Wednesday, November 12, 2014
POEM: So I Am A Brick
Stiff and sharp where I have never been sharp
Chipped for all my years of being steppe on
Green from the algae
In my head I want to be softer
For everything wants to be softer where
They are hard, where there is chipping
And a rough surface.
But as a brick I am incapable of dreaming
Lacking a brain stem, the limbic matter,
A prefrontal cortex.
When I awake the light is trembling
And I speak this language.
I am able to interpret it.
It is fall and the light catches the tree tops
Looking down at me, singing
At the tops of their tree lungs,
Burrowing with knotted fists into
I make my way through rounded objects.
Light is one of these rounded objects
Dripping onto the walkway bleaching
Everything in its path,
Those other bricks asleep, tucked in
By moss and the smell of nuts in the air
(This autumn tastes like walnuts in the back of my mouth
Whenever I suck in the cool air.)
But the light avoids me, though my blood
Is a ruddy red. A port wine of clay aging
Aging in the yellow laughter of a folding sun.
I am geologic, granite bends to me.
I wear limestone for fingernails
Everything I write is whitened,
White, white, white hot.
POEM: Muscle Memory
That speaks with a blurred accent
of wild greens and geese – the yellow
skin of sad-eyed light
makes up the neurons of dark storms.
This frame is a blight of opaque water, is a dying
movement: go on and be brave.
Sea birds carry word to all the lost faces of a
drowning in the canals,
flying against the pink buildings. Helium
lifts mylar thoughts. Salt drops everywhere are alive.
You slog on, not knowing how, unfocused on the place
where breathing can no longer be felt: where
this is not the kind of music we can play by ear.
Thursday, October 02, 2014
POEM: Contact Tracer
Monday, January 06, 2014
POEM: This Wild Daylight
It is lizard-like
Squirms over frozen field.
It is the texture of talcum powder.
Things are tracked.
It enters lungs on every inhale.
It is a new year and day burns
It is the kindling past
that smells like charcoal.
POEM: Tossing My Iphone Into The River
And tossing your Iphone into night air
Over a bridge that spans the Connecticut River.
Let’s call it summer.
Let’s say the stars alone are your witness.
Let’s say you’ve been drinking, but you have
Thought about this before and it is not fair to
Blame the alcohol.
Let’s say the moving trees and the warm
Cricket air has something to do with it.
Let’s say the darkness and the moving
Automobile owns you right now.
Imagine the object, shaped like a chocolate bar, swaying as it
Waddles to the riverbottom, tumbling along with the strong
Currents shad and stripers must fight every spring to spawn.
Now imagine this crippled alewife, without fins:
it cannot swim, its demon eye blinks red, blinks red,
blinks red, until the inky depth cuts the link.
Let’s say it creates a hypothermic silence.
Removed from any phone plan, a fading ghost,
A radio whisper to the satellites,
It frantically tries to connect, but only voicemail remains,
Vacant & soggy, begging for one more message.
Dreaming in a place where there is
no T9 shortcut for the word “help”.
Friday, October 18, 2013
POEM: Trumpet Ivy
Monday, October 14, 2013
POEM: Gypsy Songs (Brahms)
POEM: Ideal (Tosti)
POEM: Lovely Moon Who Sheds Silver Light (Vincenzo Bellini)
POEM: O How Anxious (Mozart)
Sunday, October 13, 2013
POEM: Tu, La Aventura (You, The Adventure)
Sunday, June 30, 2013
POEM: Blue Flame
now repels each thing from the other.
in spectral whispers. There then go
There then goes what we imagined about his hands.
by fingers releasing a sisal
POEM: The Objects That We Love
And when I dine out,
There is no cause for jealousy.
POEM: My Fearful Swan
Elves glide on blissful song in the dell,
Parting false company. But only by
Listening, you died betrayed & sang
Aways in circles, where the song faded away.
You were such a swan then.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
POEM: Turdis Migratoris
You sit and wonder.
I will wonder too.
