We are all, all of us,
trying to be. I believe that.
I remember Samantha
in her lonely apartment,
stingy with the pinot
because she is agoraphobic
and an alcoholic,
talking to her parakeet
in whistles.
Jamie asked me to dance,
and I declined
as I was fielding other offers,
and other silky heads of hair
grooved on my shoulders
as she watched.
I would know the same.
I go back to Nancy knitting in her chair,
routing for the Yankees,
standing up for A-Rod like a spouse
with every woolen loop.
Sue's mouth open,
the kiss of winter,
and now, the dry heat of the angels.
Frank asked me the same question,
and showed me the same goods.
I remember my father's words,
separated from his reckless voice
like yolks.
And my mother's face
when she realized, when she stood,
the broken shells.
That kid who panicked
on the high board, and cracked his noggin,
and it was I who dove in after.
We're trying.
We're trying.
Polly stifling
professional tears.
I remember what they wrote
in my yearbook, I read it from time to time.
Anthony broke the ice,
floated with me downstream on the flows,
and he's married now.
And I remember you,
a you, one version of it,
trying, trying.
I saw souls encumbered with reality,
trying quietly to be, to be.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Never
Never scorches the sidewalk.
Never singes the hairs on our chests.
Never, the last gas station
on the mountain. Never,
a separate entity,
its own,
eternal,
always.
If I saw you,
and entered reality fully,
briefly, if only,
with my six pack of Newcastle,
and punctured your stasis,
or whirlpool,
or shimmering,
then grateful are we
for the realness of life and all.
My darling,
my enemy,
my everything/nothing,
the broken twig
is transplanted -
the splice is to generate
wholly its duplicate,
mothered by earth,
fathered by time,
which is nonsense;
don't worry.
It was your own fault,
not mine.
And their fault,
not ours,
and my fault,
as it goes,
so I'll always be willing,
to shoulder the burden
of living,
while you float,
while you float
on the puppy dog cloud
I have given you,
and I'll puff at it wildly,
perpetually, madly,
incessantly,
driving the whisp of you upward
as I furtively sink
to the core.
Keep smiling.
You will breathe the air.
I will absorb the ore.
We will dig until the bedrock,
and course until the skylight glass,
until my drill bit busts,
and your wax wings melt,
and we are human beings once more.
Never singes the hairs on our chests.
Never, the last gas station
on the mountain. Never,
a separate entity,
its own,
eternal,
always.
If I saw you,
and entered reality fully,
briefly, if only,
with my six pack of Newcastle,
and punctured your stasis,
or whirlpool,
or shimmering,
then grateful are we
for the realness of life and all.
My darling,
my enemy,
my everything/nothing,
the broken twig
is transplanted -
the splice is to generate
wholly its duplicate,
mothered by earth,
fathered by time,
which is nonsense;
don't worry.
It was your own fault,
not mine.
And their fault,
not ours,
and my fault,
as it goes,
so I'll always be willing,
to shoulder the burden
of living,
while you float,
while you float
on the puppy dog cloud
I have given you,
and I'll puff at it wildly,
perpetually, madly,
incessantly,
driving the whisp of you upward
as I furtively sink
to the core.
Keep smiling.
You will breathe the air.
I will absorb the ore.
We will dig until the bedrock,
and course until the skylight glass,
until my drill bit busts,
and your wax wings melt,
and we are human beings once more.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Saturday is New
I've returned to the twin palms,
and they've been gossiping about me
ever since.
Back to the endless strip,
of taco stands and gas stations,
and hidden marvels
in the hills.
Returned, I have,
with nothing
again, but feathery thoughts,
and enamel wishes.
The hunter has returned,
from his sabbatical/imprisonment
in the city of spires,
to the city of holes.
From the asphalt jungle,
to the tropical wasteland.
From the melting pot,
to the griddle.
From man to woman,
and back again.
and they've been gossiping about me
ever since.
Back to the endless strip,
of taco stands and gas stations,
and hidden marvels
in the hills.
Returned, I have,
with nothing
again, but feathery thoughts,
and enamel wishes.
The hunter has returned,
from his sabbatical/imprisonment
in the city of spires,
to the city of holes.
From the asphalt jungle,
to the tropical wasteland.
From the melting pot,
to the griddle.
From man to woman,
and back again.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
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?
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?
Friday, October 12, 2007
For Joshua
We are crying the tears of nations,
Darnella and her white husband.
Men who took women,
and families to which
the setting sun
became the destination
of a generation.
Westward,
westward,
the ramblers flocked.
Westward,
westward,
where San Francisco and Los Angeles
are the drain catches,
festering with riches,
rotting in the glory,
dripping medicinal nectar
on the tongues of beggars.
Your boy, Darnella,
must learn the tongues,
must know his tribes,
and all.
Your boy, is our hope;
he is hope for young men like me,
just learning how wrong our fathers'
fathers' got it in translation.
Bring instead all the warblings,
all the dances,
all the dishes,
all the moonts,
and howies
of the clans,
of the child himself.
Bring them to him,
and in so doing,
bring them to us all.
Darnella and her white husband.
Men who took women,
and families to which
the setting sun
became the destination
of a generation.
Westward,
westward,
the ramblers flocked.
Westward,
westward,
where San Francisco and Los Angeles
are the drain catches,
festering with riches,
rotting in the glory,
dripping medicinal nectar
on the tongues of beggars.
Your boy, Darnella,
must learn the tongues,
must know his tribes,
and all.
Your boy, is our hope;
he is hope for young men like me,
just learning how wrong our fathers'
fathers' got it in translation.
Bring instead all the warblings,
all the dances,
all the dishes,
all the moonts,
and howies
of the clans,
of the child himself.
Bring them to him,
and in so doing,
bring them to us all.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
For Billie
My little Jewish grandmother says this:
You cannot unearth a seed,
to make sure it is growing.
We are not related by blood.
She says, You cannot pull apart
the petals of a rose,
and say it's blooming.
She's saying, I love you.
She is saying to me, I am old and know
what it is to blossom.
I can see what you cannot.
She is saying trust me.
She says, These are ripe times.
We are related by underground wellsprings.
You cannot unearth a seed,
to make sure it is growing.
We are not related by blood.
She says, You cannot pull apart
the petals of a rose,
and say it's blooming.
She's saying, I love you.
She is saying to me, I am old and know
what it is to blossom.
I can see what you cannot.
She is saying trust me.
She says, These are ripe times.
We are related by underground wellsprings.
Now I'm mad about the bullshit
The whole country smells like it,
different kinds of crap.
Stuck in the teeth
of the ranger at Yellowstone,
smiling at my Jersey plates,
from under his Smoky Bear hat.
Under the fingernails
of midwestern truckers,
speeding up to keep me from passing,
coordinating moving roadblocks with their fat CB's,
smiling at my Jersey plates,
with half & half eyes,
through bearded veils.
Sprinkled like manna over the Badlands
and the alkaline flats.
Like grit in their hair,
and their underwear,
and the shitstank of anyone
saying, This land is mine.
From the corporations,
from the suburbanites,
from the farmers,
from the settlers,
from the natives,
from the pioneers,
from the trappers,
from the nations,
from the cowboys,
from the cavalry,
from the yuppies,
from the hippies,
from the gaurdsmen,
from the tribes,
from the clans,
from the families,
from the men,
from the women,
from the children,
from the elk,
from the bison,
from the foxes,
from the bears,
from the maples,
from the conifers,
from the rivers,
from the glaciers,
from the sand,
from the rock,
from the dust,
from the star dust.
