I think...

... that I'm losing my mind. Again.

Oh well.

Orion falls

Orion falls back
into a wave of clouds
with his dogs thrashing behind him
eternally--he flails
across the night sky
at the outlines of star-beasts
and never grows closer
--his heart beats, now
at the pulse of the universe
and he runs at the rate
of the slowest of nebulas
until his glowing components
should veer off, at last
away from each other--and tear him apart

the goddess is gone now
with a grunt and a snort and a shake
of her head
she walked away down the shore
more than three millennia ago
and left you in the still darkness
with the empty patterns of your desire

it's late...

remember when you were new?

if you were to kneel and spread your eyes

then the moon would come down--to rest between them

surely--the wind carried words

your ears could not hear

spoken in the groping language of your skin

and you read with your nose

winter coming in the mountains and

the light on the pavement, that cracked

that crumbled long before your tongue was born

--surely the bamboo hissing

was closer to you than your blood

and your blood hissing, echoed

the great fizzing roll of the streets

and struck it clean, like voices on stone

surely--surely, you yourself were

a dusty ikon, sharp as the hills

and flung out like the fronds

snapping, in the breeze

and the dusk gathered, and rose

not the dark falling

and sitting so heavy

surely--once you could

sprawl across the night

easy--

rather than clutching yourself

hunched over with the shadow falling

over your shoulders,

and your neck bared

surely you will swing the world

around your shoulders again

and walk

with it swinging around your legs

with it lapping at your feet

surely--surely

you will be sprung open

the echo in your ribs again

they said in 2003...

which was seven years ago

these things smash

like water from a vase

like a wave on the sloping shore

and the air uncaring

the avaricious sand

pull the water, bared

into themselves

leave the shells

and fragments, the curling

drifts of kelp

drying slow, under the humming flies

leave these things lonely

under the hard shimmer of the sun

and the buzzing lights

they said--and the world hummed

absentmindedly along

they said--and were saying

they say differently now

and the crack

of voices, but it would shatter

and the echoes die

The Shape of Steam

Part of a poetic dialogue with Aria: number three in response to this excellent one here.

Back to you, my friend.

---

The Shape of Steam

steam is smoke

who can hold the shape of smoke?

they cannot measure

its motion

the lazy moisture hangs

under the branches

and licks the leaves

or shoots upward, spinning

itself against itself

until the still attenuates

its grasp

--so the clouds

that press the cold into the ground

and the streetlights across the asphalt

and catch their glow, a little

is the running ghost of steam

gathered up in flight

from other fires

a vast and arching herd--

rushing and rustling

in the nearer fields of the sky

and I would silence

the porchlight--to hear them better

with my eyes

I would still the lamp

and climb the stairs in darkness

to hear their echo

on the edge of the window

I would stand in the chill

shoulders hunched

head drawn upward

what is the warmth, the fever

-bright sheen

of the glass

to this slow, glowing migration?

what is left of the fire:

these banked and rolling vistas

prove the spark

that strikes in the shadows

October

Aria--

... some time coming, so take yours--hey? Looking forward to it.

---

October

in October, bright and sparking

God must be blowing smoke across the sky

the banks of fog bury the moon

narrows her eyes, gleaming brightly

while the buildings rise, sharp and steady

and hang their windows against the sky

the setting sun painted fire all the way down to the street

and shot the trees and the half-finished structures

with scarlet

so--god bless the empty girders

rising to cage the sky

work-lights held high, gleaming warmly

to light the way home

the dark is not dark

and the crickets buzz

and greet the morning, through the night

when the wind rustles in the leaves

living flame, and sends them skirling

above the benches

and the stars go ambling, slowly

along the sidewalk

we go passing and chattering

we spiral past each other, chattering

we spiral together

one more time

before winter silences the singers

and the constellations shatter on the snow

and we are buried, alone, in whatever shelter

drifting along patches of light

until the melt comes

we will greet each other as familiar strangers

... (xx).

the crickets ring softly, under

the masses of leaves, flutter brightly

while the cars wind through the shadows

crow cracks, but cannot hurry, the morning

mirror

well, all you sharded mirrors
who scatter the sky among you
who catch the moonlight, gleaming
in the corner of the room
and all the stars are fixed, if burning
and the moon, full and wide, and glowing
are either dead or burning
don't know the small, dark glory
of being undone

