the song of the solid

the song of the solid

is a deep and thrumming

hum,

is the way roofs

rise in staccato

is the water pooling

on the steps

falling away in descant

throws back the sky

is the wind

cutting glissando

the song of the solid

is the earth pounding

the strings

of the freeways,

as it throws itself

forward, for the joy of

moving

the song of the solid

is the road twisting

holding itself

poised in an eternal curve

the song of the solid

is the silent determination

of the gravel falling

is the melancholy

clatter, against stone

that recalls

the stone crumbling

above them,

the bitter loneliness

the fierce determination

of the rush of dirt

and rock, to seize possibility

voices rising in a cloud of dust

the song of the solid

is the vibrations

in clenched teeth

of bones arched and holding

the flesh high

the song of the solid

is the eyes glowing

bright and deep

above the sweeping motions

of the face

the song of the solid

is the song of things

that have been crushed

into themselves,

under pressure

humming quietly,

with the atoms clinking

to the rhythm

of their own

fall

all the world's for falling

so fall away, you ghost and demons

fall away--you dust and ash

fall away your fading glories

fall away you ringing stories

proclaiming the worlds glowing

burning fast

fall, fall--fall away, you all

like burning ash

and go to glow in the carpet

and fade, in the blue

the shadows, the breeze falling

through the window

to lay over the bed, the palms

rustle--let them rustle

falling over the fence

and their whisking fall

over the silence

and the sleeper--let the chains

fall and the limbs fall

across the blankets

let the world rest, quiet

in the rough softness

of the dirt--let this

room,

be the unfinished grave

Nineveh

--washed clean,

thank god--the grime on the walls

dissolved, in the burning flush

of the light, the trees picked bare

the fruit rotting on the ground

swept from the walkways

the silence, in the daylight

gleaming, on the faces washed

clean--

remember?--

the heated rooms, the burning

burr in the cool night air, the

fetid whispers hanging

in the valleys, the dark glances

in the alleys, the distant

shouting, the dusky

scent of smoke and jasmine

echoing across the hillsides

the dirt gleaming

under the hard shine

of the stars, and the sky

deep and velvet

from the lights

--stillness, now

you can hear the crickets

and jackel yelping in the brush

beyond the walls

--we say, there were always

crickets, but we used

to howl louder than the jackels

remember--

that strange night, when the cup

fell, and the slaves sat

like they're supposed to--beside

the couches--remember couches?

and the wine went seeping into the

rushes, to join the fallen meat

and the strings were whining

and moaning, and that man was standing

and speaking clearly,

remember the light on the silk?

standing there in linen

and pointing to the wall

--before the gates broke

before the streets were swept

clean, before our eyes were

washed out, and our hands

scrubbed, and our voices taught

to speak--

--I saw fire burning across

the wall

--tell me

it's easy to make a flame

but where would you have written?

if we hadn't made the walls

when

God forgive us--

this darkness, with the stars

splinters in the night

to stare up into the depths

and grimace at the fires

spinning burning across the black

God forgive us--

who cursed the sun blazing

the leaves rustling

and hissed at the ever-moving

the empty lushness

the underbrush, thick and unspeaking

the sightless green on the branch

God forgive us--

who raised our hands

and commanded that the light streaming

the flashing red and yellow

whispering, that the branches

be the rustling of a crowd

the tall trunks shooting upwards

be the pillars of the hall

--that the empty road be a street

lined with souls,

cheering, murmuring triumph
urging you home

God forgive us--

for saying that He had a name

for using it,

--but it will come

when you have walked far enough
to weariness and beyond it
and slumped against a palm tree
--not, then

but some night,
with the clouds hanging low
the doors opening and closing
the voices murmuring
through the green-blue shadows

--there will come a time

when dark is just another color

and the tumult, the fire

of the days, that fell like showers

of sparks, around you--

--that burned in your skin
when you will no longer snarl at Heaven
nor clench teeth silently
at its absence

when it will walk with you
lie alongside you
when you will lie content
with the brush of the sky
across your shoulders
trailing down

sign

man--I don't know how to say

it's been an issue of passing

unseen, of crossing each other's backs

I put out my hand

and you extend your hand

--we look down,

and draw them back

--the jet planes are always leaving

you used to rush to the airport

and come running up to the gate

just in time

I used to watch jet trails

in the sky--even when you were

there--in the stands

I think I must have

imprinted on the sign

no jets now

and no skidding up to

the gate, no running

out across the sky

--no there's no smoke

arcing, and no field either

and no stands, no I think

we'll be watching each other

forever--no, I think

that's alright, man

that's alright--

I think it's alright

to be puzzling over

the figures--with their

oddly familiar

angles, their curves

and arcing slants

--don't mind so much

going by sign

it's a language worth learning.

