Driving near dusk in cornfields
outside Effingham last fall
picket fences dangle in the breeze:
the space between an infant's teeth.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Strolling (a revision)
She strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds
hiding her face like a lace veil.
Only, her lace is flannel,
and the flagged ends of the scarf
dangle down past her knees.
She strolls alone,
the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines a new family portrait
for each building, all hanging in mosaic
along the walls: star-strung and black;
new blocks becoming new wings,
she builds a slow-growing mansion
for her slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,
the sound of her legs scratching across the sidewalk
reminding her of an army of boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; thinking of her night-mansion
she imagines bedrooms. She strolls alone,
draughting at red lights and cross walks,
each passing car a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her,
inches away. She strolls alone,
breathing deep into her scarf
while her eyes water
against the chill of the opposing breeze;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians
and the relationship of mutual ignorance
she shares with them. She strolls alone
arms cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the empty stillness swallowing
the around-her.
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds
hiding her face like a lace veil.
Only, her lace is flannel,
and the flagged ends of the scarf
dangle down past her knees.
She strolls alone,
the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines a new family portrait
for each building, all hanging in mosaic
along the walls: star-strung and black;
new blocks becoming new wings,
she builds a slow-growing mansion
for her slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,
the sound of her legs scratching across the sidewalk
reminding her of an army of boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; thinking of her night-mansion
she imagines bedrooms. She strolls alone,
draughting at red lights and cross walks,
each passing car a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her,
inches away. She strolls alone,
breathing deep into her scarf
while her eyes water
against the chill of the opposing breeze;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians
and the relationship of mutual ignorance
she shares with them. She strolls alone
arms cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the empty stillness swallowing
the around-her.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Diner Dinner
Missing the Southwest
customs that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork
around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I form meat hypotheses
staring at my plate
and decide ignoring "meat"
might save my stomach.
Bored with side dishes,
I dissolve into lessons
well-learned living in
Texas: grilling steaks
in marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:
I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,
anticipating
my teeth melting deep and slow
in earthy flavor;
tongue stuck collapsing
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,
my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
between tossing tips
his grandfather knew,
and failing to hide his pride
feigning disinterest.
Ripped back into now,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"
securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,
"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."
customs that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork
around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I form meat hypotheses
staring at my plate
and decide ignoring "meat"
might save my stomach.
Bored with side dishes,
I dissolve into lessons
well-learned living in
Texas: grilling steaks
in marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:
I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,
anticipating
my teeth melting deep and slow
in earthy flavor;
tongue stuck collapsing
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,
my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
between tossing tips
his grandfather knew,
and failing to hide his pride
feigning disinterest.
Ripped back into now,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"
securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,
"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."
Monday, November 16, 2009
A moment; a newspaper abandoned, folded
on the floor in a classroom, headlines
readable: a veteran sits smiling in
Class A's and "honored with reception."
Something about his suit summons your shame.
He, a marine, your father, an army engineer,
identical only in service. Still, you smell
the five o'clock cologne of sweat and
cigarette smoke. You bounce to the fridge
grabbing him a beer. Men earn beer
with work. They earn dinner
and football and sleep and still fry pancakes
for their sons early on Saturday mornings.
Men earn soldier with blood, father
with dicks, and Dad with showing
up late to watch his son in a grade school
geography bee son forgot to mention
had been moved earlier in the morning.
You notice this smiling marine and do not ask
yourself: how your father had time to love
you. You will understand the sacrifice
of family when you build your own. You
ask yourself: why you were embarrassed
when you told him:
(knelt behind your desk in class,
quiet, sure not to disrupt,
breathing heavy in a gray sweat-suit,
ARMY plastered on the chest,
head shaved and safe under a black beanie)
he had missed the bee.
The time changed.
Sitting, head down in the classroom
he help pays to put you in,
you wonder: how were you embarrassed of that Man?
You wonder, ashamed, staring through tears
at the newspaper print of the marine:
how did they spit on veterans after Vietnam?
A moment; you wonder: have you earned I love you?
on the floor in a classroom, headlines
readable: a veteran sits smiling in
Class A's and "honored with reception."
Something about his suit summons your shame.
He, a marine, your father, an army engineer,
identical only in service. Still, you smell
the five o'clock cologne of sweat and
cigarette smoke. You bounce to the fridge
grabbing him a beer. Men earn beer
with work. They earn dinner
and football and sleep and still fry pancakes
for their sons early on Saturday mornings.
