... (xiii)

all your dreams, all your desires

your hopes and what you want the most

the sharp silent thrust of your needs

don't set them marching in the street

the world won't bleed--hold your fire

the world don't catch--

you had better burn your ghost.

to you

to you--all of my life,
I have been coming home to you
you were never there
all my life, I have walked
in the shadow of history

who can
outpace
the world
hunting
under the swinging veins

might duck
between your ribs
might slide
between your bones

when the shadow
is moving
swift and empty

no wonder
I,
stumble in the silence
eyes white
gasping

at bay
in the chambered darkness

--I shake

winter, undying

the thin shadow
of the over-pass
I saw them rolling
bags of fish
down the sere sides of the canal
in the waving grass

I saw them scooping
up from the mud
fish from the lakes that had been drained
when the delivery-men
were long gone from
sunning themselves on the banks

the land of winter, undying

and I recalled,
in the shade of the bamboo
whispering, under the heat and fury
of the light, pouring
through the leaves
the drum heart-beats echoing
from some far cold night

the wind sings in the grass, now
the sky thin and clear,
broke free—

the day arches
cracked and bright

the icy
sunlight whips
through the branches
tears
across the ground

distance
hangs in shreds
the winter, undying

and the far rolling beat
rolls in me now
--all that was
--is, and will be
echoes

will come

light

        sunlit grind-stones

filed your eyes 

a flash in the branches

        would turn them back

to slice

all the sunlit days within you

        banish the heavy

and the sweetness

the haze in the harsh

glare of the light

              you have learned

you made cities

      of the dirt and the last

light on the clouds

tear your hands out

from them

      and there is dust

no rubble

you--

scattered on the hillsides

you--ruins

in the empty sunlight

you--might

with the lizards darting

in the jagged

walls and broken tiles

--that the truth

would not spare--

you--might

it could not take your hands

you might stand

with 

       cities,

in your palms

you might tear into time

the borders of the stolen countries

the names of the broken backs

                         you might rend the light, even

in the shadow

of your arms

     

        

cul-de-sac

               so I must 

--and we, 

has fallen

                  behind

my hands empty--

I hold, only--the lines

                        on my palms

      the flat light, the wood

siding, straight and fading

and surely-the shadows

were empty, and the velvet

dark, simply the blurring

of lashes--

--surely the world is flat

dull and lined, surely

it must be empty?

                          from rib

to rib

         the echo

launches

                    itself

                    through the dark

    

and far away

the ghosts

        are laughing

        and stamping

                        and the thud

is on my bones

         throw their heads back

here--where the street

ends in houses

the world sprawling

and still

             --don't feel its

own hands

I am perched

on my 

ribs--listening

and slack

                in my skin

this was meant to be a hymn

this was meant to be a drum-beat

this was meant to call

this is nothing

                     but an echo--

the words shriveled

and fell from the pale

and brittle--

        don't say the wind speaks

it whistles and scratches

                              -only.

surely, I am 

full of echoes

                --surely

my words

are shadows--

surely I will not answer again.

flight

I wouldn't call it sweet

           sweet like wind, maybe--

which cuts and cools, and rushes

           it seems love 

has been a flood of purpose

and that the overflow

    pools across my soul

           shame, and joy, and desire--

but no matter-- 

                       I rise, caught

in a higher current

                       they reflect a

   blind fierce flight.

crow

perched on the step
and cawing
with the quicksilver clouds,
sliding across the sky
it would be something--
to flap, cackling
towards the eaves
it would be something
--and no small thing
to roll them across my feathers

drink

         I am lying here under window

in the soft cold

and slowly drinking my memories

           every sweetness, rich and light

every sharp tinge of acid

every deep and oaky

bitterness

and the cool waves

of desire pulse in me

--the cool and clear

all the fermented instants

                           I will stagger

through my days here

graze myself on every moment

                oh you!--shallow, fickle sunlight 

you vapid chirping sparrows

you specious, bustling seconds

you ever-dripping leaves

you bruised and seeping sky!

           --it was real, and it was so.        

what else am I drinking? 

                        what other absence

                                         drives my thirst?

mist

to the mist:

a bank of stars

drifting under the lights

that lands, soft and wet

in my clothes

--and were they dumb

out of pride?

--or because they could only gleam

sharply?

it could be the latter--

they have come down

mute

--but they cluster around me

wetly,

          sparkling

and touch.

do not trouble the sky

you know the answer already

liar

I was a fool

selfish beyond belief--to love beyond your capacity

to reach beyond what you can grasp with a firm hand

love, especially, is a hard-eyed goddess

she appreciates, above all, expertise

I will never lose myself in you again

but will walk with you and in you

heedless and rejoicing

one more bright companion

like the sunbeams--that shoot across your edges

ha!--I will be a liar

you cannot breach the film of my eyes

I love you still

edge

floods me
              the burnt sweetness
courses
       to the tips of my fingers
    I look up
and see a different moon

silent
           the flood-lit
intersection
    and a single truck
  lumbers by
and a single
 wrapper
     wanders in
the gutter

              the wind
under my arms
             rakes
    my hair
the leaves
         rushing
   above me

I stood
      up from the table
and the bare
sidewalk, the rippled sky

the moon smokes
              the clouds
      and the ghost
shakes my veins

each step
             on the gutter

at the edge
      of the world

in me
      a tiny chasm

             the chair
pushed back
      the empty cup
falling
            onto
the table
silvered
           the moon
sharp
           and high
over the
intersection

still
              and coyote
howls, high
         above us

flickers
             between
the leaves
           dances
along the edge
       of the shadows

I see it

still
            the moon
bright
                     over the
asphalt

diesel lullabye

... noodling around.

---

sing for me, sing me tonight

the axles' hum, the gears that grind

at the turning of the light

lay you down. don't you cry.

give me now the addled rage

the futile hissing of the fires

burning in a cage

the dull echo of the tires

give me now a thousand years

the howling, plant-ly hosts

rising up along the gears

rolling on the backs of ghosts

now that fall has hit the ground

under the bright, high stars

the leaves are falling. lay me down

to the flashing hoods of cars

.. (xi).

lightning flashes

and they said, "God is laughing

         and beating his hand

         against the clouds"

and the crickets clack

         and they say, "the night

         sings, the dark hums"

and the wind blows

         and they say, "the trees

         dance, and the world walks

         with me--slings its arm

         around my shoulders"

then the smoke might

         as well be my friend

         might as well be

         my companion,

through the clacking 

night, under the blurring

of the stars

          might as well

          be my brother

          we watch

us and us only

as the lights dim

and the highway lays

          it's head on it's tail

... (ix)

the most dangerous aspect of love

being: that it robs us of sense

that it renders us unable

to bear reflection

come now, you lovers!--knuckles dripping

come now, over what you have shattered

shards glisten in your soles.

come! you vast and shambling company

--who knows how far we might walk?

for your sake--

I tore out my eyes.

ash (ii)

one of the boys across the street

is trying to learn a song

                  hear the chords grinding towards ascension

       he falters, pauses

cannot master

                      the solo

I am leaving

a trail of smoke, only

I have burnt to ash

fluttering and cold

I pause at the edge of the driveway

the cat pauses, also

and skirts me, as always

        I hold myself, hard

in the soles of my boots

in the pressure

    of the sky on my head

the mirrors have throw

their reflections

                             out

      --in a heap, sprawled

the chords rise

     straining, against themselves

and begin to dissolve

         shedding notes, clatter

fall senseless

    into disonance, and the player

confused, a little betrayed

noodles a progression

like a sparrow's howl

        disjointed, melodic

rage--lost in the bushes

the song of an axel

        --a screaming, circling hum

I will fall

      behind myself

a scatter, and the wind

will sweep the pavement clean

     

  

... (x)

written awhile ago, before I left.

---

bury me under silver skies

fading to blue

under drifts of hanging stars

bundled nebulae rising shaggy

thick and green

edged in light

sink me when

the birds are clicking

bury me face bare

to the dirt

I leave my corpse in trust

the dust and heavy rains

and trickle from the sprinkler

will tend it

the winds will tend it

when I come striding the boulevards,

again

heavy, and in defeated triumph

I will see my ghost

peering brightly through the leaves

I will take the hands of the seconds themselves

Coon-song

Coon-song

the sun-warm bricks
in the blue twilight
              the tide-pool hour
damp and glistening
as the light ebbs, sun sunk
the hills are darker
the trees are darker than the sky
the sky washes the streets
in hazy shadows
drenches the glass and chrome
a new bird speaks
sparking between the branches
not the startled moan
of the mourning dove
or the sharp and certain caw
of the crows
--the song of a star flashing
             the squat row of houses,
paths snaking to the door
lights under the ferns
standing dark and solid
unsheltered
against the clear
depths of the sky
they rise, roofs slashed
with quicksilver
into a wild kind of glory

the dead thing

it lumbered over to us--the dead thing

and stretched itself across the table

when it began to sicken, you said:

look what you've done, no wonder it's dying

look what you've done.

when I was sure it was dead--I went

to lose myself for awhile

I left you alone with the dead thing

and you knew it was dead

without me to chastise,

you were left alone with the stillness

Now it sits between us

nibbling ghostly fur

we could take our recent wisdom, you know?--

and grieve in each other's company

history

worlds rise and fall and finally

recede like the mountain

in the rear-view mirror

the future stretches out

hazy and tract-less

like the sere fields 

through the frost on the windshield

I wonder which fields you see

over the steering-wheel?

I'll not grieve over ruins 

there are armies marching on the sidewalk

states rise and are lost

behind the windows of the apartments

over the storefronts

your headlights glow like a torch

cities burn all along the freeways

--they build cathedrals

between each sip of coffee

--will rather rejoice

that the streets are wild

with histories

tragedy

that people are sacred

and for this holiness: they suffer. 

this is the tragedy--

if one man is everything

then every man counts for nothing

this is the tragedy--

but Athena burned out the furies

and Antigone buried her dead.

wooed

how could I think--that you didn't love me?

how could I think that I was on sufferance?

the eucalyptus clasps my eyes

and draws them up into its shaggy embrace

they are passed,

from limb to limb

                        up the hill

     the grass, less proud

cradles my boots

soft as flesh over bone

the shade brushes my shoulders

I see your teeth 

in every flash on a windshield

every glimmer

              of dusty wings

your lips cannot be far

they are all around 

        when I could see nothing but my sorrow

running along the lines of the gutters

I wept only with my pores

and the breeze swept across them

bringing only grief--sweet and chill

      --you were kissing me

      in the dark behind my eyes

---

vision fades

memory unravels

but the lingering pressure

will drive me home

night

my shadow waddles before me
        like a discomfited pigeon
  it walks beside me
like a mocking thought
a canny truth creeping
the corners of my mind
    to steal into form
I run fingers through it
and it curls upwards
we stand, toe-to-toe
old enemies,
     and walk side-by-side
and pause, at the gate
the window glows, yellow
and the neighbors murmur in Cantonese
the trees darker, much darker
than the sky
and across the street
a column of light, bright and clear
and above it, a low star
faint and flickering
              the fronds shatter
the light next-door
cup a new constellation
in their papery darkness
we pause, at the gate--
and draw together,
faced with the soft challenge
of the night.

cloud

the late afternoon
     baked and burnt
soft and clear
the sky, too blue
buildings, shadowed
   or glowing
trees, rustling
     --a cool snatch
ambling through
  the leaves--
  from the tang
almost like wine
the rising warmth
   suffuses
clear-headed, I
know the sky passes
over the ground
     comes down to it
I walk, where
the clouds were, recently

ghost (iv)

cradled in my arms,

smaller--than I thought, and dense

the sharp eyes filmed, the mobile face

still--the strong hands, slack

I can't bear this--I can't bear this stillness

this will--this will, at last

compel strength into my arms

drive air into my lungs

I cannot bear this slumping heaviness

I will rise, now

--holding it in my arms

while the night 

still glistens in my eyes

I will cast it up

deep into the sky--I see clearly

it rises loose-limbed

across the slivered moon

--it will walk strong, along the receding ridge-line

it will walk, eyes sharp in the dark streets 

of the future that has passed

away.

--I stand, smaller than ever

but straight

in the sun, under the trees

stranded

on the corner, among bright streets

meteor-shower

      so many trails across the sky

              my thoughts

              my hopes

                    faith

         such a heedless plummet, across the moon

    my soul, a clatter of stones

      cold and grey

               on the ground

clear

if the wine is thick
and the sky is clear
      why fear tomorrow
 if the words you speak
the words you think
               are clear
       then why close your lips
   if I should dare--for a moment
             to parse them
                     why close your teeth
       on my question
   I don't plan
to stay
       don't care to linger
    for a second
consider
           that the world has spun

moon

in the valley, the moon
dances down the steps laughing
on the edge of the desert
the moon under the pier
snaps its fingers
on the dry plains, it hangs low
casts light disinterestedly
across the broad avenues
over the hills, it gleams
far and high, and lays
itself gleaming down, on the clouds
my eyes are so wide and deep
they swallow it whole
it sinks in their depths
still I--yank it free of the silt
and scrape it free of crickets
and have hung it, for you, on this sheet
--and so I have hopes of my reflection, also.

rabbit

rabbit came down from the moon
crossed my path
dragging the moon-beams behind him
and I--I too
will drag the light
I will shred it on the grass
I will slit it on the leaves
the speckled asphalt
waving slowly
in the wind
my foot-prints
traced in dust

---

I sat on the wall
the moon was closer
so close, to my hand
outstretched, in the silence
I sat, knee-bent, in the dark
alone, in another city
rabbit crossed the dry air
between us
and dragged moon-beams
acros the sidewalk.

june morning.

the milky light
glows on the edge of the clouds
and gently shadows their bottoms
the near hills are green
the far hills are yellow
the sky is blue
and the streets are thick with shadow
              I rolled up my pants, and stepped into the fountain
              then walked across the grass
              carpeted with fallen jacaranda flowers
I walked on the sidewalk
waiting for my legs to dry
I walked home, 

                       squelching slightly
and the earth was hard beneath me
          the squirrels coil, poised--as if something was happening
          bound up the ledges and across the asphalt
          the winter storms drench the eucalyptus
and whip the palm
in summer, the sun burns white-hot
--so unwise to live
bounding, with the grass under your belly
             remember, nevertheless
             that you heard the wind whispering
and the simple joy of running
                   the cold sinks to the bone
                   the heat presses against your lungs
still, you might run
         we, the creatures of every season
                        live on what the wind
 has promised.

grasp

draw me, once more--into your arms

take this--addled one

sealed

within itself

and compel--with your deep

and echoing, ever-moving sweetness

thirst, hunger

make me hunger for you

fall into the clean, dark water

the sky, give me its joyous emptiness

as I rise

to grasp the moon, murmurring

so that I fall among winds

make me--thirsty enough

so that I may course on

howling your name

A bit like a bird...

what is--
from what depths, this
strange, rising warmth
on the lip
of panic, spreading
slow through my mind
I sit, hunched
but something in me
is wheeling
across another sky
a slit of which
slivers the dark
beneath my ribs
I can feel the distance
only in the spreading
of its wings
yet something is flying
within my bones
and I sit, enclosed
insensate
blind and dumb
and tasting only--the heady
bunching and un-bunching
of its muscles
beneath its skin

Another one...

I appear to be in "kneel on the ground-shake fist at the sky" mode.

... classes need to start so that I can be translating the dark soul of socialism into leaves and light.

Oh well. I don't think I'm even going to title it, but since this appears to be all I can write just now--and not overtly megalomanical...

---

I will--I will
I will break myself on the wheel
                   rolling the boulevards
      I will turn my head back
at the stars, and give them my gaze
               who don't answer
         between the hard earth
  and the cold clear sky
                    we are too soft
         smeared
                  like the stars are hung
         we are strung onto our bones
    and for their sake, we walk
              and by the ground's grace
we walk, and we return it our shadows
    well, God
                 I'll bind myself to the wheel
          and break along my spine
                    and I will smear myself
               on the asphalt
       with the sky clear above me
                         until I am nothing but a glistening
               a wavering reflection of stars
for this service, Lord:
            spare me your Heaven.

---

dusk, and the porchlight
gleams yellow, in the blue seeping shadows
and there is smoke in the air
and the wind in the bamboo
rustles and hums on my skin
there is, perhaps, the shadow
of a lap
the suggestion of a head
of a hand,
          and the rest fades
into dark, into wall
     and on the great high road to Heaven
  a trail, rocks bare
       sinks, down to the light

furies

if I am tired in the daytime
if I'm tired at night
and my dreams are troubled
where then can I rest?
and the confines of my flesh
become the jagged, firm walls
of a prison
and I might walk--but I carry terror with me
within my veins
in the light or the darkness
what crime could I have committed
that the ghosts would follow me
out into the sun
because I said that I was
that I was more, that I murdered
the bit of my soul
that was trailing behind me,
and caught on the ground
is it such a crime--God?
to set myself free, to not have waited?
is it such a blasphemy--that now
I must walk with the Furies
harrying me in the streets?
but you did not come
quickly enough.

swamp

how did I come back?

slowly and with great care

as with every time before

caked in sludge and the jagged-edged seconds

I sat in the sun to dry

now, I am peeling myself clean

it's the end of May--rejoice

soon June will come with clouds

but there is time enough, and sun

for the mud to dry

when the rains come

they will wash me free of the dust.

How to Write a Poem for the New Yorker

the porch-light, some moths
the boat on the lake
when I was a child
                                 (parentheses)
      the light through the window
              the film on the coffee-cups
as wind whispers
through the door you left open
light kept light
     for cowards

woo (ii)

I am already returning
before the incense left my clothes--the dust and thyme
before the sun left my hair
every word I speak is a greeting
every step I take--takes me one step closer to you
do I care if your arms are outstretched?
--no. Keep them at your sides
I never had any expectations
am coming just to bide

day (rhymed)

oh how to sunder myself from the passing of the day
how to duck its ghastly motion
I want the sun sunk in the ocean
its echoes on the waves
oh--if only the night would come a little early
I would not need to go from pool-to-pool of shade
the breeze can go to bedlam
the colors all may fade
black and blue--is it any wonder the night is bruised?
--the reckless seconds squirm and try to fly away
we tromp heavily through the hours
we all come to the limits of our powers
I wish the wall wasn't so hard, so tall
I will slump against the midway
for the bright light to pass away

woo

did you think you could hold me?
--by draping yourself in green
the trees hanging low over the flowers
cascading down the rocks
--will not make me stay.
did you think
if you set blue-jays among the strands
of grass
--that I wouldn't go?
if you covered the sun with your hands
and veiled your fierce temper mild
no. these things come for themselves--not for me.
but--if I've ever done you service
hold the roads steady, hold them snaking
and I will keep my eyes open--sacrifice
when I come back
let me follow your spine
I will walk among your ribs
I will walk--humble and joyful as the doves
within you again
till then--I will tell them
of their sorrow
who have never thirsted for your breath

morning

is there any greater joy than sprinklers, in the morning-light
and the grass, beaded and lush, under the hot sun
is there any joy greater than your feet on the sidewalk
and your legs steady and moving?
the blood rushing through your limbs
washing away the dry fever of the night
under the blue, blue sky
the moon sank
and the houses across the hillsides
hold the stars in trust

in the future... (ii)

I will lose my way
walking a far-off track
after an unseen spirit
fickle as the breeze
I will be blind
shut behind my eyelids
hunting it in the dark
the dusk will come
my feet will be on the gravel
as I stand under a streetlight
there will be sun on my hair
under the banking clouds
and I will haunt the day's hours
alive to be living
in another place

in the future...

I think there must be a window
and I think it must
open onto lights
and air blowing down the hills, above
I think there must be a cup
steaming hot on the counter
I think my clothes must be loose
and worn, and my hands lined
but still strong, worn down to muscle
I think my eyes are blurred
I think I think I am a fool
to be walking halls
that have collapsed, logs burning
spirit released, curling, unto the sky
but me, who held faith
I am sometimes granted mercy
and it brushes across my eyes
blurs them with the ghost
of the one who could kneel on the sand
to pray against the morning

moon

The night washes over me, like the tide
and the crickets murmur, and burble
in the little pools of light
I am adrift, lost in the swirling
currents of the waterline, rolling slowly
across the shore
still—I hold this hope, a moon
that something may still out-last me
but there are moons all around
at the base of the driveway
rising up the walls, hung over the door
looming over the street
and streaming the hills
the faint glow, behind the haze
maybe I will
pass from pool to pool
in the half-light, perhaps I will glow
perhaps I will be a moon myself
and not look up again

drunk poem

like my brothers, the officials and shamans
I am drinking and smoking, tonight
I am drinking myself mad
look my writing scrabbles across the page
in the morning, the typeface will order it, contain it
I am drinking myself mad, and this is the way
I am drinking myself mad
what a world, what a world is this?
that I must twist myself along my neurons
that I must follow all the contours of my brain
to come to myself
I drank by the window, only one glass of wine
light and thick and tannic, like molasses
tomorrow, tomorrow--I will attend to myself
--not lose myself on smoke
rushing through me
this is way--in the half-light I am drinking, like them
they drank mourning
they drank, so long, ago in a bar by the river
they drank, and the frozen rushes cracked in the wind
and in the morning, it carried one away and one stayed
and one of them stayed
oh I, oh I--I am going without
who stays? who stays?
who toasts me and my leaving? no one! no stays for me
I am the observer, unobserved. the listener--unheard!
I am the boat, rudderless, unmoored
and the rain drops all around, plunking
the bamboo rustles and I hear the house settle
to order them into strangeness--there was a chance
I must go. to go--into the ash of the surf
me--squandered--who cares? who listens?!
to the words of a poet--yes! I name myself poet
who does it for me? no one! no one names me poet
so I must name myself--myself
the bamboo creaks and the house creaks
and I am coming to myself
no general, no lover, no victorious solider--
just this. limping and weary
what is this dust? so deep in me
I picked it up in a foreign city--like the plague
and this--and this, is all that I am.
is all I am--just one set of eyes hung on a poor framework
just one mind, trapped in hardest bone
and I am alone--I am alone--and will be
to the end of my days
when I dissolve
and the time is ticking forward
when I dissolve here--oh god! let me dissolve here
when I dissolve--when I am dust
I will be free then--I will be free!
god. may I rest here? may I rest?
on your fingers, in your hair, in your bones
I am dust--and the rain falls
once--I sang under the stars
I sang! far from here
when the night was black--I remember
I sang the horse-song and the star-song
and the song I made for myself
my parents listened--fast in their bed
and I waited, on the carpet
I sang the song of leaving-home, and of being far-distant
and of home gone, and of having no home
I am homeless--yes. like the crackheads
who line the boulevards, and sleep in their cars
we go back--we go back much further
there was a pond, where I set sail the leaf-pods
there was a pond-- that I remembered
six years ago--what is six years?
long enough to wander the streets of sorrow
I remembered, and there was a door
open, and beyond it the void
my heart-beat pounded, slammed--tried to leave me
some familiar ghost led me along the path
to where the door was--open only a crack
but the void was yawning and I turned back
and I turned back
I turned back--and I have come here
somewhere, I am bleeding
and I turned back--and I didn't sing
that is until just now, until just recently
I am. I am I? this is blasphemy
it sets me in shadow, but if I am not I?
then tell me--what am I am?

gate

when my pen died this morning,
I knew that something had to change
huddled over the table
dug my pen into the page
each second followed
the next and that the past is unvaultable
I find the future is a dark, rough wall
I had better follow in its shadow
until I find that old gate
then—I will pass, breathing easily
a moment of darkness
then, the sweet smell
of the coming fields

building

the chimes clink
like my heart-beat
faintly ringing, a little to the left
it seems the world has crossed
to the other side of the street

here, to the lee of the building
which spreads shadow across the grass
I am sitting in the lee of things
as tall as that, as wide as that
I would like to block the sun
but I am much less sturdy
am not pressed stucco
so I gutter and gently fall
am carried, listless
to the side of things

less than a crow
who flies, too much to be leaf
scattered
I can only, find my way to the gutter
I must sit—do not light
I am not falling or flying
I am not blown—the wind is chill
passing over me

house

I have been reading "Six Dynasties" poetry, and am experimenting with the tropes. We could also call this "On the Perils of Being an Unexpected Subject".