This is not land.
This is not place.
And your jobs
should go to Mexico,
should go to India. That movie
should be shot in Canada.
There is no
should.
These things
will.
These men are not evil.
These men are not good.
Men are.
Men do.
This happened to you;
you happened to it.
She didn't leave you;
you didn't fail.
The way is never blocked;
life finds itself falling everywhere.
Stamp out melancholy, its quiet rage,
unless it's changing,
unless it's growth.
Fly from evolution.
Do not impede the naked children of these lands,
of these cities and farms,
replacing the transmissions
of their tractors or sedans.
Wrap evolution around you
like 30 yards of silk.
Let evolution tickle
every corner of your flesh.
Be growth.
Say to those you love, "Grow!"
Grow as humans, yes,
but grow into humanity itself.
For there will be others down the line,
and we will be the jilted peoples of old,
the taken-advantage-of women,
the starving prospectors of the Donner Pass,
even as we cruise at 80,
and brag about credit card debt.
Even as now we are whistling
at our own reflections
wherever we can find them:
in the stars,
on TV screens,
in her eyes,
in a roll of the dice,
in a bottle,
in a sweet little thang.
Grow into these,
and out of them.
Grow with them,
but not away from yourself.
Grow upward,
but do not sprawl.
The desert weeds are desperate for water.
We are not to spread so thin.
The river can afford to trickle and freeze.
All its efforts will be returned.
We are not weed.
We are not water.
Spew forth your liquid self at intervals,
in measured squirts.
Retain the rest.
Rest, rebuild, replenish.
Engage the process.
Leave all the shit.
Burn it for fuel.
Feed it to the corn.
Then eat the corn.
But don't eat the shit.
Don't put it on someone else's plate
and call it supper,
or how it is.
Because the how of it,
the way,
the it itself,
ain't yours,
or mine,
or anyone's come before,
or anyone's coming.
Grab the earth with your hands.
Do what you will with this.
Teach growth,
and don't call it nothing.
different kinds of crap.
Stuck in the teeth
of the ranger at Yellowstone,
smiling at my Jersey plates,
from under his Smoky Bear hat.
Under the fingernails
of midwestern truckers,
speeding up to keep me from passing,
coordinating moving roadblocks with their fat CB's,
smiling at my Jersey plates,
with half & half eyes,
through bearded veils.
Sprinkled like manna over the Badlands
and the alkaline flats.
Like grit in their hair,
and their underwear,
and the shitstank of anyone
saying, This land is mine.
From the corporations,
from the suburbanites,
from the farmers,
from the settlers,
from the natives,
from the pioneers,
from the trappers,
from the nations,
from the cowboys,
from the cavalry,
from the yuppies,
from the hippies,
from the gaurdsmen,
from the tribes,
from the clans,
from the families,
from the men,
from the women,
from the children,
from the elk,
from the bison,
from the foxes,
from the bears,
from the maples,
from the conifers,
from the rivers,
from the glaciers,
from the sand,
from the rock,
from the dust,
from the star dust.
This is not land.
This is not place.
And your jobs
should go to Mexico,
should go to India. That movie
should be shot in Canada.
There is no
should.
These things
will.
These men are not evil.
These men are not good.
Men are.
Men do.
This happened to you;
you happened to it.
She didn't leave you;
you didn't fail.
The way is never blocked;
life finds itself falling everywhere.
Stamp out melancholy, its quiet rage,
unless it's changing,
unless it's growth.
Fly from evolution.
Do not impede the naked children of these lands,
of these cities and farms,
replacing the transmissions
of their tractors or sedans.
Wrap evolution around you
like 30 yards of silk.
Let evolution tickle
every corner of your flesh.
Be growth.
Say to those you love, "Grow!"
Grow as humans, yes,
but grow into humanity itself.
For there will be others down the line,
and we will be the jilted peoples of old,
the taken-advantage-of women,
the starving prospectors of the Donner Pass,
even as we cruise at 80,
and brag about credit card debt.
Even as now we are whistling
at our own reflections
wherever we can find them:
in the stars,
on TV screens,
in her eyes,
in a roll of the dice,
in a bottle,
in a sweet little thang.
Grow into these,
and out of them.
Grow with them,
but not away from yourself.
Grow upward,
but do not sprawl.
The desert weeds are desperate for water.
We are not to spread so thin.
The river can afford to trickle and freeze.
All its efforts will be returned.
We are not weed.
We are not water.
Spew forth your liquid self at intervals,
in measured squirts.
Retain the rest.
Rest, rebuild, replenish.
Engage the process.
Leave all the shit.
Burn it for fuel.
Feed it to the corn.
Then eat the corn.
But don't eat the shit.
Don't put it on someone else's plate
and call it supper,
or how it is.
Because the how of it,
the way,
the it itself,
ain't yours,
or mine,
or anyone's come before,
or anyone's coming.
Grab the earth with your hands.
Do what you will with this.
Teach growth,
and don't call it nothing.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
My heart is a rubber ball
I put my heart through the heart wash,
got the oil changed, got it inspected.
They said, This, this and this.
And I brought it back to the shop.
I wrapped my heart in wax paper,
pounded it with a rolling pin,
rolled it out into a crust,
and baked it in the oven.
I served it to company.
I tossed my heart into the air with my left hand,
and whacked it with an aluminum bat.
Not bad, I picked the grass off it,
and threw it up again.
I put my heart into storage boxes,
with all my other hearts.
The shredding company took the lot.
New hearts keep coming in the mail.
You didn't break my heart, I did.
And now I know it doesn't.
got the oil changed, got it inspected.
They said, This, this and this.
And I brought it back to the shop.
I wrapped my heart in wax paper,
pounded it with a rolling pin,
rolled it out into a crust,
and baked it in the oven.
I served it to company.
I tossed my heart into the air with my left hand,
and whacked it with an aluminum bat.
Not bad, I picked the grass off it,
and threw it up again.
I put my heart into storage boxes,
with all my other hearts.
The shredding company took the lot.
New hearts keep coming in the mail.
You didn't break my heart, I did.
And now I know it doesn't.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Almost Home
He's got a little acne,
which looks like splattered blood,
like he's recently shot someone
at close range.
He asks for my license,
insurance card, and registration,
with a rookie moisture in his voice.
I'm calm,
I'm calm,
my seat belt's on,
but there is still that quiver
as I hand the man
my laminated papers,
which say where I live,
and my real height,
and my real name,
and who pays for what.
My rear brake light is out
on the passenger side.
Where am I coming from?
A poetry reading.
From this silence now.
Is there gin on my breath?
Do I seem deliberate?
But there is nothing
with which to compare
ourselves
anymore
nowadays,
and I wasn't speeding, because I saw him
waiting behind that maple.
My mouth blinks,
I am actually taking her into the shop
tomorrow,
so thank you
for pulling me over
tonight.
Just tell them it's the rear brake light
on the passenger side, he's proud.
And I'm proud of him too.
He's glad it went well.
And I am glad it went well too.
He returns my information
in its little pouch,
and walks back to the drama machine.
