Why did I do that?

Ego.  Lust.  Mystery.  Opportunity.
The lure of something new and untapped;
a scent unregistered, voice un-memorized;
inside jokes yet to be born.

Such a heady dervish dancing,
spinning, surrounding all that tiny life
I perceived as quite the opposite;
set in motion not so much by

the haunted eyes of the widow lady—
weaving once again well-worn epics
of her-story for an adoring audience,
luridly exploiting tragedy
for various personal gains—

but maybe by the way she stroked
that beer bottle while she spoke?

Without doubt, there were
other factors, but you were
never one of them.

I plead stupid.
Vain.
Shallow.
Self-absorbed.
Short-sighted.
Ridiculous.
­Unforgiveable.
Twenty-one.

For many years
I claimed, “If I make my mistakes
big enough I just might learn something”.

When I learned
there are no mistakes, recognized
my arrogance, gave up
to the universe, threw up
my hands and succumbed to the ride,
embracing my own sky...
all those times I’d thought of you
turned into stars raining
like tears of brilliant joy onto a black canvas,
formed overlapping constellations, and shone
like a *******.

Stars to wish on, stars
to navigate by, stars
to name on a starry night,
stars to twist into animal shapes
like a clown with long balloons—
and all those stars,
and there are more
than I can count—
settled forever in my heart
and cannot be dislodged.

Here I Iay on my virtual back,
atop my personal Alaska
dream mountain, on a summer
night deep as sin;
imagining you
laying beside me,
pointing out the brightest ones,
recounting the stories I’ve forgotten;
all those connections to you
twinkling overhead—
and I savor the
blessing of your
big bang smile

that’s what I want to do

forget this minuet around  
     over     through
situations/words/
phantom
blink of tears

just 2 foot lengths
spreading wide
for a 12 pound maul/
random tangle trap of hair
for beads of honest sweat

excluding our palms,
our skins
are too tough.
The answer—
The balm?

Split wood:
ash, maple, pine, cedar,
elm, hickory, apple
    
heave   grunt   slam   crack   silence

Work with me/
                  with me/
aim for the perimeter
and the heart will break open
                   smooth      clean
            still full of life
and ready to burn

We are rain, we are tears;
we're the condensation
on your beer mug.

And we form,
and fall,
and feel forgotten
some times.

From heaven, to earth,
and back again,
we take trillions of tiny journeys—
assemble in sheets,
hover in mists/
trickle, splatter, pelt without mercy/
quietly collect and freeze/
loud as the sea, softer than the whisper
of death—easy to deflect and shatter,
with power to carve canyons.

From shoulders we
vault to elbows,
dance down arms,
scurry between legs,
squish between toes,
hurry down the drain
linger on linoleum
when you pad away
from the shower,
trailing steam down
a sweaty hallway—

to where he lays motionless,
breathing sunny
solstice dust
in a closet-sized room.

“Better”?

“Oh, much.  And thanks for the towel, too”.
 
                                                         ­                II.

Everything about you was flat.

I knew your hair was blonde
but also something else—
not dishwater
or *****
or even unclean—
“flat” was the only word that fit.

Flat as your face,
your chest,
the bottoms of your shoes,
and not a whole lot less scarred.

Flat as your eyes—
such eyes as I’d never seen;
not always awake—
hunting/wanting/sharp
like a scavenger’s
yet full of blind spots,
placed there by the drug
to impede self-perception—
and wantonly green.

I knew only your name.
You hung with Jim, haunting Mother’s—
just two junkies bumming change.
I was amazed you managed to survive.

House rule was
never trust a ******,
but home alone,
in too much pain to care,
I let you take a shower,
borrow my towel.

We compared spinal surgeries;
vinyl siding on childhood homes;
monsters and movies;
fruits we didn’t like;

a nod to new music/
put on your red shoes and dance the blues

then places we’d go
when our ship came in;
the greasiness of the sun outside;
the final indignity of death—
anything but our lives just then.

From summer cotton to suddenly nothing—
no memory of how or why.
You spurned my offer
of a cigarette after
with a gesture so shy

and self-conscious
I felt myself growing
suspicious—then alarmed, confused,
and finally, amused
at my own lack of observation.

You weren’t hiding anything.
You just didn’t want
me to see you
as begging.

