Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I saw you on the train last night
(Or was it Monday on the way back from the folks?)
Doesn’t matter because you are dead either way.
Aw, it’s not you at all.
Just another reason to write a poem.
Another reason to make something up.
There! With a screech and a holler
You be gone again towards over the bridge.
A Phantom deformed in a stranger
Attached by suggestion to memory
And for that moment
Confused by love.
It’s not that I don’t love you
It’s that I am pointed in a direction
It’s not that you don’t inspire me or make me laugh
It’s that I am distracted by the scent of
It’s not that we are not close
I do, the world cannot be saved by a single bee and a single bloom
No self-determination in magnets, fate alone
I laugh all the time
Hair, humid urgency, the sensation of being taken away as I am being held
Breaking things open,
Concentration to a point calamitous
My heart drawn out as through the eye of a needle
The ecstasy of the process of hollowing
Then a shell filled with scented air
The curdle of your breath
All your unpleasantries delicacies
I will push out what must be freed from you
Push in what must be from me
We are not mortar and stone. We are two stones.
In August salt and rain showered down barren passages in Coney’s desert of padlocks, the real deal not nostalgic fetish clogs of websites and turnpike tattoo parlors making noir not peace. In the early part of the day the emptiness proves itself master over love, the place nakedly nothing, stale fizz awaiting another vain shaking. How surprised are you to come here and then discover how gone it really is. It is a place for wind to travel through. It is a place to commemorate collapsible rot and matter overcome by time underwhelmingly desperate in suspension. It is hunger momentarily sated with dyed fat and vulgar shavings in a cup. It is minor league rage and regret and mostly mockery canned smell it asscracked in cocoa butter and mentholatum armpit smotherfuckers. It is pocked pickets and handy jaybirds under the boardwalk humptastic. It is Hector and hectored, Blanquita and hipster banal-y-wood irony. The bearded lady is just a jew in a lawn chair. Somewhere there are photographic Germans with lunch in their backpacks because must always, right? And uniformly doomed children squeal in delight liberated from books and shoes if ever there were either to pollute their nude aspirations of nothing. Chickenbone says hello too because she is everywhere either in styro or just there. The cola laps like the afterthought Atlantic and I’ve seen cleaner men’s rooms but it is evolution calling, sleeper cell water droplets activate insulin insurgencies and demand on grainy videola that we worship wave-halations, prostrations, face the sun and choke ourselves to death, even here in wretched teeming shores, decrepit with yesterday’s sustainability that only applies to that which we’ve already lost and cheered for. The world is so much more than colored lights and nothing else exactly what the calliope says it is, wounding down groan too old to ever be sun borned again.
In August I brought my Cousins to la playa vieja. Coney Island whasamatter? No mind.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Everywhere there is unlimited space
Except here where space is limited
The world is lost in the whooshing void
Up close a cluttered ball of noise
I can listen to two different noises
The empty hum of massive being
Or the clattery bustle of our puny selves
Either is what can propel me
Or serve as accompaniment
To the slow graceful arc
Of my dying.
I should have broken you when I had the chance
Instead of just rattling you on the stick
(But you liked it on the stick, didn’t you?)
I should have left none of your original skin
Showing, I should have bruised you
Because, like an apple, yes, at the end
Of summer, you deserved it.
And I really wanted to give it to you
Because you really wanted it.
Heat rose from you -
Your breath stank of an empty
Inside dying for love
So I tracked you like a dog
And just a little, I roughed you up.
You took me in places we had
To wash afterwards, places –
Nothing but unfinished business.
You know, if I wanted, I could
Feel you on me any time I wanted
Just by thinking of it
But I couldn’t hurt you just by thinking of it.
I had to leave you to do that
And I only thought of that afterwards.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Funny, I’m not young anymore -
Young young I mean, little and small,
Yet still I recall little conversations,
Funny things we all said
That we all remember
From when we were small and
Funny and close and alive and
A family created by memories and
Built after time by
We only recall when we’re no longer young.
I drove through fog in the Wet Green Mountains,
America unspooling itself from the ether,
Silos and steeples and such, such as it were.
(Who knew it was so close to home? That is to say, nearby?)
And at the top of the mountain, cleared fields.
A cloud had touched down, no other way to describe it –
(“The wet thumbprint of God the Almighty Motherfucker”)
And threatened to asphyxiate the whole picturesque shebang
With its still and violent breath.
But the whiteness! There is the beauty
And the inevitability of death -
Restores my faith. I will vote again in November!
Past silo and porch I sail into America’s very heart,
Opaque and inexhaustible – the two of us dying,
Leadfoot Daydreamer versus the Gossamer Speed Demon.
So much is waiting
Before the thing comes
As if to prove itself
It must first be disproven, negated
Obliterated even – Impossible odds
A shot in the dark but then from the dark
Sun over the mountains – God
Saying there you go.
Then it is here
And it is everything.
It is every reason for being whatever it is
And it is all you will ever need.
While it lasts
But its gotta go you know
Because you can’t,
Despite how successful you think you have been
In overcoming the cruel duality of the human condition,
Hold your breath forever.
Now to write because I can’t read.
The minds I have,
One attracts one repels,
Yet each seems a real response to a situation.
Keeping up the pace, that’s where the skill lies
Or the luck maybe or maybe both.
Sometimes in writing there is so much waiting
And sometimes reading is work.
Everyday I ask for only one thing.
To be left alone with my two minds
And my many others
And to let them find the goat’s path home.
There is a wall. Thin perhaps, clear even
Between any one person and another.
Sometimes it is very sexy.
You go through that wall
It dissolves around you and you are inside
Then there is the other person
Surprised like you are
And everything is funny, tastes funny smells funny
But it is so sexy
And you are surprised to be so turned on,
Your tastes, or perhaps your immediate attentions
As always are too easily believed -
And the dark, sharp, flinty form
At the far end of the car
Is exuberantly separated
The humid wood broached
The roots wetted
And the union!
Powerful because it is
A lust beyond an I. No self of ours
Can absorb all that bliss.
It is Making that rings in you
It is time demanding to be played out
Through you and anything that comes out of you.