I slap the accelerator and peel out
like Steve McQueen, like Jersey,
but actually drift away from the curb
like a retiree in his aluminum canoe would,
shoving off the banks of Spring Lake,
looking for trout,
thinking about my father,
under the hood of his Oldsmobile,
with a flashlight in his mouth,
mumbling, They fuck you in the ass
because they can.
which looks like splattered blood,
like he's recently shot someone
at close range.
He asks for my license,
insurance card, and registration,
with a rookie moisture in his voice.
I'm calm,
I'm calm,
my seat belt's on,
but there is still that quiver
as I hand the man
my laminated papers,
which say where I live,
and my real height,
and my real name,
and who pays for what.
My rear brake light is out
on the passenger side.
Where am I coming from?
A poetry reading.
From this silence now.
Is there gin on my breath?
Do I seem deliberate?
But there is nothing
with which to compare
ourselves
anymore
nowadays,
and I wasn't speeding, because I saw him
waiting behind that maple.
My mouth blinks,
I am actually taking her into the shop
tomorrow,
so thank you
for pulling me over
tonight.
Just tell them it's the rear brake light
on the passenger side, he's proud.
And I'm proud of him too.
He's glad it went well.
And I am glad it went well too.
He returns my information
in its little pouch,
and walks back to the drama machine.
I slap the accelerator and peel out
like Steve McQueen, like Jersey,
but actually drift away from the curb
like a retiree in his aluminum canoe would,
shoving off the banks of Spring Lake,
looking for trout,
thinking about my father,
under the hood of his Oldsmobile,
with a flashlight in his mouth,
mumbling, They fuck you in the ass
because they can.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
NY Giant
My other fantasy
is to suddenly grow
so large
that I am forced to choose my steps
among the miniature buildings
and matchstick bridges.
So mostly I wade in the ocean,
squatting in the harbor,
mounting Lady Liberty at night.
Uncatalogued sea creatures at my flesh!
A soggy bottom, and cold
in the moonglow,
but in an hour's journey
I can catch up with the daylight.
I am sustained by community effort,
uncooked cows by the dozen,
barrels and barrels of wine,
and government cheese.
The only problem
(besides the obvious)
is that I am alone.
People's voices are too small,
and mine too large,
shattering cathedrals when I speak,
and the sounds from below
are like thoughts,
impossible.
is to suddenly grow
so large
that I am forced to choose my steps
among the miniature buildings
and matchstick bridges.
So mostly I wade in the ocean,
squatting in the harbor,
mounting Lady Liberty at night.
Uncatalogued sea creatures at my flesh!
A soggy bottom, and cold
in the moonglow,
but in an hour's journey
I can catch up with the daylight.
I am sustained by community effort,
uncooked cows by the dozen,
barrels and barrels of wine,
and government cheese.
The only problem
(besides the obvious)
is that I am alone.
People's voices are too small,
and mine too large,
shattering cathedrals when I speak,
and the sounds from below
are like thoughts,
impossible.
Friday, September 14, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Jack & Jill
We were climbing to the well again,
and when you faltered, so did I.
Our buckets will remain as empty
as the shoes of the deceased.
Birth and death are both
experienced alone.
We were alone in each other’s arms, skin to skin,
alone inside each other,
as our blue jeans wrangled on the floor.
Though we hurled ourselves from coast to coast,
landing in the other’s room,
and we hurled our different meanings too,
like atom bombs colliding with a fart,
we were alone at the beginning and we will be at the end.
I thought that I might be enough to fill you up,
but I had to climb inside you all the way.
I found myself in the pit of your womb,
cramped and suffocating, but safe, moist, known.
While I in the darkness nursed on your innards,
you in the light went climbing to the well,
thirsty for it, empty still.
The king and queen looked on.
You pulled another joker from the deck,
another hand.
One finger.
Two fingers.
Three fingers.
Four.
No matter how many,
it always takes more.
How many fingers to plug the the hole in the dam,
to keep that nothingness inside from rushing out?
When it broke,
I came too,
a messy rebirth, onto the floor,
with the rumpled clothes,
and hair bands,
and stray coins,
and receipts,
and belts,
and plastic bags,
and socks,
and flakes of oatmeal,
the dust.
Like flood debris, the miscellaneous trappings of this life.
Like a garden,
the fish, the flowers, the deaths and debuts, the blessing of rain, or the curse.
Life is the scraps, the scraps of itself.
It is the empty shoes left in the closet,
the rings, the watches, the tears withheld.
Life is the blessing or curse of rain and nothing else.
Where were the warnings?
When will we be not alone?
The skies open and answer our questions
with nothing more or less
than the familiar, raging, purple hurricane of life and death.
We are always alone, never alone, at the beginning and the end.
And we die a thousand times in one life.
And we live a thousand lives, though we die but once.
And we scramble up the hill and falter –
thousands and thousands of times.
The storm never ceases.
The floods don’t recede.
We are always caught in that downpour.
Yet we climb up the hill, and scramble and break,
bemoaning our empty buckets,
crying for water in the rain.
and when you faltered, so did I.
Our buckets will remain as empty
as the shoes of the deceased.
Birth and death are both
experienced alone.
We were alone in each other’s arms, skin to skin,
alone inside each other,
as our blue jeans wrangled on the floor.
Though we hurled ourselves from coast to coast,
landing in the other’s room,
and we hurled our different meanings too,
like atom bombs colliding with a fart,
we were alone at the beginning and we will be at the end.
I thought that I might be enough to fill you up,
but I had to climb inside you all the way.
I found myself in the pit of your womb,
cramped and suffocating, but safe, moist, known.
While I in the darkness nursed on your innards,
you in the light went climbing to the well,
thirsty for it, empty still.
The king and queen looked on.
You pulled another joker from the deck,
another hand.
One finger.
Two fingers.
Three fingers.
Four.
No matter how many,
it always takes more.
How many fingers to plug the the hole in the dam,
to keep that nothingness inside from rushing out?
When it broke,
I came too,
a messy rebirth, onto the floor,
with the rumpled clothes,
and hair bands,
and stray coins,
and receipts,
and belts,
and plastic bags,
and socks,
and flakes of oatmeal,
the dust.
Like flood debris, the miscellaneous trappings of this life.
Like a garden,
the fish, the flowers, the deaths and debuts, the blessing of rain, or the curse.
Life is the scraps, the scraps of itself.
It is the empty shoes left in the closet,
the rings, the watches, the tears withheld.
Life is the blessing or curse of rain and nothing else.
Where were the warnings?
When will we be not alone?
The skies open and answer our questions
with nothing more or less
than the familiar, raging, purple hurricane of life and death.
We are always alone, never alone, at the beginning and the end.
And we die a thousand times in one life.
And we live a thousand lives, though we die but once.
And we scramble up the hill and falter –
thousands and thousands of times.
The storm never ceases.
The floods don’t recede.
We are always caught in that downpour.
Yet we climb up the hill, and scramble and break,
bemoaning our empty buckets,
crying for water in the rain.
Meatless
The morning I was born,
my mother smashed the mirrors,
and used my chubby cheeks instead.
The morning I was born,
my father ate my fatter parts:
the buttocks, and the thighs.
He left the brain and heart,
of which he did not know.
Assless, cheekless, I floundered
on the carpet.
Remember that coarse matting
with me please.
I was free to think,
and I was free to bleed.
