just once,
take a life. not a fly or
roach life, either. a life
with fur and live eyes.
you’ll either cherish
what you were
before
or what you were
afterward…
or, rarely,
what you were
in the moment…
but you
should never speak
of the last
in public
or polite company.
fall
come like summer
in one day
out of heat wave
into breeze and
leaf riot
fall
come out of summer
overnight
lightswitch swift
to our forgetful
unjustified surprise
fall
come now
change fortunes
and wardrobes
change luck and love
from swelter and sweat
to snuggle and cool stroll
come now
and stay as long as you want
as long as you can
because winter follows you
that mix of stark and miserable
which we never forget
even in the best moments
of spring summer
and you
but we can try
so come fall
and offer all
that you do best
her remarkable
heart bursts,
leaving dead meat in her
central cavern.
inside his head
the brain is blooming
a garden of extras;
he can’t think past it so he stops.
a plane comes lawnmower hard
down on the house and
cuts the family up;
no more tears or strained dinners.
matchstick children,
slim fathers and mothers,
corpses as thick
as hunger satisfied then satisfied again.
the carnage
of routine reductions in force
continues as we more and more casually
grieve. who cares but the dead,
really, that they have become dead? we mourn
a little for the closest disappearances
then let grief slide until the next time.
the dead complain to god for far longer.
god turns away
and forces the next birth, the next death,
the next indifference to term.
we like it that way. we enjoy novelty.
the largest quakes
roar forth from where
one tectonic plate
slides under another
let’s do that
dance
geologically
shifting positions
wrecking our puny house
tearing the roads apart with
sonic booms in the bed-
rock
the axis of the earth
a few inches askew
spins oddly
and the stars
not quite the same —
do it
again and again
until we have to change
the myths we make to explain
the pictures in the night sky
The ring:
old,
greened turquoise,
thick silver,
craftsman-signed.
The finger:
swollen,
mangled and pustulent,
thick with infection,
shot through with pain.
When they said
they’d have to cut
the ring from me,
I said,
“take the finger.
It’s not as important
as the heritage that ring
carries…”
But they cut it
anyway. Cut deep into
corrupt flesh,
dug under the shank
and cut it
anyway.
The band on my hand new to the fresh air,
the blood flowing,
the anesthetic distancing me
from the pain;
still I bawled like a baby,
like a victim of massacre,
like a lost tribe,
like a ghost being cast out.
They gave me
the bloody split ring
to keep and pray
over and handle while thinking
repair and hope and then sinking
into loss,
and I said in response
to their incredulity:
yes,
I would have given the finger.
I think it would have felt the same.
the youth are leaving home
on fire
looking for a cool pond
to quench in
a good place to drink
a good place to skinny dip
they want to know
why we lit them up
what led to lit matches
and gasoline
we don’t know what to say
with these antique burned lips
other than fire
cleanses and
we wish them well
even as they flee us
A random basic blank book,
patient on the desk.
A dozen more of these around
the house:
commonly given to writers
as gifts, often left half-finished
or (as noted above)
completely untouched.
I think we prefer them this way —
promises, opportunities,
comfortably empty and
unthreatening.
This way you can say
they’re ready for “the masterpiece”
instead of seeing them as
false starts or proof of your
literary fraud.
What is your friend thinking
when he gives you one?
Is it genuine, is it
mockery? A desire
to see you succeed,
to someday read
what you may pull
from the paper? Or is it
instead a dare and a challenge?
Neither is enough, most days.
The night is so open
to our mythology —
put a frame on the dark.
Call this face of Isis,
call that voice of Thor,
say you can see
Furies flying toward us
out of time.
You are well-pleased with this,
but everything you think you know
is in fact chemical lightning
rooting around,
trapped in your meat
inside its bone cell.
The night’s facts are potent
enough on their own.
They don’t need us
to name them.
Still, we must.
I’m drowning in a white man!
Submerged, in fact. Can’t breathe
and my chest is caving.
What I wouldn’t give for a pipe
and some cold air.
Bring on dry land and the sound
of singers and a big, solid drum.
What I wouldn’t give for firm tradition
to hang onto while cousins
pull me up and in!
But, not likely.
I’ll have to grow
thin white gills and survive,
if not thrive. I won’t thrive —
no. What I could give
to thrive, I will not give.
Before leaving for the day
I throw drugs at all my nerves
and all my aches
then check every door
twice: are they wide open?
Can anyone get in
while I’m gone
so I can kill or be killed
when I get home?
I’m the arc,
not a point on the arc.
I”m invisible
if you peer at any point
on this. You need to see
it all,
and this arc
curves through crazy
and penetrates black.
More drugs please
to smooth the passage.
More self-sabotage
to extend the curve.
More of everything
until it collapses,
until the equation that created me
is solved.
1.
Humble home
growing out of any landscape
in any era.