Men earn soldier with blood, father
with dicks, and Dad with showing
up late to watch his son in a grade school
geography bee son forgot to mention
had been moved earlier in the morning.
You notice this smiling marine and do not ask
yourself: how your father had time to love
you. You will understand the sacrifice
of family when you build your own. You
ask yourself: why you were embarrassed
when you told him:
(knelt behind your desk in class,
quiet, sure not to disrupt,
breathing heavy in a gray sweat-suit,
ARMY plastered on the chest,
head shaved and safe under a black beanie)
he had missed the bee.
The time changed.
Sitting, head down in the classroom
he help pays to put you in,
you wonder: how were you embarrassed of that Man?
You wonder, ashamed, staring through tears
at the newspaper print of the marine:
how did they spit on veterans after Vietnam?
A moment; you wonder: have you earned I love you?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Record Store Disciples
Once, I thought I saw God in a music shop.
He rummaged hungry through old records,
surveying the tracks, dragging His finger
where the needle runs the groove.
After an album passed inspection
He announced the artist and each song
on either side aloud to the store.
Held hostage by his voice, I anticipated
the ensuing selections, ignoring
what He had piled to purchase.
Where I a more meticulous man
I might have noted what God was in to;
I might have glimpsed some secret
hidden from the understanding of man
in the musing of His holy headphones, only now
revealed, God allowing Himself
the indulgence of human-music.
(I imagine now, after the fact,
God digs Neil Young; the beard gives him away.)
But I didn't notice the titles
in His buy-stack. I just stood
transfixed on His lips, waiting
for more matriculation from His mouth.
God, in a music shop, shocked me:
The Bible rewrote itself in front of me,
history now a merry-go-round swirling around
the stationary center of the moment;
His words new revelations
for a set of record store disciples.
Understanding gradually the gravity,
fumbling a copy of Master of Puppets,
my eyes watered and I was suddenly self conscious-
a man crying next to his lady
on a romantic comedy date night.
Moments like that require fog, and a tonal score:
the store swayed under His booming,
the floor hollowed and cracked, we disciples
recognizing lightness and power in our legs
while the ceiling opened in our imaginations,
heaven, sturdy as a stepmother, waiting above,
growing a dance party disco in the clouds.
We all stared at His beard-white mouth pronouncing;
family, community, believers, audience.
Turns out, though, it wasn't actually God.
A fellow disciple explained later
it was just a homeless man draped in tin-foil
with flows of snow-white hair who wandered
in off the streets plucking every Marvin Gaye
album off the shelves he could find.
He renamed each one after a different author:
Here, My Dear became Judy Blume.
Now, I laugh about tearing up,
lucky I didn't see God; if given the chance
I like to think I would have found out
what He listens to: I would have read the stack.
He rummaged hungry through old records,
surveying the tracks, dragging His finger
where the needle runs the groove.
After an album passed inspection
He announced the artist and each song
on either side aloud to the store.
Held hostage by his voice, I anticipated
the ensuing selections, ignoring
what He had piled to purchase.
Where I a more meticulous man
I might have noted what God was in to;
I might have glimpsed some secret
hidden from the understanding of man
in the musing of His holy headphones, only now
revealed, God allowing Himself
the indulgence of human-music.
(I imagine now, after the fact,
God digs Neil Young; the beard gives him away.)
But I didn't notice the titles
in His buy-stack. I just stood
transfixed on His lips, waiting
for more matriculation from His mouth.
God, in a music shop, shocked me:
The Bible rewrote itself in front of me,
history now a merry-go-round swirling around
the stationary center of the moment;
His words new revelations
for a set of record store disciples.
Understanding gradually the gravity,
fumbling a copy of Master of Puppets,
my eyes watered and I was suddenly self conscious-
a man crying next to his lady
on a romantic comedy date night.
Moments like that require fog, and a tonal score:
the store swayed under His booming,
the floor hollowed and cracked, we disciples
recognizing lightness and power in our legs
while the ceiling opened in our imaginations,
heaven, sturdy as a stepmother, waiting above,
growing a dance party disco in the clouds.
We all stared at His beard-white mouth pronouncing;
family, community, believers, audience.
Turns out, though, it wasn't actually God.