Could I scratch?
Yes, until they cut your nails.
Could I shimmer and shine?
Yes, until they cut your long, blonde hair.
Could I weep?
Yes, until they locked your eyes.
Thanks god for the Christmas tree,
which distracted them briefly,
at each year's end,
from what was left of me.
my mother smashed the mirrors,
and used my chubby cheeks instead.
The morning I was born,
my father ate my fatter parts:
the buttocks, and the thighs.
He left the brain and heart,
of which he did not know.
Assless, cheekless, I floundered
on the carpet.
Remember that coarse matting
with me please.
I was free to think,
and I was free to bleed.
Could I scratch?
Yes, until they cut your nails.
Could I shimmer and shine?
Yes, until they cut your long, blonde hair.
Could I weep?
Yes, until they locked your eyes.
Thanks god for the Christmas tree,
which distracted them briefly,
at each year's end,
from what was left of me.
Friday, September 7, 2007
More Water
The future came crashing on us like a wave.
I used to say, very early on, our love
was an ocean, spilling and receading.
Mother's breastmilk and turned back.
I had an apartment overlooking
the Brooklyn Bridge, and there,
future, past, and present merged with the traffic.
The caissons, the lives lost in construction,
the wear on its cables, the cars on it now.
Roebling, the man who designed it,
the street I lived near, the limestone blocks,
the gentrification happening, the crumbling to come.
If love is a churning river,
we were two drops falling
on opposite sides of the bridge across.
Neither reaches the ocean first.
I used to say, very early on, our love
was an ocean, spilling and receading.
Mother's breastmilk and turned back.
I had an apartment overlooking
the Brooklyn Bridge, and there,
future, past, and present merged with the traffic.
The caissons, the lives lost in construction,
the wear on its cables, the cars on it now.
Roebling, the man who designed it,
the street I lived near, the limestone blocks,
the gentrification happening, the crumbling to come.
If love is a churning river,
we were two drops falling
on opposite sides of the bridge across.
Neither reaches the ocean first.
Water Sports
Wednesday night I talked
in your sleep,
troubles, tsuris, agita.
Tuesday day had burned us bad,
both. We had iced tea, but it didn't.
I'm sorry I got so free.
It was all that reading, thinking.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you too.
(I still have my whistle and life gaurd shorts.)
Back when Sunday, I was saying,
Girl, paddle your arms!
Wrapping my boy arms around you,
they became rock hard,
the pleasure was mine.
I was saying, Whoa! There is my cock.
Then you wouldn't flap your wings,
and both of us were drowning.
Friday rolled over, and I said,
Well, I'm just a man.
I could not be us both.
in your sleep,
troubles, tsuris, agita.
Tuesday day had burned us bad,
both. We had iced tea, but it didn't.
I'm sorry I got so free.
It was all that reading, thinking.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you too.
(I still have my whistle and life gaurd shorts.)
Back when Sunday, I was saying,
Girl, paddle your arms!
Wrapping my boy arms around you,
they became rock hard,
the pleasure was mine.
I was saying, Whoa! There is my cock.
Then you wouldn't flap your wings,
and both of us were drowning.
Friday rolled over, and I said,
Well, I'm just a man.
I could not be us both.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
I deserved a little something
When I was a very young boy
I did a commercial for toothpaste.
My teeth were clean, not yellow,
and my smile was for real.
My mother took me to Toys 'R' Us,
and bought me a castle in the clouds.
I deserved a little something.
When I was a very young boy,
I saved all my pennies in a Tonka truck.
My mother took me to Dryer’s Sports,
where my father had worked in his teens.
She dumped that dump truck onto the counter.
The kid at the register did not smile.
The aluminum bat was too heavy,
but I deserved a little something.
When I was a very young boy,
my mother got sick and couldn’t move.
Under the blanket but over the sheet,
I stayed with her and was not scared.
We watched Lucy and Desi kiss.
They slept in different beds.
I deserved a little something.
When I was a very young boy,
I slept with a lot of women.
Some of them had some of it
and I deserved my share.
When I was a very young boy,
my mother’s new glasses broke.
I stood on both feet.
My father’s hands.
His yellow teeth.
My mother, with the chianti.
But she did not follow me.
Those two did there thing in the end,
and I slept on the side porch with the wine.
I deserved a little something.
Eddie's Version
When I was born,
I weighed seven pounds.
They passed me around
like a bag of chips.
When I was born, with my penis,
and eyes that cut like new metal,
my mother wanted a brown-eyed girl.
She told me she did.
Her mirror had broke.
Clasping the wooden bars of the crib,
which would later entrap by brother
and sister, I stared into the blackness
of the nursery, the void.
I was the fear out there,
the nothing of that room,
and decided then that, No,
I am not the darkness, just afraid.
I stared into the blackness
between my mother's legs
as she squatted down to pee.
This girl, I knew.
I was not afraid.
My father, where was he?
I said, Yes, that blackness there...
might as well be me.
I drew a penis on a pad
and left it to be found.
My mother showed it to me asking,
"Is this what I think it is?"
No, mother, it is only a finger.
I knew what she thought it was.
I would do the same with less.
When dad came home
he wanted my pennies.
I thought in terms of fairness.
I counted the coins in stacks and said,
No, this money is mine,
(I had already come this far alone)
and you will have to do the same with less.
I went to school and got pissed on.
They tore my football jacket.
They spoke of the itch,
but all I knew was pounding at it
with a balled-up fist.
I was barely a hundred pounds.
They passed me around like a baby.
But I still had those eyes,
and pierced into their puddin' heads.
Those boys, those girls, I knew them.
When I came home,
my father, with his cigarette
and beard, decided to teach me karate.
I knew just where to kick him.
I weighed seven pounds.
They passed me around
like a bag of chips.
When I was born, with my penis,
and eyes that cut like new metal,
my mother wanted a brown-eyed girl.
She told me she did.
Her mirror had broke.
Clasping the wooden bars of the crib,
which would later entrap by brother
and sister, I stared into the blackness
of the nursery, the void.
I was the fear out there,
the nothing of that room,
and decided then that, No,
I am not the darkness, just afraid.
I stared into the blackness
between my mother's legs
as she squatted down to pee.
This girl, I knew.
I was not afraid.
My father, where was he?
I said, Yes, that blackness there...
might as well be me.
I drew a penis on a pad
and left it to be found.
My mother showed it to me asking,
"Is this what I think it is?"
No, mother, it is only a finger.
I knew what she thought it was.
I would do the same with less.
When dad came home
he wanted my pennies.
I thought in terms of fairness.
I counted the coins in stacks and said,
No, this money is mine,
(I had already come this far alone)
and you will have to do the same with less.
I went to school and got pissed on.
They tore my football jacket.
They spoke of the itch,
but all I knew was pounding at it
with a balled-up fist.
I was barely a hundred pounds.
They passed me around like a baby.
But I still had those eyes,
and pierced into their puddin' heads.
Those boys, those girls, I knew them.
When I came home,
my father, with his cigarette
and beard, decided to teach me karate.
I knew just where to kick him.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Man of the Hole
In the rain forest of
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.
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.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Two Women
There have not been enough women,
and the drawing room is all ready
so crowded.
There the plastic fern is toppled over,
and there the hour glass is on its side.
The Sorry! board is on the floor,
and the radio is stuck on Somewhere…
Both float.
