Tuesday
Sunday
Bear
Little much does skip past the face of a bear,
he weighs one of two endpoints to swat
to play, to chew, to fall, to lay.
Maybe stuck in prayer position does he look up
before he goes to sleep? Does he listen for something?
Lard belly feels good only for rest.
When he does wake does he then
at one moment think about flames or fire?
Hard dries to quick-sugar beef jerky for a large time.
When he does wake does he then
at one instant remember the blue lines on 3rd-grade paper walls?
Gushy wet in the middle of cracked leaf bed brown.
When he does wake does he then
at one perfect swipe see gills feather their drops?
Salt-skank and scales between steel-post mob teeth.
When he dozes away, canoes then
at one end see the paddle match his mechanical paw.
Mark bark big claw limit of the physics in the math.
Maybe stuck in player position does he look down
before waking up? Does he listen for something?
Hard jelly cracks the lie like a brown dream plain.
Little much does skip past the face of a bear,
he weighs one of two endpoints to swat
to fall, to lay, to play, to chew.
he weighs one of two endpoints to swat
to play, to chew, to fall, to lay.
Maybe stuck in prayer position does he look up
before he goes to sleep? Does he listen for something?
Lard belly feels good only for rest.
When he does wake does he then
at one moment think about flames or fire?
Hard dries to quick-sugar beef jerky for a large time.
When he does wake does he then
at one instant remember the blue lines on 3rd-grade paper walls?
Gushy wet in the middle of cracked leaf bed brown.
When he does wake does he then
at one perfect swipe see gills feather their drops?
Salt-skank and scales between steel-post mob teeth.
When he dozes away, canoes then
at one end see the paddle match his mechanical paw.
Mark bark big claw limit of the physics in the math.
Maybe stuck in player position does he look down
before waking up? Does he listen for something?
Hard jelly cracks the lie like a brown dream plain.
Little much does skip past the face of a bear,
he weighs one of two endpoints to swat
to fall, to lay, to play, to chew.
sunset
his red ford rolled up early evening, unusual, i ran out to him, the crystal gleam of the pond near the house bouncing off a slow wind the engine coughed, and stopped, and i hovered, near the thick silence of it he edged the door open, looked past me then turned his eyes and we stared at the graceful tiny soft peaks caressing water "it's done," he said and i stared to speak then but fell back on the truck door armrest instead then i noticed it, no smell, too much edge to him and he looked back again with clear long sighing to which, i happily told him that i'd searched for sunset today, set water out, banged on the oat bucket "sunset knows," he turned, and got up, and i followed him to the water, where we tossed a few rocks and watched that distant outpost fuse with the spin of our earth
up to the barn afterwards i sank into the shadows of sunset's empty stall, drawing in the dust cross-legged while he leaned on her gate, tipped his hat, we strode under faint stars back home and converged upon some logs, and he showed me how to split again, the wood drew my axe as a magnet and each hew spit the thick rush of a wooden wind in spring and each hew pierced the clouds around us
sunset died by morning without giving birth lifeless near a clump of blackberry bushes i found her, fourteen years of her straw smell her scratchy mane and warm neck and black jelly eyes bleeding away, away from me
up to the barn afterwards i sank into the shadows of sunset's empty stall, drawing in the dust cross-legged while he leaned on her gate, tipped his hat, we strode under faint stars back home and converged upon some logs, and he showed me how to split again, the wood drew my axe as a magnet and each hew spit the thick rush of a wooden wind in spring and each hew pierced the clouds around us
sunset died by morning without giving birth lifeless near a clump of blackberry bushes i found her, fourteen years of her straw smell her scratchy mane and warm neck and black jelly eyes bleeding away, away from me
Jetty
Along the wooden hand atop this tangled jetty
This plank I fixed with railroad ties and tar
That wood I chalked her outline on
To defect the mortal tidal ebb and blast
Among the twisted yards of stone I caught