Grim sonnets fraught with fraud and trauma stuff
her notebooks—steamy, bitter memories
of finished romance, rarely with enough
sweet lip syrup—ripe with frivolities,
important drama, broad license.  She needs
an audience like green things need daylight.
I’m the sun to her bright lily.  She reads
with fierce emotion—I squeeze my arms tight
around me, choke a chuckle—she pretends
I’m just amused at her soul-piercing style.
So much to ask, this ritual she tends
like a garden?  I feign attention while

she rails at love and fate, lips pursed or drawn—
sarcastic, crushed, dismayed her youth is gone.

that’s what I want to do

forget this minuet around  
     over     through
situations/words/
phantom
blink of tears

just 2 foot lengths
spreading wide
for a 12 pound maul/
random tangle trap of hair
for beads of honest sweat

excluding our palms,
our skins
are too tough.
The answer—
The balm?

Split wood:
ash, maple, pine, cedar,
elm, hickory, apple
    
heave   grunt   slam   crack   silence

Work with me/
                  with me/
aim for the perimeter
and the heart will break open
                   smooth      clean
            still full of life
and ready to burn

“Those who do not want to imitate anything,
produce nothing”.  Salvador Dali -- Dali on Dali

Dreamrise.

The sliced steep slopes of those cliffs could be anywhere--say, Yosemite--buttered by
the same sun, not battered by these calm seas, or bothered
by melting timepieces draped about the landscape.

Why does the artist’s head melt, deconstruct, feather into foreground loam— teeth, tongue,
lips fading nearly without notice, nose pillowed on his own ear?

Is there a reason a single housefly struggles against sky-blue stickiness--imperiled heroine
awaiting the locomotive crush of the sweeping minute hand--or why the bottom
of her golden prison melts in the sepia heat, its silver sisters hung limp
from a branch long dead, or laid carefully
as a blanket over the sleeping
focal face?

What of the copper watch, alone in original form, though a cluster of ants spews from its center
in lieu of hands?

The artist provides no answer, perhaps presuming the question sufficient.

That dead tree—
the only thing vertical, unless you stand beneath the cliffs;
the only thing anchored, unless you allow the cliffs;
the only thing obviously dead, unless those buttered cliffs are someone’s skin—
that tree is Watcher and Scribe, the Presence of the World, and at its base
a face is embedded, of some Bosch-spawned horror, gaze trained beyond
borders, back to the Middle Ages, or maybe on its own shadow.

Straight lines are few enough to count.  The horizon is one, or four, depending on how you tally.
Plain plank painted every hue of blue on the canvas numbers ten—again, depending—could be seven.
And the platform: four, or six?  Are these tricks of the eye or the mind—or math?  By the magic
of perfect draughtsmanship it works out to just the right number.

Note the placement of pebbles—gold right, gray left—for each side of the brain, he dreams; for balance,
for focus, for scale and distortion, placed with precision to escape first notice, the better to manipulate
mind and eye to see what isn’t there:
                                                          ­          the dark,
                                                           ­                          the void,
                                                           ­                                          this universe collapsing,
                                             ­                                                                 ­                                     howling open emptiness,
no stars, no cliffs, no clocks
wormhole of sleep which draws all from there to here,
bloated, belligerent Babylon of black consumes the bottom corner, far removed from ants,
beckoning the dreamer homeward--or Hellward?

In every direction lies fear or fulfillment,
each boundary spreads wide to possibility,
from this static domain where no breeze exists
to mar the surface of an ocean
so vast.

Bernie frames the TV
between his feet--
left hand remote,
beer bottle balanced
by his right—
clicks through half-time shows,
clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer,
a death-ray secret weapon,
clicks just to do it, an idiot’s
smile faint on his face.

he sees only noise

Emma tends her stamps,
perched on the plain board chair
she upholstered herself—
its arms worn, warm,
warmly welcoming—
her back to her husband,
her life as wife and mother
coming to a languid close.

she tastes some regret--
yet spicy with passion--
where life has had its way with her.

The rug’s bright stew of colors
can’t hide everything
children spilled
when they were young--
juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears;
little dreams,
tiny heartbreaks,
minor crises
ground into the weave;
all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs,
blood and sweat and nightmares congealed
into solemn patina--
I see protects it from time.

These solid objects—
stout, no-nonsense chair
wearing gouges, marks,
discolorations of use
and years like badges;
fat, chunky, cigarette-burned
BarcaLounger, drunk
from drink spilled
on every surface,
handle supple
as a young girl’s wrist,
swirling a territorial aura
around its microscopic
sphere of the universe;
and the rug…
unassuming, proletarian,
handmade and honest,
each scrap of fabric
chosen by the weaver’s hand,
now useful again,
reveling in redemption—
these solid objects
invade,
infuse,
invigorate
otherwise empty space,
squeeze meaning from the world
around them,
same as the hand of the artist
sculpts love from her heart
to give them life.

The children have moved away
Old friends are dying every day
Stamps no longer can be licked
There is no way to interdict

The Jets are losing again

Stage Design/American Drama


Down front on America’s stage—
awash in a universe
of light arranged by
the ultimate technician.
Come closer.  Anticipate
spectacle.

First sun-splash
on these shores fashions
fool’s gold of surf that heaves against
foam-smoothed, lobster black,
slick rock beaches of northern Maine/
bubbles about black rubber boots of men in boats—
another day, another dime,
shivered away in ancient rime—
adrift in fog on the black
                                          glass
                                                   harbor
                                                               surface.

Grand Canyon sunrise
          EXPLODES
               copper and white/
                    orange and green/
                          blood red/
over many thousand pounds
of brash brown
        dirt—
in every direction/especially down.
       Soldierly shadows armed with swords
       of slivered sunlight hack through scrub
       like so much meat, to each day’s final
       battle at the canyon’s rim/
while a mile below the torment
called the Colorado
turns silver and gold,
black, blue, and
thundering
mud.

Louisiana bayous trickle chlorophyll caramel over twisted hickory sentinels, monumental elms and sycamores—even the alligators.  More mystery here than far-flung nebulae—and everything fighting back ***** green kudzu.

The Badlands of South Dakota, striped like the surface of a ***** peppermint planet—sizzling in the sun, bone cold in the shade—knobby tan canyons wrapped in ribbons of rust that dribble sounds one can neither recall nor reproduce.

Same phenomenon frames dawn over spongy folds of tall green cilia ocean called simply The Plains.
Kansas, Nebraska, horizons so far away thunderstorms creep along like dark, threatening slugs.
Distant night fireworks laden with punishing hail hide tornadoes and winged farmhouses in the horizontal gloom.  In the morning—those sounds again.  Critters?  Wind.  Ghosts, maybe.

Spectral mists of the Great Northwest cloak clear-cut sores on Nature’s sacred,
fragrant, deep green shores, falling steep to the creamy Pacific.
Light's a plaything here.  Big Sur
renders color to gem, sparkles
down the coast
to rusty Golden Gate and grimy LA,
where the sun goes down brown
and the rain shines
like gun metal.

Georgia soil—
homicidal redheaded cousin running loose, looking for trouble—
grows swampy hardwood groves/
leaves hung limp from humidity/
masking antebellum secrets/
offering sanctuary to voodoo practitioners and moonshiners alike.
Magic, danger, ******, and ghosts
of slaughtered slaves wander tight-packed old-growth forests.
Some say the soil is red from ancient conflict,
unanswered pleas for mercy drowned
in the drenching rains
of hurricanes
strayed north from the Gulf of Mexico.
Others claim tears of countless mothers will never leave
Civil War blood completely dry.

Northern New England foliage--
master maples drunk on fresh cider/
psychedelic finger-paint exhibitionists high on
the year’s last harvest,
intoxicated by Nature’s largess/
symphonies of scarlet, tangerine, lemon, even purple--
regal birds migrate over lakes so blue
you could chip your teeth on them,
and a diehard hemlock conducts its final green opus to a sea of primary colors.

Iowa is quiet and corn, obscuring whole towns and the lives held captive therein.  All the green on Earth is planted here; all the sun, all the sapphire sky feeding knee-high-by-July crops, bleaching spare white churches, white picket fences, white-on-white generations and all their vanilla dreams.

Linger beneath Montana’s cobalt crystal canopy to know why it’s called Big Sky.
Stark, Crazy Mountains chase stuttering clouds above treeless, tumbleweed towns,
bathed in the same blues as Wyoming, blown through a wild man’s horn.

A wink of sunlight
mirrored in unseen peaks
perhaps hundreds of miles away—
snow so white/Rocky Mountains so hard and gray—
behind a universe of wheat flatness beckoning the eye to infinity, slowly,
slowly, the Continental Divide rises
from the horizon like a monster parade balloon filling with gas on another continent.
The Flat Irons--majestic stone slabs lounging against Boulder's nearby foothills--
were cursed by ancient observers.
One peek at their precarious slopes compels you to return.
Been back three times and I’m still not sure I believe it.

