied
and strengthened
and with what epoxy.
Wandering alone in woods.
Forgetting Halloween.
Cutting your knuckles.
Getting lost.
Hungry.
When did this moment blast so fully away
to reveal itself?
I do not know.
I do not know.
But when it did
I heard a sound like myself
crawling from my own dead skin,
and then I looked back on my dead skin self
and it was sleeping in my bed
next to my girlfriend, and
she touched it, thinking she was touching me.
So I wandered out into the night,
my new white self unaccustomed to air
and because of that, I dispersed.
The Divorce
Thunder
came from the bird.
He puffed out, let go and
there it was—
a slow, vacant rumble.
Is that god?
I asked Angela.
No, it’s just a man
falling asleep
on the sofa.
came from the bird.
He puffed out, let go and
there it was—
a slow, vacant rumble.
Is that god?
I asked Angela.
No, it’s just a man
falling asleep
on the sofa.
The Man Made of Clothes
I saw a man
made entirely of clothes.
He was on a bench,
relaxed,
and his body slept not
twenty feet away.
How was his mind attached, I thought,
and where were his feet?
They were not in his shoes.
His toes laughed face up
in this
empty bathtub of folly
and his beard admired itself
with twinkling pity.
As the dust rose
this bouquet of body parts,
heaped like a speared rhino,
laughed loudly as hell.
The wind blew, fluttered him,
opened him up and his maddened teeth
spoke to us,
that yellowed mouth played
miraculous percussive music in the dark
halls:
Do return me to myself,
or don’t, He said.
It’s Ok. I can float.
The church of the outdoors has invited me
to stay.
There are ghosts in my arms and my
legs and my hands, He said, my
ribs are poltergeists
to the story of
my body’s house.
Plant me like
seeds, for God’s sake,
He said,
bury me
before I
blow
away.
made entirely of clothes.
He was on a bench,
relaxed,
and his body slept not
twenty feet away.
How was his mind attached, I thought,
and where were his feet?
They were not in his shoes.
His toes laughed face up
in this
empty bathtub of folly
and his beard admired itself
with twinkling pity.
As the dust rose
this bouquet of body parts,
heaped like a speared rhino,
laughed loudly as hell.
The wind blew, fluttered him,
opened him up and his maddened teeth
spoke to us,
that yellowed mouth played
miraculous percussive music in the dark
halls:
Do return me to myself,
or don’t, He said.
It’s Ok. I can float.
The church of the outdoors has invited me
to stay.
There are ghosts in my arms and my
legs and my hands, He said, my
ribs are poltergeists
to the story of
my body’s house.
Plant me like
seeds, for God’s sake,
He said,
bury me
before I
blow
away.
The Time House
There is a house with innumerable windows across the front of it.
I look in many of these windows at once
with my many eyes, some of them
are still moving and haven’t
found out how to be still.
I watch myself in others.
Inside, women bathe their old bodies,
shuffle about, press their thumbs into tomatoes
and their own skins, and wait for them to
recharge.
Their husbands snap curls of green
off the ends of houseplants, the ancient
habits of circling houses, waiting, living,
sighing,
the house closes.
What if we found it?
one of them says.
And the other just says no, we haven’t found it yet.
We’ll know when we find it. And I don’t feel
anything right now.
I look in many of these windows at once
with my many eyes, some of them
are still moving and haven’t
found out how to be still.
I watch myself in others.
Inside, women bathe their old bodies,
shuffle about, press their thumbs into tomatoes
and their own skins, and wait for them to
recharge.
Their husbands snap curls of green
off the ends of houseplants, the ancient
habits of circling houses, waiting, living,
sighing,
the house closes.
What if we found it?
one of them says.
And the other just says no, we haven’t found it yet.
We’ll know when we find it. And I don’t feel
anything right now.
The Sea Turtle
I am learning math on the back of a
sea turtle. He swims forever in the
brine of the ocean and its low dips
find diamonds; these shine between
my toes amongst the kelp and green
seaweed and mussels in a vast black
churning chorus upon the top,
moving up, slanted, opening. Call
forth help.
