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CH Gorrie Sep 2013
Control: the only thing he seemed to care for –
and why did sonatas disturb him so?

He liked people who would never say "No",
found production an important pursuit,

felt generosity somewhat of a chore,
and didn't give change to the destitute.

Do my children love me? never crossed his mind,
which made sense because he'd always bought their affection.

Dismissing depression and dejection,
he found comfort in ruining another's day

(they'd take advantage of him if he was kind!);
"In the end," he'd say, "they didn't win, did they?"
Sep 2013 · 1.4k
Near the I-5/133 Crossover
CH Gorrie Sep 2013
Lavender parted by blunt wind:
the unkempt morning hair
of a park's running path.
Pale-green grass crawls up everywhere
in tufts like a thousand lost toupées.

In spring
cars, northbound from San Diego,
packed with kids and camping tools
or slimmer businessmen,
get full view of it:
                             a transient glance
between La Jolla and Los Angeles,
a moment of flashing color amid asphalt miles.
Sep 2013 · 817
In the Moment
CH Gorrie Sep 2013
1.
"In the future," she said,
"you'll see something similar,
a group of twenty-something-year-olds talking,
and think of your past self as sweet."

If this is true,
what, then, will I have lost?

2.
I sometimes dream of a flawless garden
emptied of philosophies,
all flowering assured.

Finding myself back there someday,
will it be the same
though I'll only see

the unwatered bits baking in open sun,
the unlocked, rusting gate
the gardener – drunk on the job –  left open?

3.
I resent what she said.
It suggests
that the older I get,
the less I'll see
of an increasingly disliked present,
and I can't dislike the present;
it's all that's ever here, there,
anywhere.
CH Gorrie Sep 2013
In great waves of light the grain flows westward,
toward nothing,
and its neutral glint (fugitive, shiny, present)
holds forever,
is gone, then is there.

Colorless
as these reflections are, wordlessly possessed
by waves
they'll never assess,
they comfort.
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Horace had already sung
when pearly gates envisioned
led a heathen to be hung.
Quintus Horatius Flaccus (8 December 65 BC – 27 November 8 BC), known in the English-speaking world as Horace, was the leading Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus. The rhetorician Quintillian regarded his Odes as just about the only Latin lyrics worth reading: "He can be lofty sometimes, yet he is also full of charm and grace, versatile in his figures, and felicitously daring in his choice of words."
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
All that's left of history
is (and will always be )
philosophical bankruptcy.
Aug 2013 · 422
Maybe
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Maybe
all waking life
is is a developed
form of dreaming. *Where was I while
I slept?
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
High school's unwitting, eclectic crowd --
sweethearts, jocks, "gangsters", A.S.B. --
had universes stuffed in it.

You can clearly picture where you'd sit
during lunch, shaded under a tree
near the bike racks; disallowed

and unaware, the future unplowed.
No one expected a baby
(or thirty), marriages, deaths, the flit

to forlorn bitterness: counterfeit
lives. Your peers had much more agency
and promise than they saw, unendowed

with foresight in a teenage crowd.
A.S.B. stands for "Associated Student Body".
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
for Nick and Kaitie

1.
Yesterday, right when our call got dropped,
I was going to tell you something about marriage.

I was going to tell you something gnomic,
a maxim worth getting engraved.

I've since forgotten,
but I believe it was akin to saying that, like Truth,
marriage is impossible to define in verbal space.

So, I guess I'm glad I forgot. The words
would've seemed either too hastily conceived for their subject matter
or else weightless, enigmatic – without impact.

I think it was Auden who whined, “Marriage is rarely bliss,”
though he lightened the phrase by encapsulating it in the context of modern physics –
namely, *at least it has the ability to take place
,
and that should be enough to bring bliss equal to Buddha’s Emptiness.

So, I'm happy our call got
dropped,
for the dial tone was
the pithiest aphorism on marriage any sentient life could've produced.

The key word is “produced.”