The Skinner's Psalm

Let my words rise
like the smoke from the stub in my hand
I have walked through thick grass
soaked up to the knees
with a load of dead things
across my shoulders
and the hum of the crickets
mocked their empty plushness
and the light glistening on the water
mocked the sun's gleam on fur
and the dried skins seemed brittle
against the damp beneath my feet
now, for once, I set down my burden
to peer up into the clear darkness
the clouds are far grander
ranging across the sky
still, I think there's some value
in the quickness of smoke
as it rises over the steps
and twirls off into the night

... .

and god bless your out-flung wings
I swear you threw the sky into my face
while you were passing
I swear I could not evade the question
as my eyes followed in your wake

dry

my soul aches, this morning
like skin tightening around a cut
the cicadas buzz in the trees
and the air hangs, dry and light
the light falls, like dust, between the shadows
whenever I reach into myself
I feel leaves and twigs crackling under the bushes

I walk, parched and dusty
and no water slakes my thirst
but leaves me chapped and itching
I rest on my frame
like leather, scraped and cured
like paper, dried and contorted
hung like a mask on the wall

eh.

born and born and born
again, and how many lives
will you live?
the world the world and the world
dies every night and in
every season.
and hopping from
grave to grave
how can you hope to go
beyond springing?
it may be that
you live in the leap
it may be that
you are learning flight, unanticipated
by the lazy maws, yawning below you
that even the leaves
may not notice you
crashing through them
that one day, you may shock them
altogether, by missing the ground

the greater glory

--stranger—O, stranger
O, walker in a strange country
were you exile, were you alien
when your legs first straightened, against the ground?
--who carries the hunger borne of plenty
who felt the gnawing in the gut
and gnashed the empty air
and you cannot fill it with hands
nor make yourself fat on faces
--when all flesh is as your flesh

and there is not rest, in this world
where only your soul is your home
only the falling darkness of sleep
and rising under the heavy weight of day
wouldn’t you sweat
or fall to nothing
but loose folds of flesh?

but no lazing—
for the grass tells you you are not grass
and you can give the sun
nothing, who do not rise to its light
who do not grow stronger
in the brightness

O, you—unaccounted traveler
among the trees
whose leaves rustle briefly
in your passing
O, you—who were born to be weary
who were born in pieces
and sundered, pass lightly
through the great play of the light
and the world’s brutal, grinding
and lush, humming exultation
and the stone under your feet
and the wind in your hair, and another
back-lit, whose shadow touches
your knees and who makes—the sun’s
crowing tragic fall, their own
--these things, and only, are yours
so hold them, loosely
as you are passing
in the greater glory.

... (xix).

these things happen--when the world is hollow

when the soul is hollow also

and the soul is sometimes a cup for drinking

the rich liquer of existence

and sometimes an empty vessel

the wind swirls against the sides

or the air hangs heavy in the bowl.

morning

the sky coursing

through the banked leaves

the sun

eddying in the clouds

and the birds, hidden in the branches

asking, asking--

and one shoots across the sky

over the asphalt

thundering between the trees

tide (receding)

cast up against the brick
like driftwood--a little bowed, but strong
with my face in silehoutte on the glass
and the pool of sky clear above me
lapping gently at the pavement
the crests of the clouds still and soft
of the things littering the afternoon
I could pick up a shell, a piece of frosted glass
and tell you about it
--but, equally
of the fibers
knotted smoothly and waving
resting, with the others
strewn across the shores of the day

capitalism?

... and in the heat of the night

with walls growing closer

and sweat on the concrete

and slick on your brow

--I have sent you down to work

to hunch in the dim light

I have torn myself apart

and separated the component parts

and commodified my soul

so that transactions flow more smoothly

a hand-shake in the dark

a moment of touching

and the system is expanding

and skirling away from me now

--I did not think, when I was laying the structure

that I would find myself

so far from the center

leaning forward on the bench

I meant to draw every bit extra

into one thrust, forward

--so how

do I find myself, with something whirring

in the background

staring at the stars under the window

and the cool breeze

seeping under the glass?

spring

who can mourn in the face of such beauty?

the snow has wept itself down into green

and your feet, also weeping

have drawn lines across the softness

and the world has drunk down all waters together

and has quenched itself on all waters together

and watches you now, emerald eyes gleaming

... (xiv).

grieve not for the despair
nor fear slashing yourself on the ice in winter
nor that the blood still wells in springtime

for the world is also bleeding in cardinals
--brother, I wish she had loved you better.

... (xviii).

... really *not* quality--it's been a long week.