if someone was weeping they
did not weep for me
if her chambers were empty
her hanging scent
did not hang in my nose

there is no one hovering
over their parchment
no pen set finally down
no unfinished letter

if I scrawled a song
in the dusty air
it came to no ears
in a town far away

if I shaped mud
I caught no one's spirit
in the curves of the earth

I am free, then, myself,
walking or sinking
my bones in the sun
are stones, oddly arranged

cobbles in the roadway
with no one to hold
the strings of my ligaments
I must build a house
of myself, wherever I go to
it will then lie empty
when I have gone

flame

you are going--I go on
I can see that you are lost
the sun flashes on my eyes
I will take my hopes for you, much brighter
and I will light a candle on them
to put in the attic, with the others
where I am building a galaxy
like the farther stars-- once lit, they burn on their own

when the wind comes, I will go
you will come to an empty house
when you have exhausted the cabinets
and under the chairs, looking
rest awhile by the window,
then follow my instructions:
and climb the stairs
find yourself among the others
these walls did not shelter me alone

if you do not pass by here again
some other wayfarer
will finger my relics
the flames, still burning
will catch them
and draw forth,
the night sky from within them
above thier house

serpent

We hold here, at the center
we hold
the long tail of causality is a blind and flailing thing
each of us, in his own time—turned
each of us bore it, thrashing
down into the ground
yea unto the seventh generation
how many miles are there in the earth?
You might walk before it
it crawls forward, slowly
as it passes--the world turns
I will turn, in my time
fear not, daughters of my sisters
do not fear, my brothers’ sons
--to cross the tracks on the ground
to vault the skies
there will be no teeth
in your heels out of season
we hold, who went before you
we hold

calvary

no mourner—I! no griever
no clothes torn
no cutting of hair
no clawing my fingers
raising these heavy arms
to drag myself across the sky
no, no. But I am an empty tomb
a boulder standing stiffly, aside
no, no—I am a small cavern
dark and still, in the howling brightness

Foucault (ii)

this is the order of things—here
from the street to the sidewalk to the parking lot
to the flat roof of the grocery store
from roof-top to roof-top to the edge of the sky
and all around, the chthonic chorus of palm trees
the sun has sunk below the hills
leaving the sky back-lit
there is a time when the reeds hang over the sidewalk
with no shade between them
there is a time when I exist with the cracks
and no darkling mediator
by their spindly shadows
I said there were palms
shadow kneels, now, at the base of things
and there were still palm-trees
by its passing
I came to know the light

ocean

there is an ocean raging behind your teeth
thundering waves and howling storms
my mouth is the streams drying in the pastureland
no, no—it’s no good
the salt and rage
I open my mouth to the sky
the breeze was cool—no hint of rain

winter left the grass heavy with seed
the wind rustles among them
and I—lonely steward—must follow the wind
when it scatters the seeds
I will nibble their oily shells
this is the trick to planting in dry country

ghost (ii)

I found your ghost, Beloved, in another’s face
in their bright eyes, in their tilted forehead
Never think that you stopped clawing at my soul
Never think that I stopped clawing at my soul
to find the dark one that loved you
Never think that I left that dark room
where we spent so many hours
But you have gone from there,
But I have gone from there
We have gone chasing shadows across the wasteland
Dear—I hope you find some dear shade
May you come again to that dark room
that you come rest, when you rest
where you may sleep safely.

ghost

if the palms should die—if the light should fade to haze
if the desert should come crawling down from the hillsides
across the asphalt
these houses will never stand empty
if every soul should pass
I will fill them with the ghost of these seconds
there will be music and laughter and the rumble of engines
with the birdsong
I will bind them to these words with the ghost of my heart beat
as long as that ounce of my soul lives
this ground will never quake alone

ash (ii)

see the ash blowing across the wall
I am so burnt—am too so light
I will come to rest
at the edge of the stream trickling down your driveway

see

who am I?—that this might be taken from me
you’re too late—no! you’re too late.
see—your face is not reflected in my pupils
see—the light flashing across the hoods of the cars
see—the houses climbing to the ridge-line
see Orion striding over them
see the whole world awake
somewhere far away
when we walk, my shadow walks beside us
don’t you see—it's walking under palm trees
don’t you see—it's walking under pines
I left my skin to dry among the reeds
when the wind blows, my fingers flutter
see—it still blows across my forearms
sometimes, if my voice seems a little deep and distant
know that it was walking through the arroyos
know that it came rolling through the valleys
to come here

soul

my dear soul
--my dear brother
I cast reflections, in many windows
on many sidewalks
in the polished cars and pools of water
dear soul—I am so reflexive
I carry the shadows
of many others, I carry fragments
of sentences, the dates and names
--whole geographies, incomplete
and swirling histories
and I am a conquered place, and sullied
with the marks of many invaders
--and the ruins of those who once
lit upon me, who have gone
but you, Soul—you
you haver over my blankets
you come rushing over me
launch yourself from the mountains
at my eyes
you—Soul—you
you have not gone from me
will not go from me
and you will not stay.
But be near, you persistent refugee
hold for me, what must be lost
what I have shed
hold—Soul, and carry and stay
someday I will be lighter
and we will walk in the shadows
and the light shall disregard us
and reflection shall lose itself
on itself, and will lose its way
in the darkness,
and the sacred space between us
will be clear

girder

my great-grandfather danced above the city

           while my grandfather clung to the girders

you who cling, take my hand--do you need it?

there are hands all along your spine.

      Stand! the sunlight on the rose compels

the rising scent compels it

            the sun on the steel compels it

trust to the good guardian of your calves

    dance. there is a flower in you

        even the shadows are only a deeper shade

of rose.

bottle.

oh my friends

                      oh my imperfect fools

who don't even know you're on a boat.

   ain't each of you a world in a bottle?

for the sake the wind

that blows across my knees, and under your shirt

       let us sip each other slowly

in the shadow of the chain-link fence

let us stand under the chestnut trees, now greening

    let us pebble the sidewalk

          like the nuts and fallen flowers

and cool ourselves on each others depths.

... (vii)

--a little more blasphemy. Ah well.

good Lord--there must be more

than this, must be more              must be a greater

must be a greater greatness

                                                                 than this

Oh God--there must be

something greater               than this

             Oh Lord,                                             there must be

a further hill

                               there must be

                                                                  a greater

city. 

