The Dancer Eye

And then with his little ‘time heals all’ dance,

Stuck his feet onto the stage

Facing the fear of the audience.

They all watched him crouch from the curtain,

And gasped with the way he took his jump.

His body a fearless hello.

Fingers straight as orchids.

Wobbles where they belong.

The very night itself a shoulder.



- This is me of late. Stepped out into the oncoming

Traffic which is morning. Without grace -



My darling, you are not an eagle.

You are a photograph of a Vespa:

Although I own the image, I do not

Own the item. My darling, you are

Not a sheet. You are a jar filled

With clean water: a vessel for

The only thing that matters.

My darling, you are not waking eyes.

You are a harp in a battle: a ghost sound

That I hear for years.



Have I been foolish? Then I have

Walked around in a foolish way feeding pigeons.

Have I been foolish? Camping along a frozen shore

In August while friends swim the Bras D’Or.

Have I been foolish? Spending the summer

Curled around your little feet and listening for

The whisper of your voice.



And these the dancer sees moving through

The window’s world. Trips around the studio.

The radio cranked up and drunk.



It was not our time for these lives to join their

Pursuits and strings. Rather the wind pulled us only a little,

Then scuttled the cans, the leaves, the junk,

The humanity of the alley into the places

From far away to far away.

The Concessions

I stray into older and
Older time that comes by order
Through year and another year.
The grips (the teeth) of the gears
Strip. The zinging it sounds like.
*Yes your ears and ears go
*Until you can only hear the punctuation,
*The look on faces.

As the gears go - they let you know they are
Going and slip out of the door one
At a time
Into the nightwoods ducking
Through brush until they reach the
Stream where trout do not see them
In their sleep -

The rest of it.
The whole damn mechanism.
It slows into a slow machine.
It is a turn of the century photograph of
Complicated belts and valves in a
Steam driven window-maker's dangerous shop.

I look outside. I can smell the sweet coal-burning
Smell of the engine. I feel the cap on my head.
It's sunlight and I'm wearing longsleaves.

What they do not tell say is that
It is peaceful. You may sit
With a blanket on your lap.
Rest your arms on the armrests.
There is only now time to enjoy
That it is warmer than you like.
And to sit without being hungry
Or without need.

The rest of everything is small.
It rests on the deck of a ship.
It is small. It looks small
As it tacks out towards the sea.

And behind - the crackle of a burning sound
That approaches here.
This place I am.
Stretching hands out behind you
Feeling flecks
Of the heat

Of the heat
On its approach.

irony in pills

i've made a doctor's appointment
tomorrow, 9 am

my bloodpressure its high
i've been stressed lately

life, job, money,
bills, relationship

etc etc etc
same story blah blah

want to make sure that
everything is okay under the hood

i'm sure i'll have to cough
& endure the cold stethoscope

irony of ironies
i've kind of got a sorethroat

that started tonight
probably psychosymatic-hypochondriac

i can feel my heart bang-bang-banging away
when i sit like a small baby's fist thwacking me

so i'm a tad worried
36 yrsold

my father had his first major
cardiac event at 43

by my math i have seven years
that gives me time

lose twenty lbs
quit drinking

relax

write my book of poems
get a real job

maybe get married

i'm going to
the dr tmrrw

Three groundhogs pray in a field
bob and dip, bob dip
they must be hasidic jews

In Tom Wait's Voice

Mary was a welfare mother
Joseph was a kindhearted man
Jesus was born on a cold winter's day
in a cardboard shack
Under a sign
which read
"WILL WORK FOR FOOD"

In Service

We had been to the hospital that
Morning to give blood, then
Drove into the city.
There was a bottle and we
Drank it because it did not matter.
We came through the slow
Streets and stopped at crowds and
Tried to help. No one wanted
Help. We took some to
The hospital. A man sent his son with
Us while he looked for his wife.
We wrote for him where
We would take the boy.

In the afternoon they began
Shelling the city again.

The truck ran out of fuel. For a while
I was not sure where you were.
We helped put out fires.
There was never water.
We did not sleep that night, but stayed
In a shed behind some buildings.
It rained. There was no wind
Or lightning.

Eleven days later I got on a boat and
Returned to this country. To linen. To
Warm. To language. To nights.
Everyone drinks and speaks.
My time there I saw but
Was part of no real. Mornings only
Hunched in the windows of sky.
Day never seeming to come bright.
Time rose and fell as it prayed.
And what if the world does not end?

nonverb

days like this

grey

cloudy
cold

make it hard
to want

to do
to be

to experience
to partake

The Mare

Foundering. It was foundering they
kept saying. That Travis had
walked in and saw something had
happened, but he didn't know
what to do. He knew about
staying on your feet
and not lying down. He ran
to get Bill. They came in
out of breath with their hats
off. Then Bill told Travis to
get Emily and dad.

I thought about the oats. The peacefulness
of the oats and the sweet crispness
of the dry corn. The smell of oats;
the dust of oats around your nose.
All the joy in your life in the
sunshine drinking cool water and coming
inside and having a little more to
eat, then the quiet of the
barn. Long nights without wind.
Listening to the small
sounds. Drifting to sleep
without thoughts of morning.

By now they were yelling.
Emily and Travis were off to get
the doctor. Gene was pulling me
around the lot and
Bill pushed when I tried to stop.
All the lanterns were lit, like
they were looking for
something. The animals moved
and watched with their eyes.
Outside the barn lot the
world was silent and waiting.

My legs were in terror - foam
thick in my mouth. I felt the red
and pain in my eyes. My guts
screaming. I wanted water, and
did not want water.
Gene and Bill pushed and pulled and
strained. I laid down. I laid
down by the fence near the
small gate.