A model ship inside a bottle corked
Like Gulliver I picked it up and stared
But broke the glass to stroke its sculptured prow
And flung it out to see its spin and splash
Then plucked daisies while the sun fell down
Surface the jetty runs a banister
At night I lean and think of railroad cars
And dream of island airstrips touching down
When morning comes I search for sail or mast
Or silver winged tips or iron that billows steam
And ponder the memory of that lilliputian ship
Beneath me sways and slips and recovers
The railroad ties and tar they hold for now
Her outline starts to reappear, it moves
Atop the wooden hand along this tangled jetty
This plank I fixed with railroad ties and tar
That wood I chalked her outline on
To defect the mortal tidal ebb and blast
Among the twisted yards of stone I caught
A model ship inside a bottle corked
Like Gulliver I picked it up and stared
But broke the glass to stroke its sculptured prow
And flung it out to see its spin and splash
Then plucked daisies while the sun fell down
Surface the jetty runs a banister
At night I lean and think of railroad cars
And dream of island airstrips touching down
When morning comes I search for sail or mast
Or silver winged tips or iron that billows steam
And ponder the memory of that lilliputian ship
Beneath me sways and slips and recovers
The railroad ties and tar they hold for now
Her outline starts to reappear, it moves
Atop the wooden hand along this tangled jetty
Jolly
Jolly faded into his black back and slipped from the top
but fell soft on the reddish ring, the bottom thing
not in the scratchy wake or ruddy felt
of the sprinkler flapper canvas sop.
Not just anyone saw him sway and pause and sway and fall
but wrapped, he did around the splintered metal hole
and would have smelled like salt, but the captain saw.
Rest the crew thought something was up or something was down
and that was the frown that snuck along their leather faces
or pride in the place of a crippled fisted pound.
Wonder, they, where the Roger lay on beds of plank sand
and Skipper near the mast, when the jig fell down to slay
his liver while he pulled the eyepiece up and spotted land.
Jumping ship the flag was caught by one more gust or spray or thrust
and brushed the churn while twenty-seven universes burned
before the undergale squeezed his bones
into a ball of water dust.
but fell soft on the reddish ring, the bottom thing
not in the scratchy wake or ruddy felt
of the sprinkler flapper canvas sop.
Not just anyone saw him sway and pause and sway and fall
but wrapped, he did around the splintered metal hole
and would have smelled like salt, but the captain saw.
Rest the crew thought something was up or something was down
and that was the frown that snuck along their leather faces
or pride in the place of a crippled fisted pound.
Wonder, they, where the Roger lay on beds of plank sand
and Skipper near the mast, when the jig fell down to slay
his liver while he pulled the eyepiece up and spotted land.
Jumping ship the flag was caught by one more gust or spray or thrust
and brushed the churn while twenty-seven universes burned
before the undergale squeezed his bones
into a ball of water dust.
Jux
Early morning, pleated,
ink-stained clouds clumped together,
and blue-gray lapses in them spilling into an ocean
just at the horizon, transforming this worn Indiana plain,
a thousand miles from the Atlantic.
This place jerks awake for an instant,
made into a fishing town
on the edge, a sea,
its veins surging up and out,
and nets strike the air,
and raw salt williwaws stab.
She is a juxtaposer from time to time
when she kilters just right, when two temperatures collide,
when the jet stream bunches up like a feeding boa,
only
to
return
to
the stale of weary glass babeling towers
and park garages and shadowy stoplights
sprouting
from decayed gardens of bricks
and scored sidewalks
and steel-barred,
jail-cell drains.
No force,
only nerve;
no strength,
just a smothering lull;
Less ebb and flow
than stop and start
is a kind of senile tide,
impatient,
that brings in waves
of terminals,
thinned-skin, buzzing interfaces,
unquestioning blank cursors
on those reasonable human
all too human faces.
ink-stained clouds clumped together,
and blue-gray lapses in them spilling into an ocean
just at the horizon, transforming this worn Indiana plain,
a thousand miles from the Atlantic.