2.
    This is what marriage is not:
Socrates gurgling hemlock
    on his dusty prison cot,
giggling as he glimpsed a dikast’s deformed ****;

    Nietzsche tenured for philology
at Basel; Nietzsche feverishly etching
    Fick diese scheiße! on a Jena clinic's wall; biology
predetermining the team for which he was pitching;

    a poem; a hotdog; *******;
a discharged Kalashnikov
    engendering generational pain
somewhere in Saratov

    circa 1942;
this is what marriage is not:
    hatred, jealousy, ballyhoo,
obsessive yearnings for a yacht;

    this is what marriage is not:
anything one pair of hands has wrought.

  *August 22, 2013
^"I think it was Auden who whined, 'Marriage is rarely bliss,'..."^

from "After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern Physics" by W.H. Auden

Marriage is rarely bliss
But, surely it would be worse
As particles to pelt
At thousands of miles per sec
About a universe
Wherein a lover's kiss
Would either not be felt
Or break the loved one's neck.

^"...that should be enough to bring bliss equal to Buddha's Emptiness."^

Śūnyatā, in Buddhism, translated into English as emptiness, voidness, openness, spaciousness, thusness, is a Buddhist concept which has multiple meanings depending on its doctrinal context. In Mahayana Buddhism, it often refers to the absence of inherent essence in all phenomena. In Theravada Buddhism, suññatā often refers to the not-self nature of the five aggregates of experience and the six sense spheres. Suññatā is also often used to refer to a meditative state or experience.

^"I am not talking about inside-out space giraffes / debating Tensor-vector-scalar gravity..."^

Tensor–vector–scalar gravity (TeVeS), developed by Jacob Bekenstein, is a relativistic generalization of Mordehai Milgrom's MOdified Newtonian Dynamics (MOND) paradigm.

The main features of TeVeS can be summarized as follows:
- As it is derived from the action principle, TeVeS respects conservation laws;
- In the weak-field approximation of the spherically symmetric, static solution, TeVeS reproduces the      
  MOND acceleration formula;
- TeVeS avoids the problems of earlier attempts to generalize MOND, such as superluminal propagation;
- As it is a relativistic theory it can accommodate gravitational lensing.

The theory is based on the following ingredients:
- A unit vector field;
- A dynamical scalar field;
- A nondynamical scalar field;
- A matter Lagrangian constructed using an alternate metric;
- An arbitrary dimensionless function.

^"...Socrates gurgling hemlock / On his dusty prison cot..."^

Socrates was ultimately sentenced to death by drinking a hemlock-based liquid.

^"...Giggling as he glimpsed a dikast's deformed ****;"^

Dikastes was a legal office in ancient Greece that signified, in the broadest sense, a judge or juror, but more particularly denotes the Attic functionary of the democratic period, who, with his colleagues, was constitutionally empowered to try to pass judgment upon all causes and questions that the laws and customs of his country found to warrant judicial investigation.

^"Nietzsche tenured for philology / At Basel;"^

Nietzsche received a remarkable offer to become professor of classical philology at the University of Basel in Switzerland. He was only 24 years old and had neither completed his doctorate nor received a teaching certificate. Despite the fact that the offer came at a time when he was considering giving up philology for science, he accepted. To this day, Nietzsche is still among the youngest of the tenured Classics professors on record.

^"Nietzsche feverishly etching / Fick diese scheiße! in a Jena clinic;"^

"Fick diese scheiße!" is German for "**** this ****!"

On January 6, 1889, Burckhardt showed the letter he had received from Nietzsche to Overbeck. The following day Overbeck received a similar letter and decided that Nietzsche's friends had to bring him back to Basel. Overbeck traveled to Turin and brought Nietzsche to a psychiatric clinic in Basel. By that time Nietzsche appeared fully in the grip of a serious mental illness, and his mother Franziska decided to transfer him to a clinic in Jena under the direction of Otto Binswanger. From November 1889 to February 1890, the art historian Julius Langbehn attempted to cure Nietzsche, claiming that the methods of the medical doctors were ineffective in treating Nietzsche's condition.

^"...Saratov / Circa 1942;"^

During World War II, Saratov was a station on the North-South Volzhskaya Rokada, a specially designated military railroad providing troops, ammunition and supplies to Stalingrad.
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
A few hours after the first time someone
looks at you sardonically and says
"Grow up," you feel altogether alone.

