Almost all of the photographers I've met
Think love is born from beauty, and
To that end that press
Some model's laughing face
Onto another model's handsome shoulder
Money falls against money
In those pictures.

Most photographers I know
Think peace is the only thing
Worth showing anyone -
A snapshot of hills
With maybe a leaning tree
Or a brook running down the valley -
Green against green in a sick world.

But there is one picture-taker
Who goes the world over in search of love
And finds it in huts and jails and scummy apartments,
Who sees that true peace is a falsehood
And a dream to be achieved
Only long after he is gone;
Only when his pictures become scenes
For wealthy and untroubled eyes
And his whisper is taken up as song.

Do you remember that time
We played our homecoming show
On the field, muddy with marching,
With a rainbow arching over us?

Do you remember the kids there?
We invited them to play along,
And everybody got a little confused
About when to leave, and left early.

Do you remember hearing them cuss,
And suddenly we knew we were old,
That sometime in our sleep
We'd crossed sides and grown up?

You don't remember?
I guess you didn't see the rainbow,
Or feel the mud on your shoes.
I guess for you it was second nature.

You got tricked into working,
Tricked into missing the colors in the sky.
Childhood is behind you, and you didn't see it go.
You think you've still got innocence to spare.

You're old and gone now, though you're still here.

The phone throbs in her hand like a wound.
A voice over the wires tells her,
“Your son is hurt, not dead
Like the others, thank God, but
He cannot be moved.”
There is a dial tone.

He will be coming home soon,
And she will set out the best china -
And she must start sewing shut the right legs of his trousers;
She must tell the little ones to be quiet in their play,
But it does not matter.

No more will the phone wound her,
No more will she wake at night with an uncertain cry.
He will be coming home soon
And she will make the little house shine
With her many waking wonders.

The flash of our general’s bayonet
Is brighter than ours, the blade
More piercing, sharpened every day
With a worn out whetstone.

The general’s cry is fiercer than ours,
******* and ferocious. His eyes
Reflect green back to us, as though
No light can penetrate them.

In the charge, no man outstrips the general.
The bullets that fell his men only graze
His flanks, as though a common soldier’s shots
Dare not strike at a higher rank.

He is first to take the hill, first to raise
His battle-muddled head over the ridge.
It is he who first spies the other side
And calls victory while the last men fall.

There is no sorrow like our general’s,
Sorrow that follows each man to his grave
And climbs on those broad shoulders
When the rites are given and dirt thrown on.

And we, though we may know his worth,
Question him for all that dirt - could we not
Have moved less earth? Had so many to die?

Our general, beaten in victory, shuts his eyes.
His chest heaves, but he will not cry for fear
That we are right. He will not have it said
That great men were led to die by a coward
Who was afraid to shoot at death.

His breathing slows, his eyes open,
He orders us to march and not to shy
From death, for always some must die,
Though he cannot tell us why.

In a land of fools, I have walked
The halls of learning.
I have seen the brawny shoulders
Of boys with bulls' brains,
And the pixie-thin arms of
Girls who yield their value
With a cheap laugh and hungry teeth.

I have seen the mudcaked hands
Of striving, fighting fools.
I have seen the victory march
As it dissipates slowly into silence.
Yet it may be said that I know
Nothing of "life," for here is only
Pantomime - and poorly done.

For the fools and I are equals
In the pockets of the world.
Kept like a gold dollar to be
Spent on a child's trinket and
Forgotten in a merchant's purse.
We are like the apples in an orchard,
Waiting safe behind walls,
Only to fall and be eaten.

I was a dog once,
With a thick coat and
A sure bark. A safe bark.
I wanted to make my way
By the sides of humans.
I wanted to smell the
Shoes and feet and
Sidewalks and small
Animals of the world.

I was a dog once,
That am dead now,
With flat eyes and
A flat cage. A sharp cage.
I was named once,
That am now named
"Get 'im, get 'im"
Or called sometimes
Just a shout that
Bites me tight,
Tighter than any
Other once-dog's bite.

I was a dog once,
A loving pet.
I was loyal,
But loyal loses bets.
Now I am what
Teeth demand of me,
What voices demand of me.
I am irretrievable,
And I am hungry.

There was a place I knelt
In the light of chicken feathers,
And heard the song of God
Pouring from rain frogs in day lilies.

There was a bark bench in a wood
Underneath an apple-cedar rusted tree
That yielded its slimy children to me
Whenever I needed entertaining.

There was a rabbit that did not run
Immediately, but stilled and watched,
Nose twitching in apprehension, as if
Maybe I was no interloper, no enemy.

These things were -
And some still are -
Though I no longer remember
The path to the fallen pine
Or the hiding place of the rabbit’s burrow,
And the tree has been burned up
For many years.

There are pangs of hunger in me,
Not to hear God in the day lilies
(For I am still shaking from the sound),
But to find in myself the
Absolute wonder that I found
Inside a circle of roses.

Knives are slippery things and
No matter what handle they bear,
They are sure to find themselves
In flesh sometimes, by mistake.

When a human hand is wounded,
And blood flows, and a voice cries
Out in pain from the whole body,
It is still the hand that must heal itself.
The valiant cells who die to bridge
The new rift must drift from their
Places near the cut. The brain can -
At first - do nothing but tell itself
How the hand suffers, but

Then comes the second reaction.
Then comes the instinct so buried
That it is not even a thought.
Blood is needed, so the marrow works
In the hands and the arms and
The chest and even as far as
The legs and feet. Infection will try
To sneak in - the brain knows this
The way canyons remember rivers.

So then come the blood cells,
Red and white, to defend their new
Homeland, (or their new home,
Since they are all of one being,
One great and unbroken body.)
Fever may come, or not; a scar
Might form that never fades, but
The hand never forgets that it is made
From the stitched skeletons of saviors.

And despite knives, the body prospers.
One hand bandages another, one foot
Bears the full weight while the other heals,
The body survives: not unchanged, but
So tempered and hardened in the changing
That it has no need for fear of knives.

There stood Colossus gripping tightly
At his injured head and whimpering,
Hemorrhaged for centuries and crumbled
Down to the crying blocks below,
To the crying nation below.