Ah God--the dark center of the day

                                          devours me from

the inside

                          I choke, whenever

             this world                                takes it breath

Ah God--

                                    my hollow bones

         devour me

                                                from the inside

                               Oh Lord, I choke

whenever     this world          takes its          breath

                 when it breathes in me

                                                             Lord

it chokes me from the inside

                hey--Lord

why'd you make me 

                                     to flutter, ground-bound

             hey-God, hey-Lord

     why'd you make a bird

                         with paper wings

           just enough to flap

not enough

                          to fly

         oh God, oh God

     why'd you make my arms a cross-beam

Lord, why'd you make my spine a pole   

                           why'd you hammer me veinwise

     five feet above the ground?

  hey Lord--ain't no dice at me feet

ain't no spear in my side

                       oh you! merciless God

       where is your pity?

                               what is this stuggling

  the arms forward, and the back arched

a breath--one

                         fall forward

     each one weaker

                             fluttering       

each one weaker

                down into tremoring

  God!

                                        you'd have us all die by

        drowning

palms

--do I care that the palm trees are dying?
they aren't native, some say
reap the wages of transgression
--well then, you tall-standing travelers
who rooted yourselves in foreign soil
I know the sparrows rise
to your shaggy aeries
      and shelter there
I know when the wind blows
you dance better than the aloe
          and that you toss shadows
across the ground
     I know that when I was younger
you grew thick around the storm-drain
cool and wet, in the stillness
and cradled the moss, and me
 I know that light
            glows in your fronds
and that your towering strangeness
jokes the sky

troubadour FAIL.

            does it matter
what name
                   you gave it--
whose name
                     you whispered
was never
                  the one
you were calling
                            you came
home, to find
the house was empty
                     --was gone
and going out
                        you found
the world was an empty
                                           house

---

the only song
                       recognized
is your fingers stretched
on the taut strung seconds
                                               the only ear
unfolds, dumb, in the curling flesh
          the song, the ear
                               and no listener

---

the measures pass
               your fingers
unravel, unbound
     and to comfort them
you sing the memory
              of the bones boldly still
                   of tendons wound ecstatic
                      of the skin's slow and wondering
awareness of glory

and you sing the ear
           but your voice is a hand
outstretched

the end of the world: lizard (i)

before there was a word for ice
--who could say?
something fell
with no word for air
what thickened, what hardened?
they
       didn't know to shiver
tongues flicking
tasting, for the first time
bitterness
they sank
        in a circle
lower
   but it was below them
the thing inside
grew inexorably slower
        they bowed low
and their limbs grew heavy

the wind bit
     scales and ruffled the grass

slowly, slowly
one came to know ruffling

    the continents flew and ground
and in the grass
  the skin on one
was grinding--

                           until the scales began to lift, 
in the wind

vi.

... and I was raised in the far canyons
where the ferns grew thick
in the ash of the winter's fire,
           ...and I grew strong on the dark sea air
           that came seeping through the valleys
           and on the tang and the smoky rot of fall
                         ...and I grew wise--if wisdom I have
                         watching Orion rise over the eucalyptus
                         and the terracota tiles and lamp-posts

...and we learned lightness on the hillsides
between the manzanita and pine needles
and to dance with the scree, in the dust

             ...I came to know you and the dark
             in the crackling air, sharp and cold
             in the deep blue of the night

and the mourning dove,
moaned gently in the yard
in the last grey before dawn.

              ...and I went from there, and came to grief
              in the thick snow that drove me underground
              and I haunted the days until spring
              came screaming from under the drifts
              summer heat tempered its wildness
              into lushness, green on the fields
              and I rode between the hills
              in the sweet and heavy air
              --the days fell brightly into night

I came to know death.

       there was another place
       --shadows in the undergrowth
       and mold below the eaves,

the summer rose, thinning
into fall's jagged spiraling
and the winter was brittle

     and in the shards of the year
     I awoke, and came to myself
     a corpse--

my soul, my brother--I left it
behind me
in trust to the dove and the canyon

they were far--who could hold me
back? I walked
beyond shadow
                sun on the snow
                cold and harsh
                and bright
it was a long plain
sharp frozen grass
rushing closer
           and shadow fled
           but there was darkness in me
           memory is shadow

once there was deep and sweet
sea and tang and smoke
     all gone

                  but I followed
   the shape of scent

...and I have come here
shuddering, huddling
in the lee of circumstance

         I am something
               a chilled and crusted thing
                                   a hollowed thing

  and I follow, still

             a shape 

LA: mid-morning

the light fell
   softly, through the glass
from the worn carpet
     to soft roughness
of the pavement
  as the light draped
your cheekbones
and covered your arms
   the breeze,
sweet with jasmine
 deep from the grass
and the stone and
 those yellow flowers
  eddied
 between the houses
and the freeway thrummed
    the sparrows fell
   among the eucalpytus
and the palms, and the
 mourning-dove sat silent
on the phone line

LA: sidewalk

we could start with Byzantium
           or the bone
on the sidewalk
         we could follow the
skeleton
       down into the dark birth of the world
all the souls that lived and died
     for the curvature of the rib cage
along the arching of the calf

it's a weakness: we especially
      who crawl in the gutters
          see ourselves as refuse, it's tempting
to say we are innocent waste. we are not--
    are rather, the ones who crouch
  as in every city
         along the sidewalks, unseeing
 sifting the litter,

and that is what I was coming to:
the sidewalks.

       that are born in the creases of the ridge-line
come cascading down
       into the Boulevards
           it would not be wrong
  to think of wetlands
        in Venice the islands
 demanded canals
       --these hills, preoccupied
wanted nothing,
  and those who came dug trenches
and whirlpools, and hung the great channel freeways
 on the rocky spines, and wrought the islands
from the crumbling,
                                   concrete soil
           and gave us necessity.

outline

these mountains
rising behind the haze?
the outline of a mystery
a fall of light--nothing more
me--I am also insubstantial
I am walking,
       and someday I will fall
from my own heights
I will slide, slowly
            into drifts along the sidewalk
       when I have slowed
when I am still
                            all I have limned
           will be lost
 whole.

n.b.

I'm beginning a cycle of "LA" poems. Because I may have to leave in a few months... and before I go, I'd like to take some multi-variate snapshots.

