I could use a nap,
or a new incarnation.
Better feet, harder shell,
more patience, less distance —
maybe a tortoise
more suited to long crawls
over hard ground
than I have been.
This old world has asked instead
that I be more adept at flying
and transcendence because that’s
what is asked of every man these days;
so let me not be a man next time,
or better still give me freedom
from being altogether human
when later tonight
I dream.
September’s
full moon light
makes for pooled shadows
sticky underfoot
their deep ink becoming
my burden to bring home
I forget to leave it
by the door — track it in and now
the murk’s
all over the house
it’s sadder in here
than it has been all summer
best close the windows so more
doesn’t drift in
It came to me as
I was sharpening my fastest knife
on diamond stone. Oh, she’s a
quick one, and was soon so honed
I was able to shave a vein
with her. That’s what I wanted —
to shave a vein
without nicking it enough to bring forth
the dead-flow; just clean off the extra meat
and reveal the light source
that guided the tendons
as they pulled the fingers
into pen shape,
knife shape,
holding shape —
all I wanted was to see
into my wrists
to learn if there was light inside,
wanted to see how the hands
knew where to go —
and then, I slipped.
I saw. I gave in.
Here comes the pup, right up
to your nose. When you look him in the eye
with a shushumsmooshumnomnomnom pretty puppy
you’re actually praying, saying
I remember you from the savanna, the forests
where I was prey and you were predator.
Roll over on your back and let the pup
drown you with his face, his wash, his tongue.
You laugh and gurgle through it,
thinking, telling him
I recall how you stole meat from my fire
when you were hungry, when you were young
and alone. Were we speaking pre-German then,
Saxon or Gothic; were we speaking pre-Zulu,
pre-Yoruban, pre-Arabic? The pup keeps rolling over
with his belly in the air and you’re scratching on it saying
I recall you barking, and understanding the nuances,
the rough snap of those calls. So much has changed.
We have a book that calls this “dominion,” have another
that calls you “unclean,” have another that calls for you
to be skinned and boiled and eaten as a delicacy.
Puppy, you don’t have a book, do you? We aren’t required
to translate ours for you, open them to debate. That’s a mistake.
I want to know what you think beyond the easy slurp gospel you preach.
Pup is pure wag now, unfiltered unspeakable joy.
Shushumsmooshumnomnomnom…wind whistling around
the throne of heaven.
Give up that Bible. Love him back,
your oldest friend, your last adversary,
your second in every duel…hell, your dog says it all.
The modern mourner
regrets genocide and repression
immediately upon opening his eyes
while listening to radio news in bed.
He rises every day
with a few fat tears.
They fall into his coffee cup.
He sips, then sours
on the taste — is this fair trade?
Next time, he decides,
he’ll buy fair trade
so it will taste better. So he
will be better. To halt
genocide and repression
in their tracks. Economic, social
justice from this warrior king
every time he finishes a coffee
he has yet to buy or brew —
wipe away those tears,
you beautiful man! Someone
will be bound to love you for this.
Good Night Song
rattles around the cave
with all the shadows
for audience.
The shadows say,
“Tell me a story.”
Good Night Song says no,
story is what’s wrong
with the world. Story
draws a line through
layers. Things are
twice, three times connected
while other things
fall off the bright line,
it’s a sin and a shame.
Out in the valley
below the hills
that hold the cave
we are shadows too,
also looking for a story,
and we don’t care what
Good Night Song Says,
we will have one.
We sing
Good Night, good night;
make it up as we go along
here in the valley
as dark as the cave.
We catch hold of the bright line
Good Night Song won’t anchor
and pretend like mad
that we understand
while whatever we discarded
to make the story clean
becomes a shadow
and squats in the night,
prepared for a long wait.
There will be no room for Jesus
or Mohammed or any old messiah at all
in my afterlife.
I will have a God
in charge of tomatoes,
wind, and rain. That’s all.
We ghosts will govern ourselves
by the rules of ghostkind:
number one, pass through.
Number two, it is over
and now insignficant.
Number three, pass through.
Come sit, have these good tomatoes
with me, I’ll say to every ghost
passing through. There will be many
and God will provide. We will suck the fruits
dry, pick more, laugh at how the wind and rain
shape and reshape us. Do it all again and again.
waiting for a table
in this restaurant
and watching an ant on the wall
can I make this more sing song
watching an ant
watching an ant
watching an ant on the wall
waiting on the ant to walk the whole wall
making bets with myself
if the ant walks the whole wall before we are called
I will take that ant to the table
I will take that ant to the table
I will take that ant to the table
how much could an ant possibly eat
a crumb or two
a crumb or two
a crumb
do you know how perfectly privileged we are
that we have to wait for a table
that in this town people can wait for a table
wait for a table full of food
that in this town the ant is suspect
for making his way on crumbs
making his way on crumbs
when elsewhere the ant would be a competitor
the ant would be a thief
the ant would be stealing from us
can I make this more singsong
how privileged we are
how singsong sing a song we are
what this song needs
is a ukulele
a ukulele would surely help this song
this song is hungry
and it needs more ukulele
that ant is disgusting
and I crush him once I shake
my generosity off
once they call me for the table
once I get my feedbag on
I’m going to buy that ukulele
and once I know how to play
or maybe a little before that
I’ll sing a song for hunger and ants
a song with a ukulele
song with a ukulele
sing it at an open mike
sing this song
fight that hunger and fight that ant
sing this song
walk around angry it’s an angry world.
lovers ain’t got it. actors ain’t got it.
warriors, real warrirors, ain’t angry.
it takes a special bag of skin to be angry right.
take a look at the guys they want us to be
all cool and when they kill they wipe their heads
and get a little pensive, say it’s just a job.
no, no, no. we can be better than that.