There stood tragedy in her nightclothes,
Caught unaware and unprepared,
But still willing to give the boys a show.
There drifts the smoke and burned up men.
There falls the mighty God of Rhodes.

Hanging now is the thick dust that blinds,
Hanging now is Comedy’s tired head, weeping
From sadness and silence and the ****** dust.
In the roads, the people stand and scream,
In their homes, the people sit and mourn.

Televisions show the Colossus fall,
But the only sound is a news anchor, bawling.
The crushing concrete quenches some
Of the hungry fire, and unofficial officials
Dive into the carcass for survivors.

The Hudson washes down the morning
With debris; and somewhere far off
I am seven, looking at the walls,
Wondering why our class
Doesn’t get a TV.

For North,
Wake up at 12:00 to the smell
Of cheese frying in a pan of butter
And bread turning to toast,
Get out of bed. Go into the kitchen.
There's a broad, straight back
Drifting down from near-straight shoulders,
Burying itself in an apron around his waist.
Smile and hear the words "Good morning!"
Try to remember last night.
Try too hard and wake up.

The sun in the east has a message
And delivers it to the west,
But the North and South were burned
And never venture close enough
To read the words.

For South,
Wake up at 9:00 to the smell
Of salt and dust. Wake hungry.
Stare upwards at the ceiling stains,
Stare sideways at the peeling paper
On the walls. Remember how she hated it.
Sit up. Lay down. Breathe. Do not think.
Get up again. Take an aspirin for the headache.
Drink a beer for the headache.
Go to the filthy kitchen and try
Not to make a grilled cheese.
Hear a dog bark. Contemplate canine ******.

Long for her, long for him.
Long for the cruelest lingering touch.
Wish for her eyes; wish for his smile,
And languish in the arms of a dream.
Whisper to no one in the voice
Of the world's most beautiful folie à deux,
And shut your ears to all you cannot hear.

If Our mad dances slow to dirges
And the dark barges in on the stars,
If yours and mine is Ours no more
And shy, pale-faced reminders sigh
Behind the back door a-nights, then
I shan’t write another word for you,
Nor for me, nor Us, nor anyone.

If Our wild eyes and frisky paws
Are stilled into purposeful tools,
And Our twittering, jabbering jaws
Lock up in the great presence of fools,
Then I will shut up my heart’s blood
Inside some useless pen. I will forget
What We were - what you have been.

I will charge myself with this heaviest
Of oaths: when We are no more alight
And the stars still shine,
And the flowers blossom,
And new babies are born,
And the pointless world still shakes with joy,
Then I shall write no more.

For when We are not, what happiness
Is there more than a choked off laugh
In a silent void?

Hey, Achilles, what’s it like
To die from an arrow you didn’t see?
Hey, hey, happy stuttering Hercules
What’s it like to be mad and ****
The woman you love,
The children you love,
What’s it like to watch terror born
On the faces of helpless thousands
And be counted in those thousands
As defenseless? What’s it like,
Hercules, to be loved, to be a hero,
To be unstoppably strong and
Uncorrectable? (In the back of your head
There’s a voice) Pleading with
Wreckage in the making and
Begging your arms not to swing,
Your hands not to squeeze,
Your lungs to stop breathing
Long enough to faint and later wake
With sense and reason?
Do you ever want to die?
No, no. “Dying is for fools,” you say.

You are a legendary fool in paper armor,
Tilting at windmills and running from smiles;
You are happy, blind, and wounded
In the ruins of a diseased world.

There’s no fear in the place
I’m going to be in a few years,
In the time it takes to tune a piano,
In the decades of a dog’s wagging tail.
There’s nothing scary there.

When I’m as many years older
As there are seconds in a lightyear,
Or sound waves in wallpaper,
I’ll still be ****-a-doodle-doing perfectly
Dandy in a yellow-spotted bouncy way.

When I’ve said and written as many
Words as there are to say on an afternoon,
And when my heart’s as old and big
As orange and gold, as great as
A slide whistle going up, up, up, then,

I’ll see what I saw when I was
The size of a bright laugh:
That all the world, in its infantile grace,
(Even the places nearly shaded from sight)
Is bursting with unexplainable light.

And now the good day has gone around
To somewhere near New Zealand,
(Which is all the better, for I hear they are in
Deep need of good days)
And the “goodnights” have come
And gone to bed with yawning lips,
And the empty loom is stocked with threads
To weave new dreams, good and bad.

Now I nestle in with pillows
And ice for one of my Icarus burns.
It is hard to express why the sun still
Shines in my chest, warms my shirts,
Smiles against my breast like a robin’s
Breast smiles gratefully back to the sun.

Today was a good day,
And tonight is good,
And the stars have not forgotten me,
Nor the moon turned her face away
In one of our play fights,
So I cannot help but fill with warmth,
Though our bright conductor has marched off.

I’m still humming yesterday’s song -
Which is like the call of a mockingbird,
A little bit borrowed, a bit absurd,
But after a long good day, I find
That I cannot say with my words
What is best expressed by birds.

When we came laughing back
From our romp in the waves
And our mothers beckoned
To the pink sand in the setting sun,
It followed us to shore.

It looked like us and smelled like us,
But spoke some other tongue.
We were loathe to trust It at once,
But the adults said “everyone gets a chance”
So we gave It one.

It wasn’t so bad to start,
It learned our language and told us
Things about the deep from whence It came,
But sometimes It burbled and choked,
And we didn’t let It play with us those days.

Then, one quiet morning,
While the birds were silent and nested,
The fog came rolling off the banks
Thicker and darker than ever before.
Our papas were late for work and
Cars crashed on the interstate.

Weeks went by and it didn’t dissipate.
People were frightened and worried.
Anxiousness colored actions and faces,
(But you couldn’t see faces in the fog anyway.)

It was like a flock of birds, what happened next.
Like a quiet flock, when one bird calls
And others take up the cry, and soon
The sky is full of wheeling, screaming gulls.

Old Jerry said, “That thing’s the reason
We’re stumbling around as blind as moles.”
Everyone knew what he meant.
Everyone made sure to show dissent,
But the cry whispered in their scared souls.
(It is hard to know that you are blind
And think that it is no one’s fault.)

