Originally posted 3/30/2013. Original title, “The Blue Whale.”
something passes
through the air behind me
I turn and see only
conventional people and
everyday happenings
but I know something
I have missed for years
has just brushed me
and now I want to weep
but only with someone else
who felt it as well
I cannot weep alone
because one man
weeping alone
is no way to offer praise
to such things
that exist unseen
but are deeply known
Originally posted 4/10/2010.
she was wisteria, wisteria in its short bloom;
she was warm days and cold nights
in mud season when grass blades
begin to rise from the soil
where they’ve been hiding.
she was remarkable, and i was lost
as soon as she left me, though it was a night
and a day and a night again before i could cry
for her, a long numb sweep
of hours in succession.
i wept in the privacy of the bedroom
that was newly empty. i emptied myself.
i cried more as the walls inside me melted
and i sweated them out. i was paper thin after.
light passed through me and from within i was lit.
this is grief, i said, and it is a cold wind.
this is unseasonable weather.
the flowers on the early vines shriveling.
this is her doing, i told myself. i said,
i have been illuminated by her. i shine.
she was more than i had thought to say of her,
some sun of a distant unglimpsed sky
over a world i hadn’t explored, and i cried again,
and i still do.
she was
wisteria,
forsythia;
the very bones
of spring unedited
by interpretation;
she was a sun i will not see again;
i have entered a twilight of weeping
where i indulge the urge
to create and recreate the moment
when i lost my chance
to stop and listen to her
and let her expand within me
as i should have.
the moment of loss
is deep weather,
a season of interruption
when the simplest answers go unnoticed.
i should have been motionless
and perhaps i could have held her here,
or perhaps not.
she was wisteria,
she had her time,
then was gone.
i remain.
i weep, i shine with her within me,
though i light nothing around me.
Originally posted 10/19/2012.
Once a rich man. Now, not so much.
Fell over his own feet. Landed inside a rock.
(How did he fall into the rock, you say?
He lost his money. That made him
porous to tragedy. He fell onto the rock assuming
it would pass through, and instead he was absorbed.)
Can’t get out. Can’t even see how.
So now he’s a poor man stuck in a rock.
He’s not alone in there. A lot of people
like him got sucked into rocks like his.
He feels a little trapped
but he’s making do until he dies,
which he has determined
will be his only way out.
He remembers being rich.
It was good but there were horrors too
based on the money
being such a big armor and cushion
that he felt under attack all the time.
No more. He’s in the rock
because of how soft and transparent
the money had made him
but he thinks he’s more rock himself now.
Those who are really rich
didn’t think of him as rich.
He knows that now.
He knows they can’t possibly
understand any of this —
too busy kicking rocks.
Too busy being petrified.
Better he came to this —
poor and stuck in a rock —
than to be like them.
He might have become a jerk
if he’d come into money late.
Better to have entered the rock
poor and soft at his age
so being with these people
has become a community.
He won’t die rich
but he’s OK with that now too:
he’s just glad he’s not going
to die alone.
He’s so happy
he’s pounding the walls of his rock
with his bare hands
as if he was drumming.
Originally posted 1/30/2004.
Anyone
could have told you
it was going to happen,
because it always happens —
perhaps they happen,
one could say, because
such things
just happen; just as
one could say
that the fact that it was
a brown teenage boy once again
who had crumpled leaking
onto the floor of
the stairwell was irrelevant,
or the way
one could say
the cop’s statement
that he thought he saw
a gun was relevant.
If one could find the CD
the boy was said
to be holding
when he was shot,
one could see
if the subject matter
of said CD
included guns,
or shooting,
and thus was relevant.
One could make up
a simple song
to commemorate the event.
It would have
a short verse and
the chorus would be over
in a heartbeat:
He was alive and
Then he was gone;
Such a smart kid who
Did nothing wrong.
That wasn’t enough.
So he fell down the stairs
With a bullet inside him
While everyone stared.
A gun or a wallet,
A smile or a knife.