Southwestern deserts’ blaze,
haze, and halo—spotlights hot,
focused on towering sandstone totems.
Deep gashes of flowering canyon, adrift in the flat and barren,
rage water, mud, and death during summer storms.
Scrub and sand, dust and desolation, land unfit for demons.
Get thee behind me, Arizona.

Endless, straight, lonely two-lanes
carve the lunar landscape of west Texas
into parcels of wasteland, miles marked by
bleached carcasses of ranch animals
and their predators, some hung
on fences as a warning
that people really do
live there.

Cities have their place,
                    their places,
                    their placement--
but my heart can’t pound to the beat of traffic
like it does to waterfall spray.

Turn your back to the fire in sufficient twilight and a mountain range sharpens into a line—
coyotes prowling, howling on the perimeter.
To spy on a wild animal lost in thought.
The sight--and sound--as swans alight or leave a hidden pond.
Northern lights and swamp gas,
everywhere the stench
of Earth.

This
is what matters—
all around us—
this alone.

Not politics,
not religion,
not countries.

Just this—
stage.

kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.

Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.

It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.

No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.

No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.

Agreed.

Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.

The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat.  Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.

Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.

Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.


11/5/10

I hate what this culture does to everything—
turns it meaningless; makes it product.
“What’s the matter with that?”
you ask.  Nothing, if **** is your color.

“Turns it meaningless; makes it product—
what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
You ask nothing.  If **** is your color
you’ll love what comes next.

“What the hell?  Is that supposed to mean
you count yourself among the blameless?”
You will, love.  What comes next
could decide many futures, assuming

you count yourself.  Among the blameless
will shamble the shameless, the hopeless—those who
could decide many futures.  Assuming
you won’t be one won’t save you.  In droves they

will shamble—the shame less, the hope, less.  Those who
are just looking for salvation know
you won’t be.  One won’t save you in droves.  They
count on your believing you

are just.  Looking for salvation?  Know
that very few walk this world anyone can
count on.  You’re believing you
can’t change that.  Poets won’t, I know

that.  Very few walk this world.  Anyone can
write a poem today.  Scribble down words you
can’t change--that poets won’t.  I know.
I’m writing poetry.

Write a poem today.  Scribble down words, you.
You are not alone.  In knowing that, is what
I’m writing poetry?
I want to rip it up and start again.

You are not alone in knowing.  That’s what you,
I, hate.  What this culture does to everything.
I want to rip it up and start again.
What’s the matter with that?

On campus--at the very top of the new
eagle pole--a raven struts, one fleck of blood
stuck to his beak from morning carrion, bright
black eyes the same primeval color
as those on the pole.  This ode to nature,
this prayer, this harmony of adzeman’s skill,

tradition, inspiration, and sacred task—I’ll
admire it later—was carved by folks who knew
from childhood each crest and its nature.
Mostly from the clan, and of course blood
relatives, they memorized each color
of each crest, how to mix together bright

pigments from this root, that bulb--right
amounts of everything, reagent to skill
to alchemy--required to make each color
sing.  The importance of ritual to renew.
Significance of Nature, consequence of blood.
Black iron raven in landscaped nature

patch consults his brother.   “Our nature
is belligerent, our destiny to chase bright,
shiny objects and live off the blood-
sticky leavings of another’s ****.
Don’t you think we should blaze a new
path for ourselves?”  Replies the other,  “The color

of your coat is lighter than the color
of your mood today.”All around them Nature
labors.  “Brother, we don’t need a new
direction.  Our future, as always, is bright.
We’re the keepers of knowledge.  Our skill
at irony keeps us relevant. As long as blood

is red They will need us.” He ***** on the blood
red head of the top crest.  A streak the color
of snow bounces down the faces.  “If you ask, I’ll
reply,” he cackles, which makes Nature
grin.  A fuzzy red vole begins to climb right
up the front of the pole, as I realize how new

it is, how fresh the pine.  When I think of the blood
shed by men for money I am struck dumb.  Right here--the only color
green you ever need--Nature.  I’d as soon carve as ****.

11/3/10

“I’m *****.”
That flirty rejoinder floats
over your disappearing
shoulder.

Thirty plus
years form the chasm
between us;
mine battered, distressed,
faded as an old picture frame;
the remainder of
yours a potential masterpiece--
highway to many horizons
with no vanishing point.

I am no more this man
before you than
I am the Fourth Horseman.
Certainly you see through
my fraud of calm indifference
and practiced control.

No beating I’ve taken
compares with that
my heart is doing right now,
remembered in a glimpse
of your legs
in ***** black stockings,
now walking away
in loose work jeans,
brushing dust
from everywhere.