Monday, December 15, 2008

beginning dance

sitting across from you
after work

my knees hurt
my shins sing
a violin concerto

talking & listening
eating burgers
that could be worse
but could also be much
better

its windy &
rainy outside
tv's blare a
football game
inside

we just yack away;
i watch your fingers
& hands & i watch mine, too--

i play with the brown napkin
under my water glass:
i roll the corner of the
napkin then
unroll & rub my
finger over it trying
to smooth it out

& listen as you talk
about who you are,
where you've been
& what you're all

about

Saturday, December 6, 2008

What Passes for Knowing

Out in the snow I am
underneath awake
with my arms on a pine
bough legs over the
brown needles.

All things are seen.
The wild grass has not fallen over
underneath the weight
of snow. The deer pawing at
the roots.
The land so wide it goes
to the edges.

This cap was made for me and
my ears are warm.

See the ice on all things. So quiet; we
have eaten up the sounds except
the clicks that our ears hear.

All this passes away before the stern light when
the city mounts these hills. Cars
idle among the rocks. Bridges lie on
the creek. And even
these boughs are windowpanes
clattering in chill.

What you knew,
and I knew,
will curl in the corner of the room
and point its face
towards forget.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

failed piss poem

i need to stop writing poems
like this

about nothing in essence
but i can't help it

its "how i do"

i wanted to write a poem
about taking a piss

in the men's room

but it bogged
down

i tried to bring
in the rules

you know,
the rules:

look straight ahead
study the wall

(admire the tile
& grout work)

don't talk to the
guy next to you

better yet
a whole urinal

between the two of
you-- its better that way

don't look down

shake twice
zip

wash your hands
leave

then i was going to
write about the

antiseptic smell
& the bright

florescent lights
the blue floors

& the gray
walls

& maybe throw a zinger
or two about the

dudes that talk on
cellphones while

droppin deuces in
the stalls

but it just didn't work
nothing there

i tried a
couple of times

but nothing except maybe
a crude aside

so i threw my hands up
(washed with soap & water

under the cold water tap--
that's all they have in the men's room)

& said "never mind, it
wasn't that good a poem

anyway"

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

The Crawl

The power lines sag between the houses with
stale electricity
delivering light and the
blur of television.
Onion cooks in the kitchen.
The neighbors meet at
the front steps with
cigarettes. Kids
hide
from each other behind
water heaters.

The whole place runs on
its method. Continues
from the beginning.
Lightning.

Just as we sit to eat and
draw our fork - think.
There is something we
were before this.
We were a promise to our prior.
Our name was struck
in another place by the
nature of fate.
By our nature we have eluded,
fooled, and misplaced it.

Pass the dinner around the table.
Pass the dinner around.

Friday, November 14, 2008

The Way You Love Me

Tied back into our history, we are

an accident walking with a handful of
sharp rocks. Out of the trees and
up from the water.
Still afraid of a lion at night.
Everything is afraid of a lion at night.
It is the way they grunt out
in the bush.

And now here we are, riding in the dining
car of the continents with the clinks and
shakes of the rail. Out of the big windows
the country goes away.
It lives with the loneliness.

We are here because I want to show you what
I've bought. Here: these hills.
I will fasten them around your ankle.
Here we will comb the hills with
houses and trees and wheat.
We will sit on that low rock wall.
We will taste mouthfuls of this wind.
We will peel the world of its time.

If there is trouble, my pocket is
full of rocks. I will throw them
at night at
the lion lapping up water from the spring.
In this way I will see no trouble.
I am a man of this age.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

noir mourn

2 1/2 glasses
of jack over
ice

miles on
the cd

an open window
the sound of rain

ceiling fan
spins--

a soft hum
from above

ice cubes
clink as
i sip

breath deep--
from the diaphram
close my eyes

i sit in my father's
old office &
mourn to

myself

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Wait for the Report

Shot glass splashed with tequila
full and dripping onto the wooden bar
worn with scrubbings and dried out by
alcohol, hard as a rock.
It rests, waits, impatient
wants to be thrown back, shot
and slammed back down on the bar
loud report, bam, didn't even
need lime
fuck salt
straight shot.

That is how I feel some days;
patient anger dripping onto the bar
waiting for the report
fuck limes and salt
I'll take my future neat.

Scars that still itch on occasion

I clearly remember
how I felt on the inside,
the struggle against and the
abandon to.
I can easily recall
how you felt to the touch
thighs, hands, hair
lips, forehead
and there are times
when your smell rushes at me
and my nose is full of you
and my brain reels with
unexpected memory.
How is it that connections
remain from such physical memory
when all other connections are
long dead and cold.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

narration into person

Come into the world without
knives and no way to strike
the dark when it

steps over you
day ends.
The geese are quiet all night.

You grow
up with your shoes on.

Going to job and job and job
sharing words that
nobody wants to do this.
Just without saying 'nobody
wants to do this.'

Home every night in time to be
drunk hiding under the
floorboards.
Vulnerable shhhh.

Wake up and have nothing.
Wake up and have
the microphones.