Scratch for your grubs. I
Will scratch along
with you. With a yellow
beaked heart that picks at
After the ebbing that was yours,
That sorrowful ghost,
That bag of dry twigs,
That was hope as kindling,
It is now just an empty glass.
The promise of love,
Of a smile, had never left you.
It was only covered up,
Hands clamped over its mouth
Waiting for the moon
To change everything
POEM: The Lives of Dreams
Nakedness is just the humility you lack; dreaming of red means you are holding a grudge, which will someday dry you up and blow you away. Rodents indicate a burrowing will, a whitheringness. The inability to vocalize during a dream means you want to be a jazz blues nightclub singer, and your soul is trying to find a hole to escape from you. You’ve never been accused of being hip, and this is why: you must let the cool escape.
Dreaming of geese in V-formation flying away means you will lose someone. Dreaming of geese in V-formation flying towards you means you are pregnant, unless you are male, in which case it means you wish you could be pregnant. Dreaming of geese on the ground means you will soon be crippled.
It is good luck to cry in your sleep, to weep soundly. It is your body’s way of uncovering all the hiding places in you, of removing the plastic sheeting you carefully construct over your internal house. It is also good luck to dream of food and if you can smell it, or taste it, even better. It is a sign that all of your hunger will soon abate. That soon, you will have enough. Stop worrying.
POEM: The Lives of Furniture
The piano stool once served in a speakeasy, dodging spilled prohibition beer. She dreams of being with a Steinway in the Biblical sense. She is a kissing cousin to a Stradavarius but does not like to mention it much since the others always make fun of her and she thinks it is bragging.
The end table is stressed – by design – to give him warmth, the marks and chips age him, make him seem experienced. On most days though he wishes the marks were gone so he could avoid all the pity stares he gets.
The hutch thinks he is overweight, and always tucks his drawers in to look thinner. He is tall so the weight is distributed well on him. He is made of mahogany, and the other pieces envy his tan. Still none of the other pieces in the room thinks he needs to lose weight. Sometimes he just feels fat, he says and asks the mirror to move a little so he can catch a glimpse.
The roll top desk likes to read. On rainy days, he rolls up his top, and flips through pages of a book. Sometimes he reads aloud until the others shush him. Near an old replica of an inkwell, are the initials “T.P” carved into his shoulder, like a tattoo. He remembers when the child did that. How much it hurt.
The grandfather clock adjusts his spectacles. His ballasts hang in fatigue. His pendulum carries a weight. Knowing time is a burden. All his springs want is a trip to Bermuda, to sit on pink beaches, and drink out of coconut glasses with colorful, paper umbrellas sticking out of them.
The rocker hums, eyes closed, imagining small children and arms.
The coat rack’s arms are tired, even without having coats to hold.
The couch needs reupholstering. His springs stick out. His arms are threadbare, with patches. Once, though, his foam was firm. Once, people felt majestic sitting between his arms.
POEM: The Lives of Voices
The next day, while hiking, I found a wounded voice in the woods, tattered in its timbre, fading at the edges. I brought it home and made it Portuguese White Bean and Kielbasa soup to give it heart, to fatten its soul. I hoped to make one fully reconstituted voice capable of the most unnerving prayer, the kind that makes you shiver from the openness; the kind that precedes a great discovery.
Friends encouraged my voice, asked her to sing, asked her to recite poems, to do interpretive dance. But her nerve grew and shrank based on the temperature of the dreams she had at night: hot dreams made her want to do more, to stand taller and to preach; cooler dreams made the voice believe she was a mushroom that no one bore witness to.
On some evenings, wandering the city streets, my own voice abandoned me and danced down alley-ways, bounding off of narrow walls, off of stucco buildings, pink in its carousing, drinking, finding women of low self-esteem, lifting their spirits and their skirts. In the morning, my voice would come back, headache in hand, remorseful for having bounced over the cobblestone of its own imagination only to find its way home on the back of a whisper.
