Back off, I'm sleeping

and I realized,
There is that poem,
where so little happens.

I laid myself down,
and wanting my glasses,
went on a journey
to the bathroom.

I looked all over
and realized, of course,
I'd left them by my bed.

So I didn't get the satisfaction
of looking high and low,
and finally finding it,
but I did get the one

where it was in your own backyard,
click your heels,
all along.

The founding fathers
would have been grateful,
I think as I pull the down comforter
over me,
for this warmth.

But they never lived in LA,
and never lived
the difference between
church and state.

And all the monuments
are crumbling.
I say,

you're lucky to know me,
and Oh, my god if you left me I'd die,

but both are drama, and less.

You should see the things we see,
this blinding light.

Sezchuan Delight

And taxes.
These words,
like the made-up numbers,
you enter in forms
come time.

You will see a return,
or owe,
and feel that way.

We used to keep ledgers,
but now enjoy the afternoon's
murmuring 'cross the street,
warm in bed
on a cold day.

Home is here,
in someone's breath,
on the phone line,
the airwaves,
in outerspace.

And we are at home.
Like astronauts,
waiting,
waiting,
launched,
and good luck.
To return
someday, or not
(losses, gains)
but the experience is ours,
is home.

There are four rivers, Szechuan:
Your Life, and This Life,
each flowing either way.

Nevertheless

Everything you've been running from,
but I know this,
is what you're running toward.

Every constellation
you're trying to escape from under,
is where you're headed.

I met a girl from Canada,
and delightfully informed her friends
that I was from New Jersey,
because they all got a kick,
and I don't know why, Marya,
we push away the ones who love us the most.
I don't know why it is
you can feel so all alone,
and so smothered by familiarity.

When I was young,
I crossed the football field
in winter and saw Orion staring down.
Tonight, on Santa Monica,
I see the same three stars
which make up his belt.

There is no escape from oneself,
from the truth-lies,
from the family friends.
I don't know what we're running toward,
but running is saintly nonsense.

I left the ones
who needed me most,
and changed my name,
and changed my city-state,
but they are still in my pockets.
Every mountain I climb,
the dirt from it gathers
in my shoes and socks
like I'm five again,
or twelve,
or twenty-seven.

And the stars
are still
the same.

I have been fleeing a past,
which is coming upon me
nevertheless,
nevertheless.

Graceful Wah

Who's got it now?
Why sing in the shower
if you're not getting paid?

Why smile, if your teeth are brown?

My father wound is gaping.
I should have known from all the
songs you were obsessed with;
even granddad saw it coming.

All the butts in the ashtray,
canceled dreams, if they came
in tubes of cancer.

And the beer cans,
you know this,
the rocks glasses,
the toilet paper.

Though some people don't like to think
about it.

We're inside.
It seems I have committed a crime,
or some act of fraud,
because no one's around anymore.
I'm the one who left.

What If?

What if they told you
the world was following you?

Like a swarm of fruit flies,
and a week-old basket of strawberries;

Like the pope and his cardinals;

Like a film director
and the production assistants.

What if your travels were not travels at all,
but the world rotating to meet you?

Like a carousel turning
to reveal another scene;

Like a paper towel roll,
or a treadmill,
or peek-a-boo.

What if you knew
the power of your hoping?

Would you lie between your sheets?
Would you shout it, and sing it?
Would you wait until tomorrow?
Would you spend another moment engaged
in anything but yearning?

What if your curses came true too,
not in flashes of light,
but in several months?

What if your heroes were ready
to kneel before the new them?

What if all you wanted
was all there was?

How would you sculpt your wishes?

What if heaven was not a place to go,
but a pie to bake?

What if Jesus, and Buddha, and Muhammed said,
"Stop worshipping us from so far away!
Join us here in this soup!"
How much of that poison cup
would you drink? How much of your self
would you give away? How much prophecy
would you fulfill?

What if you knew
that everything you've lost
will turn out in the wash.

What if they told you
you were very important,
and what if what we call the world
was waiting for your word?

What is authentic then?

If I loved you,
and I did you true,
then was it not the dream?

Santa says that dreams are not real.

And welcome to this side of that fence,
the grass is colorless.

Nothing
anyone
does
is real.
Fuck you.

Dreams are real if you make them so?
Good luck.

The christmas tree,
as soon as I said it,
disappeared.
I would like
very much
to believe in something,
and not be saying,
"Well, you're not really..."

Where, oh, where did my little dreams go?
They left like everyone else.
Time is such a ruthless bitch -
it was fun pretending though, huh?

If there's anything in the world you could do,
and you knew you could not fail...
Um, be a big fucking star?
I guess, rule the world?

I was not the tree.
I saw it.
I was not the fear or pain.
I felt it.
That's who I am.
Hear this voice?
That's who I am.
That's who you are.
This is who you are.
This is who I am.

But it's not real.
Child, what do you know of reality?
This place
was made.
Make it real.
This clay, you, the world,
molded. Mold it.
It is real either way.
Clay is the world.
Clay is real.
Mold it into a person.
The person is real,
an idea
made
of clay,
made real,
as real as possibull.

One Way

I've been writing all this
for years, but not living it.
I've not been living enough,

to say
with words
what I observe
with feeling
as I live it.

The work (!) is not "to write"
or "to do"
but to live,
to be.

To be alive is your work,
though death has been waiting
in the corner since the nursery.

I could be a breadmaker.
That is not who I am.
I could do it as a tile setter.
This is who I am.

This here unknowable life.
Can't with mind, free of that.
Yes, shell-less,
intellelectual-less,
flaw-less in this.

Free to be selfish, callous,
and still be

all those things
I was not allowed to be,
different every moment,
and still...

Looking still like me
at 12 or 43,
and everyone else,
seperate parts
of a whole,
the blurry edges,
the world, the way,
a watercolor.

Their souls, my soul,
one soul fractured
into tiny little shards,
sparkling through
our little bodies.

We are putting back together
this great crystal,
which came shattered in its box,
piece by piece,
heart by heart.
Picking and choosing,
but aware.

Rinsing off the sand

The me outside my self
tried to enter this flesh,
for a moment in the outdoor shower,
like my mother slipping
cough syrup down
her sick son's throat.
Quick - the metal spoon against the teeth,
the rotten cherry bouquet,
the long burning finish -
There, now it's done.

I didn't see it coming,
soap in my eyes,
but it entered my flesh
in a moment.
The pain of living,
birthing, dying,
my body desperately,
Stop! There is no room at this inn!
Vacancy, yes, but no room
for that kind of miracle.

This island I am on,
if I permit my self
to be some where,
is sacred enough, The Block
in its sound, between the Newport Bridge
and Montauk.
Far enough,
and close enough,
like all the other midway islands
which tend to keep me well.

When something changes here -
a new shop in Old Harbor,
the minister retiring -
the locals say, My God,
What has become of our little town?

The paint flakes into the sea salt air,
the cupolas ricket in winter,
but comes the spring the desk clerks
will divvy out the room keys,
and fill the ledgers with New England names,
and the locals...

I am writing this in order to survive!
These are not abstractions!
MY paint is peeling,
MY structure falters,
not from the wear and tear of use,
but from the perpetual battering of the Atlantic.
MY tent is swept away in the desert storm.
I was the virgin mother turned out
in her dilapidated sandals
(or were they the pumps
with the lipstick corrections?),
and I was the child inside her turned away too.
I was the incompetent father,
and Incompetence itself,
and the child born too soon.

Walking the labyrinth here,
halfway down the hill to Sachem Pond,
past the hens on the side of the road,
and the rooster somewhere crowing,
under the admonishing watch
of the lighthouse on the North tip,
tumescent on its rock,
like a boyhood virtue,
the me outside myself says,
Patience. There are no shortcuts
on this path. And to walk,
to find my feet, I look down.
They are blistered, swollen, stepping still,
but I know that I will cool them
in the surf soon enough.

The Man of the Hole

In the rain forest of Brazil,
they say there lives the Man of the Hole.
Last of his tribe, untouched by the West,
save the bottle caps around his neck,
and the white Adidas shirt
he uses to dress his wounds.

The Man of the Hole is elusive,
but we've see his transient dwellings
assembled where the cassava grows,
and simian meat is plentiful.

In the middle of each hut, he digs a hole.
He hides there when the white men come
with their cameras and gift-axes.

On rare occasions one might catch
a glimpse of the sugary tip of a blow dart
poking through the thatching,
or if one is very fortunate,
his quiet, yellow eyes.

Last night I fixed it
so I could watch myself
as I fell asleep.

First, I saw my small thoughts fizzle
like soda bubbles reaching the surface.
Then, I saw my very soul ascend into the night.
There it was refurbished
by the seamstresses of heaven
as they gossiped about The Way Things Are.
Desire packed his case
and lightly touched the brim of his hat.
Right and Wrong joined hands at last
and set out to find dancing.

As the candle flickered,
and the final shred of self
slipped from my grasp,
I saw in the corner of the empty attic
two eyes reflecting yellow.

They belonged to a dark and living thing,
perhaps with fins,
perhaps with limbs,
but without thoughts,
or soul,
or desire,
or cognizance of right and wrong.

I had seen the Man of the Hole.
I had seen him and in terror,
welcomed night's small death.

Today's Coffee

I tricked Dick Nixon into copping to it.
I gave him a handkerchief.
Then I was Chief of the Handkers,
which has a lot of perks.

Little known:
Perks is short for Perquisites.
And that's why I'm a poet,
and you are a bank teller.
You count scraps of paper,
and I mumble to myself.

If I was an actor, they'd pay me to fart,
which is preferable to cutting up pigs,
or humping a Xerox machine
(those sexy beasts though!)

