Fading

I had another birthday, about a week ago
I woke up from a sweet dream,
unlike the nightmares I normally have.
In the lavender bathroom I saw my Bubbie
staring back at me from the mirror.
She was gentle and sweet, and I love her, but she was really old
like i looked that morning,
or she did
It's strange and disconcerting to see the progression of time etched upon your face
the face
that holds the innocence and confusion of a person
still
trying to figure out what she is supposed to be doing here
in this place
of beauty and horror
of gravity and time
it's not about what do I want to be when I grow up,
because it can't be
i will never grow up
and i am already old
I know
because I see her whithered face staring back at me in the mirror

full tilt

i feel like linus
without his blanket

a new door opens
but questions persist

i woke up last night
fearful scared & grasping for breath

i rolled & tossed
my brain going a mile a minute

a metaphysical cliff
a deep ravine

am i brave enough
to leap

DWC

Social Lament

The older I get,
the more broken I feel.

Social situations,
have become uneasy.

Each interaction,
challenges my new poverty.

I wonder why,
have I begun to slide away.

Metaphor

nouns
To some, it is a dog in hell.
And others: an exploding cigar,
cholera, a battlefield.

[Forgive the crudeness of that last one;
I have run out of rehearsed sarcasm.]

But that, as they say, is only the beginning

[Or the end.]

& verbs
It is an old window, where the blinds
have finally been lifted

[2 months from the day they
were drawn]

It is an aging man who exits a door —
hideous and green —
carrying the television set
left by a prior tenant.

[And with it: three Christmases,
Strange Brew and countless five
dollar pizzas]

It is the widow, cantankerous,
who stole a past life from the
dumpster

[And the girl who relives it
at every neighborhood
garage sale]

It is that old chair,
indented and warn

It is a glass door
with a torn reflection

It is...

A string that pulls
until it breaks.

[Only to be pulled
again]

It is...

Days upon days
of stories

[Without a soul
to tell]

It is...

The inverse of all
of these things

[all that is and
never should
be]

books

a life through bookshelves

i pulled each book off
looked at it & made a
decision: keep not keep

a life, 70 years
encapsulated in
between the covers of
hundreds books

some had his name
written in his
distinct small
barely-legable handwriting
others underlined in
faint blue ballpoint

at least one had his
doodles-- that must of
been a winner

dust from the years
invaded my nostrils
made me sneeze
i washed my hands repeatedly

i'll keep some of them
but many i'll get rid of
i have no choice i have to
he'd understand

DWC

like this, like this

The toothpaste is its own world; it
lives behind the mirror. The sun rises
when you turn the light and
faucet. The wind swings the cabinet open.
Physics are absolute: running out of time
will not rush the rest of the world. Only a
portion will leave the nozzle at
one time. Then the day goes.

Meaning means. Walk through a peace.
The only important time is time and your
shoulders will fill with dirt.
What's behind us steps forward when
we chase it.

Once the river valley filled with smoke from
nowhere and as it drifted off it filled with
years. We get down here with the
lawn and the rocks.

It is good
that we're nothing.
Look at what you
see when
you're unreal
and invisible.
The city and
the woods shine
up from the soil.

And the shagged stutter of days. All these
are good things that I say. The
faucet fills and refills the sink
while we squeeze in the rush.

How To

14 minutes later I got
Up out of bed with the
Poem in my teeth and
Spit it onto the angry paper.
I brushed my teeth.

Poems have no use in the
Teeth. Their importance is an
Elsewhere full of different.

Now my sleep’s no good, not
With a head full of poems and
Stern contradiction.

These words are train tracks. My body
Is a horrible steam engine: outdated.
The switchman’s shack is on fire.
The engineer is unfamiliar
With the wrench.
The brakeman stares at a metric
Conversion table befuddled.

Everyone has a part unknowable
To anyone else. This is my mountain
I’m sliding down.
It is unlucky to address it when
You see the water
Passing over me in the ravine.

I Guess Everyone's Life is Important Anyway

An old
Black man sat
By the edge of our
Woods waiting
For rain
To slip down
On the field.

In the Crowd

Being in a crowd is like being
Surrounded by a lot of people,
Except their faces have been
Rubbed out and someone has
Drawn red leather wings
On their backs.

The Cool Thin Edge of the Infinite

The violence between us was
Too much, so I
Left and drove out
Beyond the last houses.
The moon was sitting in the branches
Of an elm. The rest of the sky was
Full of faces. There is no perfect way
To describe an evening.
Ignorant in now, I
Touch words.
But none of this.
The world has settled down for
Sleep. I would like
To join it.

Understanding the Nomad

In the wet morning, bacon cooked on
Hot rocks beside a fire followed
By mush done in the grease.
No kettle no coffee.
I drink from the farmer’s ditch, then
Move. There are few small things to pack up.
In this life I have left little behind.
Places where fires were.
I do not believe in memory.
The only thing worth believing in is
Slow and quiet moving through the
Long dark.

When Time

Who cares?
Every day I shovel sand
From the temple.
The wind brings more.
Let it get buried. I have
Goats to tend.