This place jerks awake for an instant,
made into a fishing town
on the edge, a sea,
its veins surging up and out,
and nets strike the air,
and raw salt williwaws stab.
She is a juxtaposer from time to time
when she kilters just right, when two temperatures collide,
when the jet stream bunches up like a feeding boa,
only
to
return
to
the stale of weary glass babeling towers
and park garages and shadowy stoplights
sprouting
from decayed gardens of bricks
and scored sidewalks
and steel-barred,
jail-cell drains.
No force,
only nerve;
no strength,
just a smothering lull;
Less ebb and flow
than stop and start
is a kind of senile tide,
impatient,
that brings in waves
of terminals,
thinned-skin, buzzing interfaces,
unquestioning blank cursors
on those reasonable human
all too human faces.
Gate and Shadow
Here is a copper padlock on the chipped paint gate,
from it descends the clumpy grasshill way
to a spring wrapped by cave-shapes and shadow,
to boiling water that is bitter cold,
to mossy stone, a slow wet carpeted place,
a ceaseless running out.
Here, the rock and water folds ripple out;
in this wave forms another gate,
a template that traces to a place
where light cracks the same way
dry leaves crunch underfoot after a biting cold,
or rows of pines slice a cloud's passing shadow.
And just as leaves and shadow
tease the air, wafting in circles of up and down and in and out,
a cold
slow waterfall floodgate
shutters and blinks and shifts and sways in the way
of this place.
This place,
that shadow,
will fall and rest and float and fall, spirits without a way.
Until. It pulls me out
and back up to the chipped paint gate
where my key snaps the copper cold.
When my key snaps the copper cold
I will place
dried crushed pine needles at the gate
and pile leaves into a shadow.
Then out,
I will walk out one way.
To depart, now, is the way
steam blankets glass when it's wet and cold;
I float out
and drop into place
past the shadow
that blows from the gate.
Leaving this place,
into yet another shadow,
yet another gate.
from it descends the clumpy grasshill way
to a spring wrapped by cave-shapes and shadow,
to boiling water that is bitter cold,
to mossy stone, a slow wet carpeted place,
a ceaseless running out.
Here, the rock and water folds ripple out;
in this wave forms another gate,
a template that traces to a place
where light cracks the same way
dry leaves crunch underfoot after a biting cold,
or rows of pines slice a cloud's passing shadow.
And just as leaves and shadow
tease the air, wafting in circles of up and down and in and out,
a cold
slow waterfall floodgate
shutters and blinks and shifts and sways in the way
of this place.
This place,
that shadow,
will fall and rest and float and fall, spirits without a way.
Until. It pulls me out
and back up to the chipped paint gate
where my key snaps the copper cold.
When my key snaps the copper cold
I will place
dried crushed pine needles at the gate
and pile leaves into a shadow.
Then out,
I will walk out one way.
To depart, now, is the way
steam blankets glass when it's wet and cold;
I float out
and drop into place
past the shadow
that blows from the gate.
Leaving this place,
into yet another shadow,
yet another gate.
Friday
Doctor Pong
". . .Peaches and cream. You see, dearheart of hearts, everything will be peaches and cream." She holds up a spoonful. "A toast--I propose a toast: to peaches, cows, and the freezing point of milk." We numb-tap, tap the plastic tips together, cold liquidy tongue on my dull heat. I scrape a fingernail moon in the spoonskin dugout part of my neck. I drop the nappy plastic, no sound to speak of unless I was a goddamned little dustmite or a needler, a meddler-fly stopped to throw up on an infinitesimal universe.
"Pooky--it's gone," I say to her out of my scripted little understanding of temporal languidity.
"Well, just ask for some more, silly goob. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you!" She spot-wipes a tiny piece of sex-starved peach from her chinny-chin-chin; oh yeah, she knows how to wipe but she doesn’t know I could care less. And scrolls her eyes, her slow motion slot machine eyes till two peaches rest for a moment, barely off the mark from each other, glowing.