The men's voices changed. They spoke
a new language. I could not
hear Emily's soft high
voice, or Myra's laughing.
The languages changed and changed
until they became the same - a
sound like rustling or wind.
The sound of a hand as it
strokes your neck. Then
no sound at all, just a feeling
like you're running as fast as
you can through dark and the
feeling of air all around you.
The soft and the present.

We never really know what we are doing

We learn, we get better, we improve

But the goal line keeps moving

There is no finishing this process

We'll never know what we are doing

Not really

Restful

Breathing fresh air
Is like drinking water
Or closing your eyes.

word

the first time i said the word
my tongue felt heavy

like it had been shot
full of novacaine

& (in my
mind) my voice

sounded like a
slowed 33 lp--

a thick word
that tumbled

out

like a heavy boulder
it almost sounded

fake

its not
& it isn't

its real
& i mean it

every time
i say

it

This morning I hear alarms softly going off.
I see gauges politely approaching areas demarcated in red.
I wonder what to do. I wait until the alarms
Are louder, but wonder if they get louder
Or if this is it.

From the Gradual

The continent in its creep (its
low gradual gear)
comes over across the sea.
The long aged water.
From the peak of the roof
I watch the waves slip in
their troughs and tumble
eachother.
It all sounds like smoke - this
gimmick of earth.

Then the great Canadians crook
under the clouds
hemmed with their noise. This is
their season, and they know it.
They will tell you that
they come in on
the cold wind that comes in.

But the arrogance of their shadows
goes unnoticed on the deaf
gears that creep

this moment from hence to
forth, hence to forth.

Queen of S Words

Another Ondine talks to a fish
Beneath the Queen's chair
And whispers
Japanese Bath Houses

My Nature is Good

My name is Extra Gravy
And I'm an introvert.
This is my nature.
I am not broken.
I do not need to change.
I do not need to be more
like you.

The Animals The Animals

The hog-nose snake among the
Grape vines when
The dogs find him and
All his tricks

Puffed up like a cobra
In its hood
Then
Rolled over in mock eternity
While the claws and the
Nails of the she-dogs
Ripped the grass
Around him

Until their interest slipped
Back to the
Squirrels among the branches
The opossum among the garbage
The sleep behind their eyes

And he slipped away with
His scales between the arbors
Of this crop, next
Year's crop,

The places where futures come

first thing i do when
i get to work is make a
chapbook

three sheets of paper
folded in half & stapled
in the crease & i
try & write something--
i figure i have
12 pages

in between customers
i scribble something
kind of like
WCW but i
don't use prescription
pads

sometimes i'll grab
a book of poetry &
skim poems & hope
for inspiration

lately, its been
bukowskI--
that irascible
drunkard
poet from the
west coast--

i've had three
false starts
so far

so i read
Buk:
read about his
drinking
& womanizing & horsetrack
shenanigans

& look for inspiration
somewhere

its not easy
trust me

memories through typing

i'd like to go
back twenty years
& type this poem
on an eye-bee-emm
selectric typewriter

i have fond memories
of that heavy, blue,
metallic goliath

my mom worked
that thing over
like a pickpocket
in time square--
deft, subtle

she owned that machine

the staccato
rat-tat-tat
machine gunfire
would echo through
the house as she banged
out that week's bulletin

the silver ping pong
sized ball looked like
a hammer smacking the ribbon

my father, in
the other room,
would finger-peck
his sermon into
existence &
then practice it
over & over again

(rehearsing
rehearsing)

out loud until he
had it mostly memorized
so he could
speak salvation
to his little country
flock

next sunday

Making Weight

He sat across from nobody and
peeled the sandwich apart to
scrape off the peanut butter.
Except for the hint of peanut butter.
Then he ate the lonely bread
and drank four glasses
of water.

"The bread will expand in my
stomach, and I'll feel like I
ate more," he said white-faced.
Thin. Sick looking. Eyes dark.

A hooded sweatshirt running endless
laps in the gymnasium. Sweating out
evenings.

He did not die that year. Or his junior or
senior year, even if his body
wanted him to. Even if it was
telling him to, he did not.
He spent the hot and cold months
throwing his body against the walls of
youth and succeeding and failing.
Endless running in a sweatshirt.

These things sent him
into college, where he studied and
learned.
After graduating he
designed a lever that goes in the air conditioning
of your car.
All cars have them now. All cars have
them now.

He became wealthy. He could afford all
things. A wife. Children.
He found the way to excess.
The years spread out before him with
colors and reasons and the
vagueness of eternity made its whispers.

Now he lives alone in northern Michigan,
With everyone else.

bukowskiesque

i stared at
myself in the
mirror the other
day:

unshaven

so fat i had
faint purple
stretch marks
by my navel

my red birthmark
that covers my
belly & dips between
my legs looked
like a red flesh balloon

my hair greasy
& uncombed

i looked like a bum:
something a dog
would nose once
turn & bury

i looked like i'd just
come down from a
three day drunk

my eyes were
somewhat bloodshot
& rimmed
in dark shadow

teeth filmy
mouth sour

a mess
unclean

filthy

perhaps these are not poetic times at all

i watch the
news:
disgusts me

watch tv:
nauseates me

read:
bores me

maybe mom is right
maybe i am depressed
i don't feel it, though

its just this whatever
it is-- i must sound so

i dunno

metaphysical
or
heaven forbid

emo

maybe it really is
like giovanni

said--

maybe these aren't
poetic

times

at all

What did I learn?

I don't really know.

I could make something up.

I'm clever enough

to make it sound good

but not too good,

still believable.

Truthfully, I don't know

if I learned anything at all.

skeleton horses pull treasure chests
on rickety wooden wheeled carts
in the damp dank basement
beat the dead horse
one
more
time