For a month or so, nothing was done.
Maybe we shunned the thing a little more,
Maybe It took to playing out by the shore,
(Doing the devil’s work, some said)
But nothing happened. (We didn’t understand It,
So we were distant; we were afraid.)

Then, like all fear, we conquered It.
We drove It to the shore. (In a car, of course.)
And told It to go home. It refused.
It gurgled that It had been sent as some sort
Of ambassador. So, we did the only
Reasonable thing, and killed It.

The fog faded immediately, and we could see
(Rising out of the ocean with bright
Welcome banners affixed and all festooned
With streamers and balloons) several
Enormous ships. It must have liked us.
The End.

P.S.
They burned our city to the ground.
All our homes and yards, our dogs and our
Compact cars, they cracked up the interstate
And flooded the basements. All the silk ties burned up.
Then, at the end of their wrath,
Shaking with rage, they took one child -
Someone’s brother - down with them into the sea.

(The nights after were filled with the most
Mournful and terrifying songs
As though they knew what we had killed together
As though they had hoped for some other outcome
Though no other was possible.)

More than anything, I remember
The first blow that struck It. I remember
The sound it made, so surprised,
And that it didn’t even know to run away,
But merely stood there and floundered
And flapped like some kind of bird -

Like some bird that had dared to sing
Loud enough to attract a hunter’s sights.
It did not comprehend our decision.
It stood in place and let itself be burned,
(As we were later burned)
Right next to the sea.

Coming home drunk
(As I only rarely do)
One night, I heard a man
Talking to no one like a reliable friend,
Muttering about having his feelings hurt
And I knew who he was (or at least a kind of who:
Born with no opinions but strong opposition,
Always told, “Hey, you want a revolution?
Roll your own,” and laughed off,
Passed between people and ideas and loyalties
Like a stolen beer.)

I felt the need to be elsewhere, but the street
Dispassionately pressed him and me
Between two buildings.
I didn’t want to catch his eye,
But he caught mine,
I couldn’t look away from his face,
Twisting like he wanted to say
Something else, and then
There came a stillness.

I stared at him.
I’ll admit it, but
He was just so ragged and tough, like
A cardboard box
With bullets inside,
And okay, maybe I was a little scared.
(I was paralyzed, stuck in his eyes
Like the rooms of castles
Where no foot has tread,
Where ghosts sigh and whisper;
And outside there are signs
Saying “danger: do not climb
You will fall”)

Then something broke.
He looked away,
And whispered in a crumbling voice
“You are no one, I am alone,”
And then I knew he was.

Of course I remember, silly dear,
I can't forget paralysis,
Laying half-in, half-out of death,
Hearing your words and
Feeling your breath,
You kept me there.

(And I was already
Death's ward, but you
Fought so hard
To keep me alive,
To bring me home,
And you were so brave)

Of course I remember, my lovely fool,
That I was stupid
With blood in my eyes,
And nearly wanted to die,
But you held me. Though I was so
Out of it all, floating above us both,
I remember you carried me
To a man with a bright cross on his chest.
Don't let me forget.

When I woke from the medicine
And there was your face, then
I could see something that had lived
In darkness, hidden from view
While we were side-by-side
In fields of ******. When your eyes
And cheeks were an honest pink
From tears, I knew who you were,
I knew you had been there, between
Me and death's fingers. You
Were the mightiest of all my gods.

Yes, sometimes I would prefer
Not to bring home the shellshocked
Lieutenant from the great battle of
Wal-mart; sometimes I would like
Not to be tackled out of the cashier's
Line of fire, but every time, I remember:
Your arms were the only thing I was sure existed,
Your voice radioing for air assistance.

The only thing I hate about those memories
Is that they are specters in your periphery,
And your every hour is a haunted one.
Forgive yourself (because I love you,
I need you too,
Be happy.) Please.

You welded me to life, you marvelous idiot.
I won't forget.

Do you remember what it felt like
To be covered in mud; grime
Running down the sides of
Your grim face while you
Tried to hide,

(And you could hear them
Stomping around
Trying to find you
Trying to **** you
And you were so afraid)

Do you remember?
I was next to you,
And you said “Let me forget,
Let me forget” and I didn’t;
I couldn’t because
I’m selfish,
and I would be
Alone with these memories,
So I’m reminding you,
Please forgive me, I remember
All of it, all of it, all of it,

Your face twisted in
That terrified grimace of
Pain and fear and all
I could do was whisper
“I’m here, I’m here”
And now I’m the one
With flashbacks banging between my ears
And I can’t let you forget
That once upon a time,
I was a whole man,

I can’t let you forget that
I was strong once, (that
I’m ******* up now, but
Back then, I held you
And) I’m not worthless,
But that day is still bayoneting
Me, (and I need you.)

Please, tell me.
Do you remember?

Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Comes from Nigeria with a name like drums
Comes from Africa with the sun behind his back.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao,
Mr. Ibiyinka with a smile in his hands,
Mr. Ibiyinka with a girl's shoulders in his hands
Life, he says, she is alive
She dances.

Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Paints like the sun gilds hills and fields
Paints like the moon silvers water and thatched roofs.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Freezes music into colors that dance
Freezes drums in a quilt of art from every place.
Frozen, he says, like water
Like a heartbeat.

Djembe, Conga, Bongo
Coming from Africa with the skins of goats
Coming from the fields and the homes and the dirt roads
Medium, large, and small
Speaking every language.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao -
Djembe, Conga, Bongo.

Dance me down to the railroad tracks
Where we used to walk at night and
Test God (or at least the trains) to prove
That we were young, strong, beautiful,
Alive and deserved to be so. We’d

Wait until the stars fled from our eyes
And the rickety planks under our feet
Quaked in fear of stronger demons.
Our ears pricked like risky rabbits,
Our feet stamping instinctively, wanting
To run, to burrow under, to be gone
From danger and the smell of smoke.

But we were no lapine cowards, we had
No fear of rattling tracks. Holding hands,
We’d stand our ground until the whistle
Screamed blood and fire and death at us.