The engineer is waving his hands and he says the
levels are set and he will count you in and
tape is rolling and the light is on
and now go now, read
autobiography


Everything started with dark and no violence. The night
stepped over me. Daylight. My name.
I worked to afford not work.
Now I slip back to the last seat on
the mountain and can see everyone before
me and crowding the valley.
Crops grow around the children and dogs.
But I cannot turn.
But I cannot see the peaks.
The wind is behind my ears.
No way to turn around and see
where I'm going.

untitled

thoughts
like weathered
streamstones
rounded
hard bouncing
rubbing decaying
eroding
turning to
fine dust

nothing
nothing
nothing

fullness of
blank

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

honor haiku

such a great honor
the first poem in november
i really mean it

trash haiku

garbage truck arrives
a big international
we have dumpsters now

Monday, October 27, 2008

The Provinces

We took the last of the tobacco,
then rolled
the stones from the fire to
under our feet, and
slept with the dunes behind us.
I woke when a bird flew near.

In the morning we stalked gazelle along the
riverbed, but could
not bring one down. I made a fire
under a rock. There was tea for lunch.
The birds curled around once, then
went looking for something else.

That evening I walked back to my wife. She made
sweet potatoes and cheese and butter and onions
and pancakes. Her brother ate with us and we
stayed up watching the night drinking beer on
the roof. He is unhappy with his new wife, and may
go back to the old one.
The birds are very quiet here.
They hide. They know the children will catch them.

In this town the trucks cough all day. The market is
full of flies. The soldiers look at you and the
foreigners ignore you. You sit
in the heat, drink tea, and smoke.

Three days south there is a valley. I was there
once with my brothers. We were following gazelle.
They turned and led us into that place.
Green trees grew out of
the rocks. Everything
was bloom.
We stayed there two nights
beside the water and ate well.
There were pears and endless game.
The birds came and went chasing
seeds and mosquitoes.
I wrote my name on the rocks beside
another name.

I tell my neighbors about this place but
no one cares. There is a truck which has
brought whiskey or
always something else. If
I can get a contract I will take a
foreigner there to hunt.
They will be pleased with the place.
There is no waterfall, but they will like the
rest. They will be brave
while I catch grasshoppers for them
to fish with. When they go away they
will tell their friends. Then they will come to me also.

I will sleep away from here, near the
trees, under my name.

Friday, October 17, 2008

a bad no good poem

so much
depended on
that red wheelbarrow
the rain & the chickens

but the rain stopped
& the chickens fit into
cooking pots & then
into our bellies
the red barrow broken

& now there are
skeletal chicken remains
a rusty wheelbarrow
& a brown dry
yard &
that's all
there

is

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Signs

Six flies on the bathroom wall
Two are mating
One woolly brown moth
does the backstroke in my coffee; its the last cup in the pot.
Two dead squirrels and a bloated headless deer
flank the roads of my morning commute.
All
signs, permutations;
this is not going to be
my best day

Monday, September 15, 2008

library 4th floor

sitting on the floor
in the stacks of the
library holding a book
by a newly dead author

look out the window
grey, cloudy

rub my eyes yawn
lean my head against
the shelf
breath deeply

look out the window
again

flip through the book
the soft ftt-ftt-ftt of the
pages fills the acoustic
void

sigh deeply
get up stretch a
bit

browse the shelves

look out the window
once more

walk down stairs

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Age gives no indication of years remaining,
only the number accumulated.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Visiting Tui, a distant memory

Tui lives in a tiny clapboard house
in a small forgotten Western town
surrounded by a little yard of parched grass
a shade tree, a rusted swing set
She lives alone, she has no children
she is in her mid forties I guess.
She is my friend and visits with her are easy
she is a spinner and a weaver
she also loves to knit.
Her old Galaxie has a bumper sticker which reads
"so much yarn, so little time."
Time - hangs suspended in mid air in her cozy home
The kitchen has stainless steel sinks which line the walls to hold batches of home made dyes- indigo, onion skins and spinach greens.
The living room is a wooden spinning wheel showroom of sorts, wooden boxes hold skeins of yarn, from ceiling to floor.
The kitchen, tea and cup cozy,
ambition doesn't live here. There's no where to be, no one needed, everything is here and now.
One day while I was visiting, Tui led me to her bedroom in search of a magazine article.
Bed piled high with fat handmade quilts, warm golden carpet, sunlight.
She looks under her bed for the magazine and instead pulls out a dark wooden lock box.
Without a word, she opened it and held the certificate of commendation for me to read.
From the President of the US
A certificate of bravery and accomplishment for her Father, now deceased
For his contribution as crew on the Enola Gay

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

You're Not Seeing Me

-
you're not seeing me.
I'm talking
but no amount of reasoning
or preparation can get
my thoughts through.
I'm backing it up with
actions, daily living
puncuates my voice
but to no effect.
You're not seeing me
and there is no
way around that.
-

Thursday, September 4, 2008

God Who?

Today's news
is incomprehensible, stupid,tragic
I found the article after
the phone call from the mother
of the daughter

my friends-both.
Can I fix her hair-for the viewing-did i know-
her daughter
is dead?
No, i didn't know
No i cannot believe
the young and beautiful teenager
silly- vain- smart
apparently happy -
could take her own life.
The reports are now in
it was an accident- most likely
Regardless by accident or on purpose
the question seems to incessantly haunt me
-Where is God?
Where?


This poem was in the obituary this morning:
In Memoriam

Rhiannon

1993-2008

Funeral Blues:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let the aeroplanes circle moaning overhead, Scribbling on the sky the message She is Dead, Put Crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

- W.H. Auden

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Day One

Christians defy their credo- pray piously and righteous and sing- vulgar campy songs
March on Soldiers-march
Dios Mio- what shit! - outside our rooms inside the camp-
There’s more
A shower by the pool- plaster vault-light switch- bare bulb fixture hangs, empty from the center of the ceiling- besides the shower head- execution style suicide vault-
bats-
a penned up goose in space too small to turn around-once-
honks, honks, honks
and the neighbor boys in sandals and dust-pick berries from the tree and dance as they eat and ask to have a picture taken –
with you, and you, and you.
dinner, rice and beans, sauce plantain-
all fine-
mouse with long tail scurries by!
Each morning- each night-heart ponds,
find courage to go in or out the door-
to sleep
Day One in Campo Los Hippocities.
Living is an unfolding narrative of change
,ending long known, but the plot differs
the plot is difficult to guess,
and the viewer is certain
that all characters
have not been introduced;
not yet.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

stare

a highschool classmate

was murdered
by her husband

stabbed
repeatedly

with a kitchen knife
in the chest & neck

here's the thing
(the rub, if you will)

i do not remember her
at all

a somewhat vague flicker
of recognition

maybe

but even that is
a stretch

i looked at
my senior yearbook

i looked at her picture
nothing

a slight flicker,
but nothing

more

in a way
that is sadder

to me than her
death

DWC

Friday, August 22, 2008

The Smell of Yamasa

Altagracia papers
Aug. 2, 2008

Arrival, Campo Los Hypocrities, descending layers of degradation and squalor.
Top rung-airport- to traffic, horns, exhaust
- to air to sea.
Blue like the artificial ocean in a city aquarium, blue like turquoise, the sky, -the moon- once in a while-
Pot holes, mud streets- garbage, plastic bottles,funk
-decorate the yards- knee deep-
Landscape in garbage and burning metal.
Concrete block walls crumble
-No roof here, rusted tin there
-Naked children, chickens
-skinny dogs- scratching, scratching, scratching- these are our neighbors- beyond -the green gate, concertina wire and padlock- guards
Compared to its neighbors-the 5 star resort.
-Starred and Barred
Fourteen cots, triple flimsy metal bunks, in a fifteen square foot room. Dirty old mattresses,
Two shower stalls-one spigot
-COLD-
bare light bulb.
One rattle fan-electric
A moldy air conditioner
Nine grown women in this room-fourteen days behind these walls-
one toilet,
one waste paper basket for all toilet paper products- spills over
(Only what comes out of the body goes down the toilet-in the majority of the country)
Two mirrors
Dark shadows- light hearts- expectations
Thirsty Cockroaches creep and beg you to shower
Germophobe's skin crawls
Mosquito nets over bunks
- hang from the ceiling – slightly exotic-
trap mosquitoes in- silent ninjas-
swift and deadly-
outside the dorm-basketball hoop, fruit trees, hummingbirds- swimming pool- Nice!- palm thatch fresco dining- long banquet tables, plastic chairs- 2 cooks, dinner bell rings- frogs croak-
goose honks-
donkey brays.
Germophobe runs away inside herself
in order to survive
Arrival in the Dominican republic

(if you can handle it, there are many more pages)

Monday, August 18, 2008

No one was impressed.

When sick,
I remember being a child.

I remember the coughing,
trouble breathing, and
days indoors.

The girls thought I was gross,
spitting phlegm into trash cans
during gym.

The teacher still made me run laps,
I would do my best,
but I would start coughing
and would spit into the trash cans
every lap.

No one was impressed.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Without Ever Having

I remember my hair feeling short
on my shoulders and eating
currants on the train to your village. The
windows filled with the mountains and
trees of your country. I did not
know the trees of your country.
When I woke I was riding through
fields of oats. There were small
houses with vegetable plots. There
were horses. The rails curled and hummed
under the car. A young woman with two
children shared her tea, but we could not speak.
I did not know her words. She pointed and
showed me how she made her children's hats.
They were beautiful.

When I arrived at the station,
you were not there. We later understood
the time charts were not reliable; I
was early. When you arrived, you held my
arm and carried my things. The walk
was short. I was your wife.

Our house was at the bottom of
the road. The kitchen had a
coal stove and I learned the ways
of your country. Your cousin took me
to the market until I knew the way.
You worked. I learned the vegetables
and how to grow them. I cut
the dead wood out of the fruit trees.
This was the life we promised each other.
There was no false.

After two years you took me into
the mountains to teach me the
names of the trees. You said this was
the last thing to learn. We walked, and when
you put your hand on a tree you said
it's name. I followed you and touched
the trees you touched. I said the
names with my breath.

When I knew them all we sat down
and did not speak. We had met.
We had all our words together.

The years have went away.
They are gone. Our house
is at the bottom of the road.
It is a short walk.

I can go no longer
into the mountains. I cannot
touch the names of the trees.
I cannot sit in the place we sat; where
we ruined words.

The world was
tame that day. Now
it pulls at the rope.
It contends the lead.
I am letting go of the
words and the shapes.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

For Between

Not only is, we are

small.

Our arms move under the
footnails of the sky,
and in night the sky
moves past. (we go
out there only small).
So proud we touched the moon.
You cannot lay a star
under your eyelash.

