Saturday 31 December 2011

You've made your bed

You've made your bed,

Now lay in it.

I washed all my blankets this evening. They aren't dry yet.
It's time to sleep.

I keep telling God that I'll get my act together soon.
There's a new year coming and I want to be more disciplined.
I want to do more, to love you better.
To be efficient.
Somehow I know that tomorrow begins today,
But perhaps I'm not ready yet.

I'm not sure if I want to be a big star.
I suppose I'll never know if I don't write the songs.
I want to write the best songs.
But I don't want to write the crappy ones.
(that it takes to get there)

I want to find a girl I can love.
A girl that when she's around
There's no other one.
But since I can't decide,
Because I can't need someone who
Won't be around.
I'm just playing around,
Spinning wheels.

I want my cake, I want to eat it too.
I want to sin, and still feel you.
I want love, I want to be free.
But love costs everything.
The double-mind stays lonely.

You're a grown-up now,
You've made your bed,
Now sleep in it.
I'm not saying that things can't change,
But it's time to take responsibility.
Today is the only day you'll ever be able to change.
Today is the day I pray that I'll be saved.

Saturday 17 December 2011

Keep the Christ


As featured on my 25 Days of Christmas blog:  http://headpiecestraw.blogspot.com.

Keep the Christ

In Christmas, defend your right
to brashly bray
Your bumper-sticker beliefs.
Keep the baby in the manger.
Keep everything haloed, saran-wrapped, and safe.
Put on a brief bravado flag-wave of witness
Prove to others you're pious.

Really?

Keep the Christ
Out of your culture wars,
He doesn't care.
It's inane and tragic
that we've lost connection, listening,
understanding, to the point
We argue over whether we can speak our minds.
I say Merry Christmas,
if my friend misunderstands, I will apologize;
We will share a simple grace.
Other days, although Christ is just as imminent
I'll just say "have a good day."

Keep the Christ confined to
Christmas,
Keep the bastard "sell your stuff" "love your neighbors"
Jewish rabbi trashing display tables,
Far away from the bulletin board pageant festivals.
He'll probably complain about the music,
Ask uncomfortable questions,
And peep his little bald head into the middle of our horseshit,
Tell us to repent.

My heart aches for the homeless, the lonely,
the hopeless, the fatherless who, once caroled heavily,
Never see us again. But keep singing.

Presents, lights, carols, fire,
Wrappings, trappings, cookies, wires,
Readings, singing, giving, praying,
Sharing, family, hugs, and feasts,
Hospitality, despite our gluttonies,
I think we need more of all these things.
So don't let anyone dissuade you from taking part
If you're not feeling this Jesus thing.
Engage.

For me, I try
To believe, I try
To keep room in the inn, make the bed, stay up, stoke the coals,
Today, the day
Of His coming,
Of the wrecking,
My re-crucifixion,
My love's coming back,
The day God comes down
And we wait, we hope; we are terrified he might
Meet us, or ask us why we
Haven't changed, stuck in the garden,
Hiding behind hymnbooks and clichés.

Friday 9 December 2011

The Incarnate Word

As posted previously at headpiecestraw.blogspot.com as part of my 25 Days of Christmas!


I. The Waiting

Light a candle for me, my sister,
Keep watch until burns down.
I am waiting for death,
I am waiting for heaven to drown
(the earth).

Light a candle for me, my sister,
Light a candle inside my hand,
Hope is still perching,
The silence is working,
Its way inside of me now.

Prayer is waiting;
Life is very long.

Oh that you would...
How would you,
How could you?
Come down.

The speech became carbon compounds.


Light a candle for me, my sister,
In case God comes down the chimney.
At least there'll be oil in the lamp.
At least in some way I'll be ready.


II. The Incarnate Word

Here
Our merry earth is pregnant
With divine sun,
Stars, skies, waters, eyes, creatures, hands,
Worry lines, the wind rests and curls
Inside, breathe it in, we spew it out.
You cannot be "a little" pregnant,
Overflowing, inconceivable, complex tapestries,
The mothering morning dew burning bright on my tongue.

The world outside is so inconceivable,
sometimes I can hardly speak.

I am lost in the beating drums,
The brilliant light of a thousand suns.
Blinded by brilliance and dull mental schemes,
Trying to sing in tune with streams,
Trying to dance like a dying leaf.

I used to wonder where you are
These days I can't find where you're not.

All that is beautiful and true--old violins,
tulip beds, my Father's hand--smells of
You, even with my hard heart, half-snuffed
spirit spark the music soars my soul,
my words undone. All around is being
born the suns of God, yellow hillsides
with upraised faces, shooting quasars sprouting
from the ground, wheat heavy for harvest,
ripe with weight of glory
that bends roots through earth, twists
air into tongues. Your tyger's voice growls
foundations, pulsing through
trembling earth, blowing wherever it will,
magma melting dross, all
must pass, our glass,
take this fire cup, in these hands, we
craft with creator-creativity
resound with deep sound--our simple
touch, spoken words, pregnant with power
to heal, cast down, to speak as
Angels, Holy Holy Here and Now.


III. The Triumphal Entry

And who is this, man of light? Burro-borne
Throw down your palms,
The word is out.
What immortal hand or eye
could frame...
Who is this in shepherd's sight,
The pious rough who see the shine
Choir-sung, into a stable,
God-spoke into a birth canal,
What invasion! Scandal!
God fraternizing with teenage girls and
Donkeys parked in muddy stalls.
Who is this? No Zeus, illumined,
Transfigured, rabbi man, who comes
Eating and drinking, lamb among
Wolves, lion among jackals, and contrary to the
Pictures, not even wearing a
Halo. What did we do to deserve this
Interruption? This
Full
Stop.

We have to let the game stop.

Saviour of Rome, Saviour of
worlds, comes bearing bread crusts and
parables to Zion. In my gut, his broken blood
germinates and grows, inside me, Holy weed,
Mustard seed, you shouldn't be here, no
you don't belong amongst the thorns,
I'll nail you into pieces of wood, send you
home. Cast the bread upon waters
because no dove could nest its
claws on my stone heart,
Would you, Could you? Coo away
this birdshit with a roar, cast out cobwebs.
Would you? Could you? Nest upon my heart and
Dove, purr your way into my
blood (diseased, unclean) and
shake it out, ruffle my
depths with your word
of peace.
You're just a baby.
Who is this?
What is this coming?

IV. Apple Turn-overs

Inside this human crust,
A warm oven, the tree lights in it, a Mother baking
Congeals something heavenly,
Timer beeps, carols sing,
Rolling over in the grave,
Light a candle for me, my sister,
Not a stone will be left unturned,
Careful you don't get burned,
Not a table be left unturned
When he comes to church.
My Father begins to read
the scriptures.
He has filled the hungry with good things
But the rich he has sent away empty.

V. The Voice

Prayer is waiting.

Yo sé que estás aquí.