Suddenly it becomes one of those days
when the adolescent heart's wilderness
begins eroding. Soon, nobody pays

attention -- not even you -- to distress
in the loosened soil: the dissuaded dreams
you've discarded. Your talent grows listless

and struggles, unacknowledged, till it seems
like the person you used to be and not
you presently, or as another deems.

*August 15, 2013
This poem is in terza rima, the form Dante used in his Divine Comedy.
Aug 2013 · 905
Thinking
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Thinking
back a few years,
I see myself right now,
thinking about myself a few
years back.
Aug 2013 · 1.0k
Larkin
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Larkin
quoted Forster's
"Only connect..." at an
inept boxing match. Was either
correct?
The epigraph to E.M. Forster's (1879-1970) novel Howard's End  is "Only connect...". His humanistic impulse toward understanding and sympathy is aptly summed up by this phrase.

"Legend has it that once, at a dismally inept amateur boxing match in Hull, Philip Larkin turned to his neighbour with the words "Only connect." In its way, this is typical of Larkin. Not only that he should thus introduce a hallowed Forsterian nostrum into a coarse context, but also that he should yearn for aggression and directness."

^http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._M._Forster
^Chambers, Harry. "An Enormous Yes: In Memoriam Philip Larkin (1922-1985)".
Aug 2013 · 522
What's life?
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
What's life?
Awareness or
existence? Let's include
nonexistence. Why's a rock "dead"?
What's death?
Aug 2013 · 483
Writing
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Writing.
A shambolic
translation of the soul,
or so it seems. Perhaps it has
purpose.
Aug 2013 · 395
Sixteen
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Sixteen
(at the day's end)
turns to seventy-six.
Don't scorn aging when so many
die young.
Aug 2013 · 396
"Are you
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
"Are you
alone tonight?"
"I'm alone every night,
even when somebody's with me,"
she sighs.
Aug 2013 · 3.3k
Starbucks
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Starbucks
should close some shops.
Only one every ten
miles would still be too much. *But...but,
coffee!
Aug 2013 · 530
Spirits
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Spirits
circling my mind
fizzle into focus,
then vanish. I wake. *Tell me, were
they dreams?
Aug 2013 · 708
I watch
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
for Tupac Shakur*

I watch
thawed frost glide down
boughs like serpentine glass
and I shiver, spilling my scotch
a bit.
Aug 2013 · 3.1k
Lemons
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
Lemons
ripen, dangling
down; the tree a weary-
headed guardsman at Life's clear gate
to nil.
Aug 2013 · 371
"Never"
CH Gorrie Aug 2013
"Never"
is not a word
one should use. It's always
so deceptively absolute.
*Always.
CH Gorrie Jul 2013
The whole condo is full of Doritos.
It smells like a dentist's office, only
without any pretense of dentistry.
All assumptions aside, I plug my nose.
Crunching under my feet, the cheese meadows
spread the carpet's sprawl. Who'd live in this place?
I compose myself, set my briefcase
down, crunch through the living room. Who knows?

  This is ******* gross. Out of these condos
  this one's the very worst.
A baby's cry
  emanates through this urban pigsty.
  I peer into a room and...baby toes? --
  baby toes! -- peeking from mounds of crushed cheese!
  *Why do these crack heads keep having babies?
CH Gorrie Jul 2013
I do not like the architecture of the mall.
It's discordant and lax. The architects
dismissed all Edwardian charm
and even the Gothic grace.
When crossing my field of vision,
the mall concedes defeat,
whimpering against a prismatic sky:

"I am a hodgepodge of ambition distressed,
resolute on pioneering a style unlike anything past,
but locked off in dead history, trapped
in a monologue whose audience is myself."

I presume it's the same across the world,
architecture molded into something impulsive,
something so forced it falls flat.

Where have all the artchitects gone?
CH Gorrie Jul 2013
Through cold New England January's air
I saw him (Frost) squint,
                                          iconic
from across the East Portico,
                                                 culturally symbolic
on a platform above me (I was twenty-eight).

Years later I knew the paper
he held hard to read,
his hotel's old typewriter
running low on ink
                                 the night before.
The illegible poem a preface

to the one Kennedy requested -
the one he'd read years before (ca. 1942)
in the Virginia Quarterly Review,
                                                        e­yes watering.

