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