What could he have used
To hold on to life?
One could say — in fact,
it is a certainty
that someone believes this,
and will say it —
one could say that
if we all could just learn
to sing such a song
correctly,
this would be
a different world —
a world where
Maggie Apple
would never have ended up
lying in the street
with her eggshell nails
and her skinny legs with
the calves that looked
as if they’d been attached
to her bones
as an afterthought;
a world where no one
would never have killed Ronald Wrong
whose house smelled of wine but
looked like a glove full of bees, so that
when they banged down the door
and a host of tiny troubles
flew out of its ramshackle fingers
they felt like they had to
shoot him down as if he were
a queen, a danger queen;
a world where any one
of those dead
salty-throated
boys and girls
weren’t in the wrong place
at the wrong time;
a world where their mothers’ magic
had never stopped working
and they did not die ahead
of the rest of the pack.
Instead, though, in spite of
all the songs,
there is this –
the same lights flashing again,
the same crowd gathering again,
a new name pulsing, a new verse
linked forever to an old refrain.
If he had known
what was going to happen,
he would never have gone up
to the roof at all.
It was just a quick way
to the next building.
It was never meant to be
a final destination.
But anyone
could have told him
it was going to happen,
because it always happens.
The only thing that changes
is the names,
the names that are customarily changed
to protect the innocent.
One could say it does not appear
to be working.
One could say it is not the innocent
who appear to be protected.
Originally posted 2/15/2010.
In denial
of the wet shine
of ice on the steps,
I slip before I can
prepare myself for the
hazardous surface underfoot.
When my head
cracks into
the porch floor
there are suddenly midday stars
shining for my eyes only. Novas
of sick burst in my throat.
I am suddenly myself a universe
born of my mistake and my arrogance.
In the dizziness that follows I wonder
if this internal possession
of a galaxy or two of pain
and derangement might make me a god?
Nope. I’m just another schmuck, flat on my back
on the stairs, my bleeding head
resting on the floor of my porch,
yet still I fantasize about power and glory,
the constellation of injury
provoking delusions.
Inside, comets and violet
energy. Outside, blood congealing
in the sharp air
of February.
Between them,
a foolish man
trying to shake it off
before freezing
in place.
Originally posted 10/27/2010.
— dedicated to the music of William Parker and Cooper-Moore
The organ makes a face —
broken smile
above upraised chin,
closed eyes, movement
under the lids. Then saxophone,
poking finger
demanding entrance to the reverie,
insisting it’s time
to break one stride, find a new one.
Everyone sprinting together down a road
in North Carolina late at night
toward a dilapidated church that hides
a still. There’s a party in the sacred space;
sidekicks, strong and soft-spoken,
drum in telegrams from beyond the fire.
Drift over: there,
just beyond the light of the circle ,
a familiar face.
Eyes open, calm intelligence, comfortable
with a darkness that resists
the incursion of obvious message.
Step back from there,
sit down by the flames
and listen.
Don’t speak
unless it speaks to you.
Then, shout.
Originally posted 12/19/2009.
I crossed the road,
punk,
because it was there.
You bought that rationale
when someone said it
in reference to Everest
and you bought it when
Philippe Petit
walked between the Towers
so I can only conclude
that it’s because I’m a chicken
and you’re prejudiced
that you keep
cracking wise
about why I did it.
Lemme tell you something:
I enjoy risk
as much as the next bird.
I wasn’t waiting around
to become soup
or Sunday dinner.
I’ll go on my own terms,
and that road held as good a chance
as anything did of killing me.
I made it across, but the attempt
is what counts.
I took a chance. I will again.
Think of that
next time you gnaw
on a drumstick:
you are what you eat.
You can laugh all you want at that.
You’ll still never eat me.
Originally posted 5/28/2010.
Tiro de cuerda —
Spanish for
the perfect tension
on a guitar string,
the strain
that frees its song.
