The rude elements
have dressed your dirt-blessed hand;
do not apologize for that.
Make the rich ones, the clean ones,
shake it. Make them look at your face
and see you: balding, fat,
forearms threaded and popping
with the result of work. Force them
to see your clothes, how thin the fabric
on your jeans, the patches,
the tears. Give them a moment
to take it all in before you smack them
with how you’ve built them
and their multifaceted estates
and holdings. Seize their throats
and gently push upon them
the everlasting schedule
of your simplified days —
how each day you rise, sup,
work, sup, work, sup, and sleep;
a routine broken only by the time you steal
to make children, make a home, or
bounce the baby on your greasy knee.
Dammit, none of the dirt you carry
makes you their sort of unclean!
You deserve a moment of anger
as you count pennies, consider famine,
make do. You’re as much a glue
for this shiny cracked country
as any glitter-fed celebrity
or squinting dollar-breeding usurer;
make it known. Grab them one and all
by their hands
and make them shake, show them
the honest tan under your grime.
If fear is the likely result,
it may be the wedge
to open the door
they’ve kept barred for so long —
and who better than you
to open it? It’s only your shoulder,
so long pressed to the wheel,
that can possibly burst that lock.
Tag Archives: poems
Labor Day
Tipping
I used to love her
My significant other
Though I could never balance
the terms of our equation
Which mattered more —
significant or other?
Sublime or ridiculous?
Those fancy words
for incredible descriptions
of cliffhanger moments
Wondering what
would happen next
As the pain heaped up
I waited for the tipping
to settle
It didn’t happen swiftly
I stood there like a stone
identifying with the weight
that kept piling on
with no clue as to who
was doing the piling
But piling continued
by invisible hands
Boxes and cartons and heavy baskets
of things upon things
The view of the scale was obscured
by the weights upon it
and I kept asking what words
were the critical terms —
depressed or angry?
sublime or sublimated?
Bauble or baggage or garbage
or grave-fill?
Performance art
for an audience of two
where both are the artists
or chaos in a crumbling house
while neither is willing to watch?
I used to love her
My significant other
I think that was her only name
My own was as veiled as any she had
so I stopped thinking I had one
anyone else would ever call
Who could see me anyway?
Who would want to see me?
All that heaping and hoarding
and I called it my fault
everytime I called it
I called it
Called it
You’re it, I’d say
You’re it and I need to run
and not come back
I used to love her
My signficant other
The evidence is here somewhere
Under the trash mountains
ranges of gems and flies
and I don’t know what to call this now —
Abandonment or survival tactic?
Cowboy out or snake in the crevice?
Man or beastly little sneak?
I’m a man of four words
My fault
My luck
What could I have said?
Would anything have mattered?
What should I have taken away?
Was there ever a doubt
as to how the scale would shift
and if there was no doubt
shouldn’t I just be happy now
that it’s finally
finally
over?
Ten Years
You are going to make it
whatever you need it
to be:
fireballs for patriotism,
two fingers raised on high
before folding,
heroes and victims and flags
and lies, dust,
gold salvaged for tacky coins,
bones, parts, mysteries,
excuses for more and more
of the same, souvenirs,
graveyard tourism, shining
city in a hole, just another day,
a beautiful early fall day,
no clouds, warm enough,
a promise of a good fall,
feeling special, all the world
a stage for the next delicious act, then
sandbags cut loose, damn,
it’s a damn horror flick, must be,
let’s rewrite the script, let’s
animate it, 3-D it, make it
part of your movie —
oh, for a bit of rest.
For a pillow, a clean pillow,
and a night not bugged
by listeners. A night that turns into
a good morning, a start to a lifetime
where nothing ever happens again
and days follow nights
that contain nothing but sheep
and sleep and waking up
in familiar arms.
Fathers And Sons
We fear
the haunted baggage
under their eyes,
their hands
nervous on probable weapons
in their pockets.
How crisply they turn
at the slightest sound behind them
to survey the room
with an apparently random glance.
Is there any hope
for these dented sons
of warriors?
This is my father’s house,
they say,
and my father’s fortress,
and all of you are enemies
until my father’s wisdom
proves otherwise.
We knew their fathers well,
too well perhaps
to trust the sons. Our fathers
taught us how to read
between the lines
on their faces,
after all.
Like The Wood
I colluded
with the wood in my walls
to remain invisible
but sturdy today
despite the gnawing
in my skull
and the ache
in my gut
I got things done
quietly
without fanfare
holding the place together
I’m as proud
as a support beam
that I have managed
to be productive
even though
to the outside world
it may appear
that I did nothing
the wood and I both know
that what is done in secret
often makes all the difference
for tomorrow
Valleys Of Black Stones
I grew up in Massachusetts, south of Worcester on the Rhode Island line, in a town called Uxbridge, named for a town in England; we called our region the Blackstone River Valley.
Never thought of this before: why that name? The stones in this valley are mostly whitish gray and pink flecked granite; at least the dry ones are.
Once they’re wet, of course, it’s a different story.
Everything’s blacker under water; the stones, the bodies of Nipmucs, the remnants of mills, the memories of millworkers.
I romanticize, of course: I’ve learned today the river was named after a white man named Blaxton, AKA Blackstone, who magically moved from the coast to build his house along these banks in 1635.
The dead Nipmucs called it the Kittacuck, meaning “the great Tidal River.” It once was full of salmon and lamprey.
No one remembers any of that now; most of the Nipmucs and all of the fish are gone.
After white guys had been here a while, some of them built mills that filled with Scottish and Irish and French Canadians and Polish and Italians.
That’s half the story of how I got here.
I don’t often mention it. I romanticize, of course: I tend to focus instead on my descent from New Mexico, where in 1635 white people were already killing and being killed, as were the natives I call my own.
In that high desert lava and obsidian are plentiful; black stones are everywhere.
Think of it now: how parallel the stories, how unlike the geologies — think of all that killing, thousands of miles apart: dead Indians, dead fish; some dreams slaughtered in spirit if not in the flesh.
Others had their dreams came true in these valleys of black stones. Big houses in both places testify to success, even a I stare at the land and try to hear the cries of those who lived and died there.
I romanticize, of course: mostly, I hear nothing now in either place.
I drive through highway cuts that gleam black under the intermittent streams that flow after intermittent storms. I go to work or play tourist and don’t think much about changing names,
or about unchanging black rock filled with old light that was sucked into the ground and held fast in basalt or volcanic stone, light that leaks like radon and keeps on killing as it always has.
I’m dying here, people — eh.
Perhaps I romanticize.
Foreign Exchange
You’re so pretty,
she said,
touching my cheek.
Because I knew it was
the last time we’d see each other
I did not try to correct her
by saying I was a man
and so could not be pretty —
I laid that bullshit aside
and let the sentiment
burn away the culture for once,
and damned if I didn’t feel pretty.
Howler Monkey
I run my life by parachute
to confuse the howler monkey
in my chest. From below
it only looks like I’m drifting down:
it’s in fact a directed
crash that keeps the beast
docile. What will happen
when I run into the ground
is best left unknown. I know
what I fear, but perhaps the animal
will fall asleep rocking in the thermals;
a man can hope. Sometimes
all he can do is hope. Having heard
the screams inside,
it’s in fact all I ever do.
Nothing Is Wrong
We say
things like
my tree fell down in the storm
or
I have a growth on my finger
we settle into moan
if we change the words
some say we change the world
so
that tree honored the storm
by raising its roots to the sky
or
there is a fresh bud
on my finger
still
the tree browns and dries
until it is removed
and
the finger stiffens
the bud is cut and tested
and the story of a garden rampant within
lousy with blooms
is told
keep talking
as the world does what it should
nothing is wrong
La Cosa Nostra
Death to that thing! Life to our thing!
We’re the Mafia for our causes.
We like to keep it in the family
and don’t mind a little blood.
We don’t like to talk much.
Someone’s always listening.
Or maybe they aren’t but it’s best
to be safe. They might be.
We claim legitimacy.
We have cover stories,
fronts, deniability — but still,
Death to their things, Life to ours!
We are the worst sort of people
except for all the others.
They say it too, we know,
but they’re wrong to say it.
Death, death, death! Love
the sound of it — how soft
it ends. It’s like saying life, life, life —
it’s exactly like it. Can’t have them separated
by much. One means the other,
at least in our thing, and death
to the things not ours, life
to ours! This is how
we got here, saying that, being that —
bones in the dirt, blood on the sand,
eyes leaking or picked by the crows —
death is that thing that is also life,
death to their things is life to ours.
So call it brightly family, call it strong.
Call for some to die that others may live
as sensationally well as they possibly can —
death to some things, life to the other ones,
that’s our thing. It’s everyone’s thing.
We live making the others die for their things
so that ours may live, yes, the ultimate yes
made stronger by the ulitmate no.
Improbabilities: I Will
puzzle at my closet door for hours
agree with the mirror
wear GQ clothing
take arms against my issues
eat up the latest trends
gear up for a new season
be true to my word
be fitter, happier, better, longer
spirit away the stress
snake past the guards
divide the adversaries
game Satan to distraction
lie in wait
storm the walls of your prison
sing for the release of your hair
kiss you
rock your world
fuck you up
tell you a bedtime story
believe what I’m saying
tuck you in
say goodnight now
stay up for hours
push it and push it
promise myself a better tomorrow
get up early
do the dishes
get some work done
forget you exist
be a motif
be a recurrent dream
live cliche
open myself to critique
smile at the argument
cover my ass
keep on keeping on
Ad Astra
All my young friends
All my young peers
All those young fascists say
age is just a number
because they are stupid
in the ways of aging
God, please protect them
as I lose myself
to my snickering, flickering body
because more and more
I want to stab them a little bit
for their blithe dismissal
I don’t want them
to be this oblivious to me
wincing forward
with hands that won’t close
around what I want
and
every sharp pain
under my left arm
that spins me
between exhilaration
at the thought of the Great Divide
and terror
at the approach of the Great Divide
and
the first whispers of decay
behind my forehead
but I suppose, God, that you should
bless the young
for this dumb they carry
as a birthright rocket
to infinity and beyond
(or
as people used to say
ad astra per aspera)
That ignorance was mine once too
I’d like it back
but will settle for a night or two
of uninterrupted sleep
and someone to hear me
blurt out upon waking
“I’m ok with dying right now
If this is how the rest of life begins
I have seen enough”
Walker
so far so good
along the path.
brambles and
broken glass.
enough sting
to the stroll.
enough blood
on my ankles.
no view yet
of another end.
still, so far
so narrow.
wrong steps
are part of this.
falling
is de rigeur.
crawling’s
fashionable.
drunk on nettles
and crowns,
I move along
now close to blind
from thorns
at my eyes.
still, so far.
good has little
to do with passage now.
it’s stubbornness.
I want to see
what destination’s
worth this.
worth scrabbling this long
and this far. what good
comes of it. what’s good
about it.
what it is.
Not This Year
not this year
no
I will let go
I will face planes and towers falling
say
yes to friends lost there
and no to
being told
ordered
compelled to recall
every damn detail
in service to
overwrought agendas
how many houses
in how many countries have fallen
and no one remembers them
how many terrors are there
to tame
how many names unspoken
on bitter tongues
no exceptions
mourn the dead long enough
you mourn yourself into the holes
left behind
it’s a long climb out
I am climbing
damn the demand for excruciating recall
I want to forget everything
except how my friends smiled
and that all over the world
for far longer than ten years
everyone else has always known
death makes no exceptions
for the flags people die under
Waiting For The Fall
The livestock
and pets
won’t rest,
and I can’t sleep myself.
Got no mail again today —
it’s like there’s no one left
who cares to write
or even to try and sell me stuff.
It’s a beautiful world, but it feels
like it’s ready to drown —
something in the sky
wants to come down.
I can’t help but think about
what Lucifer must have looked like when he fell —
from the right, ruined and hideous;
from the left, resembled an angel still.
What’s so obvious to look at now?
I don’t trust my eyes.
Two sides to every story: good side,
bad side, and both are becoming lies.
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