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