Frost stood there, faltering
in the new-fallen snow's reflective light,
half-blinded,
and I was twenty-eight as I thought,
"Kennedy:
                  cultured man,
                                           sycophant, or...?"
"When Robert Frost became the first poet to read in the program of a presidential inauguration in 1961, he was already well regarded in the capital: he read and dined at the White House; the Attorney General assisted his successful campaign to release Ezra Pound, who was under indictment for treason, from St. Elizabeth's Hospital; he was offered the Consultant in Poetry position by the Library of Congress; and the United States Senate passed a resolution naming Frost 'America's great poet-philosopher.' In the words of the poet William Meredith, the decision to include Frost in the inauguration 'focused attention on Kennedy as a man of culture, as a man interested in culture.' Kennedy's decision to include Frost, however, was more likely a personal gesture to the poet, who was responsible for much of the momentum early in the President's campaign."

^The full article is here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20540

Full Film of Kennedy's Inaugural Ceremony:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdG1kcEAsX0

"still unstoried, artless, unenhanced" is most of the second-to-last line of the poem he ended up reciting at Kennedy's inauguration, "The Gift Outright".
Jul 2013 · 5.2k
A Suburban Shootout
CH Gorrie Jul 2013
Have you heard of the
gardens clandestines grow?

The neighbors have, although
until today the gardens were usual, not a
pastime no one would seriously guess.
The flowers are conceptual homonyms
bordered by Boxwood africans
no breadwinning cardinal would bless
with its roost.
                         Grass beneath a golden ninebark
is slightly depressed where some pistol was.
For the past few years the neighbors have wondered daily What the hell is it this guy does?
What, with him always vaguely mumbling "...lots of business trips." It's dark
now, blood spatter coagulates on the picket fence.
                                                          ­                               Four tire streaks on the road,
the responding policemen kept it hushed, speaking in code
to disembodied voices on a radio. Not much more than a glance
and shrug at the neighbors' concerned inquiries.
One consensus formed: he was deep
in consequences from promises he couldn't keep.
This was speculative, of course.
                                                         The palm trees
rustled above their heads. "Maybe he was a clandestine,"
one of the neighbors remarked
as another dismissively barked,
"Ridiculous! He kept a garden!"
Jul 2013 · 909
Not "Killing"
CH Gorrie Jul 2013
There ought to be something seriously sad
in the familiar scene of mouse killed by dog;
granted, such violence is natural prologue
to pity and grief -- but why? One alternative,
when considered, seems more real, not bad
in the moral sense: not "killing", but what defines "to live."
*I'm going to continue you this...but I've got a block for some reason...*
CH Gorrie Jul 2013
"I'd like to find heaven before I die."
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
There were six horses,
Abaco Barbs - black, white, tan -
enclosed in my Olympus's lense.

The camera reached through deadwind
that whipped the Huey's window,
painted a staggered line where the herd had been.

It was fall 1977,
Abaco's Independence Movement had ended;
Oliver and WerBell were gone,

having run off like photographed horses -
distant, almost ignorant of me (at some point,
they must've assumed there were wildlife

photographers inside Abaco). It was fall
1977:
the ornamental Allamanda still rustled in deadwind;

the starfruit still ripened and fell. It was fall
1977 and that country
was nearly the same as it'd always been.
"The Abaco Barb is an endangered strain of the Spanish Barb horse breed found on Great Abaco Island in the Bahamas. The Abaco Barb is said to be descended from horses that were shipwrecked on the island during the Spanish colonization of the Americas and the Caribbean. The population of wild Abaco Barbs that run free on Great Abaco once numbered over 200 horses. The Abaco Barb is found in different colors than the European/African Barb, including pinto (including the relatively uncommon splashed white), roan, chestnut, black and other colors. They range between 1.32 to 1.47 m (13.0 to 14.2 h)."

"The Abaco Islands lie in the northern Bahamas and comprise the main islands of Great Abaco and Little Abaco, together with the smaller Wood Cay, Elbow Cay, Lubbers Quarters Cay, Green Turtle Cay, Great Guana Cay, Castaway Cay, Man-o-War Cay, Stranger's Cay, Umbrella Cay, Walker's Cay, Little Grand Cay, and Moore's Island. Administratively, the Abaco Islands constitute five of the 31 Districts of the Bahamas: North Abaco, Central Abaco, South Abaco, Moore's Island, and Hope Town. Towns in the islands include Marsh Harbour, Hope Town, Treasure Cay, Coopers Town, and Cornishtown."