Over time, tuning and
retuning to that pitch
will weaken the string,
and I have more than once
seen a player, rock god
or flamenco acolyte,
knowingly or not,
snap one
and keep playing,
finding a new course among those
remaining;
but I have never heard
a recording that included
that sound,
the sound of recovery,
the sound of getting past
certain disaster
without looking back —
unless of course
I take into account
what it takes for any one
with a vision or song
to achieve their own
tiro de cuerda,
to stretch themselves
to their crying point,
then go one breath
beyond it.
Originally posted 6/23/2011.
Here’s to you,
wake and bakers,
joint over coffee suckers,
hiders of whiskey
in “World’s Greatest Dad” mugs,
pills at daybreak takers,
Marley rocking pajama stoners,
carpool dodgers passing the buck
in favor of lifting the mood;
here’s to your health
and the health of the children
you didn’t drive to soccer practice
on a Saturday morning
because the clouds were so…cloudy;
here’s to you,
shower tomorrow people,
maybe tomorrow people,
call it a day before 9:00 AM people;
here’s to you.
May you open the party
and close the bar
before the rest of us even know
you’re wrecked.
May you live long,
your eyes red as sunrise
flashing back at the dawn;
may you dance clumsily behind the blinds
and tell yourself, again and again,
it’s just this one more time
as you slip into the folds of the comforter
and fall back into a stupor.
May the sleep you enter be dead
and may the death be temporary.
May you open your eyes to a new life
where you can take the morning straight.
May you find yourself drunk at last
on nothing but the good light of the good day
you have believed, always,
would someday come
without you having
to coax it into being.
Link to a recording of this poem: One For The Wake And Bakers
Originally posted on 2/17/2011.
At night, one can drive
for hours, listening
to televisions
as they mask the weeping.
Here, the people abide by
one strict rule of conduct:
“Do what you like,
but do not show your work.”
The only media
allowed for art
are C4 and artificial sweeteners;
the fabric of life is therefore
primarily explosions
and cloying aftertaste.
Now and then a child grows up
and breaks free.
Most of them
come back eventually.
The ones who do not
remain a mystery
to the inhabitants,
even if they become famous.
Originally posted 11/24/2013, titled “The Bands We Hate.”
In the Seventies I was
a viciously cool boy
who loved certain bands
and hated others,
who thought music should only be
guitar and Big Noise made
by those who seemed
a lot like me; certainly
there were exceptions;
they were old and honored
mostly for not being dead,
unless they were dead.
We argued endlessly about
what was and what was not
worth our time, then sneered
endlessly at so much…
it was only later that I dimly understood
the sulfurous truth that likely lay behind
the words “Disco Sucks,” and later
the words “Rap Is Not Music.”
It’s become clear to me
that to rant about the bands we hate
is in fact more likely about
the fear of losing primacy;
it’s become clear to me
that some of us are so brainless
we can’t hear a thing through
the sheets that hang over our ears.
Originally posted 8/29/2012, titled “Why You Should Have A Clock Radio”
You should have a radio in the bedroom
so that you may wake tomorrow to a song
that has both a violin
and a steady drum
and if you do,
you should not just obey
the dull urge to habit,
too quickly rising from bed
and away from the music
into the day to occupy yourself
with the business of living
instead of the joy of it,
for how often does it happen
that you wake up early
with a sweet fiddle in your ear
and a lover next to you,
the soft insistence of the drum
and that slippery, wicked bow
suggesting something better
you could be doing?
Originally posted 12/29/2012. Original title: “Pull It Up”
From the place
I buried them
I shall pull up the cocaine
and the late night breakfasts
that never stayed with me
for longer than it took
to get in the car
and get moving,
drunk and wired,
toward whatever couch
was that morning’s home;
shall pull up
the little empty gun
I got in trade
for all that acid;
shall pull up the skinny tie
and the hospital scrubs,
the songs I wrote
when bored,
the awful poetry
I believed in so hard
even when
there was no evidence
for its quality,
no reason for it
to exist at all;
shall pull up the arrogant
know it all
callous boy
ready to screw
whoever was up for it;
shall pull up that boy,
that still-skinny boy
not yet tending toward heft;
that stupid young man
with a bad car,
a jammed tapedeck,
an inability to love
and be loyal
if there was a road
on which to run
and someone’s words
he could steal.