we’ve got that iguana thing in our heads
and when we get mad we slip the noose of
mammalia and get scaly. don’t even know
what comes outta my mouth then. angry
is an amnesia, a pure brain wash. if you got eyes
you wanna wash your brain all the time. angry
pretty planet and its illusions. pretty people
shocked all the time by the chaos of plain old life.
walkabout angry, sing a song of angry at every turn,
they don’t see how effortless it is to just be this way
and how clean it feels to admit the anger at play
is who you are. scream it out: angry. this world
makes me angry. those clothes make me angry.
your innocence makes me angry. my cynicism
makes me angry. optimism makes me rage.
pessimism makes me kill. I kill myself. break myself
on it. lizards of glass. me the angry lizard. me in shards.
me cut the foot of the planet in death. me spitting at you.
me know you care not. you want love. me not the loving kind.
thank god there is a me as balance for a you.
Did I miss something? Woke
to a mouth filmed in blood
and a rude stomach. Woke
to swift stumbling to the bathroom
and pain, first dull then sharp.
Did I miss a mystery? Some doctoring
seems in order, but I wonder
where the body went wrong
down some dark alley of nutrition or
worse, metastasizing into this material dread.
I suspect it’s always one molecule that does it
for each of us, entering us, changing us within
and starting to kill us. It may take years to finish.
We may miss that mystery’s beginning
but are always there at the end
with clues like iron blood
on the tongue as fatal secrets
begin to rail
against us
elsewhere inside. There will be
more mornings like this,
and fewer mornings to come
than have come already. It’s cold
in here, though it’s still summer
on the calendar and early on the clock.
When the local god
found his existence questioned
yet again by the atheist,
he swallowed him up
with a sweep of his
avalanche tongue.
The atheist was shocked
that the god had not disappeared
upon learning of the atheist’s
disbelief. “But
there is no God!”
Calmly,
while licking him away,
the local god said, “Ah, yes,
that old monotheism thing…
that IS a crock of holy shit.” And
he ate the little man whole,
saving nothing
for when the neighbor god
stopped by later.
Long years of mistakes
have led me to this one correct moment.
It may be proof of something I don’t understand
which I will not call either
God or luck; all I will gratefully call
is your name, and say that
the road to this moment was crude
and raw and rough but your eyes
and hands are a blessing and
a prize, and this life I’ve led
has had in fact
no mistakes at all.
A little something:
I am neither Italian nor Apache,
and also both.
A little something:
no one wants to hear it.
A little something:
this big paleface? Isn’t.
A little something:
I have no card to show you to give you government-level proof.
A little something:
you can gut yourself bending over backward
to prove stuff to people you could care less about.
A little something:
the family was divided, but that doesn’t show.
A little something:
it came up every time
I looked at my father and knew he would say
I was one thing one day,
the other on the next.
A little something: my mother never spoke of it.
A little something: my grandmother
called my dad a thief
every day.
A little something: I am a lot of poison.
A little something: I don’t trust.
A little something: on the rez I’m another eyeroll, another shrug.
A little something: to my Italian family, I’m not quite there.
A little something: to supposed allies, I’m easily forgotten.
A little something: I have had White friends
openly reassure me
that it’s ok with them
and being Indian does not matter,
it’s not the same, it’s not the same as if I had…
A little something in my clenched hand.
A little something on my shoulder.
A little something: you don’t have a clue
what’s behind the eyes of anyone, what they recall,
what they went through, what they go through.
A little something: sometimes I don’t mention it
for months to new aquaintances
just to listen to them talk without knowing.
A little something: sometimes I mention it at once
to new aquaintances
so I can get the stupid out in the open.
Sometimes I am surprised.
Sometimes I wish I was surprised.
A little something in my eye.
A little something behind me, whispering.
A little something: I can tell you are bored with this.
A little something: I can tell you think it’s overblown.
A little something: I can tell you think it’s not the same as your pain.
A little something: I know it’s not…never said it was,
but you can’t hear that
over your own damn noise.
Don’t deny it.
I can hear you.
You all say it,
you all say it
straight or slant,
and still
you wonder why I keep
a certain distance, keep
a little something
back.
I just must stop myself before I am stopped.
That explains it better than saying
a life of yarn after yarn
got old.
I am tired of paying
attention and cost; comes a point
you ought to stop messing yourself up.
That’s all I’m saying.
I know, I know
a few things are going to be around
a long time after me, but will they be
understood as I desire? I guess
that’s not my problem, I guess
I ought to stop worrying and loving
and suchlike. Stop myself, then,
as I should. As is desired. As is
going to happen anyway by dint
of my doing, probably, no matter
how safely I proceeded — you can’t do that
and remain safe, really. I stop pretending
here, now. Anyway
you’ve got the work to look at.
I’m tangential to it. Always have been.
Enough to say: don’t waste time.
I stop here because it’s a waste of time.
Never, though, the work. The work stands.
Don’t waste time thinking otherwise;
I’m good to go now. It’s been enough.
— for James Acord
it is too late for me to become
angus young
but I will make some noise
because noise is no respecter of the limits of age
when a half assed old player
has unlmited rage
available to take up the slack
between skill and desire
it’s too late to fall in love with jim carroll
(directly)
but I’ll kiss what I can of him
and hope the taste rubs off
it is too late to rock and roll all night
(every night at least)
and party every day
(at least the way I used to party)
but never too late to move
from consumer to producer
what I need is an amp
and a neck to strangle
what I need is a microphone
and a problem to solve
what I need is feedback
what I need is to make something
everyone’s already made
but do it louder and faster and harder
than I could have done it
back when I was too young
and too concerned about who might be listening
no one’s going to listen to me now
perfect
maybe I’ll become
me
for a moment
Dark Matter 