We’d roar heart and lightning and life
Right back, blinded by that light on the
Black grill. Shining in our eyes, we’d
Realize that even immortal beasties
Can go blind looking at God’s face.

We pushed each other back beyond
The deadly track on either side. My
Eyes grew wide every time we tumbled
Backward onto safer things. Watching
Your fall was like sunrise, and I swear
When we tasted heaven, you had wings.

Subway rides seem slower
When you're in love with someone
Who loves you back.
I know, because I missed my
Stop coming home today.
See, I thought it would take longer,
But I was wrong.

I can't help but think that
If we lined up all those rides
Back and forth from home to home,
It would stretch farther than
Shakespeare's plays lined up
From comedy to tragedy to history.

(An order we're suited to.) And if
We were a play, we would have
Been deadly. Tickets would be
One by one, "Are you in love?"
Mostly no, but sometimes yes,
Then, "Lord, don't see this show.

It'll **** your kind, you know."
Because it-- because we would.
Because who wants to think that
"I love you" means
"Until I'm bored" or that
"Please don't leave" could ever be
Met with an expressionless face?

Sometimes I wonder if you took
All the romantic comedies this year
And played them in alphabetical
Order, would they be longer than
My messages on your machine?
(Or the ten seconds of your voice
Laughing in my tape recorder?)

The train rocks softly as I write this.
The noisy crush of people around me
Makes it hard to think, but nothing
(No matter what I try)
Makes it hard to remember.

Oh my darling, my prince
Of unworthy ventures,
Do not speak to me of love.

Do not speak to me
Of her claws and her venomous
Kisses. I do not care.
My ears are deaf to you
And your many death rattles.

Only, do not think I am
A glacier inside, that my
Cheerful face hides merciless
Ice. It is not so. Do not speak
To me of where you go
With her. Not because I don't care,
But because I already know.

In the way a wounded man
May plead, "do not speak
Of bullets," I entreat you:
Do not speak of love to me.

A captain who sailed in a
Deadly gale and hears of
Stronger winds may give up
His beloved sea. A boy who
Falls from one snapped branch
Fears even fallen trees. Please.

Do not speak of love to me.

When I want to write
And the words are churlish and
Sluggishly slow in coming -
And even when they come
They linger at the door-frame
And rub their soft cheeks
Against the painted grain -

I read in a special voice.
Sometimes it's the voice
Of my English teacher from
Junior class. We didn't get along,
But not a word passed her
Lips that wasn't as gilded and
Mellifluous as edible gold-leaf
On a chocolate-chili sundae.

Or the voice belongs to
Rives, who plucks meaning
Out of words like candy
Out of an Easter egg.
He savors every syllable
Like it's an annual treat
And lines them up neatly
In his throat like some kind
Of spoken-word songbird,

But the things I write are
Least likely to be read aloud
By Rives and my English teacher.
(And reading in their voices
Seems too proud.) So I pen
The last of the stragglers down
And clear the alien voices out
Of my own (often sore) throat.

I enjoy my words, wallow in
Phrases, and praise lines of
Alliteration about as often as
A soldier runs past shelter
Helter-skelter and takes his
Chances with unfriendly crosshairs.
My voice quavers, quivers, shakes,
And shivers when I read my work.

I find every letter and line
And nuance absurd, but
I keep myself in check. Editing is
A controlled demolition of
Punctuation and capitalization;
Sometimes the "submit"
Button is hard to hit after
Splaying one more page of
Myself into crisp computer print.

But I breathe and repeat
The words that are lodged
Under my ribcage like a
Stray bullet: "You are not
Superlative; you are not
Fantastic; you will not be
Famous; you will not be
Any better for a long time
And even then you may be
Terrible, unbearable, and
Infinitesimal,

But everyone is."

                                                            click

On cold-windowed nights after
A shy and unassuming rain
Has stumbled over slick fog
And brought the clouds to town,

The pine trees gossip over
Their new sky-bound neighbors
(And I didn't know that needles
Could rustle like voices)
Like dreary all-knowing mouths
Up on stilts - "Have you seen
That Cumulonimbus?
Who does he think he is?"

They know what clouds carry in:
The soothing dark after downpours,
(The shroud of water molecules that
Shields a sunburned world and
Reflects the cool pale shine of
Street lights over a drowsy town.)

They do not care. They are
Hard hearts in bark girdles.
They crack and creak
Sometimes, irked at their own
Swaying weight, and drip
Sly words to the heedless Earth,
Who needs no words
(Who is only dirt).

It's my work.
It's a certified Personal
Original,
So why is my name marked
As a misspelling -
And why are you
Changing my wording?

Do you know why
I almost cannot write?
Every word is a window,
And every line a bright light inside;
The ending of a sentence
Is a lifting of the blinds:
Anyone can see in.

The ink on the page
(The actors on the stage
Of my mind) are arranged
According to my direction.
(I call action,
And only I.)
But my name is a misspelling
And you change the wording.

Poetry is like electricity,
But without a switch,
And stronger;
Like lightning.
It strikes you, and suddenly
You're a pianist;
You can speak Swahili;
The color green tastes like
Starfruit (only you've never had it
So all you can think
Is, "Man, this forest is delicious!")

Poetry is a zap from nowhere.
It makes your hair stand on end;
It makes you half afraid and
Half eager. You start flying
Kites with keys and fixing the satellite
In storms because it's awful for
A second, but then
You're never the same.

I know.
I've been struck so many times
And each time, I've traded
Gibberish for English,
Sight for insight,
Words for love,
And love for words again.
I have heard voices bellowing
And crying
And laughing.
I have seen smoke and sunlight
And smelled sulfur and
Tasted honey and salt.

Maybe I am not "smart,"
Always leaping into danger,
But I can't think of a better way to die
Than  to be struck by poetry.

You say "Do you love me?"
You want "yes,"
But not love. You say
"I love love love you
soooo much!~"
But not forever,
Not even for long.
Wrong is not in your
Vocabulary for self-reference
And I'm not about to teach you
That "love" is as small as
A bird
On a cold day and as quiet
As the space an ever-stretching
Universe can fill by the
End of "forever."