Sometimes, in the fall, the season of great migrations, I find voices strewn all over New England, each one needing a hand up, each one in search of an inner ear and some bone-rubbing.
Not every voice makes the journey in one piece of course. Some are carried off by the wind on horseback never to be heard again. Some voices take a life time to bubble, to boil like the White Bean and Kielbasa, until it is soup. Some voices are just a glance, or a touch. And still others paint their hands bright saffron and touch everything.
Dreamers dribble into the 13 billion year old universe, spending their days waving to passing celestial bodies, never even looking for an ear to inhabit.
POEM: Wedding March
It tumbles over a thin-lipped horizon like a drunken pledge,
A full-bodied wine, so able to commit mayhem at a moment’s notice.
Today is your unwashed carrot plucked from dry earth, soil
Clinging to its pointed orange skin, held up by its green hair, so fragrant.
It is the diamond once lost in the back yard, rediscovered by mistake.
Today you become the seeds you’ve always dreamed of becoming.
The birds chirp a wedding march, and the clouds process in bridal white.
Before the dandelions and the compost, before the congregation
Of mayflies, those flitting maids-of-honor who flutter your praise.
In the presence of an embracing universe, in full view of smiling lilac,
A balloon heart with your names on each other’s tongue is carved into
the oldest oak tree we could find and that is your New Testament
We are melting candles
Frenzied by the noise of
Our own our diminutive voice.
Our tongues that click and clack
This and that.
Death is on its way.
The problems that have
Plagued us up to this point
Are wax drippings.
This is what the flame teaches.
What is left is what we have
Tried to avoid all this time:
The persistent cat-tongued voice
Wallpapering our brains;
Our turning around and
Around again and again only to
2.) At 10:20 PM you are asleep. The hose to the CPAP machine is a snake that coils around your head. It is on a swivel, and you are careful not to strangle yourself or your partner with it while you switch sides.
3.) At midnight you wake up for the first time because the CPAP machine has malfunctioned and your heart has stopped. You momentarily dream of being bitten by rats and this is when you ARE getting oxygenated blood into your brain but without the machine, you do not dream at all, it is all a soupy blackness; it is the sleep you get when on cold medicines.
4.) At 12:01 AM you reach over and feel the night stand and correct the machine.
5.) At 1 AM you fall asleep long enough to feel as though you are falling. You kick your legs involuntarily and wake up again.
6.) At 1:30 AM the moon rushes into the room through the window like an anxious father and you curse it and pray to it all at once. This is the first time you glance at the digital clock - and make the analog comparison in your brain to someone running a marathon: how much further to go before the alarm. Time = distance.
7.) At 2:15 AM you turn and turn again, carefully maneuvering the hose of the CPAP machine. You are not asleep but not awake either.
8.) At 2:55 AM the mask slips off your nose and the air gushes like a wind tunnel. In a panic that has you believing you’ve just been sucked out of a 747 at 50,000 feet, you move your head slightly to cut off the air leak and then fall back to sleep.
9.) At 3:17 AM you glance again at the bloodshot eyes of the clock and mutter something about Satanic verses.
10.) At 4:02 AM you dream of sitting tied up in a chair in a field and hands, just hands, appear securing the knots. You scream as you are transported through wormholes connecting universes.
11.) At 4:05 AM you are awake again, revising the lesson plan for a class you are teaching about Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tell Tale Heart”.
12.) At 4:06 AM you are mentally balancing your check book.
13.) At 4:07 AM you begin breathing deeply, following it into and out of your lungs.
14.) At 4:08 AM you are bored with this and go back to mentally balancing your checkbook.
15.) At 4:21 AM you are asleep long enough to dream of someone you do not know. You wake up feeling sad and you wonder why.
16.) At 4:35, AM again, you look at the clock and calculate time as distance.
17.) At 4:36 AM you accept that you are a freak; you believe that every other living thing is asleep at this hour. You believe you smell skunk.
18.) At 5:00 AM you dream of performing calculus in your head and while you believe you are sleeping, you are in fact not.