That past
is a thicket of weeds now;
pull it all up, toss it
onto the hot pavement,
let it dry down to dust
and blow away or wash away
in the next strong storm.
If the child
is father to the man,
let me make myself
an orphan before you
get one inch closer;
don’t call it foolish
don’t call it impossible
or unnecessary. You
didn’t know him;
if I can help it,
you never will,
even if I have to scorch
the earth for miles around
to make that so.
Originally posted 4/10/2013.
Some have, some have not.
Those who have, keep;
those who do not have
do not know they likely never will.
Occasionally someone who doesn’t have
will be allowed a taste
via lottery number, a great arm,
a pleasant singing voice.
They let you think
you can get some too —
hard work, they say, hard work
will do it and anyone can rise;
but not anyone rises.
Those allowed to rise do,
and those allowed to rise
learn how to keep
the little they’re
allowed to keep.
Your job is made to leave you
jealous and striving.
Your leisure is a stunted ration
of your small time here
and when you come home
to cradle that son or daughter,
you whisper that it will be
better for them —
but it likely will not be.
All that gold
will blind them as swiftly
as it blinded you.
Everyone thinks they’ll be rich someday.
Everyone thinks it’ll be better someday
while the oil runs out,
the seas lift from their beds,
the bridges fall sooner rather than later.
The whirlwind spins a noose over our necks.
Some of you still think love
will make it better.
You will be fooled again and again
into believing that love will win.
Love cannot win
in the long sunset of this age.
We have exhausted ourselves.
Love is nothing more than a gesture now.
You’ll still sit back and say it was better once.
You’ll imagine a time when love was enough.
But love has never been enough
to conquer this.
What’s always been needed
is a terrifying justice.
Gaia is preparing
a terrifying justice:
one swipe of her hand,
and we are gnats full of blood
who cannot rouse themselves
to fly.
You want a golden age?
Get rid of the gold
ahead of that sweeping hand.
Learn to fly for your life.
Land in something new.
It will not be called America.
If when you land you want to try love,
then by all means try it,
but do not expect it
to grow in this soil
so full of gold,
blood, and lies —
not without
a cleansing fire.
Originally posted 3/24/2012.
America
I wish you could see Death
as I do
As wave of star enveloping
As wave of earth encompassing
As wave of wind embracing
And the next minute
moment
second
instant it must be —
not this
Not This
As NOT THIS
as any moment ever
All I want to know about that moment
I cannot know
so I sit here
speaking of Death
waiting for Death
with fingers tapping
Damn this notion of having to wait
You wait as you will
I will be not be calm and resigned
I will instead call for tacos and pizza
and meats and cigarettes
to be delivered unto me
for those are American foods of Death
and in this country devoted
to living forever
I am starving for Death
In this country
devoted to living forever
I believe in live and let live
but I also don’t care
how anyone dies
Do you think that is awesome
or troubling or false
Am I now riding a wave
of your suspicion
America I wish you could see Death as I do
As wave of the star enveloping
As wave of the earth encompassing
As wave of the wind embracing us
whispering
come as you are
This is not the customary
way of Death
in America
Death is considered
a mistake
a justice
or an honor
We greet it
with a keening of grief
or a holler
and chorus
and cadence of joy
There are such vigilante songs
in your heart
America
You don’t care how we die
as long as the lettuce stays crisp
I am wearing the mask
of a wave all-encompassing
but if I tear this mask off
and look at you hard
with the right kind of gaze
between glare and adore
perhaps I shall then learn
how the rockets and twilight
lead to dawn’s early light
Till then
don’t be surprised if
we don’t care
how you die
as long as it makes sense
in the moment of Death
as long as it closes
the long running plot
Dark Matter 