Friday, June 29, 2012

In the Bird and Flower Business

Although the fraying at the edges
Occasionally flips the game pieces,
Scattering the pattern like tv snow
Through the mosaic of being,
Everyone has an unappointed task.
The bits we gather go back into the fold
Issuing between the visible and the light
On those occasions when the tide
Of darkness ebbs.  The flashlight
Makes them sparkle in unforeseeable
Ways, the flashlight of the mind,
Asleep for so long, then one day lit
Like a torch one is now carrying,
In private splendor, for the new creatures
Suspended in the walls of a raindrop.
The power is not yours to do with
As you wish, any more than sleep,
A pure good, is something to have,
But it will come to you, like love,
And then you will be swimming
Beautifully, the equal of the angels.

Let’s dive in the oxygen till the stillness
Reaches its apogee and we are pure time.
Our twin souls will be folded and intricate,
Braided like sisters of darkness and light.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

A Very Small Exit

The junkies in the system sleep somehow
Through the revolution leaking from the edges,
One of many small exits.

And spirit is
I have a key to the earth
I water seeds in you, a secret algorithm of love
I am filling up a notebook
A spirit composed of clouds and verbs.

I am in a bad mood.
The horizon is holding by a thread.
I have lost track of the days and the nights
Sleeping overtime, clasping still the straws of hope
To be free, freely entangled in the junk
Nobody seems to mind I put
In this column of integers.  Why,
Should they?  I understand many things
And this is not one of them.
You must have rocks in your head.

Everything is tainted till the forgetting comes
Another set of integers
Then nature leaps out at you.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Le Cheile 6-21

The tides and bodies of boats
Move both ways, into and out of sight
Like a sinuous line between the visible
And the light and the scrutable
A boundary that doesn’t block but bend
All stems to the sun. Dunes curve and writhe
Along the coast til the chaparel reclaims
The dirt from blast and draught
A constant redrawing of wind and shore
An endless line of mad surveyors
Eyeing and chewing and scratching
With lewd stares into the air
Something you can sink your molars into
At last, a blank expression, no, a bank one
Passed through with all of the currencies
Exchanging saliva, despite the prohibition.
We signed for a copy of the resurrection
So now we are the captain.

We call capitalism by its name
And then the shrieking starts
Someone broke a fingernail
Or an iron law and circulation increases
Heading round the cape where markets rip
Stumble and spill into bigger piles of assets
For some the terrible necessity of being underneath
The gameboard of the sea juggling
Its risks like gulls down the line,
Amigo amici, the opening Italian
And the end game a slurry of howling apes
Somehow the vortex looks best in plastic
Pants, in the spirit of dropping,
Called out, collapsing, Pierrot on a string
Vexed at the stasis of his garment
Who are we to check your pockets
Without your coy permission?

Thursday, June 14, 2012

James County

Forgive me water
slows the mind

In the days before
The flames engulfed
Only watching
The river was
A prospective lapse
Or a project
From a lounge chair

There are no signs
when entering
or one sign
that reads x-ing
a neglected culvert
and a few machines
used to stack things

I have made a bed
Inside a tube
Small glass tubes
A piece of wine
As fat bodies flow
Down the river

I am always behind
The light unless
It is night or
The smoke fits
The atmosphere

Some places are flat
Others as common
As valleys
Frankly water
I wish you
were as clear as gin

I get my news like a
Human thing
Soaked in a chair
The future in nowhere

Samething again
We is reserved
For the things
That would destroy us

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Tiger Lily What's Your Name

An old bumper sticker for a comic presidential ticket
Milk under the bridge
The foreign news was also world news
The news from some other world
Live in the bag of discourse

Shuffling between observations decks
We view London from inside a gumdrop
And before it cloys
A midget grinds out an epithalamium
I licked the stamps myself

Then we floated up the same river
The absence of porcupines in the dining car
Dismayed the shoe-gazers
We were down on the floor when my egg timer pinged
A kitten had lost her phoneme

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Of Being Alive

Not many who can stand it ever return
To tell the rest of us to buck up
And quit being such a bunch of pussies
Whatever may come.  Is it wicked
To gaze at cattails in bloom
In that lascivious profusion down the road?
Don’t answer that.  Tell me you love me
But this time try to mean it.
The pyramids and the Alps
Will duke it out to woo you back.

The soda pop in the fridge is stale
Someone ate all the cookies
The house elf is not going to do the dishes
What more can we accomplish?
Some strangeness in the morning
And early afternoon
Lying around the house.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

To Walt Whitman

I look at my neighbor’s genitals
Have a drink
I love my neighbor
This poem is not on my schedule
I am stating it for the record
Bliss is not ignorance
The stars and stripes
We are now a corporation
Brick by brick the great wall
This poem is going somewhere
I don’t know where

If you like you can give me a prize
I accept don’t tread on me
Where is a policeman when I need one?
This poem is not a fictional person
I only live here
The water bowl is not mine
Do dirty secret wars give you pleasure?
Appeal to heaven
Write me a check I’ll call you

I am running out of sentences
I stop for food and drink
There is no standing here move along
This poem trudges along looking for a song
My utterance needs elbow room
We have plenty of rooms
One line at a time
In whatever order you wish
Dessert salad aperitif
I feel a fizzy sensation

One hour on a Saturday night
Clouds of copper
The sky rises like a turquoise sea
I am gold on the couch
The dog snores in his house
My neighbor
Something in the sunset for everyone
A swallow strays like a comma
I wrote this poem
I had rather it be you

Friday, June 8, 2012

The Weeping

The moonlight is more beautiful than silk
Flowing over the ramparts
When I pull the curtains back.
Moving to the rhythms of a soft
Parade, the women emerge disrobed
From their doorways as I weep
Locked in a room with no chair.
To defy the curfew, the bride
Of the city appears in my dreams.
She is dressed in black.
After two days of rain
A powdery blue mist erases the solids.
Eventually the weeping goes away.