---

waste the day

--grind it to ash

smear it across the tile

skid across the seconds

knees bent, and crouching

and whip your head

towards the past

--as it comes bounding

after

be faster than

memory

more cunning

--you must fool yourself

all the spectres

come streaming

howling your name

your own old flesh

flapping behind them

city

this place throws off beauty with a toss of its hand

through all the soft, sweet nights--I am compelled to stand

the trees slice, languid, into the sky

in the leaves, a welter of birds state their names, loudly

and so, I must grip my own name tight to me

and not look where the roads lead across the ruffled land

when the year closes in on itself again

and the wind announces itself, burring

and grinds its teeth on the skin

when the moon turns sharp

and the stars go reeling

I will walk along the edge of winter,

all the way out to the hills

I will hold my skull hard

and walk smooth and steady

--and beyond them

beating my name on my bones

when I come to where

the ferns wave sharply on the ridges

and the rain can't bear to bide

and the lights fill the slopes

with warmer stars

on the edge of the valley

with night prickling on my neck

the reeds rustling in the wind

I will lay down my name

in the grit

I will put down my face

I will cut my tendons free

of the bonds that bound them so tightly

with all the city heedless below me

I will kneel down and be glad

... (xvii)

I must be weeping on my skin
--rolling my eyes in my pocket
I threw them in as I was leaving
--it pays to be prepared.

So I should toss them between the branches
and set them on the table
so I should be careful when doing the laundry
and not run them through the dryer

--I wipe them down
when I remember to clean them
and it's been two weeks, nearly
since I've left them by the napkins.

--but it's hard to hold onto
something so useless.

on two.

--thinking

how I might have lit myself on each

one, an unspoken understanding

the clasped eyes held firm

and a rueful twitch of the lip

for all the confusion in between

and the echo

--the shadow reaching out

for once, not back--

for the sake of holding oneself steady

to allow another's voice

wandering the surfaces--to return itself

--a tight grasp between them.

--and something stronger than tenderness

would be self-control.

and the fire would consume itself

into a glow--ever-brighter

until you lit the sidewalks

and made the world to sky.

and in the other--you'd wander lost

naked, despite your clothes

you'd come stripped bare

and come to yourself out of self-preservation

in the face of the wind whispering--alien

in the needles, and whatever is scuttling

in the brush--

--the chill of the lengthening shadow

--and what would be returned to you

would throw you against the sky.

and teach you anew

the names of your bones

dawn

--let it be: this way

that this morning was familiar

and the bite in the air

familiar

and my lungs full

of the ache, of the deep wound

from when my ribs opened

like a hand, reaching

the sweet bite

the shadows cast

by the ruins within you

now, stretching long

to your nails

if the shade is the only thing

growing

soon--there will be dark enough

to lay in, the night's rest

and the bright morning moon

soon to be ever-awakening

and the trees on fire

with the sunrise

and the first glow

of daylight on the feathers

soon--you will be ever-rising

and the day

will course past

unacknowledged

and you will sunder yourself

from the sun

grave

now that it has been taken from me

to rest beneath the shuddering green

to lay back in the leaves

lean and strong

with the light filtering down on me

--and the coming

lightly,

--a sharp and rippling

freshness

in the dusky still

--from somewhere else

now that I am denied

the final coming

of the familiar ghost

I have not met

and its chill touch on my forehead

and its eyes on my eyes

now that it is far beyond me

now that peace

and honor are buried

deep in the rolling flesh of day

know that I bear

the sunlight on my skin

know that I govern my limbs

purely as an epitaph

... a digression (ii).

Just to note something troubling--

... I was wondering "why?". About the "why" as it were of this particular endeavour (and others like it). Why spend your time on something--which has an undeniably performative aspect--when you are unsure of your reach, unsure of your quality... but under the strong impression that the former, at least, is not expansive?

--poetry being a rather interesting art... because more or less unnecessary. You could go read, of course, but who attends poetry readings?--poets. A highly, highly reflexive field we have here.

Once I had a teacher, and I was talking to him about how one might make a living this way. And his response was--you won't. But if you find something within you that compels you to keep writing, you might as well. (a rather trite, "artistic" response--but he liked his stereotype, eh? "Oh don't use 'professor', it sounds so formal..."--and I called him professor anyway, because it was getting a little too precious... and I like a bit of camp).

The internet is surely rather harshly egalitarian--in that one's success cannot be imposed... can only stem, a little, from one's natural abilities... and, more so, on the mysterious calculus of other peoples' sensibilities. To hell with the internal critic--the greatest challenge must be the rather vicious flightiness of the human attention span. (and since poetry, especially, is aimed at catching the mind in its periphery--it is more clear here than elsewhere).

And so, I suppose, the benefit of the situation is that it keeps you honest. The answer to the question being--because I have something to say. This particular thing to say, in fact. And to be said this way.