A fellow disciple explained later
it was just a homeless man draped in tin-foil
with flows of snow-white hair who wandered
in off the streets plucking every Marvin Gaye
album off the shelves he could find.
He renamed each one after a different author:
Here, My Dear became Judy Blume.
Now, I laugh about tearing up,
lucky I didn't see God; if given the chance
I like to think I would have found out
what He listens to: I would have read the stack.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
laying sprawled in sun-shapes
off the window on my dirty sheets,
a reconcilable form of relaxation,
I name myself "Lesser Than"
still imagining your horizons,
your hips, and the cliffs in your eyes.
I'm sure your face, a desert
where lotion and the hands
of former lovers have smoothed the rocks
swallowing the sands of youth there,
smiles someplace as warm as this
bed with me near sleep across it.
off the window on my dirty sheets,
a reconcilable form of relaxation,
I name myself "Lesser Than"
still imagining your horizons,
your hips, and the cliffs in your eyes.
I'm sure your face, a desert
where lotion and the hands
of former lovers have smoothed the rocks
swallowing the sands of youth there,
smiles someplace as warm as this
bed with me near sleep across it.
Friday, November 06, 2009
strolling
she strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground,
hovering above knitted scarf folds
dangled down past her knees,
she strolls alone,
(the city night a familiar hallway
morphing tenants' portraits with each block)
legs scratching at sidewalk cement,
she stops, draughting at red
lights and cross walks
(the traffic a conveyor belt
of whitewater crash orchestral hits)
she strolls alone
arms cinched in pocets,
no purse around her shoulder,
the thin slopes sharp into the empty
swallowing the around-her.
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground,
hovering above knitted scarf folds
dangled down past her knees,
she strolls alone,
(the city night a familiar hallway
morphing tenants' portraits with each block)
legs scratching at sidewalk cement,
she stops, draughting at red
lights and cross walks
(the traffic a conveyor belt
of whitewater crash orchestral hits)
she strolls alone
arms cinched in pocets,
no purse around her shoulder,
the thin slopes sharp into the empty
swallowing the around-her.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Dogs
When does a dog, struck by a speeding car
border over into suffering, dying,
and finally encore into roadkill?
There must be stages, segments in the
process of wandering the highway
lanes lost or left behind.
When does the green collar stop signalling
home-broken and start reminding
rubberneckers of the special sting of dog
tragedy in people? Thank god for closed eyes,
the entrails are easier to pass then.
But when was the dog only injured,
only still searching, only owned?
There must be a decomposing
logic to the decomposing;
even death must makes sense in scenes.
border over into suffering, dying,
and finally encore into roadkill?
There must be stages, segments in the
process of wandering the highway
lanes lost or left behind.
When does the green collar stop signalling
home-broken and start reminding
rubberneckers of the special sting of dog
tragedy in people? Thank god for closed eyes,
the entrails are easier to pass then.
But when was the dog only injured,
only still searching, only owned?
There must be a decomposing
logic to the decomposing;
even death must makes sense in scenes.
the Übermensch, now a cockhold,
lay sulking in a three day drunk
singing old Elton John songs, fat
with the comfort of calories, sobbing.
(Mona Lisa must be laughing; the same
berserk stare in Goya's Saturn's eyes,
gorily devouring a man top down,
plastered in her waxing cackle-gaze.)
With bile usurpation in his throat,
the Übermensch trundles to his side, gazing
out the Cambridge blue beck of the window,
all Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and cookie dough.
lay sulking in a three day drunk
singing old Elton John songs, fat
with the comfort of calories, sobbing.
(Mona Lisa must be laughing; the same
berserk stare in Goya's Saturn's eyes,
gorily devouring a man top down,
plastered in her waxing cackle-gaze.)
With bile usurpation in his throat,
the Übermensch trundles to his side, gazing
out the Cambridge blue beck of the window,
all Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and cookie dough.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Misogynist Love Song
“Because there is very little honor left in American life, there is a certain built-in tendency to destroy masculinity in American men.” – Norman Mailer
I. Context
1.
Out of the corpse-mud,
the feting soup of rank flesh,
flashes of dogwood.
2.
Ivan, a rebel,
arguing drunk with brothers,
explains away God.
3.
Wolfmen curse the moon,
baying lunacy towards their
dirty Diana.
4.
Mashed against the door,
her face throbs beneath my hand,
cheeks bruising in palm.
