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