19.) At 5:30 AM the gentle melody of the alarm on your cell phone goes off. It is the opening notes to Radio Head’s “No Surprises”.
20.) At 5:31 AM you carefully shut off the alarm so as not to wake your partner. Your eyes are carrying American Tourister luggage around on your face. You stagger into the bathroom. The image staring back at you in the mirror: he knows you are a liar.
POEM: April 10, 2013
When the wind first thrummed,
When the gray clouds drummed
a black fist at me,
When my chilled teeth chattered
And my tired bones rattled a mamba
With rumbling hips of thunder -
I’d have missed the blue whale sky ripped asunder,
Stripped to the flesh, exposing
A roiling sun, flesh bared unrolling its tongue
Until it touched the earth,
All the while smirking, licking me warm.
POEM: Ode To a Statue of St. Francis
Man of peace. This is an occupational hazard
Of all garden-art, religious or not.
You can complain all you want:
Find a reason to hate birds, or
Never again trust a shady spot
But when you are brother to all things,
Which includes things with wings that shit all over everything,
Then you must have a cotton heart.
Otherwise your insides become a stone and
Then how do you respond to all the sadness of a world,
That scampers like a rat across a slate roof, that is
Sometimes seen, but always makes its presence known?
Clean it up and press on. That’s all you can do.
And if that bird shits on you nine-hundred and ninety-eight times,
You will clean it up nine-hundred and ninety-nine.
Watch a spider repair its web after a storm.
It’s incapable of sighing.
Remorse does not fit within the thimble frame of its
Rigid exoskeleton, it rebuilds.
Watch over me, shit-stained Francis. And
Protect every creature that dozes deep in my savage bones.
I will take you, mossy and white, or any way you come.
POEM: Tin Man
Proclaim in a mahogany voice:
“My God, what am I doing?”
That is the first step to disconnecting the red cable of your car battery,
Which is how you learn to jump-start things, like a car.
Fritter your hands a little. Fuss a bit.
Come clean with yourself, in jellied tones,
To the stranger in your head that says bat-shit crazy things
that you hide whenever company comes over.
The one that drives the Porsche of your mind
with the hormonal rage of a teenager.
Today is made possible
By its frosted flakes and all the sexy risk,
as dangerous as a cat-stretch-puddle.
It waits for you to take a step.
Here are the instructions:
Turn off the light /
make faces at the mirror/
on a moonless night/
let clouds grip your throat/
when owls embed themselves into headless trees/
hoot and then holler/
speak in private syllables/
break the tie between you and the image of you. /
Hold onto things with mosquito feet /
Promise anything: to bake bread together,/
to love the same woman or man or men or women,/
to get a rescue dog together and fight over its name./
Go and unmake your bed, /
Go slip your feet into large shoes, /
Time to stand in the ruinous rain/
to chisel away at the oxidized parts /
POEM: Wellwood Avenue (2 versions)
The 2nd represents the same poem flipped upside down. Which one sounds better? It is a a very interesting thing to do to a poem. The meaning is slightly different in the 2nd version, but it also suggests I am not in control of the poetry writing process as much as I might like to believe.)
We wonder how sunsets look to the dead,
From the tips of white granite
Which is now how we recognize their faces?
We know they are not really there, of course. We are
Very good at knowing the difference between
animate and inanimate: it is a difference of weight –
The living are always lighter. Geography
Sews an invisible thread to the inside of us, and
Pulls at us every step of the way, demanding us to return.
When I go, I want to build a place for you, my love,
To sit beside the godly pine. Place will be the shape of
My face, and the curve of your hips.
It is the running ripple of your spine, the meaty part of my hands
Which you have always admired. A place to clutch
cold stone. To wish beneath a glowering sky,
To believe in the heaviness of the dark oak past,
When I was your desire and we connected
To this sandy island whose soils once
And perhaps neither of us will miss or be missed as much.