He arrives in blankets of foam. He is
also a woman with white skin and
pink eyes. A hermaphrodite albino
frozen in the atmosphere. It is cold
and wet.
Council me in the history, maps and
ancient topography. The years make
webs and cross over one another in
the sky. They have also opened in
me like flowers and I’ve got to hear
its languages.
The sounds and keys of Y under cold
sheets of the moonlight, the hump-
back whale astride a trunk of clothes.
S riding horseback, M stirring
coffee. B getting drunk. Cool it,
gang, your turn will come. It will be
in the time of the turtle, the year of
me, such numbers fallen together in
the sea. And the green levels and the
purple levels. Black and silver rise in
equal measure as time.
I glance to the island. Komodo
dragons hiss on bellies, they sniff
the sand for seashells and empires
on the edges of her hair. Their saliva
is poison, and if I drink it the
memories of history will swell and
reverse in action, and suddenly the
future will be at the end.
sea turtle. He swims forever in the
brine of the ocean and its low dips
find diamonds; these shine between
my toes amongst the kelp and green
seaweed and mussels in a vast black
churning chorus upon the top,
moving up, slanted, opening. Call
forth help.
He arrives in blankets of foam. He is
also a woman with white skin and
pink eyes. A hermaphrodite albino
frozen in the atmosphere. It is cold
and wet.
Council me in the history, maps and
ancient topography. The years make
webs and cross over one another in
the sky. They have also opened in
me like flowers and I’ve got to hear
its languages.
The sounds and keys of Y under cold
sheets of the moonlight, the hump-
back whale astride a trunk of clothes.
S riding horseback, M stirring
coffee. B getting drunk. Cool it,
gang, your turn will come. It will be
in the time of the turtle, the year of
me, such numbers fallen together in
the sea. And the green levels and the
purple levels. Black and silver rise in
equal measure as time.
I glance to the island. Komodo
dragons hiss on bellies, they sniff
the sand for seashells and empires
on the edges of her hair. Their saliva
is poison, and if I drink it the
memories of history will swell and
reverse in action, and suddenly the
future will be at the end.
This Room Tremendous
bodily
air this
room
conveys.
our room
is just as
light and
bulbous as
some head of
god
materialized
in this
space, some
Christ-head
moving behind the curtains
and then collapsing
with one
great
sound exposed.
dual
thoughts are
conceived through
dual masses, dual sounds,
and the dual
earths
spinning,
then
spin away.
air this
room
conveys.
our room
is just as
light and
bulbous as
some head of
god
materialized
in this
space, some
Christ-head
moving behind the curtains
and then collapsing
with one
great
sound exposed.
dual
thoughts are
conceived through
dual masses, dual sounds,
and the dual
earths
spinning,
then
spin away.
Old in the Wind
like a
cleaved moth
he limps away
along the
wooden
pane.
the birth of
elderly
flowers
smell like
powder in the
living room,
pushing up
their
wilted grass
against the piano legs
and singing
with voices like
ammonia,
harmonium,
harmonica,
the busted
window
peels with
sounds like this,
and layers of
skin are
under there
like dozens of
days of
rain in a row.
cleaved moth
he limps away
along the
wooden
pane.
the birth of
elderly
flowers
smell like
powder in the
living room,
pushing up
their
wilted grass
against the piano legs
and singing
with voices like
ammonia,
harmonium,
harmonica,
the busted
window
peels with
sounds like this,
and layers of
skin are
under there
like dozens of
days of
rain in a row.
The Miracle in the Sand
You were picked
the same way
the sand was picked.
To boost up
the physical earth,
and have meaning for
the non-physical.
Whose boulders
did you crumble from?
When bomber jets
blimped through the early morning sky
what origins did you think of?
What’s the original
material of your slough? Years
to me seem like waiting
or kernels of corn on the
cob. All in a row there
waiting to be popped, bitten into,
gnawed on.
It’s a blackbird finding
a fossil and thinking it’s
food, biting it and
learning from its bowed
backbone, some little early
mammal that died in a
prehistoric field, roughage
still in stomach, ears still
up.