"Pooky-pooh--it's gone, gone, gone."
"Now what’s gone, cause it’s not the creamy-cream-cream I can see that now can’t I?" She fakes a stopped grin to look serious and play the part or part the play, whatever.
Grasping her hand I ragdoll it along the top of my craned neck to the spoony lack-of-a-knob. "Well do you feel anything? The growth--do you feel it?"
And she gets to be astonished. For once in her life she gets to taste a conscious miracle without science, a collective stream (even though it’s just us two), a tap into a wonder that isn’t explained by the next commercial after the 8pm cornfed dinner sofa diet. "Well, what does this mean?"
This does not make sense. I used to have a tumor there, a funny little sonofabitch growth that let me curse it when I wanted, think about becoming wormfood in my hometown cemetery and read about how fast it actually takes rigor mortis to set in--all that and still get to get pitied by her and her whole family, to be the attention getter even when I slept and cram drugs, and cram nightlight walks along the boardwalk in with no regard for splinters, broken bones, disease or the effects of losing myself in fuzzy nightmares. But I can feel the color returning to my face already, I don’t get off that easy. So I foray and pillage in all directions--the fine fakety-fake oaked counter, the fuzzy green covered pool table memory of smells (I wonder if felt dustmites are green), the sudden noticeable lack of ping-pong ball pops and the squelch of cheap video game speakers, the fluorescent ceiling tube flicker which is usually barely detectable and now gets to swing a slowmo cape around my neck in a swoosh-- "Batgirl, to the Batcave-"
"Excuse me—well, I’ll be!" A tasteless, familiar sterile voice, behind me. Pivoting around on the stool (I still have my motion sense, you know), I have to believe it and I don’t like it. "Doctor? You’re late. What're you doing here? Doctor--the tumor, my head is gone: why do you suppose that’s a fact?"
"Now that’s just not funny I'm not here on business. My son and I are here trying out the new ping-pong tables. He's a student here, you know." The doctor is colorful and I get to think that that is odd, really odd but it shouldn’t be since he normally scrubbed his way through honesty in my limited hospital memory. He is wearing a university sweatshirt and shorts. He beams, then contorts for a second and has the gall to beam again.
"But, Doctor-"
"Now, now, I'm off duty."
"No, you're never supposed to be off duty. Doctor--Pooky, tell him. Tell him what's happened. Doc--I’m the miracle man or the dead man--I’m an endpoint either way."
She scrolls her eyes again, but sideways this time and I’m thinking, now I should be concerned about that. "He's off duty--give him a break whadda you want him to do, give you a chemo right here on the fine fake of the oaked counter? Besides, I'd like to propose another toast--to the doctor, and-" She raises her spoon again and I swear this time I see her pause for a microsecond to note the raised plastic ridge from the factory molding on it and her voice trails off to a murmur and a lactose hiccup. She looks me square in the eyes for a moment, that faux soulmate look then the motherly disinterest takes over quick enough.
"Look, son," the good doctor interjects, still grinning as if nothing ever happened, no miracle, no anomaly, no endpoint, still in the middle. "I came over here to see if you could help me and my boy out. I'm afraid we, well, actually, I did it. I hit the damn ball so hard it just-" He sniggers and fakes embarrassment. "well, anyway, we still have a game to finish, and all I have now is a flat ball."
"What?" I want to get sick now, like I should, but I don’t really feel sick. Something is almost wrong that’s for sure. Somebody just snapped a thin piece of lightswitch twine when he shouldn’t have—
"A smashed ball. It's not exactly the first time, but--don't know my own strength. Anyway, when I saw you and her over here I thought, 'there's my answer' and so here I am. So, I will return it as soon as we're done."
"Return what?" I am suddenly cold, now, like I oughta be--a little instinct kicking in. Shivering.
"Why, the sphere, of course."
"What?"