"In August 1973, shortly after the Bahamas became independent, the Abaco Independence Movement was formed as a political party whose stated aim was self-determination for the Abaco Islands within a federal Bahamas. In October 1973, AIM published a newsletter to launch it's campagn for 'self-determination through legal and peaceful political action'. AIM proposed that all Crown land on Abaco would be placed in a land trust. Each citizen would receive a one acre home lot from the trust plus shares giving them an income from land sales and leases. The land trust would enter into a joint venture to develop a 60 sq mile free trade zone. When AIM was formed by Chuck Hall and Bert Williams, they contacted an American financier named Michael Oliver, who through his libertarian Phoenix Foundation agreed to support AIM financially. The Phoenix Foundation had previously sought to establish a libertarian enclave in the South Pacific, the Republic of Minerva. AIM's first convention, held on February 23 1974, was addressed by John Hospers, the Libertarian Party's 1972 US presidential candidate. Hospers was later refused entry to the Bahamas. The maverick British MP Colin Campbell Mitchell also visited Abaco to offer support."

"Michael Oliver (born 1930) is a Lithuanian immigrant of Jewish descent, Las Vegas real estate millionaire, and political activist. He was the founder of the micronation project the Republic of Minerva, a failed attempt to create a sovereign state in the South Pacific in 1972. In the following decades, Oliver and his Phoenix Foundation were also involved in similar projects on the Bahamian island of Abaco and in Vanuatu with the New Hebrides Autonomy Movement (MANH) which was done by financing an insurrection. He also published a manifesto of his libertarian beliefs. Oliver is prohibited to enter in Vanuatu and his nation-building projects seem to be on hiatus."

"Mitchell Livingston WerBell III, (1918–1983), was an OSS operative, soldier of fortune, paramilitary trainer, firearms engineer, and arms dealer.In 1972 WerBell was approached by the Abaco Independence Movement (AIM) from the Abaco Islands, a region of the Bahamas, who were worried about the direction the Bahamas were taking and were considering other options, such as independence or remaining a separate Commonwealth nation under the Crown in case of the Bahamas gaining independence (which they did in 1973). AIM was funded by the Phoenix Foundation, a group which aims to help build truly free micronations. The AIM collapsed into internal bickering before a coup by Werbell could be carried out."

^http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barb_horse
^http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abacos
^http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abaco_Independence_Movement
^http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Oliver_(real_estate)
^http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitchell_WerBell
Jun 2013 · 506
A Man in My Dream Said,
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
"If the key should bend
backwards from the hole
the room was never yours."
Jun 2013 · 621
Some Marriages
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
Sometimes marriage is like a molten sword
in that both personages continue
being slam-hammered by hammering toward
some vague perfection vaguer hopes pursue.
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
Beyond the ridge of my window sill
stands a young lemon tree, still
unbroken by the wind. Above fly
sparrows, gophers run below. By
the tree's trunk are ripe, fallen fruit.
The wind slows down, all is mute.

*The more I study the sunflower,
or the lily, or the rose,
the more fully I see their station:
subtle expressions of nature's power:
the unending repose
opposing human consternation.
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
"Don't be frightened if I cry
and my shoulders shudder," she
breathes. The lavender of the sky
droops above a dim-winter's sea,
and just as the words are out
I graze her cheek like a blade of grass
drops its dew. "I'd be a true lout --",
her fingers of orange topaz --
gleamed in moonlight -- stop my lips short.
"Don't." Teardrops roll slowly down
in a display apt for an old court
show; such a sadness in her tone.
Jun 2013 · 743
Walking in the Procession
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
Walking in the procession, I see roses
fall from a mezzanine ---
had their purchasée been slighted?

Rough tumble with the wife perhaps?
     Girlfriend who's seen her "prince" deknighted?
          A child's impulsive toss?


Women in the procession
reach out, ***** the breeze.

Some rose is trampled.

Between rush of feet,
I see them thornless, likely perennial ---
a hue that reminds one of injury.
Jun 2013 · 686
Echo of 1982
CH Gorrie Jun 2013
The birch canoe slid on the loose planks.
     Bending lower legs are crookshanks.