While my consonant arms wrap around you,
My name, and all the vowels will lodge in the trees.
Sit before marble and silence, and you will speak.
I will slip into your breath when you rest, when this sandy
Island a long time ago hitchhiked south on a glacier,
Before I was your desire and we touched,
Believing in the heaviness of a dark oak past,
cold stone. To wish beneath a glowering sky,
Which you have always admired. A place to clutch
the running ripple of your spine, the meaty part of my hands
My face, and the curve of your hips.
To sit beside the godly pine. Place will become the shape
of my face. I want to build a place for you, my love,
that pulls at us, every step of the way, demanding us to return.
The living is always lighter. Geography
Sews an invisible thread to the inside of us.
Animate and inanimate: it is just a difference of weight –
You will know I am not reallythere, of course.
From the tips of white granite
Which is how we will recognize each other’s faces,
Wondering how sunsets look to the dead
POEM: Watching Sports
Through every minute of every day.
She throws her arm off your neck while you try to shave.
He leans her to one side, as he bends to tie his shoe.
She uses his Ahab arm, which swings as if
tied to the back of that accursed whale,
As a trivet to place a hot frittata upon.
The chance for perfection is always appealing.
All the energy that is burned could rekindle
A supernova, black hole,
now dark as coal,
weightless in space
or it could re-illumine every burned out light bulb filament.
Monday, June 17, 2013
POEM: She’s Off To Find The World And Herself (A Parent’s Final Exam On Flag Day, 2013)
It’s Flag Day. I hear parties going off all around me. Fireworks putt-pat against the warble of tree frogs whose trill questions everything. Laughter floats like the smell of stale beer from shattered bottles on a mocha breeze.
They are with their tribes, I think.
“Where is my tribe tonight?”
I think about children who grow up to fly to other continents because once we taught them not to be afraid of the world. Right about now, uniformed men all over this land gather, meeting to dispose of old American flags in the only approved of manner: wearing medals with multicolored ribbons and oversized pea-green jackets, with elephant ears and log-like noses, swaying to taps before flags laid out like soft coffins,
saluted, anthem-ized, hand-over-heart-sworn-to, drenched in kerosene then ignited.
Rising smoke is the soul that pools into clouds of a holy memory.
The serious sounds of growing old fill my head. She is off to Tanzania, Bolivia and Iceland. Colorful stamps will decorate her passport. I worry about the intercontinental travel of children who are no longer children, and of me, being a child again, without agency, afraid of the world and everything in it.
“I would give everything I own tonight to see her pearl face poke through that door right now,” I say every night, for a year, until she returns.
Sunday, April 07, 2013
POEM: Charlton Heston In Heaven
I wonder if Charlton Heston regrets
that video clip of him raising that
musket over his head,
Growling chafed words
about prying guns from cold,
dead hands, if there are toothless
cherubs surrounding him,
onion skinned, who also know about guns,
about tiny, cold, dead hands,
still as full of wonder,
scented with the talc of trust,
with voices like a corn-cob whisk,
telling him just how wrong he was?
POEM: What We Don't Believe
We do not really believe that art and music will raise our children’s test scores, for if we did,
we would equip each child with an art pad and violin while still in her crib.
We do not really believe that bread and wine, raised and consecrated, becomes the body and blood of Jesus Christ, for if we did, we would crawl on our hands and knees to the altar to consume it.
We do not really believe that we are beautiful or loved for if we did,
we would surely give beauty and love more freely.
We do not really believe that we are all brothers and sisters, for if we did,
there would be a homeless man in my guest room as I write this.
This is not meant to harp on shortcomings but
rather to show that the splitting of the atom is not just esoteric science.
It happens to be part of our genetic code:
This ability to explode on contact.
Friday, March 22, 2013
POEM: The Lives of Voices
It was robust, fitting so well into my vest pocket, that I thought it might be the voice of reason so I kept it, hidden from the tirade of winter, dry and warm for future use.
I wore this voice as a sacred undergarment, not unlike those worn by Mormons.
