Monthly Archives: February 2010

Bear

See that house
with the long driveway
two doors down?
They’ve got something like
a bear
in there.

His captors, about whom
we know little, seem
not to listen to him
and want to keep him hidden.
I’ve never seen him myself,
but it’s obvious that he’s there:
you can hear
the bear soliloquy
at all hours, a Hamlet
bear mourning and raging
at his current impotence,
demanding answers
from his parentage
regarding his current state.

One of these days
that beast is going to get out
and come looking for
vengeance on everyone
who knew about him
and kept quiet.  All these quiet homes
are going to be destroyed,
I’ve got money on it
and I’ll tell you: we’ll almost
deserve it.  Almost
because who were we
to question what was being done
in the name of our security
and safety?  It would have stirred
too much if we’d challenged
the rationale for keeping such a force
so trapped and caged.

Besides,
the property values would have gone down.
Who’d want to live in a place
where such angry and deprived souls
could run free and claim what’s theirs,
even if that’s
all they want?
If they could have been that way
from the start, maybe I’d feel different,
but now it almost seems
too late for that.  Best, I guess,
to stay armed and just
listen to them, alert
for the sound
of escape.

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Speech

The art
of saying
the right thing:

hanging motionless
in speech-time,
conscious
of being
letter perfect.

A still
life of a breath
unit.

Enough?
That’s the wrong word —

should have stopped earlier,

as of course
it is.

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Mission Of Burma

the full snazztone
of a well-banged guitar
chugging over racing heartbeat bass
and silver charge of cymbals.

my morning soundtrack:
mission of burma.
fit it in before working.
make it loud as a factory.
this is the sound of working.
bare bones virtuosity
manacled to a deadline and an end result
and never taking over
just because it can.

folks make this music.
it’s folk music.

get to work.
there’s still so much to do.

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For My Lover, Suspended In Linen

Under
the moon, all of Cordoba
sleeps

as my lover spins suspended from the air itself
in white linen above the fountain,
glistening from the spray.

No one may see this except this dreamer,
and I dare not say a word of it —
I can hear her singing

as the scents
of cinnamon and cardamom
float past me.

I shall not speak of this, ever,
even to her. But I shall carry
this, her fragrance and the silk shine

of her above me, not goddess
but such a human, more real tonight than I,
until I close my eyes for the last time

under another Cordoban moon
that will surely rise on another night of yearning
when I am old, tired of waking life yet glad of my memory.

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Moving On

You are certainly
laughing at us all now
for our struggles
as we try to balance
stopping our lives to mourn you
and trying to get on with our lives.

I picture you
bent double, howling tenderly at us all,
saying to yourself:

Did you hear anything I said?
You don’t stop, not even to mourn.
We’re all together at a movable feast
and you should move with it,
carrying your grief with you
at the speed of blood rushing
through your ever-faithful hearts.

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A Night At The Grammy Awards

My dead TV is flashing
words at me in Arabic script.
I catch them from the corner
of my eye.  I do not understand
Arabic, but I believe these words
are saying that I must soon write
a love poem like those
from the days of Arab Andalusia.
Why not believe that?
It’s four in the morning,
I can’t sleep, and I will slap meaning
on anything at this hour
if I can rest when I’m done.  After all,

I spent hours tonight snarking with friends online
as we laughed at the Grammy
Awards, fer Chrissakes.  I don’t think
that was a waste. Anytime you can see
that much information about what is valued
in a society in one place, it’s worth watching,
even if only to examine again why you recoil
from so much of what is around you.  And
in any such exercise, you’re bound to be taken
by something — for instance, by the sight
of a nearly naked woman dripping wet
suspended above a shiny crowd as she sang
something slight and ephemeral,
exposing herself to danger and ridicule
in the name of — Art? Artifice? Both?

There were those chiming in who thought it was foolish
to even be watching such crap, some of whom
were poets who hide behind contrived stage names
and adopt personas to perform in venues
seen as ridiculous by others.  It’s all the same,
isn’t it?  It’s about money, identity, and industry bent
to the service of getting something out there
that matters to someone, that gives someone else
a chance to believe in redemption
through the setting up masks we can believe in,
to spectacle aimed at a commerce in filling
the emptiness of our lives. And I’d lay odds every love poem
we honor from the old days
wasn’t written by a pure soul.
Some of those poems
were written for money, some to get laid,
some were written by cynics seeking fame
who knew exactly how a reader would take them to heart.

If I want to believe
in finding truth in the illusions foisted on me
by a trick of the light on a TV screen,
I will.  If I want to believe that Lady Gaga
might offer me some glimpse
into something worth considering,
I will.  You find your meaning
where it finds you.  And if I want to imagine Cordoba
tonight, while meditating on the afterimage of Pink suspended,
and if I then decide to write a poem that re-imagines her
drenched by Spanish fountains
under a twelfth century moon,  singing to her lover,
who dares to say that what it took to write it
was not worth doing?  I see Arabic script
and a moistened beauty
on the TV screen, and something is calling me to write
about them, even if neither is real.
Things are only worthless if you allow them no worth.

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