Never mind the flowing
of the sea, it’s some hundred
miles off, and its voice can’t
carry through. But its movement
is the movement of sand,
slowly miming the way time
moves, and showing us how that
happens.
the same way
the sand was picked.
To boost up
the physical earth,
and have meaning for
the non-physical.
Whose boulders
did you crumble from?
When bomber jets
blimped through the early morning sky
what origins did you think of?
What’s the original
material of your slough? Years
to me seem like waiting
or kernels of corn on the
cob. All in a row there
waiting to be popped, bitten into,
gnawed on.
It’s a blackbird finding
a fossil and thinking it’s
food, biting it and
learning from its bowed
backbone, some little early
mammal that died in a
prehistoric field, roughage
still in stomach, ears still
up.
Never mind the flowing
of the sea, it’s some hundred
miles off, and its voice can’t
carry through. But its movement
is the movement of sand,
slowly miming the way time
moves, and showing us how that
happens.
The Melt
The white
New Years orchids
have fallen the long way down,
beheaded
slow, smooth young
beheaded boys in the wet grass.
But one
holds on.
After he, it will just be
a stick, straight as a spine in a pot,
one hair left in corpse flesh, one finger of a god
in one of a thousand coffins.
Could it fly?
Could it sink?
Could it live again in a fishbowl under
green water?
New Years Eve again.
It’s a slight change and then
none at all.
New Years orchids
have fallen the long way down,
beheaded
slow, smooth young
beheaded boys in the wet grass.
But one
holds on.
After he, it will just be
a stick, straight as a spine in a pot,
one hair left in corpse flesh, one finger of a god
in one of a thousand coffins.
Could it fly?
Could it sink?
Could it live again in a fishbowl under
green water?
New Years Eve again.
It’s a slight change and then
none at all.
Sun in the Vines
It makes me think of stone gods
humming to themselves
and marching toward the ocean.
Their songs twirl up
like the curly hairs of vines
on the fire escape, don’t
forget their parents wept
when they were born, and they burned, and their
tears curled too,
and it was the same shape as this,
it was the same shape as the vine.
The human skeleton is a vine
within itself, as are the nerves and the
tendrils of brain activity. Electricity
has proven itself an unpredictable
entity, for its here-and-there
tendencies, I think it is perfect. Fire
it at the world. It’s a
common dance like lightening is, and
what about the playfulness of a snake
twitching at a yard mole, or a cat
flattened at the bird?
Death is curled and it spirals
from our heads to our toes and in
numerous shapes that have never existed
and will not exist,
and furthermore
do not right now.
What are they then? These are the
shapes of the sun and these are the shapes
of thought. If you let them move
they will, but they will not move very quickly
or in any real direction. They will grow and
curl according to their own
whimsy.
I sit on at the window sill
in the sun and I drink my coffee. My cat
hops up and arches her back and
the base of her tail underneath my
hand and my chin. She’s affectionate
but she’s very loose, very loose indeed
in the universe, I realize,
and so am I.
humming to themselves
and marching toward the ocean.
Their songs twirl up
like the curly hairs of vines
on the fire escape, don’t
forget their parents wept
when they were born, and they burned, and their
tears curled too,
and it was the same shape as this,
it was the same shape as the vine.
The human skeleton is a vine
within itself, as are the nerves and the
tendrils of brain activity. Electricity
has proven itself an unpredictable
entity, for its here-and-there
tendencies, I think it is perfect. Fire
it at the world. It’s a
common dance like lightening is, and
what about the playfulness of a snake
twitching at a yard mole, or a cat
flattened at the bird?
Death is curled and it spirals
from our heads to our toes and in
numerous shapes that have never existed
and will not exist,
and furthermore
do not right now.
What are they then? These are the
shapes of the sun and these are the shapes
of thought. If you let them move
they will, but they will not move very quickly
or in any real direction. They will grow and
curl according to their own
whimsy.
I sit on at the window sill
in the sun and I drink my coffee. My cat
hops up and arches her back and
the base of her tail underneath my
hand and my chin. She’s affectionate
but she’s very loose, very loose indeed
in the universe, I realize,
and so am I.
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