The next day, while hiking, I found a wounded voice in the woods.
Tattered in its timbre, faded at its edges, I brought it home and made it Portuguese White Bean and Kielbasa soup to give it heart, to fatten its soul. I hoped to make one reconstituted voice, capable of unnerving prayer, the kind of prayer that makes you shiver from the openness, the kind of prayer that precedes a great discovery.
Friends encouraged this voice, asking her to sing, asking her to recite poems and to do her interpretive dance.
Her nerves grew and shrank based on the temperature of the dreams she had at night: hot dreams made her stand taller and want to preach; cool dreams made her believe she was a mushroom nobody saw fit to bear witness to.
On evenings, wandering city streets, my own voice often abandoned me, dancing down the alley-ways, bounding off of narrow walls, off of stucco buildings, pink in its carousing, drinking, finding women of low self-esteem, lifting their spirits and their skirts.
In the morning, my voice would skulk back, headache in hand, remorseful for having bounced over the cobblestone of its own imagination only to find its way home on the back of a whisper.
Sometimes, especially in the fall, in the season of great migrations, I find voices strewn all over New England, each one needing a hand up, each one in search of an inner ear and rubbing bones.
Not every voice makes the journey in one piece of course.
Some are carried off by the wind on horseback never to be heard again.
Some voices take a lifetime to bubble up, to boil like White Bean and Kielbasa soup until it is soup.
Some voices are just a glance, or a touch.
Still others paint their hands bright saffron and touch everything.
For dreamers, a voice dribbles out into the 13 billion year old universe, waving to passing celestial bodies, never once looking for an ear to inhabit.
Friday, March 01, 2013
Carol's Language Fetish
Thursday, January 17, 2013
POEM: You Are Not You
Monday, January 14, 2013
POEM: Light Borrowers, Framed By Bits of Dark Matter
Watching Fox News
I want to slam my thick head into the floor.
POEM: She Is Off To Russia
Her tickets are ready.
Rooms are let.
Soon she will be dowsed in Russian,
looking for “Original Muscovites”
Who have left for history.
With her shy Russian friend,
She is building a language.
“My city is the oldest in Russia”, says the friend.
Of course it is her city.
“You must visit!” she says
“We are sisters of history,”
On this fish-frozen blue day
Fire corkscrews from her red head as hair.
“Yes. We are sisters.”
Friday, October 26, 2012
Heart. Lungs. Walnut.
The Buddha, who believes all life is suffering, is mesmerized by the jerky motion of Mao’s arm. Spiderman stares sternly ahead, arms folded, watching for evil to spring up. It cannot be an easy life for a superhero if your motto is “With great power comes great responsibility.” Captain Buzz-kill.
Chairman Mao reminisces of the good old days, of purging intellectuals and saving the country from capitalism. The Buddha occasionally reminds him to leave the damn Dali Lama alone, to let him chill, but Mao, even as a piece of junky-Chinese-tourist-claptrap will not listen. Time softens all things save the ersatz Mao.
In China today there is a one child policy to control the population. In a culture that devalues girls, many families abort girl babies and try again until they get a boy. This used to upset me, thinking how awful it was that the Chinese as a culture do not value women until I learned of politicians from Missouri and Indiana who remind me that we don’t really value women here either.
Telling raped women it is impossible to get pregnant from the rape, or telling them God meant for them to get pregnant indicates that these men don’t understand biology. They don’t understand how sex works. I suppose if they actually had sex once in a while it might help them understand how a woman’s moving parts work.
And that might lead them toward understanding, what it might be like to carry a baby, what it means to have one, and what it means to be raped. That we have states which give the rapist father’s rights only further indicates that we still don’t have a clue as to what mothering is, as to what fathering is. We only pretend to understand what family is, making up story-book configurations of people and calling that a “family.”