Whisper me, knit me, form me, spit me:
Just for one touch, just for this love.
The collision of wind and mud.
The starter's cough, the starting line gun,
When particles collide, fusion lights
a fire inside--you prometheus,
with your torches in clay, what a
sight you've made!
Come rest your coals in this manger heart.
Murmur me, kiss me, breathe me, flip me:
Just for one touch, just for this love.
This cathedral of clasped hands and heartlines,
Mexcla of glass and colour,
Stained once, now run with blood
Compound of spirit with carbon.
Carry me, sing me, drown me, clean me:
Just for one touch,
Just for this love.

Light a candle in me, my lover,
I feel it when the rain comes down,
There's nowhere where you're not found, no,
So open me, have me, illumine, erase me,
Til in You I live and breathe and have my being.

I've always been in your hand.
I am wrecked in your grasp,
Crash on your sand;
may every breath

be scattered seas falling at your
shore. And will it such,
That more than just,
The places your fingerprints mar me, please,
Come back and hold me, kidnap me, enfold me
Forever inside your arms,
Come now.







Quotations (in italics):  T.S. Elliot "Hollow Men," Fleet Foxes, "Helpnessless Blues," mewithoutyou "Sun and Moon," William Blake "Tyger, Tyger," Rob Bell "Velvet Elvis,"  The Magnificat, The Bible.


Saturday 3 December 2011

My Little Pink Room

unpack, repack, throwaway, it's not so much the things as it is the memories,
my best intentions of using things
of not letting them go to waste...
that's devastating
untold stories. unlived dreams.

I don't have any keys on my ring,
still saving a ring for somebody.
A heavy bag, a border crossing.

unpack, shelve things, make a place, it's not so much
the work as it is the identities
my best intentions of all I might be

Nesting, twisted pink and purple blue blanket carpet on the floor
Pink walls smattered with pictures of the world, an American flag
I've written on, a "King and a Kingdom"
Scattered clothes, books on the shelf
I'm not sure quite where the heart is, but
For now, this is home.

Sunday 27 November 2011

The Fire People

We are the fire people,
Prometheus pyro, bound in flame,
Eyes sparked and shot through volcanoed
Spitting with jealousy, passion, rage, veins,
We are heat
Pressed against each other,
The exhaled breath on glass,
The motion, the energy, a million tiny
explosions running our being
Our acids, our fingers, our
hearts, burning.

Saturday 26 November 2011

"And why do we fall, Master Bruce?"

"Why do we fall Master Bruce?"

"weeping is cast"

Wishing well, fell, feel, I thought I had it under wraps,
This time, tossed in, hat ring, matador, matador,
All my bull
Shit here we are again, a single to left, missed the perfect game
And why do we play? Why do we play? Cast down.

Carnal, Val, party, er, "hi how's it going?" i.e. flames.
The inevitible. Cast die. Samson's destiny "Deli-
ghted to meet you," (because the thought of falling excites me...
Roller coasters, base jumping, skydiving,)
Masque mirror, it's just that feeling of freefall, that losing control,
Pegged the other pitcher to throw the perfect game, cast arm,
Because I couldn't take the flames. "What's it
like in New York City? I've never kissed someone like you."

Blame it on the atom, the random chance, "simple math"
the choice, the gravity, the falling, Eve with her
apple, as if we had a choice. Gored, the fatal wound
As if I could do things
different yet, it was always my choice,
knowing good (sunsets and morality).
No excuses, I do exist. I act. (take the fall for the foul)
Disenchanted.
"And why do we fall Master Bruce?"
"If there's no winning this war tonight, I was wondering..."
About the wages, the wages unpaid,
Who's checking the balances?
How much is too much for grace?

"Thought I was a good man
And fell short of my standards
And what am left with?"
Simple math
"And my first taste of freedom."

I am to ask forgiveness
("cross my arms across my chest,
this is not a gift I cannot accept, though
I appreciate the sentiment")

I am to ask forgiveness,
And the clay will speak to the potter thus,
"Yes, why thus?"
Do I not have that right?
If you would call me to account for my crimes.
I'll break a few more windows, just to see
things in this light.
"the truth cannot be fractioned."

I've heard the falling
points to a savior who
job done, still, must somehow show up,
and I must be convinced, and yet, unconvinced enough
To make the choice.
It's a hard sell.
Why do we fall?
So you can rescue us?
It was always my choice. And yet,
I was going to fall anyway.
Superhero God, author and actor
in the play, how is it so?
You must save me, (no you musn't, your
sovreign choices of pottery) you must save the
good ones (who is good?), you must save the ones
who believe (and who believes?). Help my unbelief.

Here I am, fallen.
Rescue me?
Thoughts aside, I'm still hoping, still praying,
like I did when I started,
That you'll save me from myself.
My addictions
That I don't know how to overcome.


All fall.
So we can learn...what?
Emptiness? Being without? Contrast?
Or perhaps, just so exists the possibility of
cosmic love, yes, "I know I'll find you there."
When I fall, I look up, but this time I don't feel you anymore,
Pharoah hardened his heart,
Can I press through, how long?
If joy is with the morning,
how long will it be in coming?

I'll leave the details to you.

If I could raise the sun,
If I could pick myself up,
I would've done it a long time ago.

And yet, there's no sense staying here
In stains and self-flagellation,
my dramatically staged tragedy.

Steps forward on knees,
Pilgrims hoping,
We fall down and
you'll show up.

Thursday 17 November 2011

Healer Close

Healer close to broken hearts
How do you feel so far?
The thing about broken hearts is,
They don't feel, I miss you here.

Father to the Fatherless,
I want to know where you are;
I can't be everywhere.
I can't do everything.
And I see it in their eyes.

To You who puts the needy in families
Could you make one for me?
I'm afraid I'll mess things up.
I don't want to fall in love.
Everything I have
is Yours.

Jealous, pursuing, yet quiet God,
How do you feel so far?
The thing about broken hearts is,
They don't give or receive love.
Heal me, open me up.

Monday 7 November 2011

Wake Up Sleepy Moon

Wake up sleepy moon,
Get up!
Let's go for a walk.
The night lights are all awake and alive
Calling us out to the cool grass, cool breeze,
The quiet sighs of nighttime trees
Let's climb up to get a closer look at the stars
Let's hold our breath,
Count railroad cars,
And make our plans.

Where are you going big black hulks,
Will you take us with you?
To Topeka, Tulsa, Timbuktu, or Veracruz?
Not tonight, but our dreams will let us fly.

Wake up sleepy moon, Get up!
The rivers miss your face;
They look so sad and slow,
Like the life has left this place.
The crickets hum, their bows all taut;
The storms are still far off;
The flashing night is beautiful.

Where are you going winding cars,
Will you take us with you?
To Forest Hill or Auburn, somewhere far?
Well at least take a piece of our hearts.

Wake up sleepy moon get up!
There's a whole bed of clouds for you to rest on
If you're still tired.
The whole valley's waiting
For your second light.
We've a thousand places to
Explore, the hills and the trees
Look better with your cool glow.

Where are you going, shooting stars?
Polaris, horizons, some far off quasar?
Will you take us with you?
Or at least take a piece of our hopes.

It may be night for now you know,
But these hills have got a night-time glow.
For sure it's dark and nothing's safe,
Stay by my side, c'mon let's race,
Wake that old bald head with our pounding feet.
And the harmony of heartbeats.
The harmony of heartbeats.

Friday 28 October 2011

Intersendence

Into the woods, the water swaying grass people sea
Nowhere to be found, I am
Tangled in reeds, cello strings, Times New Roman, apple pie taste
Elementally mixed, constantly absorbing, colliding
Radically intertwined
Spirit, how do we live and move and breathe and be from
End to beginning, sustaining
Now, amongst present and past and looseleaf
Diagrammed we live sandwiched in Spirit and mudpie veins
Ever present, ever tiptoe, ever reaching
Not knowing, open wide (sky and salad and dirt inside)
Circling, orbiting, living amongst, breathing in,
Everything

Thursday 27 October 2011

Mark

Everyone is looking for you
Dark spirits and doves speak (messianically)
Desert voices
Abandoned nets
Knees to stone before sunrise
Cures to old aches
Calms to fever's rage in
Temples voices raised
A held hand
Everyone is looking for you
Untouched skin
Are you willing?
Don't tell anyone
Everyone is looking for you

Tuesday 11 October 2011

Landscapes

Can you see the hidden landscapes,
in the corners, in the fields,
towers of grain and ten-headed thistles
visited by heavy bumblebees?
Stalactite cities suspended in space
The great rivers that run down the sides of
red clay roads in the evening I'll find you
a sunset halo, or perhaps, together on a train bridge
We'll catch a glimpse of a far off home
(castle in clouds)
Tide pool cliffs, each puddle is a regular metropolis
or vast desert.
Each field teems with hoppers, tiny wings,
and six-legged crawlers
Packed in earth, worms live out their
sensuous existence
Each leaf, each tree textured, infinitely shaped,
and veined.
And in every fleck of peeling paint,
contrasting colors make collaged display,
A diving board, a hidden world,
A place for imaginitive dust mites to play.

Monday 10 October 2011

Poet

I am a poet again
I looked into my eyes and saw hope.
There were months of hibernation,
Desperation, yes, but I can weather these storms
with you
Crystal eyes honey on oatmeal,
Waking, stretching,
In rapidly changing contexts it's easy to lose
Narrativity or part of yourself
I took a deep breath, and my first instinct
Was red letters then I let go CO2 and
Poems came out.

Thursday 29 September 2011

Firebird Days

Firebird days, Nevada sands
Adam reborn, I am the dust man
Devil whirl blow
Particles collide inside
A Hiroshima sunset
The war-men behind goggles silent, pacific,
The rattlesnake river rattles over rocks
And into concrete cradles
Where it lullabies like B-29s subdivisions
Where they try to wash off the mudblood
The desert tamed by freon, the
Granite pulled by rakes,
Manifest destiny,
The sword flashing at the gate,
Accelerator spinning curses, cactus
La llorona wades into the Colorado
Wails a litany of laments
The river runs mud
In these canyon veins
Copper, gold, uranium,
Dinosaur hillside-scraper machines
Rescuers search in the rubble
Teachers count under desks
The damsel in distress
A silhouette burned into the concrete.

Monday 26 September 2011

Friday 16 September 2011

Александра

You crossed out three lines in succession,
Poised ankles crossed on the edge of the Metro gap,
Didn't notice the station, didn't notice
the train as you got on, sat down, still writing,
drawing out thoughts through a
pen in pursed lips.

I stayed on two extra stations
Just to hear your name
Even if I can't understand your стихи
To know someone else is writing on the metro
with me
Makes me feel
A little less crazy.

A Wedding in Vilnius

Marble white, saints of gold
Communion with the old stone floor
Two to one, odds and choice,
Love and death and sacrifice
Take this man, take this wine
Take this heart, take this bride.

London Mariachi

I met a Chilean in the Stansted passport line
Después de esto, todo mi tiempo aquí en Inglaterra ha pasado en español
Aútobus, escuela, primos, política, lo que hemos visto
I wasn't welcome at the hostel for tea, looked homeless,
strangers shrunk shoulders together as I passed
Canta y duerme al suelo del aeropuerto
The Lord sent a morning Mariachi band to Gatwick
Prematurely welcoming me
Home.

Tuesday 23 August 2011

The Cold War

Russians fear the cold, the floor,
it will make you sterile
I think the strangest culture shock is
I can't tell if these people are Americans or Russians,
As if Hollywood or Madison Ave won the war? Both nations fall.

We got on the train, just having a Russian conductor there made me nervous...
then a whole company of soldiers boarded behind us. We barely batted an eye.

My mother hid under her schooldesk yearly
Because someone over here was pointing nukes at
someone pointing nukes at someone and my Father
was taught Russian so he could keep a close eye on the
comings and goings and mutterings of Sovremenny's and
Migs. Today at church the lady leading worship, I think she's in a
metal band she works at the local tank factory her boss is old KGB.
(Given Bush Sr. and Putin's backgrounds, perhaps the war was won
by intelligence agencies)

As for me--I visit in summer--sweating out the heat somewhere not quite
to Siberia--we're working together in so many things--to look at this people: so arrogant,
brilliant, productive, ignorant, patriotic, cynical, beautiful--so much like Americans--it's hard not to
laugh, to feel a little disgust, to fall in love...One wonders if American politicians had
visited Sochi and the Crimea instead of Moscow and St. Pete, or if Russians were received
in Malibu and West Palm Beach (instead of NY and DC), if the whole mess would've blown
over fifty years ago. But empire, I guess, is a powerful thing. The Americans are in Afghanistan now,
the Lithuanians are free. We search for new ghosts although the statues of Lenin are
still standing. It's hard to understand--what it means to be free
when my friends all talk of moving to where grasses are green,
and one can buy Converses, Hummers, and watch American Dad while all of us Yanks are
in debt to the credit card companies. At the first McDonald's in Moscow in 1990, some people ordered
every menu item on the first day, just to try everything.
After KFC, my Muscovite friends invite me over to their place to play Texas Hold Em Poker,
eat Pringles and Coca-Cola, and watch a b-grade Hollywood movie.
Coke conquers all. And Wal-Mart's economy is in the top 40,
people stopped wanting to conquer and warmed to buying.
The great society, a world appeased.

I fear the war in my heart. The relativity. The corruption and greed. The judging.
The cold.
I fear that sometime my knees will not deign to touch the floor, nor
my socks be allowed to touch poverty.
I'm afraid of what the Cheeseburgers and B-grade movies and easy chairs
might do to me.


The Strongest Guy I Know

You're gonna be poor for the next few years.
Being poor sucks...you finally get some money and
all you want to do is spend it, because you know it's
all gonna go away soon, you know you should buy some
new socks but hell no one sees the bottoms anyway, and
music is nicer to have. My grandma gave me money for socks,
I bought mp3s. The thing that really sucks about being poor
is what it does to your head. You think you don't belong in the stores,
you're kinda afraid people might kick you out,
you feel like you're getting away with something all the time,
if only they knew. You don't go out with your friends because
you don't have cash. You don't invite people over.
Old things wear out and you have to
make tough choices. Keep on being poor. Even when you're making money,
Live full, but stay poor for a while. Making bread takes time.

But you're gonna make it. You're the strongest guy I know.
Don't be too strong to love somebody someday,
But don't be stupid and get a girl pregnant if ya ain't ready
to pay child support. You're not ready to be a father yet.
You'll be afraid when you do become one, and you won't be ready then
either. It's okay, no one ever is. Nobody really knows what they're
doing here in grown-up land, we're all faking it,
figuring it out over and over or sticking with what we
know cuz that's more convincing and hell, if you're getting retirement and
health the 'rents won't worry and you'll be set up.
But that's not what I'm talking about.
Jobs is easy, they're just work.
We face our biggest enemies when we brush our teeth and comb out
tangled hair. You ain't got nothing to prove,
just a life to live. You are already changing the world,
though you might not see it yet. How will you change it?
Don't be afraid to let yourself be loved, it's the only way to love.

You've been a complete jerk to me.

Your wall says "My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is perfect in weakness."
I've never seen you let yourself be weak, it's okay to fail,
and He is strong enough to save. Strong enough that you can be perfect
in the middle of all that mess of doubts and trying too hard and self-defeating yourself.
It's okay to be a mess, just gotta keep moving, get up,
You're gonna make it. You're the strongest guy I know,
You're gonna be old. You're gonna be a hillarious grandpa, the kids will call you crazy,
But you'll be their favorite. You'll surprise yourself when you fall in love,
When you caress your wife's cheek on your wedding day.
You'll scare yourself when you lash out at her, and you'll hate yourself and
want to run away. Don't, there are enough
kids around here without Dads.

Basically, life's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be a lot of work,
and like I said work is easy, but the work it takes to love and be loved,
to create family and community, that's something else...
But you're gonna make it. You're the strongest guy I know.

Моя Сестра

Whispers. We need to hurry on the cake.
She has to be back by nine.

К сожленно, нам нушно уидтй,
мы уже опаздал.

Wristwatches

Я не хочу домой.

Я знаю.

Пошли. Let's go,
Legs under my hands,
head resting just beneath my right shoulder.
You sing-speak
"Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to Kate.
Happy birthday to James.
Happy birthday Miškas."

"James, my present"
I thought she was concerned because of the rain, that
the gift bag she was holding around my neck,
would get wet.
" Kate, my present."
" Steve, my present."
"Diana, my present."
"Miškas, my present."
Yes, even the family cat was claimed as a piece of
her birthday gift.

She could've cared less about the toys.
And did she deserve anything less than us?
Your sister saw profound wisdom, that you saw that God's true gifts were not
puzzles to play with but people.

"Домой, я не хочу. I don't like children's house,
I like Neumann."

Я знаю. I know.
Emma asked if these were all your brothers and sisters, these
other children.

You were so disinterested with cake, songs, presents.
You wanted us. A family your own for three hours two days after your
actual birthday. Father.
Have mercy
on us.


Twenty-Three

Twenty-three is too old for prom, too young for golf,
I've graduated from college, but I'm no adult,
The kids say "that's mad old"
But the elders still see me as very young
And I am restless, I am fickle, I am unsteady, and
difficult to count on. I'm very smart
But hardly wise, my hands and mouth
move like a toddler, learning to walk,
announcing their every thought.

Stephanie says I'm far too young to get married.
The elders think I'm getting old.
Southern parents pressure girls, who
instead want to move to New York.

I think I'd rather hang out with seventh graders, but
I'm no Peter Pan, I want to grow and grow and grow,
And never grow up, always growing softer, old
more childlike than before.


Trains come and Go

Trains come and go
I feel the rumbling down below
I'm hungry, home
Bittersweet contradiction
We were finding ourselves in these last
moments and
Now they have passed along
Aftermath of leavings flooded all last
year and I felt this year
just might spark me to life. It did,
now I am poured out. Tsunami
the ripples lives changed, faces, dreams,
God was speaking, but it's the stillness after the
storm that's devastating me.

Sky shapes, smiles, you saw a heart
I saw a beast Stars golden glow
Homework Godparents Farewells
I wish I listened better
You're such a boy, I'm such a
girl, emotions run red eyes the moment
I have space beyond, duty calling,
and you are gone.

Golden

Regal, resolute, golden sails unfurled in a glossy sky
I, sit at attention, watch the ships turn
Northward, then they drift into the sunrise,
a patterned carpet, blue and white,
and somewhere in the depths, a pearl
sparks morning light.

This harbour, busy as Boston, knows no commerce,
Just the people passing by,
A fleet crosses the Styx, an Augustinian
Armada of yellow leaves like dead newspaper clippings at sea.

Trust

A woman I was considering marrying
(by which I mean, I was going to ask her out to coffee when appropriate)
Made a comment that my love for children made me sound
Like a child molester. I don't think I've forgiven her,
And muttered something about Alyosha Karamazov,
that what I loved about the young is that they are honest,
They don't know how to pretend,
And they are ready and willing to try new things and have fun.
They are willing to trust.
Anyone who is around children knows it's not dreamlike,
Not easy, not birds and butterflies,
Kids. It's more like spit-up and tantrums,
hide and seek, and you can be yourself
Because everyone else is already being themselves.
She felt guilty and awkward and glanced away,
I was still talking.
(by which I mean, I was trying to tell her that what she said hurt)

Sunday 10 July 2011

Cotton Candy Dandelion Sky

Blued sky sweet tart half moon
With a cotton candy coating floating
White bread grey moldy off to the side
Crumbs feel minnows nibble toes
Something is here alive
The flies swing low, disappear below,
Frenzied swallows, choreographed hopes,
Sun blue dandelion gold, red bricks green weeds,
The tide of cars passing and
A muttering silence inside me,
A bouquet of purple thistles and dandelions
More profound than roses
illuminated cirrus manuscript faces
alight with day's end glow.

Monday 4 July 2011

The Green

You are in the green
reaching veined fingers, a chloroplast dream
Inside every living body.
Sprites and Ents alive
But not me--I am not like the trees
When I shed leaves I shudder wince
I don't know how to die so calmly.
And the grass here--good Scottish grass
Stays lush even with freezing,
I close up shop and wait for spring
While the so-called Pansies lift their
heads under iced beards and bonnets
and the redbuds bend so gracefully
Even under icy sheets.
Even with my Vitamin D, I will be
created merely respiring, expiring, dying
consuming and where you walk
the life firework-springs between even
cement cracks, concrete docks off Staten
Island, and in the empty lots of Manhattan
your wildflowers reign.

We cut down, hack trails, bulldoze
the wild but we are fighting inevitabilities.
And when the new earth comes and we are
gone, the green will tear apart and
muscle up and fill the skyscrapers
and parking lots we constructed temporarily.
Kudzu and clover will reign,
And there will be peace.