But grow into tomorrow while
you sleep, and wake there. This is
the only is.

I love you and hold my hand.
When I don't touch you, I hear your
sound as I stutter through
Indiana. The towns pronounce
their names in your voice. Then
I sleep away under roofs under endless.

I will come together to you after
I've been through this place.
My pieces drift together and move
towards you.
I do not want unknowable.
I want beneath and beside you.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

among the dying

old testament

this was no way to live,
or die

chained at the turn
of the century

and yet always --
as with then

(and before)

rising to greet
your family,
eager for touch


and the new

others would come
and go

(the focus of nearly
all affection)

while you sat outside
in the dust, and dirt,

howling and jumping
whenever i'd approach

and so it went for nearly
two decades

until i found you dying

chained up, as always,

barely turning your
head as i reached
down to touch you

and swat away the
flies

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Fill

Leap leap.

Leap leap.


Leap leap.

Leap makes a
motion. It

moves away.

Into leap leap.

Leap doesn't know
land. Land's what
leap leaves.

In between: air.
Where leap doesn't
live: air.

Leap goes up land comes down.
In between: air.

Nobody knows air.

(but it might be better than that last patch of land).

Leap leap.

Age in Time

The whither face makes faces at
age. The corrupt tongue uncurls past
the dry lips and beats the air.
The sound is terrible. Eyes giggle
in their dark holes. The nostrils smooth out
as they flair up. Creaking earlobes tilt back
and forth. The dry hair knows nothing; it
is already dead. All together you are age.

Young looks out, making the same faces
from the playground with the same
innocent spite.

Throw Poems

Throw poems away. The
words get in your head and become
big ribbons unrolling
from the ribbon-wheel.
Carry armfuls of them to lunch.
In evening stumble over
them

going up the stairs with clean laundry.

Wrapped up in them turning from
right side to left side all night.
Who has time for all these children?
Breathe deep when your lungs are empty.

Throw poems away. They are
aging fruit. They are oranges from Christmas.
They are dried fruit you cannot eat dried.

The wind is under your young fingers. Hear the
stream in your ear. The woman
with a scarf brings plates of
almonds for breakfast.
Enjoy the life parts.

Everything will go away
to away where poems are.

something real

every time i try
to write something


something real


i feel unbearably
tired

like i could sleep
then and there

(for hours)

passed out at my
keyboard,

fingers lazy
and heavy


clogged with words


unable to form the
tiniest utterance or

quietest scream

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

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

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

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

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

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.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

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]

Friday, June 20, 2008

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

Saturday, June 14, 2008

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.

Monday, June 9, 2008

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.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

bed is better

rain
grey skies
jazz
a small white cat

a general feeling of
malaize

an empty coffee
cup

DWC

Monday, June 2, 2008

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

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

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.

Friday, May 23, 2008

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.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

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.

Monday, May 12, 2008

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

Sunday, May 11, 2008

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

Friday, May 9, 2008

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.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

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

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

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.

the o'malleys

(this one is for 3rdworst's brother)

i saw two soldiers today
in the bookstore

one of them couldn't of
been any older than nineteen

maybe twenty (on a good day)
if he was lucky he shaved twice a month

they walked through the bookstore
in their computer graphiced cammies

brown boots &
high & tights

as i watched them
walk silently

i was reminded of a
scene from good morning vietnam

the one where robin williams
sees a caravan of soldiers

going in country,
headed for the shit

williams cracks wise & does
his schtick & suddenly

gets somber & asks them
their names

they yell out things like
smith, johnson, and jones

but there's one guy
who shouts

o'malley

williams gets teary
eyed & tells o'malley

& his fellow boots "to be
careful out there"

i watched these two soldiers
& i thought the same thing

take care o'malley
keep your head down

come home
safe

DWC

Monday, April 28, 2008

Yesterday and Today

You
want these words when there's
no words

that I should say to turn

something into something else like
turning roses
into wine
or whatever

hey I have no
words to do any of this.

We live in place.
This is where we live.
Then you go I go.


I wake up in two hundred years.
Everything is made of dust. Everything we
said is rain two hundred years ago.
These are the only words only words.
I have been trying to scribble it everywhere if
you saw what I said.

Monday, April 21, 2008

swallow

when i was a kid--
living in the mountains
of MD--

everyspring a barn swallow
would build a nest of
mud & straw on the top of
the porch light--

i would watch the
swallow toil back &
forth slap mud atop
mud mixed with
straw & grass from our
yard

i would watch the swallow
swoop up & down its tail
spread in a V as it
sailed about

by that time
the farmers would be
plowing fields & the
smell of freshly
turned dirt mixed with
manure would fill the air

& i knew in six months
those fields would be full
of fat corn & green beans &
the swallow would be gone
& i'd climb a ladder to
take the nest down

knowing that it would
reappear next spring

DWC 2008

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Where'd Everybody Go?

