an octopus in a jar

you outta dig this, thirdworst.

It is a funny thing because it
doesn't shake when you
shake but it sloshes and
wriggles in the jar.

Do they always look angry? asked
the kid.
Well, the thing is... trailed off the mister.

But the long short of it is that
they're like mice - they can
get into anything.
The one in the jar had
crawled through an opening smaller
than a quarter.
Stretched out, it was over
six foot long. They're
supposed to be intelligent, too.
Always wondering,
how did I get myself into this?

And I guess they see well.
Maybe they're more like
us. We can change colors.
I'm in my green shirt, and
look at all this ink.

ds

Re: after I read about somebody thinking something

If you would take any person in
any moment and
picture or paint from
it,

all it might do
is mislead.

We shoot un-
happy faces between
happy ones.
I look at
women when I'm
looking at cars.
Any moment might
not be the minute.
No minute's an hour.

We move so fast I
cannot keep up. I
Cannot keep with
nothing.

Does not surrender its
spinning: the world.
I see what you saw.
All the people in
all the pictures have
a motive that's free
from guess, and
far from know.

ds

today and in 5 years

because someone else said it's cold, it's
cold. socks rolled up. first
smells of the furnace burning from
the basement. empty treelimbs
scrape the siding. I
am inside, but will
have to mow one last time
if the rain breaks.
maybe it won't
break
until May, then
will rain it's own
rain, but to be
followed by warm, then
cool, then warm,
then
cool.

ds

side

so bad that I dreamed you died last night
so bad that I dreamed you died last night
and sat watching television in
another room. this is all
in my head again and again.

come back from Florida.
I like alone but can't stand it anymore.
can you put your head in an electric oven?
these are the things I think for days on end.

ds

IF

IF
I DIDN'T CARE
WHAT YOU MIGHT THINK
I'D TELL YOU THE TRUTH...
AN ABDUCTION
OF THE THIRD KIND
AND IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK
NOT WHAT YOU'D SURMISE
I DON'T CARE
WHO YOU ARE
NOW LEAVE ME ALONE...

IF YOU DARE

maybe didn't mean it that way...

But now to
lift
the mood a
little, I
think I'll
read about
the
Battle of
Stalingrad.

ds

A ghost taught me to speak in '96.

I'm not sure which is quicker - a trot or
canter, but either has outpaced the
pace here. Gin
rolls uphill quicker.

Me, I'm just waiting for my sleeping pills to
kick in. So... write words
about words. Spend all day making
adjectives into nouns. small small.

We ate the simplest soup of potatoes cabbage and
kielbasa after we got
drunk making it. The dumplings were
very good.

I can tell what you are reading and
why you sound like you do. Stay away.
People bury themselves with themselves.
If I were meaner I would say it in a
different way. But I will do it.
Find elsewhere.
In the kindest way, find elsewhere.
It looks different. Don't know it.
If I were paranoid that's all I would be, and
only meant us when I said we.

ds

entangled

it won't be long now till it's over:
history is here, and with it those
images we failed to erase

it does us no good to repeat them

but we try all the same,
talking circles into the evening
until there is nothing left but to

stretch our toes, one around the other,
and stand to walk away

old leaves

the pole arrived today, weeks
after the season is over. i shake
the box and sense somewhere between the
crinkled edges that there will
be no more camping for months —
maybe years. but i have this spare
pole now to replace the one that
rotted in our hands near devil's lake,
do you remember?

there were always devils between us.

like that first time you shook your
tent in front of me and
all those old leaves came
tumbling out

apres midi

your body full of such beautiful, but
you are away. I count
four states and many rivers between
us. You said you would be two
weeks. It is a month. The
hummingbirds have left here to
fly to you. In their place is only wind.
Brown leaves swirl in the corners outside the
house. They anticipate the snow. Please,

fly back before autumn is over and we have
not walked through the park on the way
to quiet banks.

ds

shamba

no mysteries.
everything in the open
and reaching

the rattle moving in the middle of dark.
shook shook.
the cars whisper past.

shook shook.

ds

solitude brought

its one of those cold
early fall days
the sun tries to give
light through thick
grey cloud cover
succeeding but then
failing

somewhere out there
i hear someone doing
the last lawn mow
of the year

here's to the optimist

i've been watching my cats
chase each other all
morning the little white
one chases
the big grey one
and then vice versa
their feet sound like
small concrete shoes
across the linoleum
of the kitchen floor

those are the only
sounds here

those and the tap tap
of computer keys

DWC

sooooo...

so having no blog of my own from which to pontificate likes/dislikes and feelings/not feelings, I am appropriating space set aside for my lame poetry to otherwise open my lame mind. I cannot sleep and am unpoetic.

reason: one of the ladies that lives in a group home I oversee passed away this afternoon. kind of suddenly. not neglect. pneumonia.

I'm shook. I don't want a drink.

so for the next indeterminable amount of time, my job will be in the shade of this. housemates, staff, other residents on the mope. I'm already on the mope.

she wasn't much older than me, or anyone else.

our big Halloween party is in a week. I think I'll get a mask.

ds

can't ssss

misspellings are meant

no memory no memory, the cottage
floor. full of the past.
wine all over me.
absolute and alone. is it
moonlight or sunlight? the windows
maybe are open.
the bridge creeks across the river, but
no one is on it.
everybody's sent away. the
radio is sullen and will not answer
when the dial swings.

I sent you away from here. you
left with glad and stomped across the
river. your brother threatened me at
the grocery store. I don't care.
I will be here on the floor.

fall swoops in and the birds leave.
ice crept over ice. wind smells like cold.
I don't want anyone here.
this is the first winter here.

I will not leave. uninterested
in history's ideas
for what comes and what has
found its small place.


ds

Best Poem Ever

Posted on Life Is Art.Sunday, September 30, 2007
Best Poem Ever

As I lay in my bed, with my eyes closed
As I am drifting off to sleep
I compose the most beautiful poems in my head
I assure myself I will remember them
and write them down on paper in the morning
But I never remember them, unlike my dreams
Last night
I wrote the best poem ever, in my head
my lovely little head