Beijing

I hold to

the girls with their ratted hair

clustering around the storefronts

selling cheap knock-offs--at the bus stops

refer back to

the man who used to play

his saxophone, down by the canal

while the older man painted characters

in water, on the bluish-gray of the pavement

and the man who was kicking

thighs-bulging across the tow-path

and the one shouting out the dictionary

to learn English, and the one howling

out the soprano for some Beijing opera

at five in the morning, and those people

down in the boat, pulling fish out of

the freezing murk

and the men striding puff-chest along

the sidewalk--because they knew they owned

the city, and squads of policemen

practicing Kung Fu and Tai Jit Su

in the square, late into the night

--I dodged them in the morning

when they were jogging, and

I was jogging the other way

--hold them

these streets, those streets

and hear the steps echoing

voices clamoring, breath puffing

and my own steps echoing

even now, in the desert

sifting the debris for fossils

I find myself rubbing

the fossil ridges

in my hands.

... (xxiii).

I cast the arms of my shadow

across the bamboo

all the way to the gate

I am so tall with the light behind me

the stars fell from the tip

of my cigarette

to glow on the sidewalk

oh--I am so dim

in the face of things burning

Oedipus

goddamn my eyes

--goddamn the screen

that I should be so pitted

that I should be strung out

all along the sight-lines

that I should be shot

through with the horizon

--sometimes you can trust

only the ghost

in your hands

they rose of themselves

the silent animal in them

curled it's claws

and tore out

the wires

and I had thought--this would be

salvation, when

the last of vision

faded, and ran down my cheeks

I did not think--

that those swinging, rolling fools

the ghost curls now

at the base of my skull

I did not think that those

easily distracted--so foolish

to chase the colors

--every damn sparkle

I did not think that they had

for all their chattering

had preserved me

from the purposeful

silence

of this strange, and alien

animal, breathing with me

in the dark.

the distance

next time--

when we live again

for the next time

this trouble

will have subsided

don't wonder

that I will lose you

in all the tumult of souls

--my friend

when we live again

this near and near

impenetrable barrier

between us

will have fallen away

I expect to be all hand

--and won't we hold

each other

with all ourselves

and drag each other

forward--into

the time again?

my friend--

for now we walk

hands empty

so let the distance

make us dextrous

and difficulty

make us strong

--and don't despair

the distance--this one

is for kicks, this one

is for broke, for kicking

your heels, hands in your

pockets, this one

is for grinning out at all

the whole world, who have nothing

have lost nothing, and the time

comes--will come, for sharing

the glint between us, and the

world left starving

gears

the bikes go rolling
past the window
--and a stream of people
passes back and forth
in front of the counter
and I--
--I remember a dark, a night
that I passed beyond the window
into the shadows on the plaza
and across them, and the parking lot
in the heavy, sweating heat
and sometimes with snow
in the top of my boots
--and sometimes limping
and sometimes bent
under the weight of my bag

I remember skirting the light
pacing
and smoking
I remember twirling and jumping
around the planters
sometimes thick and green
and sometimes brown
and frozen,
with ice dripping from the eaves
and water dripping from the eaves
as the ice fell, glistening
in the fickle, capricious heat
of Spring

I miss
them, who saw me silent
who saw the first
faltering
words, mumbled
the creaking
and flaking
of the rust on my soul

burnished, has been blasted
to a dull gleam
along the tempered curve
of my back
now the quiet churr
of my moving
the slow clicking
of the gears
and axles

please, think that
--I
that I am thankful
that if I move
down strange avenues
head-bent and wander
down unfamiliar streets
that I--
remember the place

--where I sat under the window
while, you passing
and moving, while your breath
--then
slowly cleaned
and refitted the scrap

I did not want
to grind, like I did
to a halt
--not my intention
to carry the memory
of reassembly
nor, to be remade
by unfamiliar hands
from what was lying on hand

would not have chose it
--but as I move, friends
I carry the unmistakeable mark
of your unintentional work

... (xxii).

... sometimes--you just get a little frustrated.

Bah.

---

I don't want to hear your thoughts

or what you think of love

to me they're just as much

less--than the whining of the doves

I don't need to hear your dreams

they're about as near here as the sound

of the whurr and churr of the tires

grinding on the ground

and possibly a "pop" across the valley

I don't care for all the things

to which you've clung as best you're able

are as crumpled, as forlorn

as the wrappers are on the table

and across this space, your needs

in all their endless thronging

they fall down like an echo

air dissolves your longing

and you wonder how we're come here

this dry and silent space

and fearing, you throw time

as chains--to hold us both in place

but the years fall soft as the chimes

around the corner

and the world is moving brightly

on--behind your face

I hear you as you say

that you're frozen and on fire

and as I listen--all I pray

for is the turning of the hour.