Waiting for the sun
lonely, dust and dry hot room
damselfly enters

Dolar Store- hollar

offended by her scent
i stand a few steps back
and note the items in her basket
maxi pads; of course
a roll of toilet paper
three lemon pies and a box of kitchen matches
heavy woman without any teeth
makes me grateful
to be me

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Steering Wheel Scribe

If I could read the last line
i'd have a post
but i may be too intimidated by the level of greatness which i perceive precedes me
driving home, Springtime pores thick with pollen
rosebuds and thorns shoot from the edges of my eyelids as i grab my pen
and scribe as i drive
thoughts on old suntanned free city paper
progeny on paper
dragged up from the floor board
thorns sting and salty tears drop from my chin
to touch down on
jonquils blond fade
and dead butterfly wings
fallen from young lovers lips
float on smoke filled air with
cinders from Falls burning leaves

(i think that's what it says)

Monday, April 14, 2008

Jessica

Fuck you. You shake down a kid
from your gut then tell me
how I look. Tell me about
holes and worn clothes. Tell me about
food stamps and day care.
Tell me about mom's boyfriends.
And what are you doing in my underwear?

Choices don't make me. I didn't make
most of these choices. I rode the
same bus as everyone else.

You let me get away.
You opened your fingers and
let me slip out.
You left the latches open.
You came up behind me with
a banging sound and
forced me out.

Now come around with your eyes.
Come around with your eyes and
see this: I am not alone with you.
More eyes see you than
you see out.
Don't shake behind me.
You are inside me.
When I blink I feel
your breath.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Jessica

She had several small holes in her panties.
Her skirt,
so punk and school girl
four years earlier, was
frayed at the edges.
All quietly betraying
a wife used hard, a young mother
who has chosen poorly
more than once;
so much like her mom.

Arena Decisions

I have to think about the future
as something worth experiencing.

I decide to live this life,
every day.

I must feel like today,
(the suffering
the frustration
the waste)
is building,
contributing.
to a life worth living,
to a series of days worth risking
for another.

Each day its thumbs up
or down, like an emperor
at the finish of
combat, a decision must be made
I put down the wine glass
and decide.

The mob has not always supported my decision
but mostly the throng cheers.
I remember those responses
and vote again,
thumbs up
spare him,
thumbs up
let him have another shot
at glory.

Sometimes I Wish but Don't Mean It, Not Really

Sometimes
I wish I was less experienced,
maybe even oblivious,
aware of the obvious
aware of only enough
to navigate the room
to the fridge,
bathroom,
and bed.

Then, I think
Then I could just
kick back and ride it out.
I could ease in and watch days pass
like a child
looking out a school bus window,
occasionally wiping the fog in a circle
so I could get a better look
but detached enough
to just watch
and think
about lunch
and the cute
girl across the isle.

The Neverywhere

The attraction of self-pity
The reason some people get addicted
is that they can forget about everyone but themselves
It makes them the center of the universe

The center is pleasantly purposeful,
direction is easily defined,
and there are no awkward in-betweens:
The center is always a destination
and a beginning. Always both.

Self-pity is a surrogate center
a placebo of purpose
a negative nest
nestled in the center
of neverything.

Its killing you
but at least you know where you are.
You're neverywhere.

Friday, April 11, 2008

lament

i found myself twirling a
pen over a blank page

just twirling
waiting for inspiration

the second coming is
more likely

i looked out the window to
the great asphalt plain

i saw stunted trees & heavy
machinery & cars

lots of cars

i looked back at my paper
& my pen-- so much for might

DWC 2008

5-7-5

The whole day off work
watching sunlight cross the floor.
I've done nothing, no.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

the plaything

i feel like an extra
in my own play

i think i'm watiting for godot
whoever he is--

eating leftover chickenbones
& flipping coins

i blank stare my way through
each act-- hoping i won't miss
my cue

i invariably do, though
its the stage lights--
they blind me, throw me
off-- i hate when i
forget my lines-- i said
that once, on stage, in clown
makeup-- everyone thought
it genius-- i
didn't break character

i try & hide in the shadows of
the stage

avoiding the spotlight
avoiding the audence's eye
avoiding the play-- really

scrounging through my leather bag
looking for my script--
dogeared & underlined

DWC 2008

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Odd way to find morning

The mind
is odd, and made of
berries. Rasp and straw hold
it together. Huckle lines the
inside. The past is made of
blue, and the coming sits
outside the elder.
Anything you can think
fits inside
a mul. The rest
is the back of a boysen.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Among Friends.

That's memory:
when slipping away creeps under
the floorboards to here.
When forgetting stomps through the
kitchen barefoot.
It takes a pillow by me, and
rolls over all night. It
keeps me awake most.

Day slops in the window and
I remember nothing.
All the parts
break.
The wallpaper of my chest splits and
cracks under the paint.

Voices from outside. Sisters walk down an alley
to school with their singsong -

'Night comes an-d n-ight go-es
Day slips be-tween
Thin shee-ts of li-ght
Co-ver the earth so shortl-y

Now w-e go aw-ay
Off for the re-st of our l-ives
Little shee-ts of li-ght be-tween
The coming and go-ing of n-ight.'

This is only how I know things.
Truth has no similar tale.

Monday, March 31, 2008

About Friends

Yes the end
looks like a pawpaw tree tiny
flowers that smell like death. Yes
the end is a hatch of mayflies
coating the bridge. Yes the end has
fingers made of iron
touching everything.
Yes the end
swims upstream to the beginning.
No the end
has no voice. No the end is all heart.
No the end is Alaska. No
I have everything. Yes
the end has no reason and never comes.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

The Comfort of the Unforeseen

Worry
is for the foreseen;
that which we can imagine.

