you on slick earthy sand
under the magnificence of
periwinkle and pink
cloudless sky
are paralyzed with
a sobering wonder
while the waves of sound
that emanate out from
the rustles of barefeet in
the swampy shrubs join
the crunch and grind of granules
churned between naked toes
in the soft pliable beach
amplified by
unwanted silence
and you crouched down
beside an oil-covered pelican spewing
brown and black sludge and filth
from its gaping cavernous beak
while boats struggle
in the sticky coastal wake
inhale the scent of
something foul and disorderly
and you
the giver of names
i observe your ways
how you slouch over
shaking and despondent
how you weep ceaselessly
still fish washing in from
the warm salty sea
how the regal bird
is also
stiff and dead
and without any breath
how you are such a broken
helpless
lonely dumb thing
THOUGHT OF THE RIGHT WORDS
when this particular picture dislodges itself from out of the spine of a novel that i have not read in years (but can still remember the scent of its dried ink and the brittleness of its paper).
it falls to a warm ground into fresh cut grass and it's a picture of a foot, a left foot to be exact (with a white crescent moon scar above the ball of the ankle).
there's something to be said about how quickly i recognized that it was your foot:
i do have, just to mention, hours and hours of intensive study, watched mosquito bites itched in the dark under white sheets and
the tracing of cool water surfaces with your big toe,
countless times.
there's certainly something to be said about how when i saw it fall i felt that i had to run out the door into the busy street,
into a sea of unfamiliar feet,
to look and look for you
everywhere.
it falls to a warm ground into fresh cut grass and it's a picture of a foot, a left foot to be exact (with a white crescent moon scar above the ball of the ankle).
there's something to be said about how quickly i recognized that it was your foot:
i do have, just to mention, hours and hours of intensive study, watched mosquito bites itched in the dark under white sheets and
the tracing of cool water surfaces with your big toe,
countless times.
there's certainly something to be said about how when i saw it fall i felt that i had to run out the door into the busy street,
into a sea of unfamiliar feet,
to look and look for you
everywhere.
YR HEART
so we've made it here
at the midnight hour
in a corn field
under a dark starry sky
while a low yellow moon lights a narrow sliver
which is the path
cut through the stalks
my father made one day
on november twenty-third
two thousand five
as he traveled
with machete in hand
on a glorious morning
as he supposed god's hands
had something to do
with the horizontal streak of
violet in the sky
and the sublimity
inherent in the particulars
of that sunrise
(flying v birds
the distinct taste
of autumn leaves in the breeze
the steam rising from the warm earth)
now the crickets
dance and hop to orchestral chirps
which pulsate a slow concerto
lulling worms to sleep
two worms cuddled together
who were previously one
they have met each other
again
somehow
by chance to reunite
worms ripped apart
by tiny fingers of an idle child
on an evil afternoon
in the summer
he had just finished
frying ants
by magnifying glass
and here we are
basking in an air
thick with hibiscus
an air so thick the tongue
seems to be able lick it
(and it tastes of
your body where the
neck meets the back of
the head)
and all the tiny hairs
on our forearms
the ones we never notice
stand upright at attention
in salute and respect
to the cool wind which
dries our sweat
and tickles our pale nervous skin
we have made it this far
past covered bridges under which
a short creek ripples
past the achy tractor
and the rock too heavy
for my grandfather's arms
to lift
in his old age
(although he was a wrestler
in the 20s)
we infiltrate the field
to the deep center
to the heart of it all
in the middle of ohio
where we attempt a
family reunion
where we hope to be with our
mother-earth
and we do this
arrive to this there
from some here
living by the agreeable words of other poets
and sensational headlines in the papers
and all the lectures taking place
in ivy brick buildings
and the speeches at the town halls
and the preachers at the pulpit
on sunday morning
and stories told by our mothers
before we leave for school
and we have come here
demanding answers
to the questions age-old
asked by bearded men around fires
in fur cloths
when the first word was invented
and we figure that
she must have the answers
or any one answer
that here we can find some
peace
but we leave jittery
pulled back and forth
by a mysterious and invisible force
yanked this way and that
like a kite
fluttering
in a wild
stupid wind
at the midnight hour
in a corn field
under a dark starry sky
while a low yellow moon lights a narrow sliver
which is the path
cut through the stalks
my father made one day
on november twenty-third
two thousand five
as he traveled
with machete in hand
on a glorious morning
as he supposed god's hands
had something to do
with the horizontal streak of
violet in the sky
and the sublimity
inherent in the particulars
of that sunrise
(flying v birds
the distinct taste
of autumn leaves in the breeze
the steam rising from the warm earth)
now the crickets
dance and hop to orchestral chirps
which pulsate a slow concerto
lulling worms to sleep
two worms cuddled together
who were previously one
they have met each other
again
somehow
by chance to reunite
worms ripped apart
by tiny fingers of an idle child
on an evil afternoon
in the summer
he had just finished
frying ants
by magnifying glass
and here we are
basking in an air
thick with hibiscus
an air so thick the tongue
seems to be able lick it
(and it tastes of
your body where the
neck meets the back of
the head)
and all the tiny hairs
on our forearms
the ones we never notice
stand upright at attention
in salute and respect
to the cool wind which
dries our sweat
and tickles our pale nervous skin
we have made it this far
past covered bridges under which
a short creek ripples
past the achy tractor
and the rock too heavy
for my grandfather's arms
to lift
in his old age
(although he was a wrestler
in the 20s)
we infiltrate the field
to the deep center
to the heart of it all
in the middle of ohio
where we attempt a
family reunion
where we hope to be with our
mother-earth
and we do this
arrive to this there
from some here
living by the agreeable words of other poets
and sensational headlines in the papers
and all the lectures taking place
in ivy brick buildings
and the speeches at the town halls
and the preachers at the pulpit
on sunday morning
and stories told by our mothers
before we leave for school
and we have come here
demanding answers
to the questions age-old
asked by bearded men around fires
in fur cloths
when the first word was invented
and we figure that
she must have the answers
or any one answer
that here we can find some
peace
but we leave jittery
pulled back and forth
by a mysterious and invisible force
yanked this way and that
like a kite
fluttering
in a wild
stupid wind
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