It gets in -
In the cracks,
In the holes,
But it doesn't flow.
It doesn't drain
When you split apart.
Love is not a girl who can
Wrap herself around a new boy
After a good cry. Love is a softer
Message than candy and flowers,
Less than hanging on him for
Hours and dressing up
To undress later.

"Love" isn't a texted
Proclamation of desire.
It's not what you want.
You want "yes" and
"Like" and "Tomorrow is fine,
Let's go at six."
You want what you have
To be enough.

I have enough without
Fooling myself,
I have enough without your
Kind of help,
Your brand of "love."

Somewhere in a villa
In Barcelona,
There's a Spanish guitar
And a smile that glints in moonlight.

The music is flowing like
Gabriela's flamenco skirt
While she dances and flickers
And scorches the floor.

They're cooking something up
Next door, something full of
Pepper and smelling of spice.
Smoke rises into the sky,
A refugee of fire.

A little boy pads barefoot
By stucco walls and calls
Up for a taste of flame.
(Wishing all the same

That "Flame" was his name -
Or at least his color - like his brothers'.
They are hungry too,
Hungry to spark and burn and shine
And shame the still Silent.)

Somewhere near Barcelona,
A bull bellows and breaks
A rider,
For a while. But

The smoke still rises
(Refugee of fire.)
And climbs higher than clouds can dream,
And glides out and out past stars unseen.

Gabriela's folds still swing
To a speech spoken by stinging strings
(With a smile that gleams at the dark).

There is something in the spasms
Of a raccoon, crushed on one side
By the force of a tire - bucking back
And forth on pavement:
head tail head tailheadtail
head tail head tailheadtail -
There is something in this
That will not leave me. I have
Never seen a man die,
But I think I have.

There is something in the quiet
As I watch my mother try
To run over a snake by the
House, the tires going
back and forth and
back and forth and
There is something in the moment
When it escapes. I have
Never seen an execution reprieved,
But I think I have.

There is something in a little bird
Who wraps his wings around him
To keep warm and finds no warmth;
Only the clutching cold
and silence
and stillness.
There is something terribly hollow
In his tiny song. I will
Never hear a man so broken
In my lingering life.

Somewhere in the star-brightened space -
An impossible depth away from green -
A hungry traveler ghosts between
Appetite and appetite, and place and place.

Out in the unfreezing lowest of degrees,
Some behemoth of infinite impunity
And infinitesimal size - a unity
In one point - eats, and hungers, and agrees

That, once, matter mattered more than a maw
Gaping impossibly small and wide.
(Better nature has collapsed inside,
And galaxies are cleaved as with a saw

In a Carpenter's hand.) However, simplicity
Is a muted charm in a bottomless pit.
When pressure's wake is a woodshop kit,
Survivors owe nothing to serendipity.

Hey kid,
Are you tired yet?
I want to go home.

I'm bored.

Let me know when you've finished
Working your fingers ******
With practice and promises and hope
And it still isn't coming.

We'll do lunch,
And you can tell me
How your day went.

War is too large, too big.
War is life, it is full of
Infinitesimal wiggling things
And inestimably giant
Ogres. War is not just for
Soldiers. War is for the air,
For the trees; war breathes
In the muck of the world
And purifies nothing. Why
Are we surprised? It is
Man-made, of course
We must expect some
Inefficiencies. And anyway,
War goes on despite the
Horrors of global warming
And the poor polar bears.
War thinks it cares, really,
It paves the road to Hell.

War is thirsty, but not for
Blood. It wants ambrosia;
War is a threadbare coat
In the governor's closet.
It is ugly and familiar, and
Always a little hungry. War
Only wants what it deserves:
Some cakes, some tea - a
Rest, maybe, (since it has
Labored longer years than
Any innocent human could.)
Yes, War is tired, so tired.
It yearns to ****** the yoke
Onto another's back. Like
Atlas begging someone to
Pick up the slack just to
Scratch his itching nose.
War is lonely and cold.

It does not understand
Why men make it work
And work and work, and
Still blame it for their hurt.
War would be harmless
If Death and Pain allowed,
But they are never blamed.
War is befuddled by man -
Always will be, always has
Been. It will scratch its
Aching head and wonder
Why so many ******-handed
Men will call on it with rage
And thundering voices.
It wishes for choices, but comes
To earth in the winter like
Apologetic frost. War is
Helpless, and War is lost.

Are you any closer to God?
How far have you gotten?
Last I saw, you were throwing
Ink on paper to see what stuck.
Well? Had any luck? Oh, I see.
"Not as such." But I suppose
You still want your grants, yes?

Go on sticking needles into mice,
Just be sure to try the untried
Methods. A whiff of repetition
Oozes around this situation, and
I worry for your mind. Sometimes
I think you must be close to God:
Only good friends play hide-and-seek.

Now, you've tried looking up trees,
And behind and over and under things -
Inside bridges and beneath streams.
You've forgotten Him like a perfect dream,
Hazy and clouding your bright eyes.
His silhouette strikes as sharp and
Stinging as morphine's needle.

Mice do not know Daedalus, nor
Do they fear Minotaurs. They've no
Thread to follow home, so put
Them in your Labyrinth and see
How far they get. Know this:
I will pay from pity and cry when
You leave. I see Icarus in your eyes.

I know you've always considered me
A mechanical man -
And I'll admit
I do my share of clicking and whirring
I do have my own processes -
Alien to you -

But I have all the same ones
Too, and a beating heart within my
Clank-clattering flesh.

I watch
You, like a camera, like a scanner
Searching for a price tag. Bar codes
Are simple.
I like simple, but you must
Not think me mechanical for it.

When you see me,
I adore it, but often you
See preconceived pictures and

I'm terrible at this, you know, dreadful.
I should stop, there's no way to say -
No way to show that I am more than -
You know, that I am eyes and skin
And marrow, but more too, more than
Even you -

Nevermind, nevermind.

There's no way you'd think I'm
Human: I can't even speak.
I just click quietly to myself and bend
Toward you slightly with an injured creak.