The unforeseen,
the unimagined,
is never worried for.

The uninvited is received
by our most natural reaction.

A credit and a testament
unto ourselves.

Monday, March 24, 2008

When I Worked for the Peace Corps

More important to carry than lift - my
hands full of pounds, Libya on my
shoulder. I'm holding up the dusk.
A five hundred mile shuffle. There's a giraffe
carved into that mountain, and a shaman
or a guy with a stick.
Rome was here.
One
legion held this place for hundreds of
years. I didn't see Leptis Magna.
There was a lot of history.

But mostly it was hot and the locals
stood around watching us dig their well
(which they let sand fill in two weeks) with
no electricity no women and date wine
with fucking chunks in it. Eight
weeks in the Maghreb. Two weeks in
hospital with fever. Most everything stolen.
Every kid wants your watch and pen.

Makes you wonder how
Rome did it. That's the thing
about history. The further in time the
longer from possible.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

It is natural that we should rebel in this way

My socks are folded I enjoy everyone to come
have tea at our overlook the pond
is stocked with fishes. Soon the sun will
strike over us we will draw the awning put on
the new sunglasses I gave you.
Yesterday the big turtle dove into the
water from that log with new branches
growing from it
the dragonflies startled him look there
a big one lands near you.
Hold out your finger it may land and we will have
nine years of good luck my father's workers will bring
much grain and my brother will come home and
find a wife. I do not hear from my brother but one
letter he sent my mother kept under the
bed I found it last spring it said. He said he lives
under dirt and rests a knife under his
thigh when he sleeps now quiet the
sun is falling over the house and the trees.
Do you hear the birds get quiet?

I wish every day was this having tea with
you the
airplanes are so nice they will wait
until we finish and there is the turtle
again do you see him, there, there,

stretching towards the bank with
his mouth open.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Things are looking up

Most of us are lobsters (at
the bottom with big
claws). The swift goes
over us. We are giants
on the bottom. We eat what
lobsters eat. Algae, slow fish,
soft rocks, the bottoms of
ships? We scuttle. Lay millions
of nameless eggs. But enough
about us - I smell a fish
in the bottom of a wire cage.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

learning to swim

the old testament
we have gathered two of everything,
like noah:

two boxes of cranium
two sets of knives
two sets of pans
two sofas
two tents

we have gathered enough for
two homes

and continue to do so, maintaining
our separate quarters three doors
down

and an eternity away


and the new
we have gathered in two's
like noah, with an ark to save
everything

but ourselves

Monday, March 10, 2008

first steps of spring

i took out some garbage this evening
before bed it was cold & clear
the fingernail shaped moon
lay on its back
stars twinkled &
the light of an airplane
blinked

i tried to find the dipper
or maybe even orion's belt
but i have to be twelve
& wearing a boyscout
kerchief to remember where
those are located

i looked up to the sky
& found myself talking
out loud to my father

telling him i missed him
& wondering if he saw
the pretty sky

& it was
the moon shone
& the stars twinkled
& the airplane's light blinked

Saturday, March 8, 2008

If there were

Weather today - the
dog nipped the front door
demanding a walk
on hardened snow. Just
twenty degrees. Down
four houses to the park around the
frozen baseball field smelling
everything. Old goose tracks distorted
by days of sunlight on ice.
Yellow piss on the cold
trees. The clouds of
breath cool and descend.
Today is the only day
there is.

We come back into the house.
Come back into the house.
Television reminds me that
Arizona exists
somewhere.
Somewhere the air is
warm and
crowds with
terrible people
sharing their names.
Remember:
here your name
floats away
over parking lots.
Here you speak and
your voice settles
as it cools.

Your name will
grow into springtime
nettles
along the steep
bank.

Friday, March 7, 2008

how cookies crumble

its cold
its snowing

i've got a cold
i feel horrible

i have a job interview today

can it get any better

Weather Report

Today is rainy and cold
yesterday sunny and warm
on the roadside this morning, daffodils blooming, yes blooming while I watched
Gloomy as it seems now
those blooms, those crystal sharp peaks of yesterday's sun rays
lead to this thought
perhaps the SSRI bottle can remain in the Winter cupboard,
untouched one more day

Thursday, March 6, 2008

memory in cloth

his clothes are
washed & folded
neatly in a washbasket
by the green chair
in the living room

i stop & look at them
they are pajama bottoms
& a colts t-shirt
both grey

white athletic tube
socks with his
name sharpied
on the bottom

the clothes, the
last he wore,
are laundred &
folded & soon
will be put into
a bag

& taken to
goodwill

i stare at
the clothes,
folded & clean
& miss him for
second

i lean down,
touch the corner of
a t-shirt,

smile & walk

away

Monday, March 3, 2008

Where I'll be when I'm gone.

North Carolina. Or the
Negev. Giant Sudan. Anywhere
Sudan. La Paz. Hopefully not Sacramento.
Baalbek. Central Russia.
St. Helena.
Rockall. An Ox-Bow lake.
Northern Somalia. Eritrea.
Iowa. I hope to God it's Iowa.
Or the Negev. Someplace
small, unburdened by rivers. Someplace
Smaller and smaller where I'm gone.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Social Creatures

I need little,
from all
but a minority,
and from them
much.

