“…the country around us is a circle sunk in the mirage.”
–Tayeb Salih, The Season of Migration to the North
Trudging a barrenness
soaked by illusion,
heat-warped.
Why is there a projection
upon the air? Tireless dictator
can’t succumb to the desert—can’t.
Underneath the shaping
of haze, underneath meaning
is you tethered to wandering.
But a lizard is a lizard–
the cloak of meaning
makes you more.
The country is projected
upon the haze. It is yours.
It has meaning. It is meaning.
Another culture, the sun,
mingles with its air, dissolves
its definiteness.
Now your country is
transitory: the desert becomes
realer than a mirage.
But the sun’s pressing
can’t be all. There is something.
You walk closer. It moves.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Death throbs throughout
her body. (She pushed
the needle, and her eyes
are tethered to the empty,
white ceiling.)
Her mind clings to Michael
who’s fixated on the swings.
He is released and attacks
the playground. *Why is he so
happy?* Finally, his eyes pull
away from the sand, he waves.
She tries to push a smile,
but she can tell–from his changing
face–he is learning.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
The bugs don’t disappoint—
their bodies pop as the light-beam snaps
life away. You like it as well
but in the man, shredded by bullets,
on a show watched by millions.
Something within tunes us
to the greatness of others
dying. I know it’s wrong,
but I’m human, and there are bugs.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
I worry about the husky gentleman
that shot Lennon, not because I fear
he’ll come after me, but because he might
be reading this poem. Some bad ideas
are planted by words–their meanings
irrelevant to a brain saturated
by mania and lust. Yet, I still worry
that my innocent verse might form the fuel
for some catastrophic force.
But what if nothing occurs? This poem could enter
for a moment and leave forever, only imparting
a few more minutes filled, or it could be fuel
for a warmer Wednesday evening, leaving
the body more content and the mind
unaltered. . . Somehow, the husky gentleman
has gotten smaller.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
The sky is in a fit.
The land whispers
To the wind
To engulf
Our flames.
And when the sun returns,
A few more will have to be buried.
This isn’t our land.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
Outside glows, snow sinks
between grass blades
I catch a baseball.
Priest pushes my hand
to know the candle’s flame.
The red wick watches, I fall
into the burning.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
Heads bob over waves, another couple
passes. Bennett on his bath towel,
burying his fingers in the sand,
legs pointing toward the sea.
Tries to escape through summer’s haze,
but only recalls the room some years ago:
students speaking of Antigone and he
finally uttering a thought, but his thought
Is thought superfluous. A silence entering
Bennett. Bennett becoming that silence.
But suddenly he is here again,
watching the muttering old man
with his metal detector.
The old man stops, his ugly
voice hushes, and bends
down to grasp the Earth.
He wonders what is there.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
The mob of eyes watch
from the stands the shivering thing
preparing its plummet.
But the thing’s eyes behold
the clouds swelling
with blackness, a storm
somehow trapped
within the gym, bouncing
the springboard
with merciless air.
It was once a lauded machine,
piercing through the water
like a diamond. But, now I see
some pale creature, its little head
watching waves in the pool
distorted by the storm’s will.
Boos and jeers mingle
with the storm’s howling.
I want the diver to dive,
to defy every force,
to sustain an elegance
before the destructive
everything. But it just stands
there, contemplating.
And now my voice joins
the disgruntled chorus.
Finally, the diver goes
slowly down the ladder.
The wave of boos overpowers
the storm’s wailing.
I look around, and next to me
is a child staring into his phone,
I grab it and launch it
into the air, but the phone
misses the diver and plops
into the water. I watch
the diver descend as the child
scolds me for my faulty throw.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
I.
They move away from the sky
to surround a certain park bench.
Everyday, at noon, a hand is there
with the bread.
II.
A crow with a treasure
in its beak, hops away from the rest,
to a nearby puddle. It stares
at the water before dipping
its bread, and swallowing.
III.
Noon again, the birds wander
around the grass, heads cocking
and making noise–their hand is gone.
IV.
A head emerges from a hole
in the bush, its eyes wary
of the world’s movement.
Its furry body appears
in the open.
V.
Rabbits wait underneath
the park benches. The swings
have stopped moving.
VI.
Squirrels journey from their tree,
past the bike wrapped in rust.
VII.
A small dog walks alone across the grass
followed by a pink leash, into
the brown hawk’s vision.
VIII.
The birds have flown,
marking the sky with their formations
and the rabbits cross the empty road.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
The pit of hell eclipses the ******
toilets in the mind of the lone security guard.
He had informed the right people
of the breath of feces spoiling the air,
the spilling of porta-potties dampening
the earth and a girl’s smelly shoes.
But now a man onstage informs, “Um,
there’s a fire…” The mountain of flame
overtakes the crowd. A 10 year-old barks
at the *** onstage. The last guard
ditches the show.
And Ted tosses an empty can where others
have piled, smells something. His friends
were taken by the crowd, purple darkens
on his arm and he wishes he was less bored.
He follows two pretty girls (finally!) but a group
of pale apes finds them and coerces their flesh to be
revealed. He tries to catch the cacophony in the air,
but noise bludgeons. Soon smoke
engulfs the night. Ted makes it home.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC