World Skinned

(xxxiii)

2012-01-19T16:24:00.000-08:00

The things in quotes are from a song by David Gray--"Now and Always". Good song. Borrowing more than a little glory--was listening to it as I was writing, and couldn't quite resist.

---

the neighbor's chickens hop along the fence,

snatching at the bamboo

I pick through a bowl of lettuce

watching the sun through the leaves

clear and liquid, sinking below

the roof of the shed

"...would that these demons

would let me rest--

the women lie till the day they die."

I lean against the table, and stare at your darkened window

the pale tree rising behind it

(the winds stripped it, a month ago)

through the bare branches, the sparse blue of the sky

some of the lemons have fallen,

we bring them inside, although they're misshapen

nobody has any money.

"the swans like ghosts on the jet black water,

we'll glide like ghosts on the starry water,

--the docks are burning away..."

you--my drifting anchor

how long since you've been here?

do you scent my want, I wonder--

and fear it, forsake this harbor

for where no one is waiting

"you're in my mind, baby, now and always

the road I'm walking might fall away..."

I have idled here so long,

here, between the dirt and sky

behind the wall of leaves

I see dusk roll over the hills

the wires rising and falling across them

and beyond this valley, the burning winter cold

--the mocking futility...

I remember other winters--huddled over the steaming hood

the utter impossibility of one thing, small and warm--

stealing itself from grip of the wind

if I waver, here, in the ebb and flow

of your absence--

I am washed clean by your ghost

Virgo

2011-12-18T23:32:00.000-08:00

the stars gather under the window

and worlds spin among the shelves

as the leaves brush the glass

the sun falls over my legs

as it fell over the running-boards

and the vinyl, and drew lines

between the aspen--sharp

the fabric on these cushions

is rough and soft, as the burr of

an old guitar,

it's case bleaching by the window

the dust and dew and fabric

the plywood shelves--are dusky

and sweet as smoke blowing back

through the gap

and the road running along beside

endless restless motion, and crumpled maps

sprawling across the carpet

dirt and light--singing, rough and sweetly

and the smell of late afternoon in the summer

--things flawed and grimed with use

and the window left cracked open

Humboldt

2011-11-19T13:03:00.000-08:00

I remember you
all across the rounded mountains
where the sun blazes soft in the grass
and shadows carpet the slopes

where the fog hangs heavy in the inlets
where the country breaks free
of the highway and fences
and the houses hang low against the sky

far from the temerity
and tangled stands of buildings
the sky scraped and bruised
the canyons and their jagged wash
of houses, the angled rivers
and all their gleaming refuse

where the sun dives clean into the water
instead of falling, flailing into the hills
where night comes without dying
and things pass into each other unbroken

I remember you are the light, flickering
out over the water
licking the waves and rocks, together
if I come some cold northern night
to the damp sand beneath your beam
what I trace--will you light it?
when the tide carries it into the dark

broken buildings

2011-11-08T00:37:00.000-08:00

the weary memories

trudging in the shadows

rustle, under the leaves

--I skim an hour

as the breeze rests

lazy across the walk

water frozen in the cracks

spring rushing, in the gutters

ten thousand small tragedies

cracked off my jaw,

gravel of the mind

between the dark rise of the future

and the desire for things

that have slipped between my fingers

--I dream a better kind of want

so grim

I glare up into the fronds

eyes like an unclenching fist

to catch the starlight

this soul is weary of walking on rubble

of perching hunched

on the bare framework still standing

of hoarding pieces and ends

--I would if I could fall slowly

light beyond the shadows

not reflect coldly

on far-off skies and broken buildings

geese

2011-10-18T01:37:00.000-07:00

for you--I think the geese in winter

would suffice

fat and scavenging at the edge of the ice

the only birds to weather

that bitter season

... (xxxii).

2011-10-10T17:02:00.000-07:00

... and the cup of life is short indeed

and thin and sour the greater taste

of each small portion

like all who live, I am in love with Fate

but while I live, I'd bewilder, baffle

and make her wait

while I go out, to sleep with Fortune.

... (xxxi).

2011-10-05T00:24:00.000-07:00

when you walk the sidewalk like a plank

why trust to

the doom creaking along your soles?

why fear--why worry?

when the sky can weep for you only

and in one valley

when the clouds whisper

impending benedictions--across your eyes

when you can shadow the palm-trees

with your palm, thrust up to grasp the sky

the world is large--

but what blurring horizon is greater

than the span of your arms?

--when you can cast your shadow

farther than your breath

and no fist can come closer

than your face

--when you words fall as dust

unseen, below the feet of others

burnt to ash--

from ash and dust man is made

... (xxx).

2011-09-16T20:06:00.000-07:00

with the terror that falls down

upon you

in glistering sheets

like the Word from Heaven

the bushes burn every evening

before night comes

--they speak the fiery proscriptions

of the dying sun

the exegesis and apologia

of shadow caught in their branches

sliding from your shoulders

your feet mark the flood-line

--the light on your face warns

that you may be drowning

--but I felt the first of the rains

prickle my forearms

I smell the mountains in the air

--give me a God like a mountain

and I will worship it with my lungs

weather

2011-09-04T22:22:00.000-07:00

if it had rained

I would've stopped by your house

on the way home

and dragged you out into the street

--you should take off those wet things, shouldn't you?

but the rain never came

and the dry lightning forked the sky

and I hurried home

alone--just this side of terror

for the chances that never came

and the plans that never came together

for the words unsaid, the worlds unmade

flashed bright, once, then gone forever

for all the things that never happened

--I find it's best to blame the weather.

not a good poem.

2011-08-20T01:24:00.000-07:00

you're too good for poems--you know

you'll never know how many words I've wasted

trying to capture this thing

gleam, glint, shadow, echo, etc.

so I will say it simply:

that I love you as form of self-preservation

when I was more than foolish

I flung myself into your depths

and you have yet to return it

I will always be seeking you

for that reason--

around corners and at line-breaks

in crowds, fields, squares, halls, etc.

I will make you the measure of all things

for no other reason, than I will wish to find myself

if only in pieces--long after you've consigned me

to scrap,

monstrous thief--to take not my heart but my eyes

terrifyingly mediocre--like a claims adjuster

you don't know the measure of what you hold

between your fingers

who you'll kill when you turn your head

echo (ii)

2011-08-20T00:25:00.000-07:00

the echoes are my name

you make me remember the many shades of black

the lights gleaming like lesser diamonds

glowing below the eaves

spilling over the steps

haze and glint and shadow

under the moon, half-full with promise

rolling slow down from

your dark and shadowed ranges

you--yourself--draw my eyes

to the crest of the ridge

you return me--weary traveler

who learned nothing, going

but how to return home

rolling down slowly

from the depths

you don't know--but

I have traced myself

in the glyph of your shadow

and I have traced

the shadows across your face

with the corner of my eye

and I have embraced you

with the back of my neck

wrapped you in the shirt

falling across my shoulders

into your black and shadowed ranges

I have called the name of my soul

I have you carried you in the slow swing

of my steps--never be further

than armslength, never out of earshot

the echoes are my name

... (xxvix).

2011-08-16T23:14:00.000-07:00

just a sip

--and I'd slip away

to savor a drunken moment

a taste, the barest whisper

--and I'd reel

with an all-too-steady

sense of grace

as if I carried the firelit

faces of my ancestors--in my blood

woven in bone, every moment made

with a firepit, begging flame

a hole for spirits--like an alcoholic

I have been made,

to fall at the first swallow

(by myself, for you)

to revel steady in the

company of thirst

in August

2011-07-19T23:40:00.000-07:00

I should’ve lain down
in the fields, in August
pulled into the turn-off
and left the car, idle
in the bare dirt,
I should’ve stepped into
the weeds
and followed the faint
trail, through the
wildflowers,
crossed the grass
to the dark hedge of trees
at the edge of the field
I should’ve fallen down
under the heat and the haze
I should’ve let the sweet scent
of dusk lull me down
back to the dirt, let the shadow
of the grass fall across my face
and sunk with it, down
into blue,

on the other side of morning
somewhere in Kansas
with the I-70 thundering
toward the hills, into Missouri

I should’ve woken
with dirt in my eyes
and burrowed my shoulders into the earth
to avoid the sun blowing across the plains
and listened to the receding echo
of something throwing itself, head-long
through the night

God bless

2011-07-01T19:53:00.000-07:00

God bless
the devil-in-the-design
through all the lonely ages
the liars
deceivers, misleaders--prideful and spiteful
boastful--the blind
God bless
the stumblers--the bumblers--the fumblers
the shamblers--the ramblers
shuddering, milling in the night
approaching, encroaching--with groping hands
where that old star hangs low and bright
groping and grasping--they gasp as they're passing
crowding the roads down into
Old David's City--such pieces, the sons of man
of the work--who will speak but not understand
when the angels sing--to crack the night
God bless the fearful--and aid their flight
streaming past houses--quick in the alleys
to the rooms they've reserved--some broke for the valleys
and left the torches and the walls, altogether.
it starts there. with the sheep grazing idle in the heather
and echoes, out--all along the gutters
into the corners--near and far
praise the shadow with running footsteps
God bless the darkness--mind the star.

... (xxvii).

2011-05-24T21:42:00.000-07:00

the tide of pink

and burning yellow

rolling down the slopes

--did you see it?

the windows glowing

along the crest

of the canyon

--the lights winking

like eyes opening

blinking away

the light--in the clear hour

before the shadows come

or did you sit--in the gnarled

shade of the oaks, the banked

shadow--of the eucalyptus

crack one astringent leaf

between your fingers?

--saw the echos of the day's end

glancing off the papery trunks

flickering at the edge of the branches

in the deeper darkness welling up

from the bunched roots?

why don't we walk

where the sidewalk

turns to shadow, why do

I follow the pavement rising

and falling above the buildings

alone--while you sit in crowded

silence--watching the light fall

through rigid fingers?

Not gracefully...

2011-05-18T20:40:00.000-07:00

... and not quietly, neither (pace Mr. Dylan).

---

the lasting hour--this one

we must crouch

as the guns thunder

your chest would shake

--in a silent room

at the tumult

--close your eyes

to the clicking

the hum of voices, be still as

the hills gilded by the light

of the mortars--close your eyes

--to shut the night in

descend, into the dark

fields within you, where the bullets

snap under the stars

--let them talk peace... let 'em talk it

and stand there in the white light

hands raised--and hopeful

close your eyes

and deny them

and give yourself unto the trenches

--you will die at war

salt

2011-05-13T18:44:00.000-07:00

Sin-eater eat your sin
--dissolve it
as I lick the salt off your skin
and it burns, bitter
chalky ash of the seas
that have passed through you—your arms
have become the shores
of your desire

this is the only ablution waiting
how long did you walk
--with the asphalt melting below you
to watch the dry hills shimmer
in the heat, grass waving
in the still basin of the sky
--and I am waiting

we—have been washed clean
by our own tides, have tumbled
and spun among the waves rolling

across us—we have hung
atop the rollers—to grasp at
the sky—we
--have become strange and quiet
half-polished, unhallowed—rueful ghosts
with still-breathing bodies
--let me lick the salt from your skin

... (xxvi).

2011-05-06T20:19:00.000-07:00

the moon watches from the corner of her eye

the night opens like a door

and the hills stand high

in sharp outline,

behind her sloping gaze

--eyes you, waiting

if you'd walk in these halls, then

you must go forward also

quick--in gleaming outline

in flashes

let us walk

through the shadows falling

off the tile

sprawled across the pavement

leaning, grinning--against the stucco

with the city padding between us

you're a simple soul, eh?

that makes you lucky

--you don't know what you can't do

no dancer--you go running

trade skill for distance

since I'm having trouble denoting "forward"

I'm taking the graceless slapping

of your sneakers--as the echo of the walls

here--to delineate the shape

of the rooms that lie before me

... (xxv).

2011-05-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

speak to yourself

in foreign accents--repeat your thoughts

in some other language, mumble

in the words you knew--before you knew words

to the ones who came before you,

leaning out from the shadows, spun round

behind the columns, the doorways

the first one who hid--behind a boulder

from what they could not see

whisper, what they whispered above

clouds of incense, through sheets

of smoke, choking out the shapes

of buildings, and street names

as they watched the fire feeding

--etched the script across

the film clouding their

eyes--sounded the letters

like beacons, in the hanging

fog, to sound the bulk

of the lies, the slope

of the memories

and when the wind

whipped free of the hillsides

it met them in cadence, but

when the air is still--it pays

to bow your head, to mumble

under the shade and shelter

of your eye-lids--it pays

to trace the figures small

2011-04-24T19:58:00.000-07:00

man--I'd like

them to crowd round in tweed

with the buildings soaring

like ground-bound falcons

against the sky

man--I'd like

to touch hands, man

I'd like to clap shoulders

to walk through a crowd

and hear the voices

clasp my ears like fingers

on a forearm

man--I'd like

to stride across a green

like I owned it, to stomp

across a street, like the beat

of the cars, was echoing

in my legs, man--I'd like to say

I own this, and it owns me

dismal science

2011-04-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

man--I would jam

a sword down my throat

elaborate on

my own blood gurgling

than hear the empty air

whistling in my teeth

than provide narration for

a world that exists only in outline

man--I will not be

nailed spread-eagle

by the cells of my skin

will not be knotted

woven--the swirling atoms

threading my flesh

with wire

nah--and I won't drink it

the fading flush, the

hungry rush--the empty liquor

of desire

when a scream is just

another kind of story

and a plea no more

than fluttering hands

then I'd choose silence

for my sake--combined with violence

and--on the whole--give over worry

for a place unable to calculate,

to compensate--to back with interest

to back at all--what it demands

beggars

2011-04-19T23:55:00.000-07:00

beggars--the both of us

it is hard to sit here

in the corner

without you to light it

to stare up at the matte gray sky

through the bamboo

to hear the blank rush

of the cars in the hills, the wind

the world seems flatter

the night seems dead

without the warmth

of your company

without your voice

to add

depth to the dark

it is hard to see

the rich colors

without being able

to catch them

to give you--without you

to return them, brighter

remember when were starving?

--and hunger was a pleasure

it filled the world with desire

when did it become

lots and alleys--

trenches gouged into the earth

and things scattered

in pieces, across the ground

the cement cold and hard

the tall buildings

catch the dead sounds of the city

in their heights

Sitting on the curb, I saw you

at the intersection

while you were on the way

to yours

I looked up at you

and you glanced at me

--I can give you nothing

God damn your resilience

--our eyes rebounded

flung past each other

were lost

we dissolved

into the vastness of the street

winter

2011-04-16T23:20:00.001-07:00

it's good to lie down empty--in the summer

the sky itself will come down to fill you

with Draco arching in dim outline

above you

--but I saw you in the winter

when I was already full

and dark cut across us

and we stood apart

each silent and solid

under the still, thundering

dome of the moon

and the words passed

between us

like a distant echo

--I hear laughter in the night

wild and jagged as the outline of the palms

I think I wish you're hearing

the murmuring of the leaves

if I must be alone when I'm open

I'd wish the soft rustling

the spice on the breeze,

drift in the corners of your soul

... (xxiv).

2011-04-14T23:47:00.000-07:00

poetry is the shearing away

of the bone

tonight--

the wind blowing,

quick and dry

sheared away the years

all the dead

days, thick and bony

and hard

and I saw the sunlight

on the path

and the shadows specking

through the leaves

I saw the light thick like

water, when the air

was too heavy

to breathe

and I, caged by the trunks

mourned, silently

in an empty room

and slumped against

the sides, of my skull

--but this exposure

is a crack in the living

cement of the ceiling

and the light, lively

unliving, trickles

across my face

the song of the solid

2011-03-28T21:11:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-28T20:56:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

--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

2011-03-19T23:22:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-17T19:59:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-15T18:37:00.000-07:00

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).

2011-03-13T21:45:00.001-07:00

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

2011-03-10T18:14:00.001-08:00

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

2011-03-06T20:55:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-06T18:38:00.000-08:00

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).

2011-03-05T14:30:00.001-08:00

... 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.

Claim

2011-02-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

I'd like to think of all of you, as little points of light

that if I see the sky glowing blue

and the sky-scrapers wreathed in haze

if I hear the chimes echo in the dark

that someone else watches

the light play across someone else's cheekbones

in a dim garage

where they're making music

and another smells the fresh scent of cilantro

rising out of the thin plastic bag

mixed with the sharp dampness of the night air

as they are walking home from the grocery store

I'd like to think that at least one

is thrust into delighted awareness

of the exhilaration and charging vulnerability

of the suicide pact we make each day on the 10

and grins with fierce gratitude

as they go jetting over the pot-holes

that someone stood on the sidewalk, at dusk

and lit a cigarette, and dreamed for awhile

until someone called them back inside

that we hold each other

as the night holds us

against the harsh light of day.

"We belong, we belong, we belong..."

--I stake my claim.

... (xxii).

2011-02-18T16:55:00.000-08:00

the moon sucked
an ever-growing ring
of clouds, into itself
and glowing gentle and
bright as polished bone
at the center of a dark dome
in the sky
ruled the night, that night
when the clouds rested
low over the houses
smudgy and thick
soft as ragged wool

"I wonder how it does that--" she said,

and looked at me, and said, "--never mind.
I don't want to know."

I don't know.

note

2011-02-17T21:11:00.000-08:00

let it be--that

I may have made a mistake

that's ignorance, you know

that's youth--to go humming

your own melody, softly

under your breath

and all unconscious of the clash

and clamor, when it runs up against

another--and two chords turn

upon each other--you don't know

dissonance

until you've heard it.

still--notes are strange

unwieldy things--who knows

how many, melodies are buried

in their vibrations?

how twisted, and arching

the gaps

between the pitches

that compose them?

who knows--but

I catch the echo

of a song I heard, once

much closer

--and I see that

although it twists past me

and wanders in the needles

--I glimpse it in snatches

I see that--

what I heard rang true.

lamp

2011-02-13T18:45:00.000-08:00

the branches drooped sharp

and knife-edged

in their shadow

I felt teeth glinting

in my wake

I have walked through hell

--to come here

through the nine-hells of

my own devising

I heard the demons chattering

along the walls

I gave my toes

to the burning fire of winter

I gave my face

to the acid laughter of the wind

and turned my shoulders to its rush

I bled strength

across the hard-froze pavement

I went forward,

and going forward,

have come here--

oh--my far-off neighbor

whose house glows on the dark

hill-top

I will take your porch-light

as my lamp

I will wave no more torches

nor seek to burn the night

--as my lamp

and I will dance

down here--will no more strive

but to dance defter

here, below the circle

of its light.

ghost

2011-02-13T16:17:00.001-08:00

the smell of smoke

and windows falling in rivulets

the streets, rushing in streams

of false-water,

shimmering in the sun

my beloved is dead

spun so furiously that

she flung herself over the ridges

and the blue shade,

rolling down the slopes

is her shadow

and the spark, where the road

turns at the summit

is the glint in her eye

but that strange, compact body

which twisted and rose

which moved of itself

that was for gripping

has flown apart

and settled over the ground

I will scatter my words,

and sing a lullaby in the daylight

with the moon hanging low

under the bristling palms

and the pepper trees dropping

their seeds in the dust.

it seems I am staring

out across the valley

from between her rib-bones

that the hazy ridges rise

under the curve of her knee

and her skin has gone

to cover the roof-tops

and what was beneath it

fills the streets,

teeming under the branches

but she holds the sky in her bones.

On York

2011-02-08T17:15:00.000-08:00

if the streets are fear

and the sun is torment

and judgment

if the seconds are darts

and blades

separating your flesh

--then death does not come easy

and you never stride, singing

into the breach,

so--for the sake of releasing

who once saw the streets

with wonder

who once gloried in the light

you might go through

the sticky, laborious

process--

--of unpeeling your skin. you might

leave the--I--in rags

and go down screaming

weeping, as your pupils

consume you

you might go down in torment

hoping

--that you had released

it to the light

So...

2011-02-08T16:51:00.000-08:00

so--with the drifts

of birds

winging in the soft blue

just before sunrise

flashing amber on their wings

carrying it--less sharp than the fire

which blazes in the windows

so--too

my soul, drift softly

and exult, easy

with the joy of daylight, coming

so, too--you

skreel, low over the valleys

you, go--

winging. and leave

the itchy, burning

husk--stretched and cracking

to crumble

with the dust.

Antigone

2011-02-01T17:30:00.001-08:00

tonight, I mourn my dead

boldly

it's a bold thing to mourn

what no one grieves for

too cover the dead

the cracked eyes

with silver

to bring the stars

down

to the silent ground

blasphemy

to steal

beyond the sleeping city

to stand among

the wind blowing in the grass

the rustle

to go below the lighted windows

jingling

pennies for the Ferryman

against your side

to where they lie unburied

to kneel

to call on Heaven

"light their way forward"

the unseeing

lamps for them

"light their way forward"

the moonlight that catches the skin

some quick

and some frozen

that crackles on the sand

by this right--

I, who am the least of these

who am the least of all--

see them honored.

the long day...

2011-01-17T17:37:00.000-08:00

morning to night and through the night

the light flooded

the room

came rushing

to hammer my eyes

thick and bitter bright

I have woken, constantly

have shivered--no quarter

light on the snow

light on the street

--I am blind, blind

city, city

give me shadow

let me forget

all the damned seasons

of waking

You

2011-01-14T19:15:00.000-08:00

You--

… let us imagine two other bodies. And that my soul was the shadow of itself--and that yours was not fossilized, and pressed safely into the sediment. Let me imagine stronger shoulders--yes, and slimmer hips.

That I could carry you. That you didn’t want to be carried.

Where the street ended--I still remember. The desert night, damp and cool. The shiver that--

--rolled through the flesh and threw up the soul. I still hear you in the echo--

of my actions, the corner of my memory. I cannot hear a word, remember your voice, your face--

--surely only hands. The weight and the heat. I remember my own response. Only reactions--

--the string once struck

thrums, leaning against the chair. Long after the room was empty. And the neck was set down.

Fairfax (ii)

2011-01-14T14:39:00.000-08:00

The car shimmering with ice
in Jackson
and the icicles
on the mirror
didn't melt until the next morning
in Dallas
and the roads gleaming
in the tail lights
like black velvet
soft and glistening
across dull dark grass

now El Paso
rises
out of the desert, and under
the foothills
and the desert rising
sparked
like cut crystal
as the sun fell

and Arizona is sharp
as a sheet of glass
pressed flat and gleaming
by the weight of the sun

before Asheville
I said
I would smear your faces
across the rolling hills
and the features fell
one by one

frozen
then flowing

snow in the Smokies
the air itself was
glass
at the edge of the mountains

froze and sank into the asphalt
I ran
over
the familiar counters
I went skidding
rumbling
over them, all night
into Mid-land

and when the oil rigs
plunged
I was empty

What is left of the fire...

2011-01-03T09:07:00.000-08:00

--what is left of the fire
is a stream of smoke
rising, ebbing
a thousand ridges
raised
ravines twisted, degraded
a thousand ribbons
dancing

O, dancer--oh twirler
oh spinner--
my mind's eye
watching from the corner
and peering through the crowd

man, I have danced the shadow
of the dance across these walls
I have stomped and slid through
winter
I have bowed to fall
in spring, I flung
myself forward
in summer
I bent forward, I wove slowly
to the beat of the sun
and did it all once more
lost more than I won

man, I have whirled past
my very last partner
--the dance now done

shall I...

2011-01-03T09:03:00.000-08:00

shall I feed you, the ghost of
grapes, coated with dust
sing you the shadow of the light
glimmering heavy in the haze
the ghost of the roses
burning white against the dusk
walk before you
one more time
to where the moon
hangs bright over the rocks
and turn
hands out-stretched
give you mountains
seamed with stars

I think...

2010-12-29T08:03:00.000-08:00

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

Oh well.

Orion falls

2010-11-27T20:31:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-11-20T19:49:00.000-08:00

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...

2010-11-16T06:52:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-27T20:15:00.000-07:00

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).

2010-09-17T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-20T08:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-09T19:37:00.001-07:00

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

... .

2010-08-08T13:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-07T08:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-07-27T06:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-28T08:38:00.000-07:00

--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).

2010-06-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-15T12:14:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-06-08T14:57:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-07T13:02:00.000-07:00

... 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

2010-05-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

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).

2010-05-19T15:53:00.000-07:00

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).

2010-05-16T16:02:00.000-07:00

... 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

2010-05-15T18:07:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-05-12T05:08:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-05-09T13:26:00.000-07:00

--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

2010-05-05T12:06:00.000-07:00

--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

2010-05-02T12:37:00.000-07:00

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).

2010-05-02T05:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-02T05:01:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-13T07:35:00.000-07:00

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)

2010-04-08T11:58:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-04-04T09:23:00.000-07:00

...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

2010-03-21T06:30:00.000-07:00

--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?)

2010-03-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-11T17:14:00.001-08:00

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

2010-03-08T12:17:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-09T11:32:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-08T09:52:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T04:39:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-31T10:46:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-01-30T09:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-18T11:46:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-01-18T11:25:00.001-08:00

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...

2010-01-14T12:51:00.000-08:00

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).

2010-01-02T08:57:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-01-02T08:44:00.000-08:00

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

... (xiii)

2009-12-12T11:08:00.000-08:00

all your dreams, all your desires

your hopes and what you want the most

the sharp silent thrust of your needs

don't set them marching in the street

the world won't bleed--hold your fire

the world don't catch--

you had better burn your ghost.

to you

2009-12-09T12:46:00.000-08:00

to you--all of my life,
I have been coming home to you
you were never there
all my life, I have walked
in the shadow of history

2009-12-05T11:16:00.000-08:00

who can
outpace
the world
hunting
under the swinging veins

might duck
between your ribs
might slide
between your bones

when the shadow
is moving
swift and empty

no wonder
I,
stumble in the silence
eyes white
gasping

at bay
in the chambered darkness

--I shake

winter, undying

2009-11-27T08:17:00.000-08:00

the thin shadow
of the over-pass
I saw them rolling
bags of fish
down the sere sides of the canal
in the waving grass

I saw them scooping
up from the mud
fish from the lakes that had been drained
when the delivery-men
were long gone from
sunning themselves on the banks

the land of winter, undying

and I recalled,
in the shade of the bamboo
whispering, under the heat and fury
of the light, pouring
through the leaves
the drum heart-beats echoing
from some far cold night

the wind sings in the grass, now
the sky thin and clear,
broke free—

the day arches
cracked and bright

the icy
sunlight whips
through the branches
tears
across the ground

distance
hangs in shreds
the winter, undying

and the far rolling beat
rolls in me now
--all that was
--is, and will be
echoes

will come

light

2009-11-20T15:11:00.000-08:00

sunlit grind-stones

filed your eyes

a flash in the branches

would turn them back

to slice

all the sunlit days within you

banish the heavy

and the sweetness

the haze in the harsh

glare of the light

you have learned

you made cities

of the dirt and the last

light on the clouds

tear your hands out

from them

and there is dust

no rubble

you--

scattered on the hillsides

you--ruins

in the empty sunlight

you--might

with the lizards darting

in the jagged

walls and broken tiles

--that the truth

would not spare--

you--might

it could not take your hands

you might stand

with

cities,

in your palms

you might tear into time

the borders of the stolen countries

the names of the broken backs

you might rend the light, even

in the shadow

of your arms

cul-de-sac

2009-11-18T13:01:00.000-08:00

so I must

--and we,

has fallen

behind

my hands empty--

I hold, only--the lines

on my palms

the flat light, the wood

siding, straight and fading

and surely-the shadows

were empty, and the velvet

dark, simply the blurring

of lashes--

--surely the world is flat

dull and lined, surely

it must be empty?

from rib

to rib

the echo

launches

itself

through the dark

and far away

the ghosts

are laughing

and stamping

and the thud

is on my bones

throw their heads back

here--where the street

ends in houses

the world sprawling

and still

--don't feel its

own hands

I am perched

on my

ribs--listening

and slack

in my skin

this was meant to be a hymn

this was meant to be a drum-beat

this was meant to call

this is nothing

but an echo--

the words shriveled

and fell from the pale

and brittle--

don't say the wind speaks

it whistles and scratches

-only.

surely, I am

full of echoes

--surely

my words

are shadows--

surely I will not answer again.

flight

2009-11-13T17:33:00.000-08:00

I wouldn't call it sweet

sweet like wind, maybe--

which cuts and cools, and rushes

it seems love

has been a flood of purpose

and that the overflow

pools across my soul

shame, and joy, and desire--

but no matter--

I rise, caught

in a higher current

they reflect a

blind fierce flight.

crow

2009-11-03T19:49:00.000-08:00

perched on the step
and cawing
with the quicksilver clouds,
sliding across the sky
it would be something--
to flap, cackling
towards the eaves
it would be something
--and no small thing
to roll them across my feathers