Neither had any use for feet.
One is old and one is young.
They are both so very young.
Two women.
Two women.
One, her cat was hit by a car
and had to amputate its leg.
One, her dog bit my face,
and she still let it sleep in the bed.
Both shrivel when the rain comes,
but drink fully of the sunny days.
These lovely women,
who crowd my drawing room,
and knock over the antiques.
These lovely women,
who I continue to visit,
with my tea service and peppermint.
These lovely women,
dissipating by the hour,
into dusty suggestions of potential,
and knocking over what they can
on their way into oblivion.
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.
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.
Dear Girl,
Moo Moo.
That's about as much sense
as I can muster.
Member when? Member when?
Oh, those mem'ries keep us cozy.
How's the weather in your ass?
I miss the warm breezes.
Tu tu. Tu tu.
That's precisely what I think of you.
That's about as much sense
as I can muster.
Member when? Member when?
Oh, those mem'ries keep us cozy.
How's the weather in your ass?
I miss the warm breezes.
Tu tu. Tu tu.
That's precisely what I think of you.
Manchild
I am so young in love,
and a part of me will always be
a virgin, and I know which part.
Our first time, when you pulled
me inside you, I thought
you would yank it off.
My penis became a stalk of sugarcane,
to satiate the mantis in us
for a night - twice that night,
for you were not averse to double take.
And the produce - the crop of me - was gone.
Because when you cannot see a thing,
like your mother's face behind her hands,
or some other peek a boo,
that means it isn't there.
Nowadays, all I see
is the little old man weeping
when I drop my drawers to pee.
and a part of me will always be
a virgin, and I know which part.
Our first time, when you pulled
me inside you, I thought
you would yank it off.
My penis became a stalk of sugarcane,
to satiate the mantis in us
for a night - twice that night,
for you were not averse to double take.
And the produce - the crop of me - was gone.
Because when you cannot see a thing,
like your mother's face behind her hands,
or some other peek a boo,
that means it isn't there.
Nowadays, all I see
is the little old man weeping
when I drop my drawers to pee.
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.
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.
Sallie Mae
Sallie Mae, I hate when you call.
It's never quite what I want,
and when you ask what that is,
I never have an answer fit for words.
You called to say my loans were due,
and that we hadn't spoken in a while,
and you didn't know where I was,
as if I had been next to you,
when you fell asleep, and gone
when you woke up. But I have been in the city,
on the other end of the line,
since you dropped me off at NYU.
I swear all that I wanted
was a little less complexity.
I swear I would have made do
with a Hey, How are you? which,
Mother, to you was everything.
It's never quite what I want,
and when you ask what that is,
I never have an answer fit for words.
You called to say my loans were due,
and that we hadn't spoken in a while,
and you didn't know where I was,
as if I had been next to you,
when you fell asleep, and gone
when you woke up. But I have been in the city,
on the other end of the line,
since you dropped me off at NYU.
I swear all that I wanted
was a little less complexity.
I swear I would have made do
with a Hey, How are you? which,
Mother, to you was everything.
Are You Jewish?
An older man came into the restaurant,
saying I looked like a young man
he knew named Howie. He said the hair
was a dead match, which was funny to me
because hair is the most mutable thing
(I had mine highlighted a week ago).
And the old man asked if I was Jewish, and I lied
and said a quarter, which is not quite true.
What else? Well, Italian - I was raised
mostly Catholic, Jesus could kill you - and WASP,
from the Mayflower days with their yams,
and also Syrian, dyers of wool, camel jockeys.
How did those four people get together?
I know! And why?
He said the Jewish part was the best.
I knew you were Jewish, he said.
I agreed and changed my name again.
saying I looked like a young man
he knew named Howie. He said the hair
was a dead match, which was funny to me
because hair is the most mutable thing
(I had mine highlighted a week ago).
And the old man asked if I was Jewish, and I lied
and said a quarter, which is not quite true.
What else? Well, Italian - I was raised
mostly Catholic, Jesus could kill you - and WASP,
from the Mayflower days with their yams,
and also Syrian, dyers of wool, camel jockeys.
How did those four people get together?
I know! And why?
He said the Jewish part was the best.
I knew you were Jewish, he said.
I agreed and changed my name again.
Still
The core of you,
the dregs,
the body of you.
We spoke on the phone,
the final first time,
saying as little and as much.
You are like my mother,
who I also could not have.
We held hands under the blanket.
I was not allowed beneath the sheet.
But that was not enough,
of a barrier.
We crossed the line,
you and me.
Or rather,
me alone.
You did not draw lines,
only blood.
No holy water.
Only wine.
And I still want the dregs.
the dregs,
the body of you.
We spoke on the phone,
the final first time,
saying as little and as much.
You are like my mother,
who I also could not have.
We held hands under the blanket.
I was not allowed beneath the sheet.
But that was not enough,
of a barrier.
We crossed the line,
you and me.
Or rather,
me alone.
You did not draw lines,
only blood.
No holy water.
Only wine.
And I still want the dregs.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Someone Else's Place
It's four in the morning.
I'm losing my footing,
but wanting your core,
and your eye boogers,
cervix,
pulse.
The needle pricks,
the metallic air
coursing around the room
like a lottery.
And you,
unlatched,
unhooked,
zen.
Churning Zen,
which I don't think is.
Is zen an ocean or a lake?
I am the cables which hold the Brooklyn Bridge up,
the fingernails clawing the rot of the pond dock.
As if something lived there,
as if someone needed
my watchtower lamp,
by which to sail,
my call of the hour.
The families of fishmongers
all sit to pudding,
while I, in the crow's nest,
on the cold metal table,
am scrambling for footing...
Would that I had fins.
Would that I had wings.
You. With your photos,
of Things That Happened To You -
a very nice thing to have been said,
a very nice thing to have been done,
you were six vestal virgins,
maligning the seventh.
You. And your lovers,
all pixel and light.
Not the boy-guts they've punched at,
or man-hands they've shaken,
but the photograph paper
you print them all out on.
Now what can you give me?
Your tin can of moonlight?
Your dragonfly whispers?
Your leaning-on-God's-wall diplomacy?
I revert to you, contact you,
dial your SideKick,
slip into the skin of it,
to remind myself
that the questions they asked me as a child
are the same...
I went to the doctor's
and opened my mouth,
and opened my anus,
and accepted all probing of body and mind.
I held my mother's hand on the paper,
let them know me,
and take my breath,
and take their answers.
And I wonder what was left,
with only my blood and no breathing?
A me?
An I?
Who's asking?
You, my pretend friend, are your own answer.
Good 4 U
I sometimes toss my questions out to sea.
I'm losing my footing,
but wanting your core,
and your eye boogers,
cervix,
pulse.
The needle pricks,
the metallic air
coursing around the room
like a lottery.
And you,
unlatched,
unhooked,
zen.
Churning Zen,
which I don't think is.
Is zen an ocean or a lake?
I am the cables which hold the Brooklyn Bridge up,
the fingernails clawing the rot of the pond dock.
As if something lived there,
as if someone needed
my watchtower lamp,
by which to sail,
my call of the hour.
The families of fishmongers
all sit to pudding,
while I, in the crow's nest,
on the cold metal table,
am scrambling for footing...
Would that I had fins.
Would that I had wings.