5.
Moss grown and jagged,
the boulder of Sisyphus
descends from apex.
II. Romance
1.
Mr. Rochester,
blind lust hands your heart warm blood,
but Jane flies distant
2.
Black nips friendly smoke;
(epic lines tied to dead chords)
Black breathes night's music.
3.
Drifter: shanked, bleeding.
Hemingway's manly courage
preserving the Good.
4.
Dancing too close, we
two-step off beat without pause
over dirt dance floors.
5.
Virtue rewarded:
Pamela, half-raped virgin,
weds her assailant.
6.
Nursing the cooing
bastard, we grate past soft grins
like we gave a fuck.
7.
James Stewart lassoed
the moon for a Christmas bitch,
drowning ambition.
III. Reflection
1.
Two arid flirters,
hearts deep inside tumble weeds,
tangle in sand-dust.
2.
High now, my lichen
fists thirst for your lush neckline,
writhing in gravel.
3.
Hulk Hogan's gold cross
torn from his neck, kids mourn their
hero's defacement.
4.
Bertha Mason falls
guilty from a burning roof:
demonic, lovely.
5.
Numb fraternity
stoked around maypole ribbons
and blooming dogwoods
I. Context
1.
Out of the corpse-mud,
the feting soup of rank flesh,
flashes of dogwood.
2.
Ivan, a rebel,
arguing drunk with brothers,
explains away God.
3.
Wolfmen curse the moon,
baying lunacy towards their
dirty Diana.
4.
Mashed against the door,
her face throbs beneath my hand,
cheeks bruising in palm.
5.
Moss grown and jagged,
the boulder of Sisyphus
descends from apex.
II. Romance
1.
Mr. Rochester,
blind lust hands your heart warm blood,
but Jane flies distant
2.
Black nips friendly smoke;
(epic lines tied to dead chords)
Black breathes night's music.
3.
Drifter: shanked, bleeding.
Hemingway's manly courage
preserving the Good.
4.
Dancing too close, we
two-step off beat without pause
over dirt dance floors.
5.
Virtue rewarded:
Pamela, half-raped virgin,
weds her assailant.
6.
Nursing the cooing
bastard, we grate past soft grins
like we gave a fuck.
7.
James Stewart lassoed
the moon for a Christmas bitch,
drowning ambition.
III. Reflection
1.
Two arid flirters,
hearts deep inside tumble weeds,
tangle in sand-dust.
2.
High now, my lichen
fists thirst for your lush neckline,
writhing in gravel.
3.
Hulk Hogan's gold cross
torn from his neck, kids mourn their
hero's defacement.
4.
Bertha Mason falls
guilty from a burning roof:
demonic, lovely.
5.
Numb fraternity
stoked around maypole ribbons
and blooming dogwoods
Thursday, October 15, 2009
For Norman Mailer
Finally, you are stabbed
and an honest silence
stuffs the room full.
I am as much a bastard
as you are a bitch.
I am sorry.
I call the police
in the rusting seconds after,
there is no reason to deny
this horrible affirmation;
this manly affirmation.
and an honest silence
stuffs the room full.
I am as much a bastard
as you are a bitch.
I am sorry.
I call the police
in the rusting seconds after,
there is no reason to deny
this horrible affirmation;
this manly affirmation.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
on cool sober nights
i have friends who dont sleep anymore and on cool sober nights when the rain seems as steady as biology their thin ankles remember my umbrella hands and how i snake them into soothing massages against the nightmares of cough syrup drunks and mouth memories of fuzzy pills stuck on the backs of their tongues before they dissolve or swallow down and i am a relief to their crumpled eyes but only for as long as i allow myself to dote on them ignoring the real twists in my busy days playing a good friend and storing favors like money when i need it or rides when i am lazy but they dont know i dont have a raincoat or dont think about that when they call me during the nightstorms to rescue them from their monsters so usually i stumble up to their rooms (always upstairs) soaked from the double dark clouds on cool sober nights for sleepless friends
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Sonnet.
in bed after
eating popcorn
and drinking
orange soda,
your breath
tastes like warm,
soft pretzels dipped
in melted cheese;
our open mouths
breathing,
your wet lips
sliding down
my wet lips,
kissing.
eating popcorn
and drinking
orange soda,
your breath
tastes like warm,
soft pretzels dipped
in melted cheese;
our open mouths
breathing,
your wet lips
sliding down
my wet lips,
kissing.
computer-glaze buzzes,
empty pages blinking blank,
swallowed yawns from typists.
swallowed coputer-glaze pages,
empty yawn buzzes,
blank blinking from typists.
typists swallowed blinking buzzes,
blank empty pages,
yawn from computer-glaze.
buzzes from typists,
blinking pages yawn blank,
swallowed empty computer-glaze.
buzzes empty blinking,
computer-glaze blank,
from swallowed pages typists yawn.
swallowed buzzes empty blank,
typist computer-glaze pages,
yawn from blinking.
empty pages blinking blank,
swallowed yawns from typists.
swallowed coputer-glaze pages,
empty yawn buzzes,
blank blinking from typists.
typists swallowed blinking buzzes,
blank empty pages,
yawn from computer-glaze.
buzzes from typists,
blinking pages yawn blank,
swallowed empty computer-glaze.
buzzes empty blinking,
computer-glaze blank,
from swallowed pages typists yawn.
swallowed buzzes empty blank,
typist computer-glaze pages,
yawn from blinking.
I.
grind-growls of a leaf blower
yeilding to the hisses of busses
or soft cellular conversations
II.
old automatic doors jarring
open to the rumble-hum grind
of a gasoline lawn mower
III.
cut grass sprinkling onto sidewalks
where busy black shower shoes grind
pebbles into concrete dust
IV.
pregnant belly swells bouncing
in wobbling walking-rythmns
and the whispy grind of thighs
grind-growls of a leaf blower
yeilding to the hisses of busses
or soft cellular conversations
II.
old automatic doors jarring
open to the rumble-hum grind
of a gasoline lawn mower
III.
cut grass sprinkling onto sidewalks
where busy black shower shoes grind
pebbles into concrete dust
IV.
pregnant belly swells bouncing
in wobbling walking-rythmns
and the whispy grind of thighs
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Shosanna at the End
Dying, Shosanna thinks,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
thinking Death and living
and air are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
Shosanna counts: her dragging breaths,
daydreams under seagull songs,
the yellow shores stored in childhood,
thinking Death and living
and air and memories
are the permanent things
Shosanna thinks, Dying,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs
smooth with lotion, our patent skin
glowing in the failing daylight'
thinking Death and living
and air and memories
Bleeding on the floor,
Shosanna counts: her purging breath,
the panic-gasps of drowning.
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
thinking Death and living
and air are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
Shosanna counts: her dragging breaths,
daydreams under seagull songs,
the yellow shores stored in childhood,
thinking Death and living
and air and memories
are the permanent things
Shosanna thinks, Dying,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs
smooth with lotion, our patent skin
glowing in the failing daylight'
thinking Death and living
and air and memories
Bleeding on the floor,
Shosanna counts: her purging breath,
the panic-gasps of drowning.
The Nightly Mentioning
when I mention: sitting alone
in a night-dark closet dragging
my eyes down thin florescent slits
peaking around door edges
when I mention: meditative sleep
rapt with fledgling dreams stitched
rough against waking-world flashes
when I mention: thumbprint stained faces
in sepia photographs piled on the floor
as bait for wandering dream-ghosts
when I mention: drawn shades
dangling in muggy-thick window glass
when I mention: headaches and dizzy swirls
from nightlong open eyes saved from blinking
when I mention: cracks in floor tiles
scurrying away in peripherals but remaining
cracks in floor tiles in full focus
When I mention: these things,
I hear you, curled in a blue mink blanket, laughing at black and
white movies; the memories
of sharp nights tucked under your down pillows and happy head.
in a night-dark closet dragging
my eyes down thin florescent slits
peaking around door edges
when I mention: meditative sleep
rapt with fledgling dreams stitched
rough against waking-world flashes
when I mention: thumbprint stained faces
in sepia photographs piled on the floor
as bait for wandering dream-ghosts
when I mention: drawn shades
dangling in muggy-thick window glass
when I mention: headaches and dizzy swirls
from nightlong open eyes saved from blinking
when I mention: cracks in floor tiles
scurrying away in peripherals but remaining
cracks in floor tiles in full focus
When I mention: these things,
I hear you, curled in a blue mink blanket, laughing at black and
white movies; the memories
of sharp nights tucked under your down pillows and happy head.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