Friday, February 29, 2008

No fruit for it

I came to trade three weeks of
effort - these things I've made.
I walked from stall to stall
opening my bag and
turning away. At the end
a man gave me four potatoes and
an onion for a carved wooden boat.
I told him with the back of a
shirt I could fit it with sails.
He declined and looked away. A
handful of nails got me
an old pair of pants. I
traded a bundle of rags for
some tea.
I was a whole business of small things.

But I could get no oranges. No pears.
None of the plums.
I could not get anything
sweet for my work. There
was no reward.

I walked home past the dogs
in the street covered in mud.

mourning thoughts

the tired slips
around me like
a large unseen
snake

wrapping me
slowly squeezing

eyes droop
i feel numbed

these last weeks
have taken me

i sleep, fitfully
wake up drink coffee
eat a bagel
get dressed

i try not to
dwell on him not
being here any more
except in my mind's eye

i don't cry, though
i find myself looking
for him

i look at his bookshelves
afraid to touch one
leave things the way they are

let things rest
its too early for
things like that
cleaning out
removing the leftovers
he's still in
those leftovers

so i mourn, in my
own way not with ripping
of clothes or gnashing of teeth
but through thought &
memories

DWC 2008

Monday, February 18, 2008

Another Emotional Train Wreck

With bruised ego she
lies, under layers of blankets
sleep away this day

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

these days

long walks and short sighs;
retired door buzzers and
empty in-boxes

there's no use facing it:

everyone is gone these days

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Converse and talk

Nobody's got the brains; we share between our
fingers. -I grazed your
knuckle when I
reached across.
We shovel sharing.

This is the place
your neighbors are. We've met.
She works at an office and he
does something else.
Their boy ran track and field.
There is more I can remember
if I think.

You make words from what
you know. Talk about wine and
we have aged. Numbers
step outside the clock.

Nobody's got the brains; not
even all of us. Outside the airplane window there's
no ground.
The wings curl off
past the ice.

The Look of Recovery

Some kind of cancer
sat down two tables
away looking like she had
lost weight (but recovering - out
to eat) bandana over
head thin cheeks
and a man with her.
Plates and plates of pasta.
Bread and olive oil.
The restaurant wasn't busy.
After lunch Saturday.

You never know people.
Did not see what car
they drove. We were
finishing our plates and plates.
Paid and tipped and left.

Some kind of cancer, unless I
am wrong. But with the
look of recovery. No one submits
always.

We drove away from the big city into
north highway in afternoon.
Our things were bought.
We drove with cars and cars
away and away from
all
the things of the city.

Like looking into
the windows of
everyone to see
you never know people.

a note to thirdworst...

'don't let it bring you down
it's only castles burning'

- neil young

one of my favorites.

Friday, February 1, 2008

To get here

Maybe simpler, with less words and
things. Smaller thoughts. A level
field. These
things get you here?
Then find here and think
ego gets alone. I'm
only angry at the tally.
Less and less - what should
be more and more no matter what
lands here - less and less.
Our time called the
time of know. Fewer know smaller.
Fewer know smaller.
Always like before.
These things
get you here.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

everybody look at me

say things. blah blah. act all
wise. blah blah. pretend I know
some shit. oh... I understand
medicaid and trucks and the
Russian Revolution. I read 2
books about Afghanistan
(both at least 20 years old and mostly
really about the Greeks).
I read a really old book about
Africa where there were only
5 countries and Egypt.
Me big full of brains. I
know most everything but
math and woman things.
See how quick the world
rolls away - know
nothing and it goes off
to momentum

Intimacy

You know you have reached
the highest level of intimacy
when your answer to this question
is yes.
Will you please give me an enema?


(chin up DWC)

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

poem of poems

its a grey day
one big cloud in the sky
color is muted almost bland

the cd player just
stopped that's how this
day feels

i've been pushing books
back & forth on my shelves
looking for something
but not sure what

sometimes the act of
touching the books is enough
it calms me

i've needed
some calming lately
(did i mention my
head hurts a bit today)

i slept til nine am
my cats ganged up on me
demanding food
i surrendered to their
demands first i had a
rendevous with
the coffee pot

i stretched & rubbed
my back i felt like
ninety & rubbed my nose
& then fetched the paper

& the day continues to be grey

DWC

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

tonight tonight

The beer is gone and I think all that's left is
some triple sec in
the cabinet by the
stove. Christ.

But fate is fate. I have a thing to feed.

The World of Dreams

You wear everything and the music is full of
sounds in the room. Yes, I've been drinking.
This place was alone before you came here.
It was so loud I could not picture you or your
things. I was thinking of the Soviets and a
poem I composed to them. It did not work. The world ends.
I will go to the basement a
place in place.
Outside
the snow shines and you can see the far ends of
the yard now
but
will be invisible after it melts
in the evening.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Playing with Yarn

Moving is small, the
spin spins. Wave at the
places past your fingers then
they go.

Everyday repeats
new things. Grow
up to be four years older than
yesterday. We
are no young. Just
pups inching into forever.