You. With your photos,
of Things That Happened To You -
a very nice thing to have been said,
a very nice thing to have been done,
you were six vestal virgins,
maligning the seventh.
You. And your lovers,
all pixel and light.
Not the boy-guts they've punched at,
or man-hands they've shaken,
but the photograph paper
you print them all out on.
Now what can you give me?
Your tin can of moonlight?
Your dragonfly whispers?
Your leaning-on-God's-wall diplomacy?
I revert to you, contact you,
dial your SideKick,
slip into the skin of it,
to remind myself
that the questions they asked me as a child
are the same...
I went to the doctor's
and opened my mouth,
and opened my anus,
and accepted all probing of body and mind.
I held my mother's hand on the paper,
let them know me,
and take my breath,
and take their answers.
And I wonder what was left,
with only my blood and no breathing?
A me?
An I?
Who's asking?
You, my pretend friend, are your own answer.
Good 4 U
I sometimes toss my questions out to sea.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Blood in the Bathroom
I crush ants with my thumbs. They are
merchant thirsty on the ledge of the sink.
Other ants make funeral arrangements
home at the Hill –
swaddled in tiny postage stamp flags,
killed in service to the queen.
Whenever I open the bathroom light,
three or four ants on the ledge of the sink,
in their gray flannel suits, and silicon skins,
combing the porcelain desert for nectar.
One ant I name Paul and pluck his left antenna
like a nose hair.
Circles Little Paul goes in,
he goes in circles dragging around his
Will to Life,
relearning what is
HIM and what is
NOT HIM and what is
LEFT and what is
RIGHT.
I spit on him,
he staggers away from the endless drain.
I open the tap,
and he clings to the smoothness.
The water is hot now, and down the
drain, the ant I have chosen to name
is free in the oblivious abyss.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Nikita Kruschev
My grandmother puts the dead in heaven,
and fixes supper.
Sometimes hearty stew
from the Winter Soups book,
and sometimes stuffed peppers,
hellishly hot from the oven,
the recipe, her mother's mother's.
She is of an age,
and I can hear the trepidation in her voice
when she talks about a year or two from now.
I can hear some kind of emptiness
when she speaks of five or ten.
Once I saw her fall,
on the stoop of the home of her friend.
I had driven us there and was waiting in the Buick.
I saw her ring the bell,
and checked my hopeful phone.
My gaze returned to the house
when I sensed a small commotion,
and all of her bulk was there on the concrete
face down and not moving.
There were two moments:
My god she's dead.
Running.
She was sitting when I reached her,
drugstore glasses all askew,
mussed hair mussier,
wild with its glass-white sheen
and patch of yellow in the bangs
from some chemical experiment
she conducted back in the 50's.
Bit of blood on her forehead,
and a broken arm and laughing.
When I think of the 50's
I have an idea
of Elvis, and Eisenhower,
Ozzie and Harriet and Kruschev.
The Big Lady has the decade in the flesh -
a starter home and diaper rash,
a beagle, the stove pipe leak,
another in-law from Brooklyn,
a packet of seeds for a vegetable garden.
But like Nikita said
to those Western ambassadors in Moscow,
History is on our side.
We will bury you.
I have an iPod and an iPhone too.
And five or ten or twenty years at least
to learn how to make stuffed peppers.
and fixes supper.
Sometimes hearty stew
from the Winter Soups book,
and sometimes stuffed peppers,
hellishly hot from the oven,
the recipe, her mother's mother's.
She is of an age,
and I can hear the trepidation in her voice
when she talks about a year or two from now.
I can hear some kind of emptiness
when she speaks of five or ten.
Once I saw her fall,
on the stoop of the home of her friend.
I had driven us there and was waiting in the Buick.
I saw her ring the bell,
and checked my hopeful phone.
My gaze returned to the house
when I sensed a small commotion,
and all of her bulk was there on the concrete
face down and not moving.
There were two moments:
My god she's dead.
Running.
She was sitting when I reached her,
drugstore glasses all askew,
mussed hair mussier,
wild with its glass-white sheen
and patch of yellow in the bangs
from some chemical experiment
she conducted back in the 50's.
Bit of blood on her forehead,
and a broken arm and laughing.
When I think of the 50's
I have an idea
of Elvis, and Eisenhower,
Ozzie and Harriet and Kruschev.
The Big Lady has the decade in the flesh -
a starter home and diaper rash,
a beagle, the stove pipe leak,
another in-law from Brooklyn,
a packet of seeds for a vegetable garden.
But like Nikita said
to those Western ambassadors in Moscow,
History is on our side.
We will bury you.
I have an iPod and an iPhone too.
And five or ten or twenty years at least
to learn how to make stuffed peppers.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Along Came a Spider
Granddad used to wash his hair with Ivory soap,
ignoring the shampoo in the corner.
I brush my teeth
and medicate my face.
I'm alone in bed
except one tiny spider,
scrambling away from my giant pen.
Flick it away and it lands,
clings,
and continues
across the expressive sheets.
Flick it away,
it regroups it goes, goes.
The moon here is not my Athena.
It is chalk on the huddled downtown spikes
and all the highway overpasses, billboards, and gas stations,
the first meager trappings of some eventual hell.
I remember thinking 2004 -
a svelte apartment,
new year’s eve parties,
salvation in the afternoon -
now I'm sleeping inches away from the floor,
in the company of spiders,
not yearning for revolution as my youth would warrant.
I have no, like, screenplay to sell to
I gave up on
what it was,
what was it?
What it was
was Granddad’s soapy white hair.
The Monk and the Scorpion
His mother was young and beautiful,
and a scorpio and when he came of age,
this played a little on his heart and mind.
One of the girls he met was the same way,
and the music that they made
sounded like the old story:
Two monks fishing at the river's edge
notice a scorpion drowning. The older
of the two immediately scoops it up and
sets it on the bank. The scorpion stings
the monk, who goes back to his fishing rod
until again the scorpion falls in, and again
the monk saves the scorpion, and again
the scorpion stings the monk.
"Why," the younger asks, "do you continue
to save the scorpion when its nature is to sting?"
"Because," the elder answers,
"my nature is to save it."
I spread my love so thin,
trying to cover you.
Cursed to that nature,
but blessed,
for my love
is not a thing tied.
My heart is eternal.
And yours.
Fragments of the sun and moon.
Unbreakable, bouncy,
Indian rubber balls.
You can't imagine the zen I got,
when I realized my love was my own,
yet didn't belong to me.
and a scorpio and when he came of age,
this played a little on his heart and mind.
One of the girls he met was the same way,
and the music that they made
sounded like the old story:
Two monks fishing at the river's edge
notice a scorpion drowning. The older
of the two immediately scoops it up and
sets it on the bank. The scorpion stings
the monk, who goes back to his fishing rod
until again the scorpion falls in, and again
the monk saves the scorpion, and again
the scorpion stings the monk.
"Why," the younger asks, "do you continue
to save the scorpion when its nature is to sting?"
"Because," the elder answers,
"my nature is to save it."
I spread my love so thin,
trying to cover you.
Cursed to that nature,
but blessed,
for my love
is not a thing tied.
My heart is eternal.
And yours.
Fragments of the sun and moon.
Unbreakable, bouncy,
Indian rubber balls.