Land grabbers’ bullets
course bouncing through and
through.
A man comes running,
shooting, alone,
just to fall anyway.
The rest in their imminent
targets, wondering if it is better
to stay and wait.
2.
Shipping
west upon
the Middle Passage.
A stirring
among
the cargo.
Then, overboard:
a man,
a woman, two children.
The rest below,
wondering
if this would be better.
3.
Two assertions
of ownership
pushing into the sky.
First one retort,
then another,
buckling them.
Now, abandoning them,
come many. Hard to say
who from here; they are trying to fly.
The rest inside, choking,
wondering
if this would be better.
4.
There is
tragedy built into
the support of this world.
The owners
are the only ones
temporarily immune,
and the owners
change. Always,
the owners change.
Do not
forget
this.
Do not forget
how the illusion
may break.
Do not forget
the silver grace
of escape.
Do not forget
the red joy
of resistance.
Do not forget
that you may be
called upon.
Do not forget
your freedom
to choose.
At first all I see
is his red bliss potato
nose
as he caresses the bark
on the giant silver maple
that has absorbed the fence
between our yards.
Look at those,
he says,
and now I see stray limbs
that grow straight down
before arcing up to reach sunlight
denied by the dark canopy
of the rest of the tree.
Is there any better explanation
for the persistence of dive bars and brothels —
low spaces
where the struggle for light
is carried out?
Drummer –
ooh, oh,
ah yes:
drummer, you
move thick air
in pursuit
of cool, you
lasso the
cool,
tattoo the cool.
You be cool,
are the sweatingest
cool ever —
and don’t
get me started
on the guy on bass,
because I might
go that way for
cool, long-necked
cool, steady hand
cool…
Not the guitarist, though. No, no,
not me.
Not tonight, buddy-roo.
Fat man, stiff fingered butter-
ball, you look like you’re
trying hard to keep up
and are not,
and that
ain’t cool.
They’re Odin and Thor
playing to beat Valhalla
up here, all one-eye wise
and thunder lord.
Nice guys —
gods can afford to be —
but what I was thinking,
I don’t know.
I thought
the name on my headstock
would be enough passport
for this trip…
Play it safe.
Just comp till I can drop,
and they smile me off.
Gonna get a beer,
let someone else handle all that
staggering cool
a while…
but I got
eyes for a prize
now.
Faster car,
long distance to go,
nothing planned for
the far end of the road —
cheap motel, good hotel,
sleep in the back seat.
Alone, of course. Clouds
clogging hills ahead,
and the sun behind at dawn
after getting up and coffee
and good potatoes, orange
grease brown edges and
soaked in a little yolk. Then
more speedy lines dotting off
below the chassis as distance
rolls up in the meter, not caring much
about the fuel until necessary,
grab smokes and attitude from
backcountry station, onward,
Jesus talk on the radio reminder
of the crap I leave behind, the city,
the debates, the endless stare of
gladiator chumps and analysts,
glaring others and family, tears
upon hearing the engine roar up
into rejection, glory glory
on the manifold and the exhaust
trailing behind to say kiss me,
I’m not here, catch me
gone, stop. Again
the confusion of what sleep
ought to be. Again the clouds
and sunshine disgust, wanting to
enter the storm and test myself
a man. This is a poisoned land
and I’m ready to gorge myself
on the soil before I really punch it
and roll stock and barrel
into the ragged target
of the next day, the next day,
the next…
1.
The one where you are speaking to one person you’ve never met in a dark room.
2.
The one recited from behind a white screen. You’re backlit in Yankee Stadium on a small stage. There’s no microphone, no public address system; the stadium is empty.
3.
The one like the previous one except you have the greatest sound system in world history. The stadium is still empty.
4.
The one where you ask the audience to harm you.
5.
The one where you speak through a gag — a sleeve cut off a fresh corpse.
6.
The one in which you speak English but are trying to imitate the sound of another tongue, the one your grandmother spoke. Not a translation; English words that sound like the words she used. (Can you hear her?)
7.
The one in which you are completely fictional — you were never born, all the memory you’ve got is false, and your audience will be surprised to discover you’re not a beloved character from their favorite childhood book.
8.
The one in which the pen suddenly leaps out of your hand and stakes a territorial claim like a bear.
9.
The one in which the detective has not eaten for hours under the single white bulb, there is sweat, you are about to confess and it dawns upon you that lying or telling the truth doesn’t matter as long as you can’t smell your body emptying itself into this ill-fit suit, this outfit made for a coffin outing. You can’t tell where you are, but it’s a city you should have been born in. Your grandmother’s coming to throw your bail. (Can you hear her? She’s looking for you. Calling you. Asking for you by a name you never heard before, but it’s yours.)
10.
The one where you are finally in a full stadium. There are lions.
Dark Matter 