Feeling a strong motion
all of a sudden.
Is it the earth or the body moving?

If it is the earth,
stand still and observe.

If it is the body,
stay alert.

The elephant and turtle,
so long and so often cited
as the carriers of the earth,
are known for slow wisdom.

If the body is moving,
do not disrespect their stasis.

If the earth is moving,
take the ride.

And of the possibility
that both the earth and the body
are moving, perhaps in the same direction,
perhaps at cross purposes,
nothing more need be said except
watch, listen,
and choose the path
to be followed.

I know this buzzing —

a city inside me of a hundred thousand
at least,
commerce, trade in waste and fuel
and emotion,

you call it chemistry
but I know it is more.

I am the census taker
aware of its dark neighborhoods,
its dangerous wastelands on the fringes,
the empty warehouses of the port district,
long streets with sad vapor lights humming
and only the odd car passing;
the living spaces for the unknown people
inside me, with some of their dwellings dark
and others lit as they sit for hours talking
into the night, perhaps
with their heads in their hands
and little to say to each other
as hard as they try;
some buildings shabby and empty
for the most part with squatters hiding
in the devastated rooms left behind
when purpose abandoned them
to the salvagers who make do;

then in the downtown grid of the chest
there are the revelers who make chaos of order,
spilling from bar to bar, loud, happy,
some desperate and longing for contact
with an immoral gleam in a longing eye;

and now across the freeways in my arms
to the fingers
that spew energy as refugees flee
wishing they were somewhere else,
inside someone else
as this city I am is no place for them.

I am left to house
the least desirable, the flight outward
allowing me only the discomfort
of knowing who will be left behind —
the leftovers, the citizens too weak
to leave me and those who prey upon them.

I sit with my own head in my hands,
the city buzzing inside me,
a song of bees gone wild, stinging me tired
from holding this all together,
this city of monuments
and painful trials, a metropolis
behind my eyes,

failed capital
of a failing state. 

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations

A graduate sits,
thinking
of the old school.

Fireworks across the highway
from his couch
bang the night apart.

Back in the day
he loved the fireworks
after games,

loved the way
it smelled when the last squib
had ignited

and everyone walked home after
talking and flirting and
laughing.  Smelled

like a little bit
of hell
was in the air

and back then,
he liked that.  Now
he sits on the couch

swapping stories
over the Internet
with former hellboys.

Now and then a burst
from the campus
will give him pause

but he’s old enough to know
close up, the noise
would kill his listening

for the subtleties he prefers now:
a well-turned play, a pass carved in the air
like a swallow’s path.

As for what accompanied
the old school games,
the dark talk on warm nights,

in that he has little interest.
Give him a chance to see again
the way the game can be

an art, a painting of effort
in mere atmosphere,
and he might get up from the couch

and walk down the road to watch
the fireworks, but only after
the last play has been made.

I used to ride a horse.
He used to throw me a lot.
He used to run off with me on his back
and go where he wanted,

so I sold that horse
and got a brain instead.
It used to throw me a lot.
It used to run off using my mouth
and people shunned me,

so I put him in the stall
where I used to keep my horse
and I got myself a shiny heart instead.

It used to throw me a lot.
It used to buck and slip its bridle
and kick me whenever I tried
to stroke its damaged nose or brush its tangled tail.

So I hobbled that dinged up heart
and got myself a gut instinct.
It used to throw me a lot.
It used to make me follow it around
and I ended up in brambles
cursing what led me there.

So I put the gut instinct
in another stall
and got myself a dream.
It used to throw me a lot.
It used to run smooth for a while
and then stop short so I’d fly
way out over its head into mud
and scrape myself getting out
and stand there while it grazed,
ignoring me for not knowing how to ride.

So I put that dream out to pasture
and now I’ve got a lot of mouths to feed
that aren’t doing me much good.
That throws me a lot.
That makes me want to slit my throat
and think about electric fences and chairs
and nooses.

Maybe I should have
stuck with the horse
for a little while longer.
I could have worked
a little harder.  I could have learned
to love it.  We might have formed
a bond.

Good to be Lion. 
Sleep between blood feasts.
Be called noble strictly on looks.

Better to be Lioness.
Work the kill.
Stand over it and let the babies feed.

Better to be Gazelle.
Lie there after heart busting run.
Be part of the chain.

Better to be Vulture.
Watch, float down, eat, survive.
Hang away from the others in a pack.

Best, of course, to be Bones.
Best as well to be Leavings.
No guilt except that of unwanted peace.

And as Bones, as Leavings,
best of all to be the Same
as Lion, Lioness, Gazelle, Vulture eventually.

With a bad leg
and a tornado wanderlust
he moves forward.

No pace is ever fast enough.
He loves to stomp circles
back on where he’s been

while moving ahead half-stepping,
spinning around
but getting on eventually.

If a random tree or his family falls
in the process, so be it.
Every step taken kills something,

after all — ask the ants and microbes,
or ask his kids.  Ask anyone who’s ever been fascinated
by a tornado —

they don’t mean to do all that damage
but they do it anyway.  After all, isn’t the point
to end up somewhere else all shiny with sweat? 

Daddy’s not home right now.
But he’s somewhere and I guess that’s impressive.
There’s no place like home for him.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations

Edges
need walkers
Anyone can walk them
Any body full of desire learns how early

May I walk with you?
Certainly, says one body to the other
With pleasure, says another
No, another time maybe, says a third

Edges need their walkers
They love their unsteady gaits
Edges stay rock-still
No need to shake as walkers do that quite well

Will you walk with me?
Certainly, says the pupil to the teacher
With pleasure, says the soldier to the commander
No, this is not a good time, says the suspect to the cop

If an edge is too smooth it pulls no walkers
Or walkers find it who don’t love edges
Weep for me, says the too-broad too-smooth edge
I have lost myself

There must always be an edge to be strolled
or a balance to be threatened
If we are to open our lungs and eyes enough
we need to feel some terror underfoot

I think we should walk together
Certainly, says the acolyte to the high priest
With pleasure, says the escort to the client
No, I’m not ready, says the son to the mother

The edge is architect of existence
When the falls happen we recall
that some must fail and scream and tumble into the maw
It is what makes an edge worth walking

Step out here and let me see you
Certainly, says the bored man to the bottle
With pleasure, says the toddler to the pool gate
No, I shall not go, you will have to drag me, says the man

This story may not be true:

a famous poet
once committed
psychological torture
upon a graduate student
in order to observe her behavior
and derive content
for a book of poems.

He was not alone in his effort:
he enlisted other graduate students
to assist him and observe and report
on their comrade.

This part is true:

as an undergrad I once sat in a dorm room
hearing this story from the woman who had been abused
or claimed to have been abused,
and I believed it.

This part is also true:

I told this story
to many people over the years
as if it were certainly true.

At first, I named names.

Then the book in question was published
to no acclaim
and general bewilderment: where
had the famous poet’s talent gone?

I kept telling the story.

The famous poet
later redeemed himself
with better books.

And I began to choose my listeners
and hedge the details,
and soon I stopped telling the story altogether.

This is also true:

I have read the work of the famous poet
in this story, and wondered,
and thought about it, and looked for clues,
and I have written a lot since then
and wondered, and looked for clues,
and thought about truth and redemption
through poems,
and nothing disguises the fact
that I am no famous poet,
but I believe in the power of fame.
I am no famous poet,
I am ashamed of what poets will do
in the pursuit of a poem,

and I wrote this.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations