Chin up, he watches the
Ceiling fan as if it
Was a wonder
The air inside the ice cream
Parlor cools car hot
Skins as mouths melt
When he turns from fan
To father, smiling, I kiss
The chocolate from his tiny face.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
DELICATE CELLS
Vine scales
shattered brick to bridge
the rooted earth to sun,
Scattering flowers,
markers on its glorious voyage.
I sense
this finely braided nerve,
this half-created, half-evolved
thing
Ringing with the pulse
and snap of all
that passes.
Delicate cells
of purest thread sewn through
and through us,
Thinnest wires wound
within us, wrought
of twisted strands of gold
and flesh.
This love
is not electric light
nor draping cables, colors tied
to emerald ropes
It is law
an act of passing
Conduction
of the fields and flows of us.
shattered brick to bridge
the rooted earth to sun,
Scattering flowers,
markers on its glorious voyage.
I sense
this finely braided nerve,
this half-created, half-evolved
thing
Ringing with the pulse
and snap of all
that passes.
Delicate cells
of purest thread sewn through
and through us,
Thinnest wires wound
within us, wrought
of twisted strands of gold
and flesh.
This love
is not electric light
nor draping cables, colors tied
to emerald ropes
It is law
an act of passing
Conduction
of the fields and flows of us.
THE GIFT OF THADDEUS POE
When Poe invented poetry
It was really quite by accident I’m told
He wasn’t sure if he could say
Exactly what he meant or why
He’d phrased it quite the way he had.
In other words I’m sure intent had less
Responsibility than simple serendipity.
Thaddeus Poe, a quiet lad
Of twenty-one or twenty-two, not sure
If he were sane or mad, wondered
At the things we do and why
All things are just the way they are.
Those who recall the year are few; the poem
Was first writ by Thad, one autumn night with pen and pad:
“While standing, staring at the stars
Marveling at the majesty, I wonder
If the moon and Mars are somehow
Gazing back at me.” He paused
A bit to read his silly verse,
Liking the rare simplicity of phrase,
And yet the rhyming “R’s” and “E’s” he liked the best by far.
“Sometimes I feel the universe
Is looking at itself through me, and I’m
A single drop immersed in waters
Of a shoreless sea,” he wrote
That night as if it was heaven sent.
Yes, Poe invented poetry it’s said
For better or for worse; for some, salvation; some, a curse.
It was really quite by accident I’m told
He wasn’t sure if he could say
Exactly what he meant or why
He’d phrased it quite the way he had.
In other words I’m sure intent had less
Responsibility than simple serendipity.
Thaddeus Poe, a quiet lad
Of twenty-one or twenty-two, not sure
If he were sane or mad, wondered
At the things we do and why
All things are just the way they are.
Those who recall the year are few; the poem
Was first writ by Thad, one autumn night with pen and pad:
“While standing, staring at the stars
Marveling at the majesty, I wonder
If the moon and Mars are somehow
Gazing back at me.” He paused
A bit to read his silly verse,
Liking the rare simplicity of phrase,
And yet the rhyming “R’s” and “E’s” he liked the best by far.
“Sometimes I feel the universe
Is looking at itself through me, and I’m
A single drop immersed in waters
Of a shoreless sea,” he wrote
That night as if it was heaven sent.
Yes, Poe invented poetry it’s said
For better or for worse; for some, salvation; some, a curse.
MATTERS OF DEGREE
Read of machines
intellectual as grasshoppers
Signing apes
inventing curses
Teaching ancient whales
New tricks
And what of the chemistry
in a handful of aeons
that grows cortexes from
Furrow to fruit;
made a wild beast mean,
A strange madness meaningful?
Consciousness by Degree
(difference not departure)
Remember the vicious history
of smiles
The passive gesture of palmed claws
We are poets of an atomic age
With nothing but our ignorance
To sustain a prideful shuffle
From one big bookend to another.
Stumbling is our poetry
Don’t mention, Your hand raised high,
Love
That part of the
chaos of sub-atomic particles
We make unique only in
The way we twist it
Inflicted like a weapon
upon an indifferent cosmos.
Personification of nature is (not) a lie
Just a fraction of an
Impossible truth
too terrible to tell
too beautiful to know.
Still we must sense it
By Degree
Or lose it as we are lost.
Send your prayers by punch card
(damned if you expect R.S.V.P. by
Many-legged Messenger
intellectual as grasshoppers
Signing apes
inventing curses
Teaching ancient whales
New tricks
And what of the chemistry
in a handful of aeons
that grows cortexes from
Furrow to fruit;
made a wild beast mean,
A strange madness meaningful?
Consciousness by Degree
(difference not departure)
Remember the vicious history
of smiles
The passive gesture of palmed claws
We are poets of an atomic age
With nothing but our ignorance
To sustain a prideful shuffle
From one big bookend to another.
Stumbling is our poetry
Don’t mention, Your hand raised high,
Love
That part of the
chaos of sub-atomic particles
We make unique only in
The way we twist it
Inflicted like a weapon
upon an indifferent cosmos.
Personification of nature is (not) a lie
Just a fraction of an
Impossible truth
too terrible to tell
too beautiful to know.
Still we must sense it
By Degree
Or lose it as we are lost.
Send your prayers by punch card
(damned if you expect R.S.V.P. by
Many-legged Messenger
DIS GUST-
(with apologies to e e cummings)
dis Gust-
ing when the weird drug-
dealing simple
brained ballonman
whistles farts and winks
and eddieandbill come
running for quaaludes and
LSD and such
things
when the girls wear purple-underwear
the queer
old balloonman whistles
farts and winks
And bettyandisbel run screaming
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat- breathed
balloonman whistles
farts
and
winks
dis Gust-
ing when the weird drug-
dealing simple
brained ballonman
whistles farts and winks
and eddieandbill come
running for quaaludes and
LSD and such
things
when the girls wear purple-underwear
the queer
old balloonman whistles
farts and winks
And bettyandisbel run screaming
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat- breathed
balloonman whistles
farts
and
winks
LIMERICKY
(with apologies to Lewis Carroll)
On a brillig and frabjous day
A beamish young boy went astray
In a tulgey old wood
He was naughty, but good!
Or he’d have us believe it that way.
On the ground ‘neath a tall Tumtum tree
She was soon just a manxome as he
And he uffishly thought
That more likely than not
They were both just as hot as could be.
They frightened a few slithy toves
When the took to removing their clothes,
But were mimsy and nimble
As they gyred and gimbled
There by the squat borogroves.
Their motions seemed perfectly matched
As they galumphed on that grassy patch,
Then with eyes of flame
He burbled as he came
In her frumious bandersnatch.
On a brillig and frabjous day
A beamish young boy went astray
In a tulgey old wood
He was naughty, but good!
Or he’d have us believe it that way.
On the ground ‘neath a tall Tumtum tree
She was soon just a manxome as he
And he uffishly thought
That more likely than not
They were both just as hot as could be.
They frightened a few slithy toves
When the took to removing their clothes,
But were mimsy and nimble
As they gyred and gimbled
There by the squat borogroves.
Their motions seemed perfectly matched
As they galumphed on that grassy patch,
Then with eyes of flame
He burbled as he came
In her frumious bandersnatch.
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
Lost
in the sub-atomic structure of
a dream
Wondering
through nether narrow ways of neither
cell nor soul
Alight
with electro-chemical glows;
Such sparks compose these somatic scenes
Far
from the minds of others
Afloat on the fabric folds-
Swept by the ceaseless undertow
beneath the reflective surfaces
of all great waters.
(and we wonder if we dream in colors)
Immersed
in this strange, quantum space
Where the touched remains untouched
I observe a mindless self
Ruled by the chaos of a
particless place;
lawless…
And look on my observer’s face.
in the sub-atomic structure of
a dream
Wondering
through nether narrow ways of neither
cell nor soul
Alight
with electro-chemical glows;
Such sparks compose these somatic scenes
Far
from the minds of others
Afloat on the fabric folds-
Swept by the ceaseless undertow
beneath the reflective surfaces
of all great waters.
(and we wonder if we dream in colors)
Immersed
in this strange, quantum space
Where the touched remains untouched
I observe a mindless self
Ruled by the chaos of a
particless place;
lawless…
And look on my observer’s face.
DEADLY BREAKFAST
Steel
at special pressures
can fold upon itself
like pancake batter on a smoky griddle.
Sound like
burnt toast chewed,
sugar spooned and stirred
into a fragile cup,
the pop and tear of
a many-egg omelet.
At two a.m. on a rainy Sunday highway
This can be a deadly breakfast.
at special pressures
can fold upon itself
like pancake batter on a smoky griddle.
Sound like
burnt toast chewed,
sugar spooned and stirred
into a fragile cup,
the pop and tear of
a many-egg omelet.
At two a.m. on a rainy Sunday highway
This can be a deadly breakfast.
DAY 8
Intent, I watched my knife
Saw stubbornly at my chicken breast.
“Dear,” my wife exclaimed
“You’re going to scratch the china.”
I looked up shyly
To meet the stares of wife and guests.
“He’s been working so very hard, the dear,
I’m afraid it’s catching up with him.”
She looked to me, to verify what she had said,
And so I took my dinner plate and broke
It on my head.
“She’s right,” I said, and brushed a broccoli from my collar,
“And what’s more,” I raved, meeting each eye
Of every guest, and finally glaring at my wife,
“I’ve just succeeded, now, this very afternoon,
In blending inert chemicals and generating life!”
The guests were panicked, my dear wife crying,
But I could not let the evening end,
Them thinking me insane.
“Come see,” I said, pulling at their sleeves.
And, though reluctantly, they came
Into my lab beside the laundry room.
Pointing to a petri dish, “I’ve created life!” I cried.
They looked, I looked, they frowned and left
And I sat down, as God must someday do, and wept.
The life I’d made that day had died.
Saw stubbornly at my chicken breast.
“Dear,” my wife exclaimed
“You’re going to scratch the china.”
I looked up shyly
To meet the stares of wife and guests.
“He’s been working so very hard, the dear,
I’m afraid it’s catching up with him.”
She looked to me, to verify what she had said,
And so I took my dinner plate and broke
It on my head.
“She’s right,” I said, and brushed a broccoli from my collar,
“And what’s more,” I raved, meeting each eye
Of every guest, and finally glaring at my wife,
“I’ve just succeeded, now, this very afternoon,
In blending inert chemicals and generating life!”
The guests were panicked, my dear wife crying,
But I could not let the evening end,
Them thinking me insane.
“Come see,” I said, pulling at their sleeves.
And, though reluctantly, they came
Into my lab beside the laundry room.
Pointing to a petri dish, “I’ve created life!” I cried.
They looked, I looked, they frowned and left
And I sat down, as God must someday do, and wept.
The life I’d made that day had died.
NOT NECESSARILY WELL
Staring at the wall,
As walls stare at me.
I interpret the tiles.
Music, crowds and glasses
Shatter somewhere in my skull.
Spitting, to remove remains of some
Just-beer-drowned pet
Decaying in my mouth,
I chuckle anyway, I’ve seen them
All before.
A cigarette in one hand,
In the other, limp leftovers
Of an anonymous circumciser.
Smoke curls towards the ceiling,
Piss dripping on my shoe,
A functional flick of wrists
Puts them both out.
Then, a shiver from my tailbone
To my chin
Says something is still alive,
Not necessarily well, within.
As walls stare at me.
I interpret the tiles.
Music, crowds and glasses
Shatter somewhere in my skull.
Spitting, to remove remains of some
Just-beer-drowned pet
Decaying in my mouth,
I chuckle anyway, I’ve seen them
All before.
A cigarette in one hand,
In the other, limp leftovers
Of an anonymous circumciser.
Smoke curls towards the ceiling,
Piss dripping on my shoe,
A functional flick of wrists
Puts them both out.
Then, a shiver from my tailbone
To my chin
Says something is still alive,
Not necessarily well, within.
SIMILAR SCARS
One sun
One stone
Heated gases
Warped reflections;
Smoke spilling from a flame.
Reptiles wearing smiles,
Displaying similar scars
Eyeing each
And away
At a time.
Darkening with passing clouds
Sanded flesh concealing nerves
Twisted into similar knots.
Two beasts
One stone
Razors zippered into smiles
Unmoving
Meeting
Eyeing each
And away
Beneath one sun.
One stone
Heated gases
Warped reflections;
Smoke spilling from a flame.
Reptiles wearing smiles,
Displaying similar scars
Eyeing each
And away
At a time.
Darkening with passing clouds
Sanded flesh concealing nerves
Twisted into similar knots.
Two beasts
One stone
Razors zippered into smiles
Unmoving
Meeting
Eyeing each
And away
Beneath one sun.
In 1852, several citizens of Aurignac, France
In 1852, several citizens of Aurignac, France found, carefully collected and buried, the fossilized remains of seventeen skeletons, later identified as Cro-Magnon, a fair race of ancient artisans believed extinct some 5,000 years before the birth of Christ.
A child led the march upon the wood.
Seventeen lay as if they slept
And lost their flesh in starlit slumber.
The fellowship of Frenchmen stood,
One wept,
Counting in horror the fallen number
Scattered in orderly array.
Skulls of children too, beneath the moss,
Exposed where root and rain had pried
The soils to reveal decay.
He, that was holy, signed the cross
As each villager took up a piece of them that died,
And in the name of Christ removed them from the wood.
To town the mute procession crept,
And lastly looking back in wonder
The child felt a stain of blood
Where none had been, then leaped
Ahead to join the others.
Strange, the trees, where once he had played
Could be the scene of such mysterious loss.
He cried
Watching them place the bare brown stones into the grave,
Beneath the carven cross
To signify that seventeen lambs of Christ had also died.
A child led the march upon the wood.
Seventeen lay as if they slept
And lost their flesh in starlit slumber.
The fellowship of Frenchmen stood,
One wept,
Counting in horror the fallen number
Scattered in orderly array.
Skulls of children too, beneath the moss,
Exposed where root and rain had pried
The soils to reveal decay.
He, that was holy, signed the cross
As each villager took up a piece of them that died,
And in the name of Christ removed them from the wood.
To town the mute procession crept,
And lastly looking back in wonder
The child felt a stain of blood
Where none had been, then leaped
Ahead to join the others.
Strange, the trees, where once he had played
Could be the scene of such mysterious loss.
He cried
Watching them place the bare brown stones into the grave,
Beneath the carven cross
To signify that seventeen lambs of Christ had also died.
DREAMS OF PALEONTOLOGY
Dragons, gryphons, jabberwocks
Stir restlessly in silent tombs
Of dust pressed ever into rock
By marching steps of waxing, waning moons.
A librarian checks a ticking clock,
A quarter-hour 'til noon.
Clay, awaiting Allah’s breath
To animate the mineral encrusted bones
And stretch a skin, defying death,
Again about the ancient ones,
Waits within the living earth itself
For picks and hammers against the lighted side
Of ebon-undersided stones.
A book is taken from the shelf,
A smiling child takes it home.
A newborn, the infant earthly heir,
Kneels upon the dust of wind-worn ground
To see what only eons could leave there;
What time had lost, a river in its time had found.
The gorge remained where years
Ago the dying river left to form an ageless cloud.
Human fingers brush back soil centuries,
Stacked and filed as books on dusty shelves,
Light shadows, create memories
To consume the likes of mythic gods and faerie elves.
The masters of forgotten history
Ascend the stony steps of Hell.
Terrible lizards from the library,
A child dreams of paleontology.
Stir restlessly in silent tombs
Of dust pressed ever into rock
By marching steps of waxing, waning moons.
A librarian checks a ticking clock,
A quarter-hour 'til noon.
Clay, awaiting Allah’s breath
To animate the mineral encrusted bones
And stretch a skin, defying death,
Again about the ancient ones,
Waits within the living earth itself
For picks and hammers against the lighted side
Of ebon-undersided stones.
A book is taken from the shelf,
A smiling child takes it home.
A newborn, the infant earthly heir,
Kneels upon the dust of wind-worn ground
To see what only eons could leave there;
What time had lost, a river in its time had found.
The gorge remained where years
Ago the dying river left to form an ageless cloud.
Human fingers brush back soil centuries,
Stacked and filed as books on dusty shelves,
Light shadows, create memories
To consume the likes of mythic gods and faerie elves.
The masters of forgotten history
Ascend the stony steps of Hell.
Terrible lizards from the library,
A child dreams of paleontology.
UNDOING
This morning,
Untying shoes
Slipped off
Last night,
I tugged the
Wrong part of
The lace,
Transforming
Bow into knot.
For 5 minutes
Or so, my ever
Nerve-gnawed
Fingernails
And I tried
Our hand at
Undoing.
I could have
Felt like a
Watchmaker in
Garden gloves.
Instead, for 5
Minutes, lost
In the twisted
Simplicity of
Shoestrings,
I felt like a
Goddamn child.
A feeling not
At all unpleasant.
Untying shoes
Slipped off
Last night,
I tugged the
Wrong part of
The lace,
Transforming
Bow into knot.
For 5 minutes
Or so, my ever
Nerve-gnawed
Fingernails
And I tried
Our hand at
Undoing.
I could have
Felt like a
Watchmaker in
Garden gloves.
Instead, for 5
Minutes, lost
In the twisted
Simplicity of
Shoestrings,
I felt like a
Goddamn child.
A feeling not
At all unpleasant.
THE SUB-ATOMIC LOTUS
Neither am I satisfied
With colors prime and all the
Others in between, splashed upon
My senses like a roar
In the absence of rushing waters
Paint my canvases with X-rays instead.
Infinity, also, is not enough
For me. An endlessness of prime numbers
Will not balance my meager checkbook.
I yearn for months beyond December.
As a member of a closed set (all
sets being infinite)
I find my cosmos adequate.
The universe that presses like
A skin against me has a scent
That dogs can smell a block away.
That and the rhythmic tapping
Noise I make are only aspects
Of myself, as if at night.
So sell the gods from sidewalks
And tie our astral bodies to the bedpost,
But guard your soul (that fractal thing)
For there are magiks in this world.
And when I go, ah, what a disappearing
Act it will be,
A quantum ‘poof’ from inside
The curtained cabinet.
With colors prime and all the
Others in between, splashed upon
My senses like a roar
In the absence of rushing waters
Paint my canvases with X-rays instead.
Infinity, also, is not enough
For me. An endlessness of prime numbers
Will not balance my meager checkbook.
I yearn for months beyond December.
As a member of a closed set (all
sets being infinite)
I find my cosmos adequate.
The universe that presses like
A skin against me has a scent
That dogs can smell a block away.
That and the rhythmic tapping
Noise I make are only aspects
Of myself, as if at night.
So sell the gods from sidewalks
And tie our astral bodies to the bedpost,
But guard your soul (that fractal thing)
For there are magiks in this world.
And when I go, ah, what a disappearing
Act it will be,
A quantum ‘poof’ from inside
The curtained cabinet.
A WINDOW
Standing before a great
vertical pane of glass
a window; barrier
I confront two
dissimilar scenes
One is lit alive
sunlight splintered
circus colors, people
striding purposefully, people
shuffling like a mutter,
automobiles passing with utter certainty.
The street gracefully proclaims
a first dimension,
buildings suggest a second,
My line of sight traverses a third.
The fourth is open to interpretation.
And a second image presents itself.
a darker shade beyond the glass,
reflections of the room behind me.
Chiaroscuro geometries,
light, shadow, silence,
a quiet world imposed upon
the grand parade a step away.
Soft boxes in a universe of spheres.
Then (and this pinches each muscle
in my body like noise on a noiseless night)
Two pairs of eyes staring back,
mine, and yours.
vertical pane of glass
a window; barrier
I confront two
dissimilar scenes
One is lit alive
sunlight splintered
circus colors, people
striding purposefully, people
shuffling like a mutter,
automobiles passing with utter certainty.
The street gracefully proclaims
a first dimension,
buildings suggest a second,
My line of sight traverses a third.
The fourth is open to interpretation.
And a second image presents itself.
a darker shade beyond the glass,
reflections of the room behind me.
Chiaroscuro geometries,
light, shadow, silence,
a quiet world imposed upon
the grand parade a step away.
Soft boxes in a universe of spheres.
Then (and this pinches each muscle
in my body like noise on a noiseless night)
Two pairs of eyes staring back,
mine, and yours.
FIRST BIRDS
What do you call this place…
this spot right here,
or is it…
This place of neither cell
nor soul,
Where ordinary sparks
and juices, common
creature mechanisms,
Leap from nerves
to…
What do I call it,
Take flight like first birds
into…this place.
This place where Up and Down
Strange, Charm, Beauty
become adjectives instead of nouns.
Where quarks and quasars
could be spooned from cereal bowls.
Where science becomes conscience
and self-conscience.
I imagine it as a bridge
spanning earth and heaven
as E to mc2.
But I don’t know what to
call this place,
Unless my name suffices,
And you call it by yours.
this spot right here,
or is it…
This place of neither cell
nor soul,
Where ordinary sparks
and juices, common
creature mechanisms,
Leap from nerves
to…
What do I call it,
Take flight like first birds
into…this place.
This place where Up and Down
Strange, Charm, Beauty
become adjectives instead of nouns.
Where quarks and quasars
could be spooned from cereal bowls.
Where science becomes conscience
and self-conscience.
I imagine it as a bridge
spanning earth and heaven
as E to mc2.
But I don’t know what to
call this place,
Unless my name suffices,
And you call it by yours.
MORNING GLORY
…Chased the sun to watch it set
a thousand times
Accelerator lighting silhouetted wicks
of pines and appled hills
Then stop to see the earth revolve
and snuff it out
A thousand times, a thousand times.
We touched a hundred miles of road
from tar to dust
Until the car had climbed as high as we were high
Then watched the fire consumed
exhaustively a final time
And turned, our urgent retinas burned
to face the east, sunsets ablaze
upon our mind, anxious of a
gentler rising.
a thousand times
Accelerator lighting silhouetted wicks
of pines and appled hills
Then stop to see the earth revolve
and snuff it out
A thousand times, a thousand times.
We touched a hundred miles of road
from tar to dust
Until the car had climbed as high as we were high
Then watched the fire consumed
exhaustively a final time
And turned, our urgent retinas burned
to face the east, sunsets ablaze
upon our mind, anxious of a
gentler rising.
INVISIBLE
A young woman sits in the center
of a room.
She is not waiting.
The walls of the room enclose
a space.
It is not empty,
there is a woman sitting on the floor.
Her hair is brushed, black foam,
her eyes are warm reflections,
her lips are silent, sound and shape.
The room is quiet.
She has not been crying.
She wears a smooth cotton dress,
full at the shoulders,
low below the neck.
It conceals the gentle curve of hip,
the bend of knees,
suggesting flesh in flows
of woven rapids,
to still lace pools upon the floor.
Her hands play in folds of cloth
like bears fishing glacial streams.
She is not afraid.
The room is dark.
You cannot see her.
of a room.
She is not waiting.
The walls of the room enclose
a space.
It is not empty,
there is a woman sitting on the floor.
Her hair is brushed, black foam,
her eyes are warm reflections,
her lips are silent, sound and shape.
The room is quiet.
She has not been crying.
She wears a smooth cotton dress,
full at the shoulders,
low below the neck.
It conceals the gentle curve of hip,
the bend of knees,
suggesting flesh in flows
of woven rapids,
to still lace pools upon the floor.
Her hands play in folds of cloth
like bears fishing glacial streams.
She is not afraid.
The room is dark.
You cannot see her.
DELICIOUS SIN
It’s a sidelong glance
This April sun is throwing me.
A teasing slant of mischievous rays
like lashes intersecting chin
A backward glance above a lowered shoulder.
This wicked star
is winding the chemical spring
of my pineal sundial,
Awakening some hibernating beast in me.
I feel my skull to see if I am growing
antlers.
My nostrils flare to smell the musky
world at rut.
This sun is a welcome possessor
More potent than rhino horn,
Fermenting my blood to a sour-sweet wine
I can feel myself ripening,
feel for yourself.
Touch where this sun has touched me,
Taste what it has grown for you.
A delicious sin it is
To eat of the fruit of Eden.
This April sun is throwing me.
A teasing slant of mischievous rays
like lashes intersecting chin
A backward glance above a lowered shoulder.
This wicked star
is winding the chemical spring
of my pineal sundial,
Awakening some hibernating beast in me.
I feel my skull to see if I am growing
antlers.
My nostrils flare to smell the musky
world at rut.
This sun is a welcome possessor
More potent than rhino horn,
Fermenting my blood to a sour-sweet wine
I can feel myself ripening,
feel for yourself.
Touch where this sun has touched me,
Taste what it has grown for you.
A delicious sin it is
To eat of the fruit of Eden.
WOODLAND
Taken by ark from Eden,
Survivors of extinction
Come to live at last in Woodland.
Creation recreates creation,
A billion years has altered paradise,
So stare and smile
At crippled curiosities
Ensnared in nets of glass and wire.
Monsters, myths
And mankind
Denied the savage stroke of fitter claws
Their birthright deigns.
Wild hearts pump jungle blood
Through tamed, timid,
Hungriless bodies.
Patient pacers,
Darting eyes like old men poised
To cross a street.
Silent starers,
Exhibits in a smaller world.
They don’t see me
Apart
A part of the human herd.
Survivors of extinction
Come to live at last in Woodland.
Creation recreates creation,
A billion years has altered paradise,
So stare and smile
At crippled curiosities
Ensnared in nets of glass and wire.
Monsters, myths
And mankind
Denied the savage stroke of fitter claws
Their birthright deigns.
Wild hearts pump jungle blood
Through tamed, timid,
Hungriless bodies.
Patient pacers,
Darting eyes like old men poised
To cross a street.
Silent starers,
Exhibits in a smaller world.
They don’t see me
Apart
A part of the human herd.
THE FIRST HOURS OF AN EMPTY LIFE
He dared not pray
for fear of silencing
an all too quiet cosmos,
anticipating answers from an
all too non-existent god.
His knees collapsed,
folding in upon themselves
beneath a weight that
gravity could not produce,
weight that inexplicably remains
when mass has been removed.
Bound exclusively by physical law
the kitchen chair supported this,
a body momentarily less a man,
the imploded essence of one who loves,
when what is loved is lost.
Her chair, across the dimly lighted table
had nothing to contain such loss,
so when his eyes on folded arms
beheld a darker, deeper moment
it crumpled into twisted steel and cloth
as if to emulate the man.
He would cry when magazines arrived
addressed to someone only there
because he’d held her there
and could not let her go, and phone calls
from unknowing solicitors.
But nothing would ever feel like this
his first hours in an empty life.
for fear of silencing
an all too quiet cosmos,
anticipating answers from an
all too non-existent god.
His knees collapsed,
folding in upon themselves
beneath a weight that
gravity could not produce,
weight that inexplicably remains
when mass has been removed.
Bound exclusively by physical law
the kitchen chair supported this,
a body momentarily less a man,
the imploded essence of one who loves,
when what is loved is lost.
Her chair, across the dimly lighted table
had nothing to contain such loss,
so when his eyes on folded arms
beheld a darker, deeper moment
it crumpled into twisted steel and cloth
as if to emulate the man.
He would cry when magazines arrived
addressed to someone only there
because he’d held her there
and could not let her go, and phone calls
from unknowing solicitors.
But nothing would ever feel like this
his first hours in an empty life.
A FRIEND OF TIMOTHY J. WOODS
T.J.’s my age, but
He wears a cap, except
In class, an’ he’s got
A pocketknife that nobody else
Knows about, and
He wears the holiest
Sneakers I’ve ever seen.
T.J.’s just a nickname, but
I heard someone say the
T was for Timothy, then
Someone else said the
J was for Jimothy, but
I don’t think anybody
Really knows what the
J stands for.
T.J. lives far away, and
His mom drops him off out
In front of school
Almost every day, 'cause
Some days no one sees him and
Some kids say he got kicked out, but
Then he’s back the next day and
I don’t think he even brings
An excuse note.
One day T.J. showed me
His knife an’ let me open it up.
Two blades! An’ he said
I could be his friend. So
I gave back his knife before
Anybody else saw and
I said SURE and he grabbed my hand.
And shook it.
He wears a cap, except
In class, an’ he’s got
A pocketknife that nobody else
Knows about, and
He wears the holiest
Sneakers I’ve ever seen.
T.J.’s just a nickname, but
I heard someone say the
T was for Timothy, then
Someone else said the
J was for Jimothy, but
I don’t think anybody
Really knows what the
J stands for.
T.J. lives far away, and
His mom drops him off out
In front of school
Almost every day, 'cause
Some days no one sees him and
Some kids say he got kicked out, but
Then he’s back the next day and
I don’t think he even brings
An excuse note.
One day T.J. showed me
His knife an’ let me open it up.
Two blades! An’ he said
I could be his friend. So
I gave back his knife before
Anybody else saw and
I said SURE and he grabbed my hand.
And shook it.
SOULS OUT OF FLESH
It is the manner of most magic
to go unnoticed
A simply spoken incantation
delicate gestures
subtle hints of mute intention
Magic is the fluid form
of random motion
Described in bubbly incandescence
rising toward a lost and scattered light
A breath of nothingness
withstanding untold
tons of somethingness
Gas and liquid joined to form
the transient froth upon a wave
The essence of magic
meaning without message
Souls out of flesh
like fish out of water
The sub-atomic structure of a dream
to go unnoticed
A simply spoken incantation
delicate gestures
subtle hints of mute intention
Magic is the fluid form
of random motion
Described in bubbly incandescence
rising toward a lost and scattered light
A breath of nothingness
withstanding untold
tons of somethingness
Gas and liquid joined to form
the transient froth upon a wave
The essence of magic
meaning without message
Souls out of flesh
like fish out of water
The sub-atomic structure of a dream
BARN OWLS
I remember flying
The child’s flight that only
Passing summers turn to fancy.
No longer clowns of gravity when
Shoestrings, pant legs, ankles, somehow
Tricked us to the ground.
Wide-eyed owls we were
At home aloft where little holds
Us but the ticklish tug of earth.
I remember flying
On golden clouds of barn-dust
But as long as breaths are
Held
Released in hollow howls of
Grey-wood laughter
At the straw-soft bottom
Of a great un-woven basket.
The child’s flight that only
Passing summers turn to fancy.
No longer clowns of gravity when
Shoestrings, pant legs, ankles, somehow
Tricked us to the ground.
Wide-eyed owls we were
At home aloft where little holds
Us but the ticklish tug of earth.
I remember flying
On golden clouds of barn-dust
But as long as breaths are
Held
Released in hollow howls of
Grey-wood laughter
At the straw-soft bottom
Of a great un-woven basket.
MAN ON A SEATTLE METRO BUS
The weird man on the city bus
Talked and talked.
I did not mean to listen
As he talked,
But quite by accident
I heard him say
That cars can kill
And banks have robbed.
He talked and talked
To me,
I nodded,
Yes.
He talked some more,
I listened
Wanting only for the words
To stop,
His eyes turned back
Towards himself.
Funny,
When at last the silence came
I felt the universe shutter to a halt,
The earth ceased revolving,
Poised silently between night and day,
Momentum pulled me from my seat
And I thought for an instant,
(Was I wrong?)
I had offended some great omnipotent power.
The doors sighed open
And the weird man left the bus
Quietly,
I turned to see him
Through the window
Emphatically
Addressing the sidewalk.
Talked and talked.
I did not mean to listen
As he talked,
But quite by accident
I heard him say
That cars can kill
And banks have robbed.
He talked and talked
To me,
I nodded,
Yes.
He talked some more,
I listened
Wanting only for the words
To stop,
His eyes turned back
Towards himself.
Funny,
When at last the silence came
I felt the universe shutter to a halt,
The earth ceased revolving,
Poised silently between night and day,
Momentum pulled me from my seat
And I thought for an instant,
(Was I wrong?)
I had offended some great omnipotent power.
The doors sighed open
And the weird man left the bus
Quietly,
I turned to see him
Through the window
Emphatically
Addressing the sidewalk.
BROKEN BIRD
Who broke
The quiet bird
Ankles up
On the step
Speak up!
Who broke
The feathered mechanism
Who caused
The wings to folds
Stiff legs to point
Absurdly birdward
Speak now!
(a pause)
And then a proud meow
The quiet bird
Ankles up
On the step
Speak up!
Who broke
The feathered mechanism
Who caused
The wings to folds
Stiff legs to point
Absurdly birdward
Speak now!
(a pause)
And then a proud meow
MATINEE
Feathered flutes
And branchy oboes
Take their cues from the
Silent conductor
As bees tune their basses
To an anonymous score
For one spacious moment
As cloudy curtains part
An audience anticipates
The taking of the stage
Winds dance down
Vacant streets
In newspaper tutus
And aluminum slippers
A loose shutter somewhere
Enthusiastically applauds
The March ballet
And branchy oboes
Take their cues from the
Silent conductor
As bees tune their basses
To an anonymous score
For one spacious moment
As cloudy curtains part
An audience anticipates
The taking of the stage
Winds dance down
Vacant streets
In newspaper tutus
And aluminum slippers
A loose shutter somewhere
Enthusiastically applauds
The March ballet
SOUP OF THE DAY
I know a place
That serves the best sun-warm soup
You’ll ever taste.
A whispered wind blows to cool
Clear empyrean broth and swirl
The seasoned smells around.
And there’s no sign
“NOSHIRTNOSHOESNOSERVICE”
There. So settle back
In garden-garnished summer salad
And slurp delicious spoonfuls
Of dumpling clouds
From the big blue bowl
Of sky soup.
That serves the best sun-warm soup
You’ll ever taste.
A whispered wind blows to cool
Clear empyrean broth and swirl
The seasoned smells around.
And there’s no sign
“NOSHIRTNOSHOESNOSERVICE”
There. So settle back
In garden-garnished summer salad
And slurp delicious spoonfuls
Of dumpling clouds
From the big blue bowl
Of sky soup.
WHILE YOU WERE ASLEEP
It just came to me.
The perfect body is like the
perfect ocean.
I wouldn’t know one if I were
Drowning in it.
Waves and shorelines are where
I look for perfection.
And in bodies,
Soft folds, delicate dimples
like fingerprints in wet sand.
Curves and creases, flat spots
stretched and glistening, the
metallic glow of perspiration,
knotted muscles to be undone.
Solitary hairs, artfully
out of place.
Freckles, moles
the blush from white to rose
(and darker pools of deep backwater)
Skin draped on bones like damp towels
drying in a morning breeze.
And the soft light hidden
behind closed lids.
The perfect body is like the
perfect ocean.
I wouldn’t know one if I were
Drowning in it.
Waves and shorelines are where
I look for perfection.
And in bodies,
Soft folds, delicate dimples
like fingerprints in wet sand.
Curves and creases, flat spots
stretched and glistening, the
metallic glow of perspiration,
knotted muscles to be undone.
Solitary hairs, artfully
out of place.
Freckles, moles
the blush from white to rose
(and darker pools of deep backwater)
Skin draped on bones like damp towels
drying in a morning breeze.
And the soft light hidden
behind closed lids.
PARTING FRIENDS IN ROBERT FROST’S WOOD
And so,
We spend the evening drinking,
Talk of thoughts we’ve talked before.
Smoking;
You, your dream-sweet pipe
And I, impotent cigarettes,
And sit,
Jazz music darkly playing,
Like cats upon the floor.
You speak of your road, I of mine,
And sip martinis,
Gin, but for the glass its in
And olives that we suck from sticks.
So much
We are afraid to say.
We raise our toasts like lighted torches,
To mad barons
Who would animate an ancient flesh.
To monsters that might have been.
We ask
About the ones we love
Blushing at this new
And fragile thing we both have found,
The strange, exotic insects we’ve become,
And realize with anxious smiles
There’s more to us than me and you.
We spend the evening drinking,
Talk of thoughts we’ve talked before.
Smoking;
You, your dream-sweet pipe
And I, impotent cigarettes,
And sit,
Jazz music darkly playing,
Like cats upon the floor.
You speak of your road, I of mine,
And sip martinis,
Gin, but for the glass its in
And olives that we suck from sticks.
So much
We are afraid to say.
We raise our toasts like lighted torches,
To mad barons
Who would animate an ancient flesh.
To monsters that might have been.
We ask
About the ones we love
Blushing at this new
And fragile thing we both have found,
The strange, exotic insects we’ve become,
And realize with anxious smiles
There’s more to us than me and you.
THE TELLING
From the window of the bus
I could not hear his words
But I watched him shaping space
With his hands.
I didn’t understand the story
But I sure enjoyed the telling.
I could not hear his words
But I watched him shaping space
With his hands.
I didn’t understand the story
But I sure enjoyed the telling.
CHRISTMAS MISCHIEF
When I meet Santa
I will not hesitate
to kill him.
I will be the
only man to own,
a piece of Santa’s
bloody beard.
But I will say
I found it hanging
from a weathervane.
I will not hesitate
to kill him.
I will be the
only man to own,
a piece of Santa’s
bloody beard.
But I will say
I found it hanging
from a weathervane.
KAMIKAZE FLOWERS
Green escapes the garden
On a score of silent wings
Destination: Sun
Earthly bonds forgotten
It blossoms into brilliant flames
Close as it can come
On a score of silent wings
Destination: Sun
Earthly bonds forgotten
It blossoms into brilliant flames
Close as it can come
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