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
just like a woman
woke up this morning in a funk, half drunk.
took a short walk around the corner past parched flowers ignored by striped suits and
high heels, and paused to sit on a bench in the park.
the leaves were newly budding on the trees and applauded a light spring breeze which hurried by, bringing with it a light misty rain.
and the clatter of light traffic and bicycles coasting graced and tickled the inner lobes of my ear with their hums.
and i sat and wondered about the worms squirming in the patch of ground directly under the outline of my bare feet, splitting in half and finding themselves, later on, becoming whole again.
breathing in,
and out,
the subtle whistle of a frisbee in the wind became the most wonderful ever, and
so it was as well, the witnessing of a shaggy wet dog
shake himself off in a moppy and familiar choreograph while
children danced in soft rainbows.
i think it's lovely to think of how many words are read at mid-day, all that inked paper bound tight in leather,
all those words written by sad lonely souls at lamp-lit desks in early hours with
empty glasses full of ice, still
all set to melt, no drop of whiskey left.
i think of all the most perfect words in the world like
pants
and the word discombobulate.
teeth.
awful, and thwarted.
and the rhythm of the word lavender.
in the coffee shop, when its right, the word dope.
among may flowers with the sun warming my pale skin, i am burdened with
frustration and sadness:
there is no word which can contain you.
took a short walk around the corner past parched flowers ignored by striped suits and
high heels, and paused to sit on a bench in the park.
the leaves were newly budding on the trees and applauded a light spring breeze which hurried by, bringing with it a light misty rain.
and the clatter of light traffic and bicycles coasting graced and tickled the inner lobes of my ear with their hums.
and i sat and wondered about the worms squirming in the patch of ground directly under the outline of my bare feet, splitting in half and finding themselves, later on, becoming whole again.
breathing in,
and out,
the subtle whistle of a frisbee in the wind became the most wonderful ever, and
so it was as well, the witnessing of a shaggy wet dog
shake himself off in a moppy and familiar choreograph while
children danced in soft rainbows.
i think it's lovely to think of how many words are read at mid-day, all that inked paper bound tight in leather,
all those words written by sad lonely souls at lamp-lit desks in early hours with
empty glasses full of ice, still
all set to melt, no drop of whiskey left.
i think of all the most perfect words in the world like
pants
and the word discombobulate.
teeth.
awful, and thwarted.
and the rhythm of the word lavender.
in the coffee shop, when its right, the word dope.
among may flowers with the sun warming my pale skin, i am burdened with
frustration and sadness:
there is no word which can contain you.
BORN IN A DOORWAY
like a long, loose, lucid dream, the kind that disappears from the mind in an instant, in the morning sun,
over a cup of hot steamy Sumatra, between flicks of cigarette ash, in the exact moment of realization that that which is made
inevitably fails,
the attempt to remember the events, it was like their dissolution and their fade into insignificance;
like the subtle and instantaneous shivers felt in moments something is perfectly stated and said,
said even with the knowledge that truth does not exist and is mostly dead,
it was like the humbling assurance in its quiet breath, within reverberations of its precise utterance
and in the simplicity of it simply being said;
like the warm and muggy sweat produced by two nervous hands held together in a shed, among cold corn and dead bodies rotting in a field, like an insane laugh coming from a little girl huddled in fear,
like the brief wind produced by two gasps, shaking up dust from the windowsills, from all the would-be artifacts,
it was like the nervous tap of his foot, the hollow sound of wooden floor before the blast;
like watching marshmallows melt into hot chocolate or the harmony of crickets at dusk, the sound of fingernails tapping wood,
the way a tack moves into drywall as it is pushed in or the salty ocean and the way its air sticks to the skin,
like dewdrops on a spider-web
like writing a poem, reading it later, not knowing what was just written, what it all means or what it meant,
but feeling it is beautiful, anyway;
like dead leaves falling in the fall,
the first time i saw her it was like all that
but not like that,
at all.
over a cup of hot steamy Sumatra, between flicks of cigarette ash, in the exact moment of realization that that which is made
inevitably fails,
the attempt to remember the events, it was like their dissolution and their fade into insignificance;
like the subtle and instantaneous shivers felt in moments something is perfectly stated and said,
said even with the knowledge that truth does not exist and is mostly dead,
it was like the humbling assurance in its quiet breath, within reverberations of its precise utterance
and in the simplicity of it simply being said;
like the warm and muggy sweat produced by two nervous hands held together in a shed, among cold corn and dead bodies rotting in a field, like an insane laugh coming from a little girl huddled in fear,
like the brief wind produced by two gasps, shaking up dust from the windowsills, from all the would-be artifacts,
it was like the nervous tap of his foot, the hollow sound of wooden floor before the blast;
like watching marshmallows melt into hot chocolate or the harmony of crickets at dusk, the sound of fingernails tapping wood,
the way a tack moves into drywall as it is pushed in or the salty ocean and the way its air sticks to the skin,
like dewdrops on a spider-web
like writing a poem, reading it later, not knowing what was just written, what it all means or what it meant,
but feeling it is beautiful, anyway;
like dead leaves falling in the fall,
the first time i saw her it was like all that
but not like that,
at all.