When I die, I hope they sing
The songs I would have sung:
Pop jams and rock ballads,
And soft-sweet lovely nonsense.
Just, please, not hymns. They always
Put me terribly on edge, and
If anything I want to leave you
Happy - all of you. So have a
Concert, shout and dance.
Anything but a solemn march.
I don't want your unshakable
Grief on my ghostly hands;
I refuse to be a brick in
Some grey cathedral's arch.

From the first wet gasp of
My first hello, I have spoken
As they do. On similar slipping
Legs I have wandered as they have.
I cringed and leaped, and was afraid
And was not. (A time for both, a time
For all. For every question, an answering call.)
There was no surprise;
Everything was a shock.

They, too, drowned in ennui and
Buzzed with electricity. But the lines
Crossed somewhere between:
As they were I have not been,
As they move I have not moved
The record skips out of the groove.
And they press manicured nails
To feathery hair, irked - annoyed -
Blotting out the noise.

Who are they to float above,
To glide in mascara and gold?
What trails and wakes they leave -
All the time whispering dry and dustily.
It's strange, I've always heard
(From the hidden smiling lips of
Those ahead, and those above)
That dust is dull and bland and plain.
How strange that to me it tastes of
Pepper and echoing gilded names.

From some empty table, I have peered
Into open halls with chandeliers -
Plated in silver, glistening with crystal -
And wondered how they get so high
Without a tinkling, slicing word -
Without a glaring, threatening eye.
I know I have tried, first to be the
Waitress, tray in hand, who has her moment
With the table and her guests. Then
To earn my right, to earn their view,
To be a sparkling rarity, a delight.

No more. Adieu, goodbye, goodnight.
Whether you care for me or not,
I'll never mind. I'll find some room
You've left behind, and sleep
Until I want to rise.

It would not be too hard to say
That all I lack, and feel, and hate
Should not be pressed onto my plate
At the end of a busy day.

It would be easy to insist
That I should never have to cry,
When crying is what gets me by.
It would be simple to resist.

But Auntie Ruth could smile and smile
With arms scraped up to blood by bark.
She stacked the odds and ends to spark
And burned nostalgia in a pile.

When the dark invades with its cold,
I think of Aunt Ruth's blazing yard:
Cooking all she could discard -
Her sadness that only the bonfires told.

So here I'll sit - and I might cry -
(Crying is what will get me by.)
And tear up tiny bits of leaf,
And clench my teeth to hold my grief.
With a warming bonfire smile,
I'll add my troubles to the pile.

She folds her arms inside her robe
And decides to go to bed
For the tenth time.
She closes her eyes and sighs
And turns around,

But the tricky cooling night slides
Through her graying hair -
Whistles through.
It sings a song to keep her near,
Keep her crying.

She sits back down on the porch swing,
Feet in the air, tiny again.
She's afraid, but
She knows it isn't going anywhere.
She wonders why.

A melody from tomorrow breaks the clouds,
And she looks to the horizon.
The sun is rising;
A bird awakes and flies to the power lines.
The night is dying.

She muses to herself that, in the light,
The willows' weeping looks like
Content sighing.
The grass she cut down yesterday
Is still climbing.

He knows what lies below.
This is where it all began: here
Beneath the bubbling sludge and ******* mud.
This is the home brew, the cocooning grounds.
His sturdy boots trudge through,
Hefting questions and glasses askew.
Somewhere to the side a fat swamp prince
Composes bog rhymes in ribbit meter.
Each squelching step sets a buzzing bunch
Of crystal dragons zipping away to
Slick peridot pontoons. A loon swoons
The expeditioner with a sobbing cry. He
Has said goodbye to reservations, to the
Long-dead preservation rights. He slogs through
The buzzing night. Yellow daggers clench
Between scaly steeltrap snappers and stones
With eyes blink in languid surprise, unnoticed.
He is lost, dying, unsure of his quest. He needs a
Cure. He knows it lies here, in the beginning place.
Their faces haunt his deathly guts and crush
His straining heart with need - need for the solution.
Need to survive, to prolong his life - alone!
So alone: the last. If only he could rest.
His nostrils quiver with the homesick stench
Of tails becoming legs and nipping lips sprouting
Sticky tongues. The answer, he is here for the
Only answer. Something below, below, down
In the dredges of history - in the slime of
Centuries, rotless and preserved. He will find it:
Some link, some closer thing he can revive
And test and rest as bedrock for his life.
A foot sticks in the overfriendly tar. No,
He will not pause. He has come too far.
In the birthing grime, some hungry memory wakes.
It knows what lies above, it thirsts to cease it.
It reaches, roils, pulls, rips with smelly squish-fingers -
Thirsting and thirsting to slake. It longs to reveal
To show, to make known to the traveler.
(All he has searched for is found here, it knows,
Organized and close. Held and safe below)
It reaches, grabs - thirsty - presses him into
A false step. A slip. A skritching clipboard
Of statistics curses in rustling indignance
As it flutters to the mud above a splattered head.
Science-frozen lungs fill with dread -
With life-giving peat. (It will show him) He ***** in
And burbles out a scream. (what he wants, show him)
This is where it begins, (this is his dream!) where it ends.
Now he knows what lies below. He lies - curled -
Quenched from growth. The eyes of unnoticed
Stones blink in surprise. Soaring swamp lyrics
Rise, a loon swoons with a sobbing cry.
He curls in peace and drifts alone
Now he knows what lies below.

I like my headphones for the
Insulation. Sometimes my ears
Take in too much stray noise,
Dredge up too much disorienting
Mud from the depths of a TV
Screen or an iPod. Then I can
Always snuggle into my headphones
And be silent - and silence is a
Dear dear commodity, to be sure,
When every other scene-
Stealing, pudgy-mouthed buffoon
Has to put his ten cents in. So
Much sound should be a sin;
Background music, ambient noise,
Music for airports, and pubescent
Boys screeching from tinny silver
Speakers near the wall. I don't
Want it, not every bit, not all
The hate and the slippery tongues
That speak and salivate and don't
Say anything human. I want to reprimand,
To excommunicate them from
This Holy rite of sound. (And really,
I would be content to never hear
Music if I could block out the roundabout
Fights and the sultry nightlife descriptions
Gushing from my screen, if I could
Use my headphones to keep
That liquid crystal from pouring in
My too needfully silent ears.)
Maybe I'll follow a painter's path:
All visuals and open dripping wet
Wrath with a noisy race. I can be a
Terrifying girl. Cut off my ears and
Be deaf to the world. Wrap me in
Canvas and chase me back into the
Woods on a starry starry night.