You can't imagine the zen I got,
when I realized my love was my own,
yet didn't belong to me.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Rabble on the B
Let's just say,
I thought I would raise
a particular type
of child, but I won't.
I am waiting for the A train when I see
a fluttering file of bright green trees,
little children being herded
uptown to the museum.
They have their own natural history,
bopping their bowling ball heads
to unseen music, and laughing with
hysteria at empty soda cans and benches.
"Keep away from the platform's edge!"
I hope the text books are not too heavy
in your knapsacks, Little Ones.
I hope you know the rules
are not made for any badness in you,
but only for the makers,
so they can drink black coffee
at the local.
A woman wearing STAFF hut huts,
"No one should be singing!"
and gratefully, the savages and me
continued Singing Any Way.
I thought I would raise
a particular type
of child, but I won't.
I am waiting for the A train when I see
a fluttering file of bright green trees,
little children being herded
uptown to the museum.
They have their own natural history,
bopping their bowling ball heads
to unseen music, and laughing with
hysteria at empty soda cans and benches.
"Keep away from the platform's edge!"
I hope the text books are not too heavy
in your knapsacks, Little Ones.
I hope you know the rules
are not made for any badness in you,
but only for the makers,
so they can drink black coffee
at the local.
A woman wearing STAFF hut huts,
"No one should be singing!"
and gratefully, the savages and me
continued Singing Any Way.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
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.
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.
Pack Night
Tribal at Bembe,
whip-cracked by the congas and djembes.
The DJ was so there that he wasn't.
Nicky got roughed up later,
when the girls we took home
attracted some stragglers
who were smoking trees on the corner.
He plugged the dam,
took some kicks to the abdomen
and got out of the corridor fast.
The cops.
The vino frizzante after.
The morning, hung.
I had smoked my mind,
played video golf while the boys dropped rhymes.
We had wrestled our women away from the others,
we were fathers and sons,
tribesmen and brothers.
whip-cracked by the congas and djembes.
The DJ was so there that he wasn't.
Nicky got roughed up later,
when the girls we took home
attracted some stragglers
who were smoking trees on the corner.
He plugged the dam,
took some kicks to the abdomen
and got out of the corridor fast.
The cops.
The vino frizzante after.
The morning, hung.
I had smoked my mind,
played video golf while the boys dropped rhymes.
We had wrestled our women away from the others,
we were fathers and sons,
tribesmen and brothers.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Meeting With a Slug
Slug on the door,
you give me the willies.
You are near the bottom.
I noticed you when I stepped outside to smoke.
You shimmy along on your own mucus,
and you are a mollusk,
this I know.
You are a snail without a shell.
And perhaps that is the reason
why you give me the willies tonight.
If I salted you,
you would shrivel,
as you did when I was young.
What would you say
if I blew smoke on you now?
What would you say if I spat on you?
I suppose I could crush you,
boot you, stick you, door you,
I've been pissed on too.
You are thinking your way to the bottom
and I hold the door open just enough
so that you will have an easy path
to the ground there below.
You take your time.
You are naked in every way.
I help you down.
you give me the willies.
You are near the bottom.
I noticed you when I stepped outside to smoke.
You shimmy along on your own mucus,
and you are a mollusk,
this I know.
You are a snail without a shell.
And perhaps that is the reason
why you give me the willies tonight.
If I salted you,
you would shrivel,
as you did when I was young.
What would you say
if I blew smoke on you now?
What would you say if I spat on you?
I suppose I could crush you,
boot you, stick you, door you,
I've been pissed on too.
You are thinking your way to the bottom
and I hold the door open just enough
so that you will have an easy path
to the ground there below.
You take your time.
You are naked in every way.
I help you down.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Your Young Son
Your young son died of scarlet fever
which is incorrect,
because that is a Victorian disease.
And your shrink correctly told you to picture
your young son on an island
which you can always visit,
but always have to leave.
You said, How do I get there? The backstroke?
Laughter is the best medicine.
Any port in a storm.
What the hell do I know?
I have some memories of the future
which will not come to pass,
but nothing so real-formed
as a living boy.
His gate was awkward,
but there he was running.
His stroke was erratic,
but there he was setting down
his mind.
I have nothing so solid as a wedding ring,
hiding under the cuff links, keys,
and change,
but there she is tarnishing.
Death do we part.
I am still young.
I think of your young son,
and the father I may be
someday and would I
die if he died,
and could I save him,
save the marriage
afterwards,
when all you see
in your lover's eyes
is loss?
And I think of your young son
alone on his young island, smiling,
waving at his drowning father.
which is incorrect,
because that is a Victorian disease.
And your shrink correctly told you to picture
your young son on an island
which you can always visit,
but always have to leave.
You said, How do I get there? The backstroke?
Laughter is the best medicine.
Any port in a storm.
What the hell do I know?
I have some memories of the future
which will not come to pass,
but nothing so real-formed
as a living boy.
His gate was awkward,
but there he was running.
His stroke was erratic,
but there he was setting down
his mind.
I have nothing so solid as a wedding ring,
hiding under the cuff links, keys,
and change,
but there she is tarnishing.
Death do we part.
I am still young.
I think of your young son,
and the father I may be
someday and would I
die if he died,
and could I save him,
save the marriage
afterwards,
when all you see
in your lover's eyes
is loss?
And I think of your young son
alone on his young island, smiling,
waving at his drowning father.
Judy is Painting My Bathroom Red
Judy is painting my bathroom red
so I have to bathe next door.
She is divorced, works cheap, needs the work, does good work.
But I do not like the color we chose.
A bathroom should be surgical white,
and I should be in it,
rinsing off the film
that accumulated here last night.
Penn Station
The arrivals and departures are announced,
but you cannot hear them.
The rats outside the station scamper
up and down the planters, sniffing out each other’s asses.
A TRENCH COAT by the column shifts
to get a better view of three SHOPPING DAY TEEN GIRLS
in matching winter hats,
with their names painted on cardstock by
and they themselves are appraising the MODEL COUPLE floating through,
in their Burberry and Polo,
and the MODEL COUPLE, they themselves in turn are realizing
the arrivals and departures are being announced,
but you cannot hear them.
And then there are the lost ones
sifting through the station trash,
throwing empty beer cans at me,
spitting bile as I pass and try to silence the change in my pockets,
and they sometimes smash the rats on the planters,
and sniff each other’s asses.
They sustain somehow on the refuse and the rats,
and bleed into the linings of their military jackets.
I make the next train.
PANDA PARKA squeezes next to me,
struggling with her bottle.
She’s going on a blind date in
It is so late and so dark,
and I cut my finger opening the lady’s beer.
I call my old girlfriend to tell her I didn’t.
I tell her about this wedding I went to.
I held the pinky of a typical bridesmaid,
as I puked on both our place cards.
She worked at the zoo, which is mythical,
and I kissed that bridesmaid in the cold traffic,
while the groom danced with his mother,
and wept tapioca tears,
and the bride danced with her father,
and owned him once again,
but none of it was real.
I hang up hard.
My old girlfriend is one of those,
who will be looking for the perfect kiss until she dies,
and now because of her, I suppose,
so will I.
LEOPARD SKIN in the corner of the car is on to me.
She wants to taste the salt of my young skin,
she wants my young eyes on her leather.
The conductor charges me the difference.
ALL THE DENIM IN HER CLOSET explodes on my other side,
all over her paperback,
god bless her.