So yeah, it’s tough in China to be a woman. But it’s tough all over if you don’t have a penis. If a penis gives men the power, it surprises me that no man has ever considered getting an additional penis sewn on, or grown from some stem cell experiment. If one penis allows a guy to make 25 cents more on the dollar than half the population, consider what have one or two or even three penises would do for the bottom line! Maybe I could sell second hand penises on Ebay to supplement my income, which I will need, when they lay me off from my teaching job because I am making too much money in the first place.
And maybe if Mao had sex more often, or the Buddha, things might have been different.
I cannot speak for the Spiderman doll on my desk though since he is only a plastic torso, and has no anatomical parts. Besides, how intimidating must it be for a woman to have sex with a superhero, one who spins webs no less, one who looks better in spandex than she does.
But all this reminds me of how things are connected. How things look like other things. How the thin line of everything is there if we choose to follow it. How a walnut, turned sideways, looks like a heart and lungs. How a human brain from above does too. How the Buddha seeks enlightenment in the emptiness, while Mao craves the emptiness of a MacDonalds in a country of billions and billions served.
MacDonalds in China serves fish. And noodles. They tailor the experience to the culture so the experience seems natural which of course, it can never be if you have ever eaten at Macdonalds. The experience is like everywhere which makes it like nowhere.
The Chinese like noodles. And fries. But they dislike the Japanese and for pretty good reason, given then Japanese Imperial history of invading China. But the Japanese hate radioactivity and had to create their own god-myth-action hero in the lizard-god of Godzilla which represents the United States, the only country to ever use a nuclear weapon, twice. On Japan.
Which is really misleading because during the Iraq war, tanks shot shells of dense depleted uranium. These dense shells penetrated tank walls and had low levels of radioactivity, so that even Iraquis who survived, would die years later from cancer. So really, nuclear weapons have been used over and over and over again.
Spiderman didn’t ask to get bitten by a radioactive spider. But it is a far cooler creation myth to say I was bitten by an eight legged dirty bomb, than to say I was a tank commander in the Republican guard in the first Desert Storm.
Sometimes I lean back in my chair and I squint my eyes at my three figures on my computer desk. The Buddha meditates and sees reality for what it is. The Spiderman eyes him nervously. Buddha, a strict adherent of ahimsa, would never dream of swatting a spider, even a radioactive one. While Chairman Mao, under the force of the clock’s windup springs, flails the little red book over and over at both the Buddha and Spiderman, knowing all the while that Kentucky Fried Chicken has taken over his country – this country that gave us the SARS scare. Mao knows there is nothing to be done but dream of an aging capitalism, dying of natural causes, praying he never bumps into Ayn Rand in the afterlife.
On that point, all three agreed.
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
a moment cannot be memorized
a raindrop leaves desire on a window
which is the way we are built: to be
burned to the ground
then built up again
in the cathedral of my moods
stained glass leaves are
sparklers tossed to a floor
of dried pine needles
& bones of old sticks:
this bed for willowy creatures while the sun winks
A moment cannot be forgotten
In this light,
shadows are geckos
with sibilant tails
& alien hands.
a raindrop is a window
a tear is a window
I send stained glass
Into soft humus
To feel the softness.
I dare the ultramarine of things.
I coax the ochre.
We leave the pigment
Of everything in our wake
For others to wade through.
There is no choice.
it can never be memorized
Thursday, August 23, 2012
POEM: Garden Gnome
& a garden gnome with beach-colored eyes
With a bell shaped hat & a shell shaped nose.
You should know that garden
gnomes are people too, my friend.
They make their homes among swag-shouldered mushrooms.
There is lust in their plaster eyes,
& a pale-faced beaming to far-off lands:
They wish they could saddle butterflies &
leave behind the backyard gossip, this
Endless August with its sticky teeth & humid breath.
Often the scud of evening skies cloud their Sumatran
Coffee like cream, sweetened with a pinch
Of the sugar that comes from mornings imagined.
They sip coffee knowing nothing of failure
or blind disappointment.
“Nothing can hold me back now!” they whisper
To just the stillness, to an ever expanding plume of squid ink.