"In your head--you know, the little ball in your head. It's the perfect size. Lucky I brought my bag with me we can use one of the tables here
in the lounge
it'll only take a second
and you'll be doing me a great favor
I think we can take the risk
I don't want to quit
I'm losing the game right now, ah, yes,
here
it is
my saw
funny I had it with me
no need for anesthetic
Pooky-pooh can hold your hand
that always works in the movies
actually I'd call it a miracle
that you were here
I'd call it a miracle--
I'd call it a miracle--
I'd call it a miracle--"
"Pooky--it's gone," I say to her out of my scripted little understanding of temporal languidity.
"Well, just ask for some more, silly goob. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you!" She spot-wipes a tiny piece of sex-starved peach from her chinny-chin-chin; oh yeah, she knows how to wipe but she doesn’t know I could care less. And scrolls her eyes, her slow motion slot machine eyes till two peaches rest for a moment, barely off the mark from each other, glowing.
"Pooky-pooh--it's gone, gone, gone."
"Now what’s gone, cause it’s not the creamy-cream-cream I can see that now can’t I?" She fakes a stopped grin to look serious and play the part or part the play, whatever.
Grasping her hand I ragdoll it along the top of my craned neck to the spoony lack-of-a-knob. "Well do you feel anything? The growth--do you feel it?"
And she gets to be astonished. For once in her life she gets to taste a conscious miracle without science, a collective stream (even though it’s just us two), a tap into a wonder that isn’t explained by the next commercial after the 8pm cornfed dinner sofa diet. "Well, what does this mean?"
This does not make sense. I used to have a tumor there, a funny little sonofabitch growth that let me curse it when I wanted, think about becoming wormfood in my hometown cemetery and read about how fast it actually takes rigor mortis to set in--all that and still get to get pitied by her and her whole family, to be the attention getter even when I slept and cram drugs, and cram nightlight walks along the boardwalk in with no regard for splinters, broken bones, disease or the effects of losing myself in fuzzy nightmares. But I can feel the color returning to my face already, I don’t get off that easy. So I foray and pillage in all directions--the fine fakety-fake oaked counter, the fuzzy green covered pool table memory of smells (I wonder if felt dustmites are green), the sudden noticeable lack of ping-pong ball pops and the squelch of cheap video game speakers, the fluorescent ceiling tube flicker which is usually barely detectable and now gets to swing a slowmo cape around my neck in a swoosh-- "Batgirl, to the Batcave-"
"Excuse me—well, I’ll be!" A tasteless, familiar sterile voice, behind me. Pivoting around on the stool (I still have my motion sense, you know), I have to believe it and I don’t like it. "Doctor? You’re late. What're you doing here? Doctor--the tumor, my head is gone: why do you suppose that’s a fact?"
"Now that’s just not funny I'm not here on business. My son and I are here trying out the new ping-pong tables. He's a student here, you know." The doctor is colorful and I get to think that that is odd, really odd but it shouldn’t be since he normally scrubbed his way through honesty in my limited hospital memory. He is wearing a university sweatshirt and shorts. He beams, then contorts for a second and has the gall to beam again.
"But, Doctor-"
"Now, now, I'm off duty."
"No, you're never supposed to be off duty. Doctor--Pooky, tell him. Tell him what's happened. Doc--I’m the miracle man or the dead man--I’m an endpoint either way."
She scrolls her eyes again, but sideways this time and I’m thinking, now I should be concerned about that. "He's off duty--give him a break whadda you want him to do, give you a chemo right here on the fine fake of the oaked counter? Besides, I'd like to propose another toast--to the doctor, and-" She raises her spoon again and I swear this time I see her pause for a microsecond to note the raised plastic ridge from the factory molding on it and her voice trails off to a murmur and a lactose hiccup. She looks me square in the eyes for a moment, that faux soulmate look then the motherly disinterest takes over quick enough.
"Look, son," the good doctor interjects, still grinning as if nothing ever happened, no miracle, no anomaly, no endpoint, still in the middle. "I came over here to see if you could help me and my boy out. I'm afraid we, well, actually, I did it. I hit the damn ball so hard it just-" He sniggers and fakes embarrassment. "well, anyway, we still have a game to finish, and all I have now is a flat ball."
"What?" I want to get sick now, like I should, but I don’t really feel sick. Something is almost wrong that’s for sure. Somebody just snapped a thin piece of lightswitch twine when he shouldn’t have—
"A smashed ball. It's not exactly the first time, but--don't know my own strength. Anyway, when I saw you and her over here I thought, 'there's my answer' and so here I am. So, I will return it as soon as we're done."
"Return what?" I am suddenly cold, now, like I oughta be--a little instinct kicking in. Shivering.
"Why, the sphere, of course."
"What?"
"In your head--you know, the little ball in your head. It's the perfect size. Lucky I brought my bag with me we can use one of the tables here
in the lounge
it'll only take a second
and you'll be doing me a great favor
I think we can take the risk
I don't want to quit
I'm losing the game right now, ah, yes,
here
it is
my saw
funny I had it with me
no need for anesthetic
Pooky-pooh can hold your hand
that always works in the movies
actually I'd call it a miracle
that you were here
I'd call it a miracle--
I'd call it a miracle--
I'd call it a miracle--"
70's farm
hills dog-fetched
salt filter drops like hard-boiled steam
smelled like black soil ought to
beat their little peaked ever green felt drums
high on the wind
the wind of the rock fences
dripping, plop, plopped
plotted, plotted the valleys
I saw from the fuzz down some fence-row
looked like the cheap scratched purple ashtrays
in motels ought to
dipped their blow
flick of a momentary corner
the corner of the long, thin
sunken gaze half there of chemical air
clapped scared for the animals that
have distance completely at bay
to survive that luscious silver-tipped trip
to the top maybe water-bowled floppy-eared
junk-trunks and sticker-clocks running in reverse, forward
floated, flowed, flowerish stem pistols along your
one-night horizon, felt like peaceful death slipped
and missed in the garden, when you wore cotton
caps with stingy threads, neat threads, haircut threads
and made me turn to sniff some greasy tonic
but only get sweat and tire-air wet instead
salt filter drops like hard-boiled steam
smelled like black soil ought to
beat their little peaked ever green felt drums
high on the wind
the wind of the rock fences
dripping, plop, plopped
plotted, plotted the valleys
I saw from the fuzz down some fence-row
looked like the cheap scratched purple ashtrays
in motels ought to
dipped their blow
flick of a momentary corner
the corner of the long, thin
sunken gaze half there of chemical air
clapped scared for the animals that
have distance completely at bay
to survive that luscious silver-tipped trip
to the top maybe water-bowled floppy-eared
junk-trunks and sticker-clocks running in reverse, forward
floated, flowed, flowerish stem pistols along your
one-night horizon, felt like peaceful death slipped
and missed in the garden, when you wore cotton
caps with stingy threads, neat threads, haircut threads
and made me turn to sniff some greasy tonic
but only get sweat and tire-air wet instead
Thursday
rush candles
through the gate, its hinges split, its handle smooth
her sober hands through the rushes
their tingling spikes, their hollow stems
her stumbling soul, her form moves as
a skipping stone, the force that lets it stutter
over silent lake, that bids it sail, there, there
the air that holds her, that looms wonder shadows
the moon lights the stalk, rush candles
their starry glow, tug and tow
her sober hands through the rushes
their tingling spikes, their hollow stems
her stumbling soul, her form moves as
a skipping stone, the force that lets it stutter
over silent lake, that bids it sail, there, there
the air that holds her, that looms wonder shadows
the moon lights the stalk, rush candles
their starry glow, tug and tow
Seamless Igloo Pelican, You Old Christmas, You
Ice-grass, single thread, left from lightest
beneath a greenly branch twist,
Oh, forgive it
the least copper-edged thaw,
before the nap plastic pelican.