Glue the sheets to the dark blue background.
     Cruickshanks gave me the run around.

It’s easy to tell the depth of a well.
     Easier than that to fathom hell.

The postdiluvian era began in Kish.
     These days a chicken leg is a rare dish.
May 2013 · 1.4k
Michal Kubík
CH Gorrie May 2013
Thumb out, he hitchhikes from Prague
to the south of France, floats
the Marais Poitevin face-up
on a flatboard, sees
the last sunbeam slip behind the Louvre, sings
a song he calls "To California", snores
on one more of his friends' floors,
four euro to his name.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rps4jk4LvIo&feature;=player_embedded
Apr 2013 · 2.0k
A Meditation
CH Gorrie Apr 2013
Honest directness may
bring some lasting peace:
murdered Cicero spoke
two millenia ago
all evil man may ever know;
still our statesmen gesture
in orchestral dumbshow.

Is peace born out of a lie?

Each new morning they wake,
senseless, enchanted;
an immense multitude
that works toward a coffee break.
They gaze, glossy-eyed,
upon the imperial upshot:
Democracy and Despotism
mix in the Melting ***.
Apr 2013 · 834
The Song of the Dying Tree
CH Gorrie Apr 2013
I am abandoned by the wind,
left to deteriorate in the fall.
I face my life's end,
growing funereal.

Generations of a blackbird
lived on my limbs when I was young;
their song's no longer heard,
muffled in this dying tongue.

Around me once-bursting life eroded.
Prosperity surrendered to the drought.
Peace and cradling boughs corroded,
engrossed in lonely thought.

If I could drink the wind or see a sapling sway
just one last time, I may feel a little more at ease;
but now time retires and nature runs away.
I whisper, quite weakly, to give the young some peace,

*"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more."
CH Gorrie Apr 2013
Dear Grandma,
Yesterday on Broadway
I thought I saw your face
front and center on the Times ---
it was Margaret Thatcher, she's passed away!

They say she was hatred;
ruined the British manufacturers,
the miners, and the arts;
forgot the Irish freedom fighters,
watched them die from a distance;
they say she failed the English poor,
even fulfilled the Belgrano's fate...

Grandma, I thought of you in your garden,
picking ripened Early Girls ---
you so resemble Mrs. Thatcher;
what will they say of you when you've gone?
No more than brief obituaries
printed in the weekend papers?
Murmurs at the memorial
during your eulogy?

Although you've wronged me once or twice
I can sympathize with your point of view;
I hope someday they'll forgive Mrs. Thatcher,
as I've forgiven you.
Apr 2013 · 1.6k
Eisai and the seeds of Kyoto
CH Gorrie Apr 2013
Tea sprouts wildly
by the roadside:
jade splayed fingers

flaming the earth
in warped green flicks.
Mild, astringent,

the aroma drifts
into the
triviality

of the present.
Looking over
my backyard fence

toward the road,
quick, damp-green scent
antiquates my

vision: Eisai,
holding seeds from
Kyoto, hikes

across border
hills into a
feudal Japan.

The tea-lined road,
framed by my
imagination,

is an anachronism,
a snapshot that’s
double-exposed.
CH Gorrie Apr 2013
I've heard the song birds in the trees,
I've received their grievous melodies,
I've joined them in their ardent song
and now know hatred is not strong.

I've debated many men who think
weakness grows in an intimate link,
and such talk has only strengthened their hate;
unknowingly they fulfill their fate.

It's harder to give a compliment
than hate someone for what you think they've meant;
because of this I've banded with the birds
and sing of love to love's cowards.
Mar 2013 · 1.3k
Euthyphro
CH Gorrie Mar 2013
Geraniums wilt into the bedrock
behind a treehouse the canyon knew.
The lanterns have extinguished.
Crow in the ****** overhead sifts
downward. Below the trundled dune,
poppy after poppy -- hidden in mantling dust --
deafens in its own rustle. Where
is the moon today? Where
does the sky end and wrap
inside its craters?
A caw splits the wind in a palm,
drives it through a lantern's smoke.

We used to watch the lanterns wane
before calling it a night.