... "cycle" poems will be marked. 

monster.

         come now-- you monster

    you! broken, crawling thing

                           that had not the courage

          of its convictions-- to stand

              oh, I am standing

                      oh, I am waiting

       you shambling thing

               you ever-mindful, hollow-eyed horror

           one of the ones, before me

     he had a mirror-- I have smashed it

                    I do not hide

          in your reflection.

              you shatter on my pupils

     I see you!--      I see you.

          you are smoke from snaking torches

       I will not see them doused

             --will thieve no others' light

                  I know you,

                            you are the laughter rising

                     from the pit.

    

     I wonder-- if perhaps

           from the ones who leapt

                    and are still falling

             but-- I'll leave them

                      will ground no other's flight.

       

         ever there has been

               will always be

  something pulling itself, wetly

             across the ground

                             towards your feet

          this-- to this I consign you

    that you are devoured of the dark

       that birthed you-- they are coming

 but the mouths have not quite

             reached your hands.

you, knowing-dark-- you will know

         at the last, that you are one and the

                   same. 

iconoclast.

--something, someone like you

must always stand against the face of God.

my God has no face

---

---take my hand, our hands

and come into the presence of the Lord.

 

tempt me not, brother, to idolatry.

... (vi)

don't you know--

that the seas have crumbled

the heights thunder

in their ruins

in lowness, too

you might carry

crumpled waves on your boot-heels. 

you (ii)

you--what are you?
the shadow of the chair
in the sky backlit against the palms
the blood pooling in my veins
not held or bidden
but biding
in the bulk I conjure against my skin
somewhere in the space between us
the night kissing my fingertips
you flee my hand when I reach for you
  reflections on the water
the mourning dove cooing
in the dogs' chorus rising
from hill to hill

I am misplaced.

cathedral.

--reminds me to mourn
the vaulting ceilings
the staunch pillars
the voices of them
who enter under the archway.

The shaded windows,
I know they glow
bright and holy
down on the pews.

I know spires and cones
that barb the eye
spiral to smoothness
and cup the souls
of those inside
--that once men
came together
over shards
for the sake of each other's softness.

I know this
--and it reminds me to kneel.

I am kneeling now,
on the pavement
and the wind is playing
across my forehead
--it stole through the glass
and gathered strands
from the benediction
and went skirling away
--it drapes them over my hands.

I put my eyes up,
and the bulk drags
at the bottom of my vision

I have legs
they brought me here
they could take me in, again
having chosen,
I could not mourn--
but the benediction
passes through stone.

So, I will drape my cheeks, now
I will raise my hand, a spire
and place it, unbidden
among the hands
and the shards.

Kali (i)

I wrote this some time ago-- back in July. 

And didn't post it, because I had horrified myself.

But, by now, I've managed to gain a little distance from it. Or maybe I've just gotten accustomed to the damn thing. 

In any event-- I'm Methodist, and we don't get any slack on sins of omission. So, I'm going to post it now.

Enjoy. 

---

Kali (i)

What ever I am- I am.
the Lord God made me,
and Dear Mother Earth shaped me.
-- fed my strong, slim limbs
my round bottom and narrow hips
from which the thing is breeching
there from the strong, lush center-
     the hole there is no stopping.

I who am only my body, just my body
        will use all my body
        pivot on the shadow
-knees plant, thighs spread
-eyes front, back straight,
                    shoulders square-
tense, and spin.
   -around the dark center-
  everything into one
                    tight
          circle, arm rising
                hand flat, straight
                                          twisting
      everything I am, everything you made me
held high, aloft on you
  pierced to the center-

I who cannot rise will become a circle
     like you- but moving- always, inevitably
 who cannot shout will laugh then
       will slap your face and follow you down
cackling
   will hold you tight inside me
 and tear you gently with my teeth
           -not sharp, but we have time.

Oh struggle oh Mother and Creator
      thrash. No weeping, no shuddering
  no stroking of my hair will stop me-
I am not an animal-

 your pleas are of men
for men- but such is denied me-

 I am Hunger, hunger- the
hunger that knows itself
  who you gave to know names
and that a name is denied me-
   -so I name myself Nameless.

 I am hunger, Hunger-
the hunger there is no filling,
the rising standing darkness
   the fire trapped in every woodpile
           tree trunk.

I am the ground meat
 and the ash of children and
the dust of cities that
        made rich the farmland-
  I am all these things
        and I am nothing
     and unfillable.
I will leave you raw
      eternally. I will be
 tearing your new flesh- but not
eating- no,
       I will make of you a waste and
 a ruin and a glistening pile-
You who ravaged me, unknowing
scoured me with my first breath-
  I am come your ravager.

I will not rise who cannot rise-
 we will weep together
 we can weep together, I will
 give you not even your sorrow-
weep as I lay you waste-
    will hold you tight, will stop you!
No more souls to shatter and entrap, no
more shackled slaves and servants
     I am the knowing darkness who
from your depths
    will swallow them-
swallowed and in me
you will go from the sight of men.

poetry (again)

to tear open your chest--
this is the beginning,
mere bravery,

--the world is raw in itself
so one might
a little stronger
hold up a bit of viscera

--the leaves also glisten
in the morning.

you will fall into wetness

but a deft soul
         holds itself steady
      and shapes its material
exposes itself
       to the insistent sharpness
         of the nails and fingers
     leaves itself bare,
          and leaves knowing

the denuded ribs entreat

tarry

Voyager, you tarried
too long--
now the shore confounds you
the fires burning
over the dunes
the smell of meat is drawing
you away
from the silent rolling water
and you are reluctant to leave
the sedge you sat on
the soft and wistful rustle
whispers to you
that dusk has fallen

the word (ii)

God made us his well-honed instruments.
don't believe it?
didn't he leave sign in the clouds?
or when you drank in the jasmine
--and I didn't drink alone?
He gouged the Word into your hands
can't read it?
then lay your palms to the sand
and hear it spoken.

brambles

the world is rolling
you and me
we'll pull off the cart-path
me-- I'm going through the forest
I'll be in town before it
I'll go ahead with warning
and you--
you follow behind it, closely
to gather up the survivors

we'll meet again, sometime
here in the brambles

reading Rumi (iii)

the weavers left,
always a flaw in the pattern
for God to step through--

Sage-- I am the knot
where the fibers tangled

"God made man and woman so that
each completes the other's work".