Curly shaves, little black, scratched nail dugouts
along the tulip arm quilled,
Old, poly outlive it,
the underneath fingernail moon,
before the slap fine delicate.
Old poly you're insane,
Old poly you're insane,
Baker-roll it five miles long,
Split-dough pieces water-oiled,
Old poly you're insane.
Shade-cord, mingled bead, right hand dominant
blister ring floss the toothcake slivers,
Oh, deliver it
the least icepick-fest, fishy mouthed
bird wax melted.
Science rag, earthquake pages, pasty wood slices
beside the settling wings,
Own, beehive it,
ghost of the window-shopper sucker who stared
to get it.
Old poly you're insane,
Old poly you're insane,
Baker-roll it five miles long,
Split-dough pieces water-oiled,
Old poly you're insane.
beneath a greenly branch twist,
Oh, forgive it
the least copper-edged thaw,
before the nap plastic pelican.
Curly shaves, little black, scratched nail dugouts
along the tulip arm quilled,
Old, poly outlive it,
the underneath fingernail moon,
before the slap fine delicate.
Old poly you're insane,
Old poly you're insane,
Baker-roll it five miles long,
Split-dough pieces water-oiled,
Old poly you're insane.
Shade-cord, mingled bead, right hand dominant
blister ring floss the toothcake slivers,
Oh, deliver it
the least icepick-fest, fishy mouthed
bird wax melted.
Science rag, earthquake pages, pasty wood slices
beside the settling wings,
Own, beehive it,
ghost of the window-shopper sucker who stared
to get it.
Old poly you're insane,
Old poly you're insane,
Baker-roll it five miles long,
Split-dough pieces water-oiled,
Old poly you're insane.
Gulley
Blew then air thin blue,
where threadbare clumps stitched the ether
into clods and burrows and rim shadows together,
emptiness where the morning carved a field of dew.
Once coursed a river a course,
just beyond the field its whitecaps shone,
now nothing but where the dew hugs the loam
of clods and burrows a hollow force.
Someone before built before one summer a house near here,
with shapely porch spindles and very wide doors;
now are pasted woodpiles along the moor
and eight empty windows to each room still there.
Nothing makes the gulley a gulley a ditch a gutter
of solid slow, gaping air;
Nothing embraces those beaten banks where
the house rippled in the mirror of the water.
where threadbare clumps stitched the ether
into clods and burrows and rim shadows together,
emptiness where the morning carved a field of dew.
Once coursed a river a course,
just beyond the field its whitecaps shone,
now nothing but where the dew hugs the loam
of clods and burrows a hollow force.
Someone before built before one summer a house near here,
with shapely porch spindles and very wide doors;
now are pasted woodpiles along the moor
and eight empty windows to each room still there.
Nothing makes the gulley a gulley a ditch a gutter
of solid slow, gaping air;
Nothing embraces those beaten banks where
the house rippled in the mirror of the water.
ballon
scorched earth this
cracked crust this
floor-over-the-plumbing
gives like walking
over a surface of cheap
plastic umbrella
bending wires
worn embossed taut
see it from up above
vinyl stretched
surgical glove
a balloon inflated
from its outside
around the popping red molten
flat whistle of the mantle
lower, lower
cracked crust this
floor-over-the-plumbing
gives like walking
over a surface of cheap
plastic umbrella
bending wires
worn embossed taut
see it from up above
vinyl stretched
surgical glove
a balloon inflated
from its outside
around the popping red molten
flat whistle of the mantle
lower, lower
Your Brain Stem, Mr. Van Gogh
Server, search your cotton do you look
like the painting that could be tied down,
like the Van Gogh sun tiered tender and round
Do you contend and settle and listen for toxicity,
set, click, subjected to your indifference my quasi-key--
it brought me the pipeline but I barely escaped
I bargained poorly saying "baby, besides the concept
I slept on the bus unresolved," and custody was selected
and the union was dissolved--
Cash precipitated the darling statistics ending in d,
detailed were the tired infinitesimal keys,
the data cork cut outright, and telling everything I was
Disciplined by Mr. Van Gogh, privately obligated,
paws were obligated to the console stack
and his brain stem appreciably licked it back.