In the spring I will be
Going up the mountain.
I will leave the shovel and
Broom for the
Pilgrims.

bed is better

rain
grey skies
jazz
a small white cat

a general feeling of
malaize

an empty coffee
cup

DWC

Still Point

There was a time
when i forgot how to talk
But i could make it rain, whenever i needed water
and now words come to me when i need them
at certain hours of the day
and i have learned to jump fences
like a doe
Hunters
to act like the others
Camouflaged
But i still know
their intentions and ignorances
before they speak
and i am still walking
in the still point

Doing Right by the Wrong

Darth Sidious fell down again.
His base doesn't fit
into his feet
snugly.
The holes in his soles are loose,
leaving him vertically unstable.
He falls down daily,
always on his face.
He doesn't complain
or show appreciation.
I put him back up anyway.
Even a villain should be able to stand
up.

This Poem Has No Merit At All

I just started smelling donuts.
I was at my desk, working
and donut smell wafts through my cube.
Intense sugar and maple,
I can even catch a note of chocolate glazed.
Its hard enough being a corporate surf,
laboring away in a poorly air conditioned cube
but having to smell donuts all day
is too much.

I know its a slow method of suicide
supported by both church and state,
but some of us are trying to sustain
life, not slowly strangle it.

Its ten forty five for Christ's sake
stopping dropping off pallets of donuts
next to the air intake in the break room.
People are trying to survive their
god damned lives in here
and you are making it
just that much more difficult.

I hate you.

P.S. Same goes for the popcorn terrorists that strike at two to three in the afternoon.

He Said, She Said

Life is a shit-filled twinkie.
So stop eating junk food

You have to put yourself first
Sometimes that means putting others before you

You have to look out for #1.
Not at the exclusion of others

The only person you can control is yourself.
Control has nothing to do with anything

The glass is half-empty.
That's only because you drank it

I hate it here.
This place is what you make it

I've always hated it here.
It won't be the same without you

I can't stay.
You're going

But I can't say it's over.
It isn't over

We'll see.
I'll try

I love
Me too.

I feel alone
Who doesn't?

Don't forget
I can't remember.

Everything
Anything.

You said
I said?

That day.

The Image

Shudder, then clicking. Zero time and
nothing moves. Planes hold their chinks in
the sky. The automobiles are unmobile.
You cannot step where you're going.
Can touch nothing you're holding.

The slow sound stops; there isn't.

If you were here, we could
share it. I could place my
gaze looking up to your face.
You wouldn't blink.
Your eyelashes would hold
the wind, but

it's only a camera. There's
no one here
to make the picture.

heavy thoughts

sitting with a glass of merlot,
heavy, thick tasting stuff,

listening to music
& the tap of computer keys

trying to sort out
my life figuring the

narrative curve
hoping against hope that

the story hasn't climaxed
somewhat afraid it has

(i fear the existential
b-money shot)

i'm contemplative
as i listen to the

soft guitar music
& watch my cat bat

things around on my desk

grab the wine bottle
by the neck uncork

pour another glass
drink deep

i'll forgo the glass soon
& drink from the bottle

better to get at the vino
easier that way

i promise i'm not a drunk
not even close

i tried to be one time
long ago, but it didn't take

i was a wimp couldn't
handle the aftereffects

that's why i don't
read bukowski

have it told you
that i have warts

on my hands
i do: 3 on my left hand

7 on my right all
are palmsidedown

dispel a myth here:

you get warts
not hairy palms

i'm kidding
i think

DWC

Bicycle (or) Too Tired

she sits on the front porch
watching grass perform a sexy dance
colors shift with the demise of today's sun
behind slippery wax paper clouds
she is tired, weary
she is thinking of burrowing six feet, maybe more
it's not the first time, she knows, but. . . she thinks about it anyway
rest, deep sanctioned rest beneath cool breezes and damp
Jolted by electric prophets and well meaning friends
"what are you drinking?'
Pure evil Buddy-Row, Pure evil
bottomless wine glass overflows
forget about Mary's place Joe
she's too tired

Numbers Adding

He's drank a lot of that tea. I bet I've made him
six of those today. It's good. He likes it with
lots of ice to cool him down. He's so hot.
He sweat right through his
clothes last night. Is the window
open? Here, take off
his socks. I was rubbing his feet
earlier. He seemed to like it. Is
the window open? He wants you to do
it. He asked about you the other day - asked
when you were coming to see him. He
remembered your first and last name.
Is the window open?
Everything is over there in that machine now. That's
all the medicine he takes. They took
him off everything else. She showed
me what to hit when he needs more. Is the window open?
We brought in that TV so he
can watch it. He hears
everything. If you say his name
he'll open his eyes. Is
the window open? Let me go
get my sister. This is her house. She
knows how to open these
windows. I tried earlier but I can't get
the locks undone.

This is Ken and he died. I was here in this room. I heard everything and tried to remember it all from the last time I saw him. It was last week but it's in my head all the time now. I thought I would try to write it, but it didn't sound like this. I can hear the voices but I can't put them down. The room was hot and it smelled like a dying man. Now the windows are open. They always were. Curtains pulled. Wind coming and going. I carry you. He looked like a pharaoh at the funeral.

Living

so right on many counts, ds,
except for this:

these poems aren't for those
who don't live together
any more

but for those

who never did

The Terms

I think

within about two lines and without
scrolling down
you can
tell who

wrote what you're reading
on this blog.
Surprise - it's ds.

These styles made of words.
Words made of man.
Monk writes from the self of feeling.
The galaxy tells about sad
people who don't live
together anymore.
The mother-maker writes
what sees and is. A citizen stares
out from the windows.

This is the earth; ground and dirt.
The furrows stretch to the edge. I can see
the shoots
on your side crawling
towards up - the clouds moving
the busy sky.