Wednesday 22 June 2011

garden alone

bells toll ten pm i'm
inside the globe tree
bench back against trunk
leaves curtaining dirt paths in
light breeze around me sweeping straight veins
sacred dirt grounds the places you were touching
aberdeen hands to grass leaves to street touching
gravel pleiades mystery i
know something missing my
heart beats sluggish my
eyes weary have to pee but
peace around me staying
brushes and leaves scattered
floral arrangements and pollinations of the
spirit come away softly

you left me at the garden gate all
must face ourselves alone at
judgement seat, the mirror we
break is sometimes too
much my own enemy ashes to sword flashes
dust where are you
who told you (you were alone)

low whirr of twilight violinists and a
building vent repeating the same droll
climate control i am always
thinking about the concreting cracked hands empty
space on the bench beside
me but i'd hold my breath and clench a fist if there was
somebody (who told me)

alone i'm free to breathe deep
of this coughed damp chocolate dust
trading breath between my lungs and the
trees, intimacy (our hearts speak the same
word) the smell of deep dust and green we
must be going (says stern angel, flashing)
but i would stay i
don't stay in silence
so often i don't hear so clearly
the space the tangent touching

about to breathe



Saturday 11 June 2011

Abstraction in Art

Abstraction in art= the
the the the the the the
Meaning sentences may mince
Discard certain forms, nawhaddahmean?
Something to hold onto please?
A Rothko Red or landscaped corner of a greyed-over Richter.
Is this the art of giving up on beauty, dissecting truth?
As if all that could be known of a gazelle could be
plumbed with a scalpel--no story no face no
soul modernity what was I going to say? Anyway...
The shock sells. The dot on a paper a circus of shapes and
forms appeals to snobbery, All articles in different fonts (poem in poem)
a an
a
an
a an
a
an
a
an
a
an
a
an

No tapestries or four-syllable meanings.

Hey look! ¿"Art."? Van Gogh is a lion-tamer swamp-
tangler, a soul--All art is abstraction yes but this in front of me
is the work of the chainsaw man who decapitates Redwoods, counts rings,
keeps data and the
heart stops keeping beat.

Starry Nightscape Swirl

Stars scattered wildly,
Like alphabet soup or the plum pudding
model Adam riddled through with starry
electrons his broken bullet soul where the beauty
shone through--no stadium lights on Eden, no
watching, no spectation or mirrors or telescopes.

Like big and little bears of tipping
pots spilling cry out over spilled
milk it will teach you to meteor burn shoot like
the stars in Adam's eyes before the flashing
sword zodiabstractions--the Greeks would--I'm just saying--
systematize our cumulonimbus, no space for puffy sheep
wheat rows or thunderhead dragons; this protects us from trees of
life and we grid maps of paradise no--

Step into the night sky forget our conceived
constellwrapped sky saran(e) step into
space where you can't look at the flame
straight: it goes away. The spinning rows spiral
just past reaching and beautiful thorns sprout, walk in wild
hedges, prick unscarred hands. When we box
sky, put down pickets and stakes, it belongs to
us but our electron earth, our beloved stars, our
glowing eyes, sparkle in the plum
pudding night in one spectrum, one colourwheel one
glistening heaving, pregnant constellation.

Coatesville

Coatesville cool breath of
deeply chlorophylled air wink of
lawn gnomes rabbit in the ivy
past the gardens casting fishing lines
into the backyard the sun slants
a window world through deep green oak leaves.

The fireflies catch it in their bowels and
Rebroadcast to a heavy
Blue-green shadow-night

Wednesday 25 May 2011

Blue Scatterglass

Blue scatterglass
sunset's suicide
There are lots of ways to die, day goes
slowserene
From the corner, table starkly pokes out
towards parallel legs and chair
Empty stars in the blue pink sky
over a rainbow snowflake the
Squares in rows, reflecting
Punches on walls
Curry with peas and eggs.

Tuesday 17 May 2011

Baltimore

Orange cream carrot cupcakes
Two kids with sleds talk with strangers and
let them fly down
Federal hill dragging feet for terror stop me
Three wars, two civil or that is to say two
revolutions the
guns over the city to ensure Maryland's
interest in staying rockets
red glare over Fort McHenry
(and the Domino sugar company)
Grey area border states, riots in the streets,
Roll off into the snow to avoid parking meters and concrete,
When they leave I'll use a lunch tray and
get snow down my back, through my khakis.

Camden yards brick city old factories
Scattered paintings swirls, stipples, pointil-paintings,
Factory school university
Freedom of thought (self-taught)
As stodgy creativity
Should we take art seriously?
Hardly.
Winter overcast photography
Can't see the shades of coloured bridges
Or freckles (just the lens?)
B+O railroad (Never went to AC?)
The way you look me in the eye has always drawn me
and intimidated me.
MICA was mechanical arts
Babe Ruth dreamed
Japanese red snapper sushi
Garlic caught me off guard, pretty and pink
We reminisce on problems of Pensacolic
societies,
Our home that never felt welcoming.
Artists sometimes smoke for respect,
Blowing words in chilly breeze,
attempting to summit towering chocolate vegan muffins.

Workshop: impact paintings, extensions on easels,
brushes, used cups of coffee, flowing rivers of concrete and cubicled
genius A thoughtful smile (ever-present, deafening) illuminated in
a flowing red frame, the balcony window
light hovering a story above the street and stories of
freakouts driving the wrong streets free buses
and Cal Ripken's heroic consistency, He lived to play,
Present a landscape of orange, brick, black, water lights,
mosaics with squirrels with haloes on top and
passed dino bones deep slow breathings of
the bay and the interstate and histories, weary
from walking, sometimes home feels like this in-between, a border state,
A little cup of green tea in passing, "Yes, I see you,"
The acknowledgement when strangers' eyes meet
between bus door closing eye blinks,
And something human (or cupcake) is shared, momentarily.

Tuesday 10 May 2011

South Philly

Loud, bordering obnoxious,
Smell of newports and bud,
He was caught up in a Colorado magazine-selling scam
he couldn't buy;
I found him hard to respect,
His comments about "my girl" I'd just met hit
a little close to home.

No saint I don't think,
Tired eyes, impatient mind, freckled worry lines
But he looked after his invalid grandmother four years
Adopted his crack-mom's daughter at 21, she was half his age,
And he faithfully loved his Lithuanian girl, couldn't wait to be back in her arms.
Maybe sometimes saints are like this.

Tuesday 3 May 2011

Osama Bin Laden

With a twinge of insincerity,
trying too hard,
Obama mildly proclaimed that the
world was a better place,
we should celebrate,
because a man was dead,
hunted for years, no
longer a threat,
yay blood.

People were shouting "USA" on the White House
lawn for the death of a man
Who believed deeply in national and religious sovreignty,
the evil of American meddling, and the utter depravity of
a JerseyShoreEminemDesperateHousewife
culture, a godless "Great Satan" of blood and greed,
A man who, given American support and
weapons, was encouraged to wage Jihad against
the Russians trying to conquer Afghanistan,
the Soviet Vietnam, and then hunted out of that same country
by the same spooks, thirty years later. From wealth, he could
have sat back and watched tv, married many wives, and played
golf. He had other hobbies.
He got involved, and like us he believed in
guns.

On Sept. 11th 3,000 Americans died as collateral. The targets: 1)World
Trade, the God of WTOs and GDPs, exporting a consumer society. 2)The
Pentagon, that goes without explaining, and ostensibly the White House or maybe
the CIA? No one asked why. No one thought "ya know, maybe we deserved that."
No, it was only anger, revenge, hurt. So now, later ten years and hundreds
of thousands of bodies...

One hastily buried at sea. Murmurs of cover-ups, a statement? A liquidation of
a former favoured son?

The president's pasted-on rhetoric, his eyes
never flinching, but perhaps I saw confusion and disgust,
announced his candicacy for re-election, look what I've done
Osama Bin Laden is dead. The war hawks and the leech
men have won again, we know now the candy-coated sheen of diplomacy,
the tipped lance beneath a proferred hand.

I was praying for redemption,
That we could somehow be better for better than
this, bullets in the back of the head.

Tuesday 26 April 2011

Displacement

"What if we've been trying to get to where we've always been."

You come crashing down the 7:20
into AC and I'm myself again, the little boy
in front of the camera spouting jokes and stories
and loose associations, I'm late because
I was singing and have a poor memory,
Not like your pencil-notebook precision,
I'm obnoxious again, I'm all out, self-doubt
aside or at least verbalized.
I hold all this in usually and then
You arrive and it all comes spilling out.
I'm trying to tie down myself for the change
Running through every place I will be and have been
Trying to hold onto something, trying to
find myself amid the rush of memories and what's coming,
Throwing myself at songs, poems, waves, water shows,
To drown out the sad thoughts
The leavings.
Every minute and place is a complex web of associations,
comparisons, possibilities, we could do better,
we could do more, we could be
adventurers instead of story-tellers, but
I guess it's not settling if it's your dream and in a breakneck muttertv-society
we don't even know our own
Thread brother, sister, continuities,
I wish I was more like you more brick,
We'll miss each other by one hour,
one day, one phrase that throws us into thought
or distrust. We'll miss the show by two and
I'll run right past you before I pick up the phone,
I'm restless with the lack of intensity, lazing beach
I defer on so many things, I don't start conversations,
even though you're here for me,
I'm the center of attention but I'd rather just be invisible
And frame your frames and faces, listen, sit, be present,
And hear your beloved voices that remind me yes,
you are still here, and you're not afraid of me, yes,
you accept my presence. I want to lock-in your faces,
your words, your wisdom, mental pictures. Mine(d) is
washing-machine tumbling all these things
in a soapy sea inside, stuck inside
laundering future memories
for the sake of sanity.

Wednesday 20 April 2011

Broken Bell

People stand in line for
some broke-ass bell,
Some symbol for some
Broke racist country, liberty or some such something
Rebelling against the Lords because they are far away
And you can make more money not paying the king,
ya got all kinds-a people in line,
West Coast kids with long hair and hats,
Indian student flirting with her boyfriend,
The business women talking of partying and some Guatemalan guy
she thinks is sexy,
The exhibit shows pictures of a solemn First Nation chief,
Ghanian delegations, the Dalai Lama, Thomas Edison,
all visiting the broke-ass bell, and they even got one
of Nelson Mandela, cuz he stands for something free,
And they gave him an award or something.

When you're poor, what's it mean to be free?
That bell don't even ring.

People stand in line for some
Stale-ass bread,
Some pity for some
Broke alcoholic, addiction or some such something,
Reeling from the disillusionment/failure/loss/pain
And you can make your own escape on alms from democracies
Ya got all kinds-a people in line,
Heroin addicts with long dread locks, moms and babes,
mechanics who broke something, deportees,
Gangstas with brights colours and polished sneaks.
The young ones talking of partying,
The walls show pictures of some great long-ago saint,
Jesus with a big heart,
An American flag waves,
Waiting for some stale-ass bread
While someone speaks,
Cuz even with God lunch ain't never free,
And if you're homeless He'll give you hell or something.

When you're poor, what's it mean to be free?
Preachers all about bread and money.

People stand in gutted-home hurricanes
Soul spiritual 'soon ah will be done'
Hope amens and sings,
Sitting on the dirt street sipping sodas,
Children laughing, fearful fathers, alcoholics and
single mothers cracking jokes over a rich meal at evening.
A sad parade of clowns, orphans, saxophones, suits, holed coats,
widows in most elaborate hats
The Spirit moving,
The feast begun,

While the rich guard the doors to their sanctuary,
And guide people to their seats away from some broke-long-dead body
that once spoke 'come to me.'
A broken bell that once rang liberty.

Wednesday 13 April 2011

The Most Beautiful Girl

The most beautiful girl I ever met
Had crooked eyes, didn't talk straight,
Brain didn't work right, dirt brown skin, dirty pink sweatshirt,
a bowl cut.
But she sang. She sang her guts out,
over 30 other off-key women and girls.
And when we stopped, she called me aside
And persisted to teach me a song that has
Stuck in my head ever since. She sings:

"Tomado de la mano, con Él yo voy,"
Full of Faith, Full of Love.

Wednesday 6 April 2011

Some Type of Way

Sometimes I apologize for things I never say
For jealousy and pain.
For disappointment I refrain from speaking
Out I don't know how to say I feel
some type of way.

Tuesday 5 April 2011

Monet Soleil Levant

Sol soleil
Purple strokes Monet clouds
of dust fog Middle East
Parliamentary majority Sharia
Hand lost, the Goons for Always
Boys like Napoleon throwing stones
Revolución for Democracy against American-
Imposed Old Men Rembrants
Scratch their beardy heads
Or perhaps rub their palms on neatly-
pressed khaki desert dirty olive
oil underneath fingernails grubby brain
dead nerve
gas bombings, Kurds and weigh, martyrs, scales,
Dishonesties, Washington Zombies and Saudi Sheikhs
Cirque drama sand
Americans bombing the Yemen
President says "oh yeah that was me" lying beside
Xerxes Alexander the Caliphate
Saladin Napoleon Saddam Obama
Conquistadores Sol shines hard on these
Ozymandiases sol sand
shifts into different piles redraw border
Van Gogh lines

Ciel Monet sky Dubai
Cell phone society two towers
Egalité brothers
Play king of the Temple Mount
The no man's land Maginot, Caliphs and Popes
Feed the kids bullets and oil, Rubens Christ,
Blood-spattered pocked-marked
Street corner churches and mosques
And prefects and mobs, Hypatia,
Lost hands lost fathers angry kids, wailing
headscarffed Renoir portraits, Hamas,
Stick it to the man
Throw a shoe, take a few
with you
Everything we do
Rearranging castle Seurat molecules in the sand-
box throwing the little people under Tonka
trucks, tanks, and smart
bombs soleil no shine sweep the
streets of bullets, bombs,
mines polished chest medals, purple Kahlo hearts,
Lost hands.

Tuesday 29 March 2011

Self-evident

"Our country is the world, our countryman is all mankind."
from The Liberator Oct. 23rd, 1857.

Give me strongest, your most virile,
Clap 'em up on the boats put 'em up on the stand
"Fifty, can I get fifty dollars for this Nigger?"

Give me your smartest, your most dangerous,
War crimes go away if you're of some use to us.
"Landing a man on the moon..."