God is also a weaver

the bone-man

the bone-man
I would like to be the bone-man
tonight I am all flesh
you-- world-- who so desires this flesh
why don't you take it
here, I give to you
and take-- why don't you carry it
with the rest of the sludge
down the sea?

what use are hands?
what use are eyes?
what use is flesh?
what use are lips--

here I will tear them from face
here. I will press them against
the bark of this tree--
here I will press them against
this couch, that cradles me unwilling
here. I will press them to the pavement--

I am waiting, here
I am listening
for the one who is coming
for the creak of the gate
for the rustle
of footsteps, under the rustle
of the palms, here--

I will press them to the garage-door,
where we used to play handball
the smack, against the door
while the sky grew dark, and the air
grew cold
I will press them to the driveway
I will grind them under my feet
I will leave a glistening smudge
to kiss the feet of any who pass
by here
maybe even mine.

... (v)

There is nothing
no nothing left
I thunder in the space left behind
as my veins are hollow
and my pulse thunders in them
the world in heat is a jungle
but the heat in one is a fever
I am shivering in the sunlight--

when there is nothing
left for movement
the hands slacken and the legs buckle
but the motion unloosed
is shuddering--

in the wake of desire
I cannot take your hand
nor feel your touch
I am beyond comfort
it left me senseless

some in fire

if the world failed its mercy
and did not go down burning
if instead it went scavenging
hollow-eyed
and hollowed out the sidewalks
if we were standing in the ruins
and the city was still standing
and the heads turned
whenever one of us gasped
the dream dried quietly
and mingled with the dust
soft on the pavement
and left us alone in the sunlight

if the weight of the day drove us down
and if we were nothing but fallen
were no more than leaves
too heavy to be blown

then we must kindle ourselves
for when the wind comes whispering
the name of the smoke

icarus

the dull gleam of sunlight-- I know you feared it
but we were always falling
the glint on my fingernails, the whites of my eyes
the glowing feathers
fell more gracefully
but I went faster
to where the light shatters
and the waves toss the shards back, glinting

---

father, hold your wings tight
do not bring your hands,
together--mine are pointed
to the water, and steepled for mercy

step.

I will wage myself
across this world
and will step
sure and wary
into the space
between my eyes
and in the teeming
formless darkness
between our minds
--I will tend my garden
the scent confound your nostrils
and when you walk
sometimes the tingle
of distant grasses
under your chin

martyr

... what can I say?
what can
what can
can I-- WHAT
--so let nothing be said
let the words ebb
let the words fall
let them break into gibberish
into irrelevance
into nothingness and sentimentality
no more than a hum
no than the echo
of your pulse, so far under your skin
YES! bind them tight in the forms
and the tropes
and whip them when they struggle
oh shouldn't it be sweet incense?
--see me, Lord! my greatest humility
I praise you lips to the ground
I fill my mouth with dirt,
I swallow it! Lord, Lord!
No ghost, no mourner--I!
but I will choke and walk
dumbly smiling,
I will press hands flesh to flesh
--and aren't all men brothers!
surely, my greatest gift
this silent burial
this unmarked grave
find nothing, in the curve of my smile
to offend the eye! the bone
sheathed in this softness
easily torn! Hallelujah!
and let any reaching
for starlight or cloud-wisps
be brought to book
for the vileness
of hands un-held

... (iv)

because memory fades
I, who am one
who questions all voices
left voiceless
these words, as a sign
and a sigil, to speak
in the tongue
of my mind, these words
to pass by my hearing

kali (ii)

spread your arms
neither welcome
nor surrender
will still
the widening mouths
nor slake the teeth
will be grist

and then will be meal
not made anew

papaya

I would prefer if you didn't
come to my country to burn it.
Why argue over corn
when I grow papayas so well
so many, pebbly and green
that they press the skin of my eyes.

this

this is a gunshot
this is a gurgle,
this is the pull of skin on a knife
this is a howl, trapped
and twisting in the confines
of the sinuses

this is the knees, un-bent
this is the arms, unthrown
this is every hymn I ever cheated the sky

this is the bone scraped clean
and carved lying mute

echo

I will silence myself
for your sake
I will wrap my tongue--and still it
in the contours of foreign syllables
for you--that blind leap
into the fractured wildness
beyond my teeth
left exposed
eloquence confined
the curl of its back
I sent it to huddle
--for your sake
far from my skull

I want your hand
not my reflections
for your sake
this room is empty
and the echoes die away

foot

this step is a challenge
a defiant scuffle
the ringing declamation
that these knees shall bend,
that this calf will curl
that compels, through faith
that the ground keep its covenant

hand

here--this is the hinge
that holds the cosmos steady
across the creases
just blunted nails
dug into the heavens
tendons straining against
every erratic galaxy
that ever conspired
when the universe came together
to uncurl your fingers
and you met God with your knuckles
--a soft thing and fragile
cannot stand against immensity
but can hold itself, steady

ash

this will pass
like lilac wandering
down the slope
carrying the scent of shadow
over the rutted grass
and lavender burning
in the heat
by the steps

this will go
like spring rising
in the ghost of the frost
over the wet dirt
like fall snapping
in the cracked night air
and sauntering through
the dry grass

this will fade
like the driveway
to a slight loosening
in the shoulders
right before the turn

my fingers are black with memory
I swear I can clasp
the worlds that went down
in the soft grip of ash
on my tongue

iteration

it took everything
every ounce of flesh painstakingly
loosened and hung
on the bones, pulled straight
unknotted muscle
and skin stretched taut

in the end--there was nothing
but my heart
shuddering in the open air
and the wings

my ribs flung back,
arching--I threw myself
through the air

web

look here--
the web in your pupil
the fibers knotted around it
dense, you wouldn't notice
unless you were desperate
against the mirror
for a way forward, through the glass
the signs are scattered
wherever you look
you could unravel following
these threads,
but the thud of flesh
on glass, is the only answer

100th Post

... was actually the last one. So this is 101.

Pro-fucking-lific.

Yeah!

rust

tastes like brass-- the morning
a mouth of dirt, and rememberance
--rust.
the sunlight streaming
down sluggishly, in sepia.
Rose, above the chaos
of the sheets, below
and the sharp and
emptiness-- they didn't
cover
--soft under my palms, now, cool
thrown together
out of nothing
with dirt in my mouth
I rose to stumble,
I can taste it
--now.
through the haphazard light