And bless us every one,
and I plug my ears, and the LEOPARD SKIN,
and the station announcements which you cannot hear,
and my old girlfriend's naughty valentines,
and the blithering SATURDAY NIGHTERS,
their open mouths which are blinding me,
their chatter eating through my music,
drowning out the announcements,
the station stops,
the conductor’s face,
a tussle-topped child in the vestibule squawking,
Keep moving
more seats up front
keep moving
you don’t have all day,
but no one hears him.
I don’t hear him.
And my nose is stuffed up,
and I cracked the skin on my knuckle at some point
opening a lady's beer.
Out the window there are plastic buildings,
lychen trees, and cardboard mountains,
plexi-glass rivers, and working stop lights,
and everything is quiet as snow.
There's the King George Inn,
and the Methodist Church,
and the cemetery across the street,
and Pop's Saloon,
and The Old Opera House,
and the post office
with its famous slogan,
which we all know by heart,
and will recite again:
Neither rain, nor sleet, nor fear in the mirror,
nor ashes to ashes, nor dust to dust,
will keep these rats from sniffing each other’s asses,
and falling into mythical love,
and wrestling with styrofoam angels,
and climbing ladders with broken rungs,
and wanting to live in all time/all place -
anywhere but here.
ANYWHERE BUT HERE.
The end of the line is announced,
the arrival and departure,
the last stop,
but no one hears it.
Not even the innocent.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Thoughts on Day and Night
Everything must change now,
as I've seen Brooklyn itself,
the very face of her,
turn all the way toward the sun.
Our neighborhoods and towns -
the little places we are at -
will always arrive at daylight,
having groped their way through the relative dark
of what we call Night.
We huddle as if it has fallen,
the moon and stars a window shade pulled down in old cartoons,
the feeling that night has a smothering weight,
the pioneers who mumbled, "S'getting dark,
and best we camp here 'til the morning."
The night is not a time of day,
but only a place we've gone to:
the other side of the world.
And the light and the dark
will hold hands running in this way,
long after our fingers have stopped their tapping,
and our legs have stopped ambling Westward,
and our wounds have stopped bleeding for good.
As your body rotates in its sleep,
so that one moment, waking, you feel the heat
of your lover's breath on your lips,
and in another wake to find the cool, flat wall,
or the bedroom's mute abyss,
or a dream that is your own,
so too is the planet hurled through the void.
So too does the earth play peep-eye with its brilliant Ma, the sun.
She seems to come and go,
come and go,
but we're the ones who are turning.
as I've seen Brooklyn itself,
the very face of her,
turn all the way toward the sun.
Our neighborhoods and towns -
the little places we are at -
will always arrive at daylight,
having groped their way through the relative dark
of what we call Night.
We huddle as if it has fallen,
the moon and stars a window shade pulled down in old cartoons,
the feeling that night has a smothering weight,
the pioneers who mumbled, "S'getting dark,
and best we camp here 'til the morning."
The night is not a time of day,
but only a place we've gone to:
the other side of the world.
And the light and the dark
will hold hands running in this way,
long after our fingers have stopped their tapping,
and our legs have stopped ambling Westward,
and our wounds have stopped bleeding for good.
As your body rotates in its sleep,
so that one moment, waking, you feel the heat
of your lover's breath on your lips,
and in another wake to find the cool, flat wall,
or the bedroom's mute abyss,
or a dream that is your own,
so too is the planet hurled through the void.
So too does the earth play peep-eye with its brilliant Ma, the sun.
She seems to come and go,
come and go,
but we're the ones who are turning.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Karma Box
One great wish,
is not so much a certain kind of car,
or other thing,
but to not be watching my self
as my self tries to live.
To not be seen from above or below,
as I, unaware of the act,
live.
Another great one,
is not so much to find someone
who gets me,
or is got by me,
but puts me in confusion.
Not so much for the challenge
of figuring her out,
but so I can't see just precisely,
what it is she needs,
and have no obligation then
to give it to her.
And on the dark side,
so I can't withhold it too.
And the third great wish,
would be a sort of synthesis of the first two:
To live without fear of self-rebuttal,
with a woman - a woman -
who is far too complex to fit inside a karma box.
is not so much a certain kind of car,
or other thing,
but to not be watching my self
as my self tries to live.
To not be seen from above or below,
as I, unaware of the act,
live.
Another great one,
is not so much to find someone
who gets me,
or is got by me,
but puts me in confusion.
Not so much for the challenge
of figuring her out,
but so I can't see just precisely,
what it is she needs,
and have no obligation then
to give it to her.
And on the dark side,
so I can't withhold it too.
And the third great wish,
would be a sort of synthesis of the first two:
To live without fear of self-rebuttal,
with a woman - a woman -
who is far too complex to fit inside a karma box.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Thoughts on Marriage
My brother is holy
as he hands me his ring.
The damn thing is transfixing,
like the oyster is to the otter.
What lightening must have fried the mind
of the first man ever saw a diamond,
glancing it as he speared a fish
and thinking, That, that!
My brother is talking.
This much down, this much per month, this much insurance.
This much he loves her.
My brother's love is holy.
He'll take her to Venice, ask her there.
The gondolier will have seen it a thousand times before,
the trembling fingertips of pride,
the birdflap breath,
the very stone.
There's every kind of light in the damn thing!
I squint and see a thousand eyes squinting back.
My brother's eyes are patiently smiling.
He is quiet as a dying priest.
I hand him his ring,
and the gondolier poles onward.
as he hands me his ring.
The damn thing is transfixing,
like the oyster is to the otter.
What lightening must have fried the mind
of the first man ever saw a diamond,
glancing it as he speared a fish
and thinking, That, that!
My brother is talking.
This much down, this much per month, this much insurance.
This much he loves her.
My brother's love is holy.
He'll take her to Venice, ask her there.
The gondolier will have seen it a thousand times before,
the trembling fingertips of pride,
the birdflap breath,
the very stone.
There's every kind of light in the damn thing!
I squint and see a thousand eyes squinting back.
My brother's eyes are patiently smiling.
He is quiet as a dying priest.
I hand him his ring,
and the gondolier poles onward.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
This Summer
And so we play our little game,
wherein the victim is betrayed.
We build our garden walls stone by stone,
around our precious little diamond selves;
we knock down the walls with mallets,
and then begin again.
The first to act is first to win,
The winner gets a crown.
The crown is made of cardstock,
and bejeweled with plastic gems;
We trade it back and forth,
and wear it on our heads,
and for that precious moment
(til it is stolen back again)
we have the right to say,
"ME, I have the crown and I am KING!"
We take our crown to the merry-go-round,
and ride from start to close.
The buskers and the ticket-takers
cannot know the FUN we have
while riding our ride,
and trading back and forth the crown,
and finding hidden spots
where the white skin is exposed,
and thrusting our plastic swords,
where they'll really cause some pain,
and twisting the hilts,
and bearing our teeth as we're
grinning our stupid I am KING grins.
We say, Fie, Love, you demon witch!
We will kill it here and now!
And we try to catch minnows with boxing gloves,
and try to punch the clouds,
and try to make love to our own reflections,
and they always say I love you back, and say it just as loud.
Have pity on us, for we will disappear.
Before the summer’s light has shifted
Southward for the fall,
we will have gone so far away
as to never have been here at all.
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