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.
Half-jawed
man at Rosie’s.
Or, what used to be
Rosie’s, now it’s
McKendrick’s, still
same old dive
with a shamrock or two.
Half-jawed man —
not familiar at all to me
from Rosie’s — must be
a McKendrick’s regular
from the assprint
in the bar stool —
coming toward me.
God, no,
don’t wanna talk to him —
turn to my beer —
too late. “Hey, kid,
I knew your dad from this place.”
At least, it
sounded like that.
Someone seems to have cut
some of the coherence
out of his face.
“From
when it was Jack’s.” Jack’s,
a lifetime back.
“He was the Indian, right?
You’re half Indian? From Jack’s.
I used to come over Saturday afternoons.
Worked on cars. I’m the Impala
with the blue interior.” And yeah,
now I know —
diggin out of swamp and cattails.
Down by the tracks,
trying to salvage an old fender
from an abandoned car
that he said matched his. He
was wrong but tried to make it work
and afterward, the car
was odd. Looked like
a chipmunk, sticking out
on one side.
“Jack’s. Remember me,
kid? How’s your dad, how’s
the Chief these days?”
Dead,
fender man. Dead
from drinking and all that other
collateral. “Ah, too bad.”
All this through
half-mouth. Sunken
half a face,
bulge on the other side
like that fender.
To be social
I ask, hey, still got that car?
Can’t recall, you’re who again?
You got me right, half-right
anyway — I never hung out
at Jack’s, was a Rosie-rat,
still not sure about McKendrick’s.
But I’m my dad’s boy. Yeah.
All of me, not just half.
Never got an answer, just:
“Hey, listen. Spot me
a beer?”
Sure,
old man. Spot you a few —
one for my dad,
one for Rosie’s, one for Jack’s
now McKendrick’s with
shamrocks on the backbar mirror,
half covering the dirt that’s been here
all along. Us too — old dirty,
covered up. Half-showing.
Half the truth
coming out of our mouths.
Yeah, I remember you, old man.
Your smell. Your fuller face
from back then. You
remind me of
you. Of my dad.
Of me before
this place got that new name
but stayed pretty much the same,
just a few oldtimers gone missing now.
One, anyway.
Half of a couple of others.
Yeah, I’m the Indian’s
son. Lemme get that beer.
Don’t talk. Please. Let the Indian
get this one. Lemme
do it for the Chief
and get this round.
Just don’t
talk. Just don’t remind me
how much
I’m half.
a bucket of heavy
considerations
filled greasy drop
upon greasy drop
over a lifetime
is not easily carried
and rarely emptied
once one is in love
however
the burden may be eased
considerably
either by
cooperation
or
through the dumping
of that swill
upon the other person
before you gasp
and call me cynical
tell me
it’s not true
look me in the eye
and tell me
it’s not true
wipe my face clean
and tell me
it’s not true
pick up the bucket
from where it fell
and tell me
it’s not true
o my people
hear this
nothing is different
though all is changed
we only read
to reinforce our biases
we befriend in silos
fuck in farms
war from barn to barn
the skin game
is the only game
famous
means never having to learn again
everyone shares
unknown things
a discussion has a half life
of no duration at all
ignorance is
endlessly repeatable
the only senses worth gratifying
are hearing and seeing
shallow is
as divinity does
o my friends
I encapsulate you
in
quotes
As of today, I’ve posted 900 individual new poems here since Jan.1, 2010. My intention is to post 100 more by the end of the year, to make a two-year total of 1000 poems posted.
Why do I do this? It’s explained on the “About” page here in detail, but here’s a capsule version.
Simply put, a few years ago I embarked on a project to make public my entire process as I created a body of work, posting ALL the poems I worked on over time in a single, publicly accessible blog. I thought there might be some value in documenting this — all the poems, good, bad, and mediocre that I worked on over time.
I still think this is an interesting idea. And I’m going to continue doing it.
I’ve been gratified by the feedback I’ve gotten from you over time. I hope the work stands as a testament to how one poet explored themes multiple times, edited and revisited some works, and left others behind as failed experiments (there are a lot of those here, if you ask me).
As I move closer to the “Meaningless Goal” of 1000 poems in two years, I hope you continue to enjoy and find meaning in the overall work, as well as in individual pieces.
Thanks for reading. Onward, and I hope you continue reading. As always, I invite your feedback.
Behind the blinds, waiting.
Listening for the clank, waiting.
Checks, junk, bills, or letter?
Birthday card from long-lost love? Waiting.
Glimpse of the truck up at the corner.
Who’s driving — the regular, the substitute? Waiting…
from everywhere, that paper comes to me.
Paper that matters, that kills or kisses…waiting
for bulk mail or perhaps a package
I do not expect? Or something else…waiting
to see what comes. For the daily Visitor
who’s never welcomed inside the house. Waiting
for She who walks among us and never enters
while leaving impact in Her wake, like wind…waiting
for my mind to return to the trivial from the ridiculous
here…it’s just mail. Just stuff. Waiting
too intently makes you a fool. Just go get it from the box
after it’s come…now. And…nothing. Waiting
to see how I feel — relief at no airborne disaster,
disappointment at no airborne surprise? Waiting’s
gone on long enough — step away from the analog
and the mystery wind, back to the screen where there’s no waiting
for a communication from random life. It’s instant.
No muss, no fuss…no ritual. No holiness in waiting.
Dark Matter 