And Trish Nixon, well, she removed her wig once,
and that is all it took:
You can buy 10 for a dollar
in the wholesale district
and put them on

whatever little politica prances
into the bar, or arcade, or the party,
and gives you that Need Eye beacon -

- like a fake airstrip,
constructed out of lights and mirrors,
so in the nighttime, the Germans don't bomb the real one,
our boys, our planes, our watchtowers.

I remembered this when I dated a girl
who said I looked like a Kennedy.
I knew then I was fucked.

The Line

Here's the line:
The line is between making choices,
and making the right choices.
If you only make choices
without waiting to figure out
which ones are the right ones,
then you're fucked.
And if you spend too long deciding,
which choices are the right ones,
then you're fucked too.

Vigil II

I have gone somewhere,
where no one else has gone.
I have seen the worry lines,
I have tabulated every plastic smile,
I have felt the soul of fire in every
handshake.

I look up at the sky now -
the piece of it afforded us
residents of the parking lot - and can see
how it extends to every other borough,
and beyond.
I can see how I am small,
look down at my legs, and feet,

my hands, my torso, into my head,
and can see
the body of me,
the smallness of me,
and I can know my power.

We are offered insight,
and how much can we drink?
I have traded in cups,
many times a year.
I go to my shrink and come back
next week
new man,
every week,
two times a week.

How much can I drink,
of the Truth Cup, our grail?
How much wine, or tequila,
amaretto in my espresso?
How much truth imbibed?
How much libido?

How much Buddha?

How much nicotine, or God,
can I smoke?

I see my small body,
in this large world,
I remember the world itself,
is a small thing.
A spec of light amidst unfathomable darkness.
A dust mote on the table top of time.

So you think:
My god I'm so small,
I must fight.
With all I've got,
contending,
tight belt,
gloves.

My god I'm so real,
I must preach.
With all I am,
sermonizing,
totems,
goblets.

My work is to find my work,
and pour all of my self
into that work, and drown in it,
and drink of it, and fight for it,
and preach it.

In Catechism
they told us what were sins
and what were not.

At public school
they told us
aptitude and Xerox.

In the risky wisdom of the greats,
there are sprinklings of it, Truth.

For this is the body,
and the blood.
Eat this,
drink this,
and be made whole.

The greats were speaking softly.
But we were listening with keen ears.

Still Not Sorry

You are sipping chai and I, American black.

You speak of The Last Just War,

and in a breath condemn the administration

for its evils in Iraq.

We should not be over there, you say.

But I can’t commiserate,

for what do we know of war – evil or just?

War is war, is what it is, is what happens,

but war to us

is our fathers,

and our fathers’ fathers,

baseball standings,

movie stars,

the nephew of a friend from school,

something to discuss.

War is not our business, what we do.

You are a teacher, and I am a bum.

We do not own guns, or hold office,

or protest in public, or boycott anyone.

We lock our doors at night and that is enough.

So they fight in your name, you say,

and that perturbs you.

But you’ve changed your name so many times,

it would be hard to pin the purple hearts on you.

A name! They’ll slap a name like Freedom on a bear trap if it suits them,

and you will not be anywhere near the woods.

We pay for the coffee and tea,

we pay the crazy price,

the exorbitant tax,

and tip the pierced barista for her scowl.

I wash my hands,

and I’m still not sorry.

I will not join your cause,

or theirs.

There’s always been the fighting kind:

Our clan came upon another, stouter, hairier clan of others.

We needed their meat, and it was time to take it.

The sounds of aggression – the high-pitched and the low-pitched –

called me to the moment.

And my brothers went rushing, and I was struck,

and I grabbed what struck me, and it was a girl one,

and I twisted her neck, and she screeched and showed her teeth and would not die.

I knew to twist her neck, but a thought came up inside me.

I scanned the earth around for something hard or something sharp,

to hit, to pierce, to stop the screech, to kill the sound (she would not die).

I found a branch with a pointy end, and grabbed it,

and jabbed and jabbed and struck.

It was clumsy to me, the space between the idea of it and the action.

There was blood, good,

but the screeching became snarling and the eyes locked with mine, bad.

I had to end it soon - an animal nearing death is evermore powerful,

everless predictable, has ever so much less to protect.

I twisted the neck all the way,

and it was ended.

Dropping the body, I turned to my brothers, and found them all engaged

I brought my branch and another I had found into the center.

It was enough to shake the branches in the faces of the others,

the leaves, like teeth, dappling the forest light.

The chattering leaves, the angry trees,

our enemies were frightened.

We left with meat, and minor wounds.

We left in haste, away from the madness.

I clutched my branches tightly at the moment that I saw

no brother of mine ahead of me on the retreat.

I was leading us back to home.

And I’m still not sorry.

We came to a clearing and I saw us there.

We looked clumsy to me, the space between the years had collapsed.

We were sipping chai and American black,

speaking of wars with numbers,

sitting in chairs,

clothes on our backs,

speaking a language,

punching at keys,

giants we seemed,

wrestling with our tired minds

over what I did not have the words to say.