Nietzsche writes that creativity should be internally focused, like giving birth. (which is a bit of a... sticky metaphor, isn't it? But it works well enough) A concentration on the making. Which, I think, is the satisfaction of it... possibly the only sound satisfaction. Certainly the only one possible if one wants one's work to ring true. Or, at least, true enough.

pigeon

hair hanging lank

the day settles, and weaves slightly

the lights on the water

wavering across

the film on the window

--your eye is such a window

--the pigeons coast

along the stone, in the blue wash

of the morning, streaming

into the streets

and tautly burning

light of the afternoon.

be in the fountain

and on the steps and wet your feathers

and the light scrabble of feet

in the shadows

nor consider the courtyard, too closely

and disturb

the ungovernable communion

of the sky and the ground

they have no eyes

and only for each other

familiar

rest you, demon--rest in me

and curl your claws in my muscles

let fear lie gentle in my veins

--I have heard you rustling

in the bushes

I have seen your ambling

shadow

amble with me

we go together, demon

--where the world is wild

we are walking

through hell

under the trees

stretch, lazy

and rest your fur

in my arms

for you, dim flashing eyes

and your loose-knit bones

I have made a place

of dust and shade

in me

you (ii)

if I never touch you--

still the air drawn

out of my lungs

folded on my tongue

and launched in your direction

is the cool breeze

gusting in the corridors

of my soul

and swirling in the corners

---

you, who bring me mountains

by proxy

who are the shape of the shadow

hanging deep

in the dusty arroyos

you--are the saving of myself

Do you suppose...

...I'm having a nervous breakdown? Because I... rather think I am.

---

silence
and also in your head
car
rumbles, in the empty street
must be the only thing living
when you fade
into
the bone
of your own skull
and your skull into the
trees
when you are skating
across the glass of you pupils

if you left
the desks and windows
of your days
would the sidewalks
become unfamiliar?

and once, below the windows
of the day--emancipated
I saw
a truth, felt it
blow over my skin

which is deadened now
and I see nothing but empty light

fairfax

--and no, you can't say,

even the trees escaped the winter unscathed

and my reflection hangs

shaggy and spindled

now, with the snow gone

the sun gleams on the peaks of my face, only

and no longer breaks itself on the ground

no more gleaming

--and I am not the man I used to be

with my jeans hanging in folds

what is to be done with returning sparrows?

what is to be done with the crocus

gnawing brightly at the dead leaves?

what--what

no, you place of lines

we slowly, in the cracked

mush of what you have torn

and ground and left for dead

at the margins

--each of us, pushes

each alone

--nah, the crocus can't walk

and the trees will flame and shake, again

but some of us--can rise for good

when the sky comes to the ground

again--

you--stiff where you lie

you will find, this pushing from the inside

by God--this blind pressure

will come to you also

and one step, ten thousand times

will grind you

back into dirt

... (xvi?)

raise this city, tonight

just now-- when the musky scent of day

still lingers, after she has left.

among the welter of lights

clogging the street

before the night comes to sunder things

from themselves,

and coyote's howl traces across the slopes

between the scattered lights-

before we must give the shadows their due

and let them eat out our legs for awhile.