like the painting that could be tied down,
like the Van Gogh sun tiered tender and round
Do you contend and settle and listen for toxicity,
set, click, subjected to your indifference my quasi-key--
it brought me the pipeline but I barely escaped
I bargained poorly saying "baby, besides the concept
I slept on the bus unresolved," and custody was selected
and the union was dissolved--
Cash precipitated the darling statistics ending in d,
detailed were the tired infinitesimal keys,
the data cork cut outright, and telling everything I was
Disciplined by Mr. Van Gogh, privately obligated,
paws were obligated to the console stack
and his brain stem appreciably licked it back.
telescope moon
see the downward inspirals, the from-space fractal jetties
twinkling like flakes of sandstone in an empty spring’s past light
their whispers fade from the little surgical coroners
and the shadows ripped from the still, dance a mechanical jig
see them fold back along the ridges that I built, I built
those ridges so clever and convex in their hand-spun perfection
molded them and fired them for years till they had a will
or maybe their will was there all along, along just me
and now they, brittle, break at my touch, my nervous grasp
willing it back to me, I am lost to myself, in the company
of these strangers, the trees and their rooted still,
pray a mechanical god will release its claw
from the little universe near my telescope moon
twinkling like flakes of sandstone in an empty spring’s past light
their whispers fade from the little surgical coroners
and the shadows ripped from the still, dance a mechanical jig
see them fold back along the ridges that I built, I built
those ridges so clever and convex in their hand-spun perfection
molded them and fired them for years till they had a will
or maybe their will was there all along, along just me
and now they, brittle, break at my touch, my nervous grasp
willing it back to me, I am lost to myself, in the company
of these strangers, the trees and their rooted still,
pray a mechanical god will release its claw
from the little universe near my telescope moon
such laughter the stained glass caught
some flowered sun shed its morning glory details
through the glass, reached for the paint-chipped casing,
shadow sticks framing a pressed willow flat hand
from the book I open and close and open and, close,
caught, cornered on a page I want to read, creased
the stained glass lather fountain in the margins,
laughter and mellow pause around the lake
from the eyes such wonderful eyes such speaking eyes
rub paper like dew-soaked embrace in the meadow
then, the parchment always dries as it should dry
on the knobbed grass flats beneath her perfect back
in the sweet velvet-petaled sun, the fearless asymmetry,
one divination, one, her grace, the passion, the blood-red heat
of a prism I can never escape anymore than the golden ellipses
that haunt me to love in my sleepless nights and long valleys,
she, beading down the tethered beat of my soul longing--
on the knobbed grass then, rub paper from my eyes,
such laughter on the page caught, cornered
in the book, shadows swept aside read aside
such laughter the stained glass caught, the flowered sun
through the glass, reached for the paint-chipped casing,
shadow sticks framing a pressed willow flat hand
from the book I open and close and open and, close,
caught, cornered on a page I want to read, creased
the stained glass lather fountain in the margins,
laughter and mellow pause around the lake
from the eyes such wonderful eyes such speaking eyes
rub paper like dew-soaked embrace in the meadow
then, the parchment always dries as it should dry
on the knobbed grass flats beneath her perfect back
in the sweet velvet-petaled sun, the fearless asymmetry,
one divination, one, her grace, the passion, the blood-red heat
of a prism I can never escape anymore than the golden ellipses
that haunt me to love in my sleepless nights and long valleys,
she, beading down the tethered beat of my soul longing--
on the knobbed grass then, rub paper from my eyes,
such laughter on the page caught, cornered
in the book, shadows swept aside read aside
such laughter the stained glass caught, the flowered sun
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