We used to put bees in jars
before pulling our blankets up.

We used to sing old gospel songs
before getting out of bed.


I feel older than an ancient discipline,
I swear I was like this before I was born,
I'm trying to discredit my happiness,
but I'm as aimless as ever...
Mar 2013 · 1.4k
San Diego Goodbye
CH Gorrie Mar 2013
Intimate adventures: purple sunset;
Sabrina Elliott at her canvas;
My brother boarding some Utah-bound jet;
Easton Connell reciting tender lyrics,
Caught in a mad faith’s unwitting net:
“Daylight licked me into shape”; then night fell;
The city struggling with unheeded debt;
Lieberman and Sathyadev dying young;
Their mothers, a heart-wrenched duet.
James Howard humming, his guitar unstrung,
Paganini in that delicate hand:
The failed romantics; a thing to be forgotten again.
CH Gorrie Mar 2013
Knocking on my door: Charlie Calgary is here!
His clothes in tatters, upper lip bleeding.
With tenderness my mother welcomes him. He looks
at me knowingly, pretending to tear.
Trickery! Always bluffing till they bring
Something free. He's among the youngest crooks.
She gives him dinner and one of my toys.
"Count your blessings", she counsels me. I frown,
flip Charlie the bird, get sent to my room.
This is the same game he often employs.
Later on, mother's in her evening gown,
Charlie's gone. I sweep the porch with a broom.
The day finishes. It's dark. Quite quickly
the starlight shows --- walking off carelessly, save
knowledge of wounding and cruel, fleeting thought ---
that sadistic boy Charlie Calgary,
whom my misled, well-meaning mother gave
stuffed-chicken dinners, new toys that she'd bought.
Mar 2013 · 463
A Change
CH Gorrie Mar 2013
She looked into my eyes today;
The reflection was not her own.
I could not convince her to stay.
Feb 2013 · 995
"poetry is dead"
CH Gorrie Feb 2013
they told me
                      “poetry is dead”
in hope that when I found it I might leave it in the grave
in hope that a journey might not begin
in hope that I was

and, dying, I found poetry between
where the azalea knots its white crown and drops
between a hole in sunlight and the moon, where
between the living and the dead
a broken vase of its ashes sift
Feb 2013 · 590
April 7th
CH Gorrie Feb 2013
He knew his behavior wouldn't work.
It bred only enmity and sadness.
No one expected to love him less.
I've since pardoned the ****.
Feb 2013 · 695
Early Mournings
CH Gorrie Feb 2013
When first light breaks, the drapes
guard themselves
like wounded children,
whispering

There is no visible end
on which to latch.


Hatred shares
a wall with me,
shares
a callous countenance,
shares
a small, collapsing tear.

Much love to the one who wants it least;
they need it more than most.


Like rosaries
chanted
in an empty church,
I sing an impression of hope.
Feb 2013 · 1.2k
haiku #2
CH Gorrie Feb 2013
The hyacinth and the dahlia
Blossom
In one anothers' shadow.
Feb 2013 · 2.7k
Pigeon
CH Gorrie Feb 2013
The oddly abrupt crack; I turned to look,
Seeing a pigeon squirm in the driveway,
Crippled somewhat; terminally injured.

Unsure, I stared. Death -- for the first time -- seemed
Welcome; the better choice. Quickness is key
In difficult decisions. Scared, I gave

Chance control, putting the bird in the street.
A car passed, killing it. This conclusion
Appeared obvious, even at fourteen.

Maybe accepting this final release
Helps us help others pass away in ease.
Feb 2013 · 2.6k
Springtime
CH Gorrie Feb 2013
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...*

Beyond the blackest cotton glove,
the compulsively edited manuscripts,
unmentionable lines untrained ears love;
beyond the satin lining of a human husk,
the failing engine or cooing soul
nightingales smuggled in the dusk;
beyond asking how giraffes like to die,
the moon's waxing through a kaleidoscope,
eyes hollowing before hearts tell a lie;
beyond the manifestation of a mental illness,
the coffee spoon having no coffee left to measure,
an overwhelming sense of an unseen presence;
beyond where the orchard truncates its blossoming
is renewal of equality like an unmapped sea
spilling its welcome to a choked wish.
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