spread across these streets, my friends

like the light on the clouds

and raise the sky up to the ground

flit

the sky as dark, and soft

as the down on the neck of a goose

and the wind the gentle

rustling of feathers

and as soft as the music

trickling through the door

and my thoughts too

flitting softly

across me

I was sitting

with the light drifting down

watching the mud on my boots

and fragments of you, all

lit, briefly, on the sill

next to me

wings twitching, and hopping

and rose lightly

gliding past the eaves

well you--you, all

clear skies to your passing

and may the night carry you softly

gap

and as always--

thirst returned sweetly

and I sipped a memory

inattentively

--lukewarm

it slipped across

the ache,

and fell away

--I am tired

only the thought

of heaviness

the pressure

of the nearby

--and the gap well-worn

to lean for once

and rest there

grounded

the thick, heaped

green

shed it's burden

one morning--when the storms

lit the sky

green, in the night

I saw the herons

winging in droves

over the lake--thawing

clouds come down

to brush the water

oh drifters--I saw the hawks

winging, high

and tight, driving

hard circles

above the freeway

oh hunters--and have seen

the sparrows fluttering

and the crows drifting

between the roofs

and hopping

along the pavement

--yes, I have seen them

hold the sky in their wings

I have seen them,

blurring into the air

when my eyes jelled

and went to water

in my skull

gone to water

my blood to boil

the ice to scratch

my veins

but I will be bone

I will cup the sky

in my head

someday--

I will cut the wind

in my skull

I will cut it to thunder

I will snarl it

into lightning

cracking

--someday

I will break the sky--

and stack it

high

venice

and stares from the Duomo

clutching his skin

--and I am no St. Jerome

when we rise

from the sticky darkness

and walk the blue

streets, catching glimpses

of the monster

from our worst dreams

in the window

and the masks stare

empty-eyed and glittering

from the shelves

surely the carnival twirls

as the people stride

clutching bags and bread

surely it twirls among them

in the wake

of our heavy-footed steps

skirl, you

skirl, I am polishing

myself sharp and planed

for my reflection

grinds me like gravel

tears me in every glance

I will be stone

soon, or perhaps

there is nothing to wear

away, but flesh

so be it--when I am bone

I will trawl the gutters

and corners

and feather myself with what I find

spark

my greedy grasping hands

fingers tingle

arms on fire

I tore at the air

--give me more, more!

you emptiness,

you formless

hanging motion--

give me--

I cup them now

low, in front of me

hold, in my hands

a moment

kindled, on bits

of ten thousand

things, passing

this flicker--

I cannot reach

further,

but the sparks fell

ground from the air

when I grabbed

emptily at the stars

mine--my stars!

mine, dying in the dark

my light this,

no cold-light

no walking, breathing

roiling constellations

the clouds hang on the moon

the smoke from distant battles

far above me

spring lady

I said, once,

what I would be

I wore so many different skins

the crackle of brush

and stood

at the summit, claimed

the wind as my breath

I said I was coyote

and conqueror and shadow

skulking, now rising up the palms

I said I was lover, and poet

and claimed the world as my subject

and caressed it with the lips of my hands

I said I was free

and skirted the lawns, blameless

and hungry, and turned the cans over

I forgot the teeth under my skin

so busy rubbing my fingers

to smooth the air

and draw its trouble and pull

its mouth into smiles

mine too--mine too!

said I was master of my own sharp

bones, and drove them into arcs

said I was dancer

the skin tears

the muscles' tangles

I have strength enough,

only, to raise my head

to the spring in winter

cold lady, hovering on

the pavement

to receive her brightness

on my flapping skin

can only say-- I am

here

kali (iii)

you must be strong

cannot be soft

--to dance with Kali

for she is lush destruction

she is all curving

foothills, sharp and rolling

the thick smell of rot

hanging under

the trailing vines,

rising from

the dark

at the bottom of the cupboard

and within you too

she is fire

rolling thickly

on soft feet

and crackling richly

and the lightning

cracks,

over the velvet

emptiness of her eyes

cannot be wood

--she gnaws it

to pulp and splinters

nor earth

which she treads heavily

and water she devours

you must be steel

for she consumes the living

sharp in your head

and bright in your bones

flashing quickly

and she might roll

along your edges

and roll the fullness

of her lips,

and flash her teeth

bone-white and strong

gobi

what seemed so close

is immeasurably far

the empty air swallows distance

nah, nah--don't grind your skin

on the gravel

don't unstring your legs

running in the dunes

nah--put one hand in your pocket

and hold the harness, steady

feet to the ruts,

zou, zou, zou--zou ba.

memory (ii)

in the hazy, chill of the rain

I was ascending my memories

switch-backing up he slope

until I heard your voice,

behind the crest

and saw the shadow of your hand

and spun on my heel

to the side

I am not ready

for the harsh glow and sweet

shadows of your face

for the bitter sweetness

of such joy

---

under the foam of the moment

something thick and clear

heavy on the tongue

drenches the arm in strength

and warms the soul slowly

on the soft glow of memory

under quicksilver stars, flashing

in the living dark of the sky

you lean back

and rest against the past

a forethought...

and you will never mourn--
think in this way
that his death was his own
as his life was his own
and for himself
considered as a whole, as a book
from cover to cover
then you may celebrate that life
and your own,
long into the night

... (xii). (possibly, I lose track).

like water welling

up through the rocks

I rise

and spread

outwards

which sometimes

might reflect the sky

--does it matter?

a glistening shadow

what is, is

above you

or wavering on my skin

wind (ii)

and in only in the cracking bark
the air bricked high
the twitching, tightening
shuddering around your blood
in this way: the wind floods
and eddies in the avenues
within you
in this way: you are flung
through yourself
coat billowing
back from your shoulders

so is it your heart then
or the thudding
snarl
of flesh tangled
in the clawless
claws of
all of heaven
swooping
on the drifting
hills, the fading
drifts,
and the tattered grass