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