Bloody Monday, Louisville immigrants,
Bloody Kansas abolitionists.
Lexington revolutionists.
Klu Klux Klan.
Black Panthers, Crips
Bloods, The Fallen at Sharpsburg
Or Wounded Knee.
Hiroshima. Krauts and Japs.

Some things seem pretty clear,
If the man across from you is just like you, you have problems
Killin 'em. The US military uses video games to desensitize soldiers.
But gangstas know that the other guy is just in it for him,
Just like me clawing for some power and bread.
You be killin em. Oh.
The Katrina looting in N.O.
Would be illegals,
Smashed between boats.

Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight, but instead
It's blood red, bleach white and blue.
Our country is the world, our countryman is all mankind.

Monday 21 March 2011

I Feel Fine, Just Hollow

For Josh Metzler

I am trying to make sense of this
I know I'll walk with you again, just not for now
I'm trying not to be too serious
You'd laugh at my tears, and be uncomfortable

I feel fine, just hollow
Like the breath is missing from my throat
I sit and hear your silence echo

I'm not trying to get over this
I just wish everything would stop, just for a while
The world doesn't miss your smile
Which is a shame, cuz it's illuminated now

I feel fine, just hollow
Like some breath is missing from my throat
I sit and hear your silence echo

Wristbands, rubber ducks, sleeping bags and dust
Momentos of a past,
Everything has passed
I remember when you stood up, broken and brave
And prayed over strangers that day
I want to be like you some day
I hope I can be brave

I feel fine, just hollow
Like the breath is missing from my throat
I sit and hear your silence echo

Have fun stormin the castle
I don't know how to say good-bye
I know one day we'll all expire
Some day we'll walk again, together in other skies.

I feel fine, just hollow
Like the breath is missing from my throat
I sit and hear your silence echo

Thursday 10 March 2011

Ash Wednesday Collage

Commissioned by Michelle Hindman

I was a heavy heart to carry
My beloved was weighed down
My arms around his neck
My fingers laced to crown.
Who is the betrayer?
Who's the killer in the crowd?
The one who creeps in corridors
And doesn't make a sound

I've gotta climb to the top
Never stop til I reach it
Til I feel that I'm good
And that I'm in control
Ring around the rosy, pocket full of
Ammunition, it's our condition
Know thyself
I do not hope to know again

You gotta be good
You gotta be strong
You gotta be 2000 places at once

Time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
A sin inside, sinful, sinning
Tremble little Lion Man, you're not as brave as you were
At the start, He was there,
Always watching,
Adam, where are you?
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

Because I do not hope to turn
I'm gonna leave you the first chance I get
You prefer the light of your TV
To the star, multi-foliate rose.
We are formed of everything we love.
I want a lover I don't have to love
I want a God who's just out to give a fuck

I am fine
Everything's gonna be alright,
Rock a bye, baby, treetop,
When the bow breaks,
I am fine
Every little things gonna be alright
Jesus is coming
I am fine
I just need one hundred dollars
My powdered-sugar funnel cake cocaine
I am fine
Clean everything
And make it seem
Like we never really needed it anyway.

Just stop and go and stop and go til you can't go anymore
We never really needed it anyway
Sick cycle carousel
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
A repeating record, a happy-meal toy with a talkbox
"I love you"
Let's just keep touching, let's just keep, keep singing.
I'm gonna leave you.

Pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
Because I do not hope to turn again
Addiction is symptomatic, not manic,
Addiction is a coping habit, it surfaces from time to time
In time I am lost, in time I will be the chief of sinners again
In time I am
adam
the demon sleeps inside,
don't wake it baby, dark-haired mistress,
I couldn't feel so I tried to touch
Don't wake up, sleeping sphinx
Slouching towards Bethlehem
Christ behind a purple shroud.
Salvation prayer placebos and theologies of assurance
Keep us safe and sound
Far from your arms.

Death by water, the hope only of empty men.
I made a lot of mistakes, I made a lot of mistakes.
This will be my last confession
I love you never felt like any blessing
It was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line.
Between the porch and the altar, the priests weep
"Spare us oh Lord, your people"
Nothing here is mine,
There is none right.
I see Hitler in the mirror, Nero,
My cousin the "murderer,"
Of these I am the chief
Tim McVeigh, John Wayne Gacy Jr.
And on my best behavior,
I am really just like them.
My weakness I feel I must finally show
I am not who you think I am
Righteous rags, righteous trash
Rushing helter skelter to destruction with fingers in ears
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise

Cross my arms across my chest,
Cross the ash upon my breast
Genuflect to salvations past,
Escape to future fancies
No nearer. Not that fateful meeting.
This is not a gift I can accept, but I appreciate the sentiment
My love is vain, my love is a sordid string of adulteries
And omissions of heart, head, soul and strength, not good enough,
My love has concrete feet
My love's an iron ball
Wrapped around your ankles
Over the waterfall

You should have tied that weight, tied it around my legs
(Look beneath the floorboards for secrets I have hid)
Instead you took my place, at the bottom of the lake
I renounce the voice, any impetus
i do not exist
Shut up if you want to get paid
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Sweet/salty spring, one breath, one singing
I'm gonna leave you the first chance I get
I will die all alone,
Everyone does, the moment after.
And is it worth the wait
All this killing time?

Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
To stop breathing, Redeem the time.
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

Jesus Christ, I'm not scared to die
I'm a little bit scared of what comes after
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
This light is too slight to hold back all my dark.
In the hollow round of my skull.
Shall these bones live?

we are all lepers here overcome by our fear of pain let us remain, numb
too real we can not feel our hands already froze holding our bloodless hearts, dear
pumping liquified apathy through our veins hands frozen to heart now we can hold
nothing else but the soothing lack of pulse still beating us we are all lepers here

Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen.

Sound the simple ash. (put on sacks)
Sound the cymbal clash, without love I am.
Wavering between the profit and the loss
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying.
Sprinkle the ash on good soil, rocky soil, road,
I hope it can choke out the thorns I love.
Mercy, cover me, kill me quickly,
Because I do not hope to turn (change my heart)
Because I do not hope to die.

Solemn bell tolls deep, the ash crosses me in my sleep
Blessed is the mourning, we need help, we're still lost still
Grasping dust atoms, polar forces, the devil is raging inside me
and God? Rage on, rage on, Blessed is the mourning, my love
Flood us with Fire consume with Your raging Waters to keep us breathing give us Your feeling
Flood us with Fire consume with Your raging waters to keep us bleeding (breathe Life)
Spare us save us love us tame us
Mercy, our only hope.
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.

Wednesday 2 March 2011

Timothy McVeigh (III + IV)

Timothy McVeigh (III)

Homegrown, Kansas corn, fertilizer for dashed fields,
Heartland, only states I feel at home. Good people. Practicality.
My dad was about to go away, USS New Orleans,
Tall hotel in San Diego,
My five-year old terror at being so far from the ground,
And what if we were bombed here too.
We would fall.
This is an act of war. (Or an aftershock of bombs in the Gulf?)
My mother glued to a television, so much uncertainty,
So disconcerting to see her so concerned.
Middle East? (Where Dad is going)
Must be? Government buildings.
The demon sleeps inside of us.
The demon sleeps inside our hearts.
Manhunt, shaved skull dehumanized,
A Ryder truck like the one we packed with boxes,
Bright yellow, like a Wal-Mart Smiley;
Bright orange jumpsuit for a murderer with morals, slightly skewed.
A soldier like my father. A murderer like my uncle.
My friends felt the shockwave from the bomb in their elementary schools.
Children in daycare. Severed limbs.
A man who lost his faith and wrote it on a cap left in the rubble.