WHERE THE HEART IS
on the way home in a boeing DC-17,
working on a chunk of peanut shell stuck in my upper teeth, i'm streaking across
a magnetic magenta sky at a speed unnatural for
humans to travel and the sun is setting over waves of puffy clouds
rolling off across the horizon.
six hours post-grandmother's funeral and i'm still a bit shaky from
the recent sensation of holding her warm veiny hands go cold,
nearly instantaneously;
i thought a faint pulse lingered on but i was wrong.
although i knew it would happen, it still shocked me,
the intense ice of it all, anyway.
i sit locked in for departure although the sign says that it's safe to roam and
i've really accomplished something great,
i've retained the scent of the red and yellow tulips outside of her apartment.
somehow, in my ears, church bells from around the corner play on still.
here i am
nearly a mile above appalachia, edging my way back home and
this is where it happens, while i'm siting next to an anonymous dreamer in a suit
with black thin business socks.
piercing clouds like needle and thread through a cotton sheet i
pass by the moon and the myths and i'm enveloped in a somber sadness
not knowing why or what this feeling is,
or means,
and not really trying to.
i come to one conclusion:
i do know that i didn't mean to leave you calm and quiet, riding your motorcycle out west in a light evening rain across an abandoned desert highway,
pavement cold and endless,
lizards scurrying in the sand,
early morning dew on needles,
blinded with tears in your jade eyes.
working on a chunk of peanut shell stuck in my upper teeth, i'm streaking across
a magnetic magenta sky at a speed unnatural for
humans to travel and the sun is setting over waves of puffy clouds
rolling off across the horizon.
six hours post-grandmother's funeral and i'm still a bit shaky from
the recent sensation of holding her warm veiny hands go cold,
nearly instantaneously;
i thought a faint pulse lingered on but i was wrong.
although i knew it would happen, it still shocked me,
the intense ice of it all, anyway.
i sit locked in for departure although the sign says that it's safe to roam and
i've really accomplished something great,
i've retained the scent of the red and yellow tulips outside of her apartment.
somehow, in my ears, church bells from around the corner play on still.
here i am
nearly a mile above appalachia, edging my way back home and
this is where it happens, while i'm siting next to an anonymous dreamer in a suit
with black thin business socks.
piercing clouds like needle and thread through a cotton sheet i
pass by the moon and the myths and i'm enveloped in a somber sadness
not knowing why or what this feeling is,
or means,
and not really trying to.
i come to one conclusion:
i do know that i didn't mean to leave you calm and quiet, riding your motorcycle out west in a light evening rain across an abandoned desert highway,
pavement cold and endless,
lizards scurrying in the sand,
early morning dew on needles,
blinded with tears in your jade eyes.
THERE'S NO LEAVING NEW YORK
rather than bitch or give any semblance of a shit
suit pants typically pristine now drenched in piss
broken glass cutting deep into burnt boiled skin
limbs broken and snapped like branches and twigs
mumbling soft words in an exasperated breath
laying near death in a bloody stinky mess
sky full of manila folders and remnants of desks
crying out helplessly with no hope left
in a cold shade made by the congestion of ash clouds in a blue sky
while off somewhere in high mountain tops
hums and drums of winds race through cracks and whistle alarming songs
and the urgency of the breeze rustles dead leaves from off trees
where a rat's skull is shattered in an instant
clasped between owl claws in an early dewy twilight
far away from block parties
and hot dog stands
and women in cowboy boots on the corner
far away from capped and flag-waving boys at parades
yellow taxi honks and pedestrian shouts
and the early morning garbage trucks
poets sitting in creaky buildings
in classrooms in the winter
looking out glass windows
witnessing the snow fall through thick black glasses
warmed by their tweed jackets
smudged ink everywhere
while i attempt to remember how lucky and fortunate i am
to be alive
even in this moment
as my last breaths draw out
i keep wanting to return
to any given summer day
between the ages five and eight
to be on the tree swing which kept a natural rhythm in my front yard
to feel the feeling that i could fly away
but truly
honestly
rather than that
rather than bleed
rather than scream
or dream or scheme
or laugh or cry
rather than try
rather than
all that
to wish for it to be different
for it all to start over new
i will stop in the shade of a bodhi tree
in the twilight hour
under a shimmering diamond sky
i will sit in lotus pose
eyes closed
with a soft breath
waiting for you
suit pants typically pristine now drenched in piss
broken glass cutting deep into burnt boiled skin
limbs broken and snapped like branches and twigs
mumbling soft words in an exasperated breath
laying near death in a bloody stinky mess
sky full of manila folders and remnants of desks
crying out helplessly with no hope left
in a cold shade made by the congestion of ash clouds in a blue sky
while off somewhere in high mountain tops
hums and drums of winds race through cracks and whistle alarming songs
and the urgency of the breeze rustles dead leaves from off trees
where a rat's skull is shattered in an instant
clasped between owl claws in an early dewy twilight
far away from block parties
and hot dog stands
and women in cowboy boots on the corner
far away from capped and flag-waving boys at parades
yellow taxi honks and pedestrian shouts
and the early morning garbage trucks
poets sitting in creaky buildings
in classrooms in the winter
looking out glass windows
witnessing the snow fall through thick black glasses
warmed by their tweed jackets
smudged ink everywhere
while i attempt to remember how lucky and fortunate i am
to be alive
even in this moment
as my last breaths draw out
i keep wanting to return
to any given summer day
between the ages five and eight
to be on the tree swing which kept a natural rhythm in my front yard
to feel the feeling that i could fly away
but truly
honestly
rather than that
rather than bleed
rather than scream
or dream or scheme
or laugh or cry
rather than try
rather than
all that
to wish for it to be different
for it all to start over new
i will stop in the shade of a bodhi tree
in the twilight hour
under a shimmering diamond sky
i will sit in lotus pose
eyes closed
with a soft breath
waiting for you
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