He travels down pathways of velvet,
Treading mahogany and maroon
And ruby, all the varying shades
Of a wine glass caress his slick
Shoes. His face is freed from
Marble prisons, loosed onto
Stretched canvases in myriad
Bursts and strokes of sapphire,
Emerald, amethyst, opal,
Quartz, ivory, jade; his face,
Embroidered on jackets, on
Coatsleeves, is a symbol of
Charm and grace - a symbol of
Power. When he speaks, the words
Clink and sparkle together
Like gold and silver, like diamonds
And roses. The elements so mix
In him, etcetera. With a pace meted
In waltz-steps, he crosses galleries,
Admires his pet works, his pet workers.
He is a sought man, a buyer of
Flatteries. He drinks fine scotch.
This man, so vivid and clear
In place and time - so placed
In the center of beautiful scenes -
He drowses by my fire in his fine
Suit; he lids his eyes next to my cheek.

Perhaps I am slowing, or aging,
Or growing tedious. Stop me if I
Bore you; I hate long-winded bores,
Unstoppable ranters, and one-sided
Opinion staters. But returning to my
Friend, the gentleman who lounges
On my couch, who tickles my
Ear with soft cologne whispers,
Who catches my eye with poised
Puffs of flagging breath. He is so
Soft and kept in life. Death will find
A pitiful creature when it comes for
This delicate boy. He is my special
Treat, my prized butterfly in the
Most elaborate case. Watch him
So feebly flap his wings - don't worry
I've pinned him well. Look at how
His pale eyelids flutter (I could
Watch forever!) like the little
Bush-finches that come to bathe
In ditchwater and fly again to
Woven homes. But he will not fly!
Never will he slide out of my
Loving sight as he was wont to,
Never will he have to drink fine
Scotch alone. I will sip with him, I
Will warm his feet when he cannot
Lift his (now) leaden legs to the fire.

Don't touch him! Did your mother never
Teach you to look with your eyes?
He is mine! I will show him to you,
You will admire. I know you can, you
Were admiring him when I came
Upon you. (I should have known you
Would reach to leave your prints
And smudges on him, you bad-
Mannered girl.) Don't make that face,
You were trying to pin him, I
Just crunched my harpoon in first.
Now look at him, all lost and
Stopped. All but his eyes. Tell me,
Isn't he beautiful? A masterpiece.
My centerpiece, that's what he'll
Be. And you, you were the roots
And the thorns of an elegant flower:
The regrettably worthless stray
Leaves to be pruned away. I'm sorry
My poor dear, but you were born
To be wasted. Don't be sad, you
Had your day, you hung on his sleeve
For your little night. But he has
Such a habit of losing things he
Keeps there: cufflinks, his heart,

Girls who are not me. I'm sorry
My darling. It is a shame I must
Send you home, I do so love it
When people share my tastes.
Now drink this scotch my poor
Thing. Drink up. There now, do
You feel warmer? Are you tired?
Let me pull that cover up, why
Don't you have a good (long) rest?
Go to sleep, there's a good girl.
I'll put you to bed.

Oh, Polaris, do you remember
Those days when we ran
Clothed in dew and the skin
Of great conquered beasts?
Do you remember our triumph
In the hello-waving grass
That night we were tickled by
Chaff - and calves licked our
Blood-filled cheeks? Do you
Remember, Polaris? You still
Have so much of the old heat.
Even today, when the freeze of
New memories strikes me, when
I'm snapped by the cold, I
Remember our old days. Oh
Polaris, warm my hands a moment.
You were always so sturdy;
Against your shoulder was the
Perfect resting place for cold
Skulls like mine. Of course,
Your fires often melt the ice
In my eyes. I never stay: I
Need the cold, need the new
Frigid day. Without the bitter
Wind, how could I love the
Steady warmth you hold, Polaris?

Something scaly is biting me.
Cursed and worthless,
Under the surface,
It’s been gnawing for eternity.
Killed and killing,
Self-fulfilling.

And you say
If I’d only speak up,
But I lost my voice.
And you know
I’m hurting on the outside,
Inside there’s just void.
I don’t know how to
Be anything but
Quiet.

These days,
Something’s running away -
Something I had a grip on
In my childhood.
Tomorrow,
Something will come again -
Something belonging to a friend -
And then leave me
Too soon.

Something iron is biting me,
Over the clouds,
Unheard and loud.
It’s been chewing on uncertainty,
Shaken and shaking,
Unmistakable.

And you whisper
If I’d only speak up,
If I’d open my mouth,
But you should know by now:
Leave it open
The flies get in,
Buzzing and silent,
Impure and violent.
They leave me unsure.

These days,
Someone’s breaking up
On the radio,
On the internet.
My fingers wrap around
Yellow hair -
It isn’t fair -
I don’t know how to be
Anything but
Quiet.

I don’t know how to be
A breaker of silence.
I’ll go to sleep;
Wake me up
When the conversation’s
Started again.
I’ll take a nap;
Wake me up
When the world’s not
Listening.

Something’s clawing me
In my shoulder blades;
Someone’s calling me,
But the burden is heavy:
Can’t set it down, I can’t
Pick it up again.
Sorry, my friend
You’ll just have to wait.

Here it is: a
Filthy carrion-mouthed creature.
I've found it. Bent and clutching
With cruel claws - it reaches
For one thing; one pure thing
It must never touch. A
Slimy skeletal monster.

I had rather die than give
Ground to it whatsoever - and yet
It only gains power as it weakens.
More of a ghoul, more of a goblin,
More fitting for some nightmare. It is
Cut from the white marble,
Cut from the loving stone.
It is a desire that even without
Action is still putrid sin alone.