And then forget. Who
remembers the
people we forget?
They go beside
outside, then we
go beside them. The
tea goes cool in the
saucer while the
cup boils: all
wrong things in
the wrong place. Eat
these words.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

kinetic

the ER is a kinetic place
full of activity
loud &

bright

machines beep
sounds of gurney wheels
flipflipflip by the open
door that is covered by
a long curtain

in the waiting room
families wait
for loved ones
trying to keep children
entertained

strained smiles spread
across weary worn & tired
faces

keep the upper lip stiff
trying to be happy &
upbeat
hollowed dark circled
eyes belie
smiles

retreat back to
the ER itself
trying to find some
form of normalcy there

can't

another ambualance
a chopper, too
the gurneys are lined up
no place to put them

nurses call back & forth
trying to find someplace for
the sick & hurt

my father lay on his bed
with an oxygen tube attached to
his nose
doctor comes in examines
him tells us a prognosis
don't want to hear it
scares me a bit more

i don't know how to help
him i feel helpless
i'm scared & feel tired

i ask for a coke from someone
they bring it: coca-cola classic
i pure it over the small
round ice cubes provided in the
small plastic cup
i suck on the coke & ice
hoping for something not sure what

the kinetic controlled choas
continues

there are no rooms available
they'll be sending him to another
hospital they don't know when
sometime tonight, maybe tomorrow morning

there's nothing more we can do
we leave

& go into the cold night
i cough when i breath in the
frigid air my nose & ears
scream in protest of the
cold

we get in the car
& drive home
in

silence

DWC

Friday, January 18, 2008

haiku (through a plate glass)

ground: grey roads white snow
sky: fog choked, hazy blanket
pine trees: muted green

DWC

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Techno Monk

This is not my poem
and this may not be acceptable behavior
but I found a techno friend
one day
in my blogosphere
fascinating and strange
wonderful and poetic
no one seems to comment on his posts
I thought you all miTechnomonkght go over and say hey or
something.

Monday, January 7, 2008

Land of no Wadi

The field touched the road and you could
see the air full of gnats and grasshoppers
and wind. The air was hot and very dry. Road
dust rested on nameless weeds and
trees at the edge of the woods. Everything
smelled green
and brown. This time of
year, when it is cold and summer
far away, it is very hard to remember this. This
time of year, the past is a
millstone necklace and everything
else is the river bottom. Without revealing
too much, everything else
is the river bottom.

this page unintentionally left blank

part i
when you are a writer
you never know when
you'll be called to act:

in your car...
at a busy restaurant...
alone on the train...

so you stuff notebooks
everywhere (in case of
emergency)

and scribble furiously
whenever the muses
so require

but then some days
there are no words;
only sights and sounds

and thoughts so
quick that by the time
you grab for paper

there is nothing to say

part ii
today, driving, the
universe came to me
at a red light

and disappeared with
a green. i turned,
despite myself,


overwhelmed
by blank pages

Saturday, January 5, 2008

She Never

She don't like that and she wears tall
shoes. Her
arms cover
everything.
She'll comb your hair with
her voice. Her skin is lighter than
dawn. Her eyebrows never leave your
mind.

Her ankles could wash and wax a moving
car. She breathes
California when she stands in Michigan, and
man, forget it

you'll never even meet her.

Friday, January 4, 2008

more about the job and

Seriously, you're Medicaid and you can't answer my
questions about your policies and
have never heard of what I'm
talking about
even though it's what you
told me to do last
time we spoke? Can I
speak to your superv -
no, he's busy. Can you transfer me to
another department? No - you're all
equally trained experts on all
aspects of Medicaid. Do
you know things? I was on
hold 38 minutes for this? Well, can
you just make a note that
he's in the hospital and will
not be coming out in a good way?

But the weather has started to
break and
I walked smoking through the
park in the afternoon on
three inches of snow. The sun
was a white spot on the other side
of cloud cover
past the hills behind
Highland Park. I imagine this
place in the summer, full of
people and sound. I am not so
used to writing in
questions.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

the moment of today

Maybe I'm not cut out
for work. Drink drink
drink. The nurse called tonight and
somebody else
has cancer. Drink drink drink.
In his guts and liver and lymphs -
maybe a few weeks left. Drink
drink drink. This is one of the
first guys I met at work. We
went fishing and talked about
girls and complained to
eachother. The worst kind of
cancer. Drink drink drink.
I know his family.
Drink drink drink.
Tomorrow it's my job to tell people
he's going.
Tell everyone he
lives with. Drink
drink drink.
He smiled and laughed today in
the hospital. I'm not sure I'm
up for
this. Drink drink.
Drink.

So I'm getting drunk. It's Thursday.
Long weekend ahead.

You know his family doesn't want
to tell him? They don't
want
him to know he's dying.

We went fishing and
talked about girls.

Drink.
Nobody died at my old job, no
matter how much I wanted
them to. Drink drink.

I'm going to sleep. In
the morning I'll do
my terrible work.

He's dying; I'm not.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

it ain't rock-n-roll

jazz that's all there is
jazz jazz jazz

'trane, monk, miles...

i listen to jazz when i need
out

it helps the sharp corners
makes em smoove

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

what the mind is made up of

Everytime people start getting smart and
thinking they know shit I think
about when a kid told me he lived in
Salvador and saw his neighbors
dragged out into the street and shot then how
years later that same kid shot another
kid in a gang fight in LA. The kid was
crying when he told me, but now he's locked
up. That's what I think about when
everyone's smart and I start
to feel smart.