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