Now I know what
The haunted sailor sees
(Who has through sea-soaked ears
Perceived a siren's song, even long
Ago.) I know what the great mountains
Know that have been split and
Carved and made to weep away
Beneath rivers. The creature is
Deep in me, I have found it -

I myself have seen the artist at work:
Carving it with my own hands,
Carving it of my own terrible heart.
Abomination though it is
It cannot be denied. Reaching for
One pure thing, I throw all else
Aside, clutching and grasping and stretching,
Why does the thought set me retching?
I have known what great mountains know:

That I am less than skin and bone,
That I am carved of sin alone.
No apology can be made, no
Forgiveness shown,
For I am a perfect hideous beast of
Marble precision - descending as a gargoyle -
Descending as an emissary of
Implacable, howling, roaring, screaming, hungry Love.

What foul God made man?
What terrible Adam has eaten of this fruit?
The juices of knowledge run down my throat.
The flavors of ripping
And slicing color my tongue. Man
Was meant to clutch and grasp -
To rasp from bleeding throats,
"One thing, that one pure thing!"

But hope is a fool's schematic,
And the true workman's tools are
A scalpel, a skillet, possession -
No, attainment - of that thing, that thing!
It drives me to become
Immortal terror wrapped in flight,
Immoral desire in a night blanket.

How many ribs can you count?
(You who I have chosen to show.)
I am growing thinner.
Not much longer until I have it,
(I'm sorry, so sorry.)
That thing, that perfect thing,
(But I must, I must, I must-)
Whose name is written in
Fire on my monstrous bones.

Comprehension dawns on your cheeks:
Rosy, like the sun behind a cloud.
Yes, yes, now you see: I will be your cloud!
Let me engulf you! Do not be afraid,
I am a fragment of Love.
I am lungs without your breath, empty
Veins without your death . I am eternity in
Silence - but together! Let us be so! Let me
Engulf you. (We will be the perfect creature.)

Please, do  not run. Stay and let
Us be bleeding, mangled memories together -
Let us rot together, let us fall
Into each other with the help of worms.
Do not run, you mustn't, you are half of
The pure thing. Oh my near-perfect love,
I must, I must.

Her trembling hands hover above
The beast. Timidly, her fingers
Brush its hard scales. She presses
A gentle touch to black, then to
White, startled at the coldness and
The responsiveness. It is an animal
Eager to learn a new trick,
Friendly to a new master,
But more paralyzing than a tiger.
It cries to her touch, but does not
Move: it is a poised cobra faced
With a charmer's flute, following
The graceful press of fingertips.
Sounding softly, then louder - a
Cheerful creature is easily led
From its silent cage. Each lively
Cry is compounded now with a
Stronger press. With the force of
Two hands, she reveals its form completely.
Not one beast, but a hive of hundreds,
Each sinuously crawling around her
Wrist - sliding up her sleeves -
Into her ears. Her body rocks, pent
Up in a storm of acceptance.
Bobbing and rising, nearly sinking
She tames the beast. In her
Moment of victory, there is silence.

Man is nature's child.
He is her firstborn, her best-
Loved. Man is in her good graces.
He doesn't know, he often surmises
That he is behind on the rent,
That he has over-spent his
Allowance. He does not see!
The purpose of man is to live;
The purpose of a giving tree is
To give. No coldness can take
Refuge in nature's heart, no
Spite can contort her lovely face.
The earth's an easy, forgiving place;
Made for men to live and love,
Made to house a lucky race.

I want to be under a
Sienna sky - some burnt-umber
Monstrosity, devoid of clouds,
Still and still moving over the
Acrimonious skyline of
Molten orange windows and
Hot dry concrete. I want the
Silent sound of the subway under
My feet, the rattle and shake -
The bass drum beat. I want a
Hundred saggy women and lean men
Shaking their fists at soda cans
To walk by me. Someone I can
Help, someone I understand;

What a terribly needy creature
Is man! How can the planet
Withstand it, this desire for
Windows of fire and walls of burnt umber?
How can it not shatter for want
Of sienna skies?

It's an army I'm facing:
A hundred marker-wielding,
Bespectacled preacher-teachers
With a set process, a formula
Defined by science
And tried by no child
Without consequence. It's
A national army, banners waving.

I pledge each morning to my
Country. (Thank you, great army,
For my life as a free child!) Then I
Sit in my assigned seat; I finish my
Assigned work. When the lesson
Ends, my friends and I discuss
(Thank you for amendment two!)

Our distrust of double-meanings -
Our distrust of everything - too
Many contradictions in a day.
All this while the snipers aim, (like
Strikebreakers coming to claim
The rabble-rousers) (Thank you for our

Peaceful assembly rights!) they remind us
To work hard for faraway and free days,
College parties with dean( drill sergeant)'s
Iron eyes over our (soon-to-be) soldier
Shoulders. (Thank you for privacy rights!)
We are reminded to
Complete our assignments quietly.
(Thank you for free speech.)

You cried for a Sunday dress:
I confess, I was tempted -
Strongly so - to give in, and let you
Have it, let you go buy it.
But your crying became
Such an argument against
Your frilly cause that I
Found myself dragging you
Away from another store.
I expected this when you
Were young - when you knew nothing
Of manipulation or greed or
An acidic need to punish me
For some old wound or another -
Something you hate but
Have forgotten. No more now,
Girl, let's go home. You can
Date some bad boy tomorrow.
That'll show me.

It was quiet last night when
We handled it, Bo and me.
Jenny had risen late with a gun
And finally out and shot her
No good husband. We knew it was
Coming, Bo and me, (He was always running
Late with some glitter or make-up stain
On the white shirts she ironed for him
Every morning.)  like one of those
Summer storms that rumble
And shake and then arrive,
Sprinkle a moment and slip away
To intimidate some other town.
She was on her porch crying,
That once-used (overused) rifle clasped
In her slack grip. We knew she couldn't do it -
Couldn't pull the trigger twice in one day,
But she didn't know.
So we handled it, Bo and me. We
Reasoned that terrible gun away,
Reasoned that unspeakable emotion away,
The way we always have out here.
(With the town so far out and all.)
We dabbed her tears up with leftover
Lunch napkins and laid her down to sleep
(In my sister's bed, she's bloodstained the
Sheets.) and wait, and there she is now, officer.
Laying down.
Waiting.
(By the way, do you know what
Gets out bloodstains?)