When Colombine happened it changed our lives,
There were things you couldn't say or do,
But when Sept. 11th passed and the results were in,
With an enemy we could fight, with wars where we could say we'd win,
It was a relief, a sigh:
The demon slept outside.
An enemy to misunderstand and thus somehow comprehend,
A sad circle in a way, it was okay.
The demon sleeps.

Timothy McVeigh (IV)

I'm afraid. That my votes could create monsters.
That a headline about Guatemala could make a CIA hit okay.
That the kids in the suburbs think murder is entertaining,
That the kids in these streets think it's how you prove something.
That immigrants and families are murdered to "keep us safe."
That frying you didn't solve anything.

I'm afraid. Of how politicians misuse fear like this.
Of how much sense McVeigh makes, how coldly rational,
His vigilante justice. Of myself and my poems.
Of what I could say and what you would think.
Of saying peace when there is no peace.
Of saying anything with urgency.

Rev. King, Gandhi, Rosa Parks, we hold you as our saints--
Idealistic Saints for a bloody age, we hope,
To learn from you, a way to stop the bleeding.
Batman, Holocaust, Pvt. Ryan, Maximus, Palestine,
It doesn't seem there's another way.
Christ, we're bleeding.

Tuesday 1 March 2011

Timothy McVeigh

Timothy McVeigh (I)

Bombed out, bullet-stained apartments
Justified in the name of democracy or greed or so many things
One government building
Hits so close to home.
Pull out a line of empty chairs for Iraqi children?
Freeze their moment? No, it is over, Mission Accomplished.
Ash silhouettes, flatlined dead we call our own...
America missed the joke.

Timothy McVeigh (II)

As if, as the TV says,
Violence could be redemptive...
If Fight Club is a good movie,
Is OKC a tragedy?
If the only way to get someone to listen
Is blowing up children...
But nobody's listening,
They just see a demon mug-shot,
Faces, still and dead.
Your cold brutality,
Foolish idealist!
As if, as the government says,
violence could be redemptive.


Queen St. (Toronto)

Ethiopia, Little Tibet,
every post another ten postings,
advertisements, long string of shops,
a soul of a city
sure of itself and its music,
Record shops, cannabis pipes,
Pho restaurants,
No accent seems to sound the same,
Except the repeated syllables 'coffee shop'
Six Starbucks, eh?
"Socialism is the new conservatism"
"Why a Canadian aid ship is needed for Gaza,
break the blockade."
The evening ladies' group at the knit shop
Peers around at each other, smiling,
A blast of cold air, the people are walking fast,
Don't let the cold catch.
Hockey in the park behind a woman exercising on
Cross-country skis
And an array of galleries and art supply boutiques.
I misread: "Ask is this for the community?"
Streams of smiling grafitti.



The Fenian Invasions

A good man is hard to find.
Members of the fabled Irish brigade,
Outstanding throughout the war,
Slaughtered and fearless at Fredericksburg,
Defend the Union bravely,
Down the confederacy,
Litter battlefield graves, white crosses with names.

With their own nation trying to be free,
To no longer be a colony,
An abortive invasion near Buffalo,
Canadian volunteers fall, get their names on plaques.
The reinforcements are halted by the US Navy
And Irish revolutionaries in the homeland
Are halted for the time being,
Waiting for Yeats and the widening gyre of history.

Tuesday 8 February 2011

Times Squared

Angel light haloes flourescent crown:
Tourists, actors, models,
Reflecting into glass sky,
Cubicles stacked hundreds high,
Faces of people glow with the
Broadway Fashion Politic Billboards
Mr. Amendinijad has his own sign
(somebody's got their hand in some pie)
Streams of feet walk E line open doors
Watch the gap
Hiss the chunk of the wheels starting to
Roll, squeal of the brakes
And the some walk awkward silence,
Flourescent space between el Puertorriqueño
durmiendo en el metro sin familia, porque hay leyes y
the physician from Mumbai, the Nigerian lady with dress
and matching headpiece, tourists from Tulsa,
and dishwashers, the children of UN dignitaries,
Crips and Manhattan businessmen.
The end of the line.

Above ground on dirt scorched
Skeleton cranes seed, water, weed,
A rebarred and scarred landscape
Tarred earth, do you still remember grass and
How those wild locks felt shaking on your skin?
I wonder when they'll bomb the place again,
Money speaks louder than word,
Such deliberate posturing, securities,
Annuities, dividends, scowling building faces
turned up in a neon grin, a silver sheen new heights of hubris:
A memorial in the making; a waving American flag;
An uneasy peace.

Saturday 29 January 2011

Burrow

Between the rustling, turning oak leaves
In your fingers from the spine
with each and every page we see
This heart of yours for mine
Dripping from the rusty pipes
That drained the old Red Sea
And the tender shepherd heart that
sang to David on his knees
Open fields and pastures wild
This starry-eyed, driven drummer child,
Asks if one day we can walk the stars,
Your hand pressed into mine.

Underground the waters ring
With a silver clarion call
While the clouds put on their airs and
Dance, twirling a whooshing sound
The trees like the jazz the rustle
snaps and join the autumn's dance
The sidewalk on the street pulses
with beat of sunshine warming down
inside with the constancy of tides,
in, out, wash over me
in the subway spaces that I breathe
indwell this deeply burrowed heart
Like a mole in his hill
Fill the yard with soil
that the flowers would grow
And pluck us from our pride
Teach us to let things go

Like the trees give out their clothes
To dress the earth for snow
Or the blackberry vines set up their stands
At every highway's bend
Teach us to be humble,
Like our beloved friend the mole
Living closely with the dirt and grass
In this awe-filled world of yours.

Wednesday 19 January 2011

Short Poems

Flakes (Somebody told me a Russian author called snow God's dandruff)

Drowsy divine dandruff drops--
Does God scratch his head?
Or is this a shake of your mane, waking up?


News Bulletin

Be on the alert for white people
They have a tendency to move to the suburbs,
Steal whatever land they can get their hands on,
And then feel like saints about it.

Mirror

What does a drug dealer look like?
Barbers, grocery cashiers, school teachers,
Mothers, children.


2nd Degree Murder

The demon must be electric-chair-exorcised;
I know him, he's a nice guy;
Dear murderer no, Dear friend,


Chinese Waterfall Hanging

A streambed of scattered html
India Ink calligraphy willow whispers
Inkitize, digitize, advertise, literatures of longing.

Tuesday 11 January 2011

Las Traes

Sonrisa sonrise
Hijo "las traes"
Waking up expecting
Corriendo tras el día
Sandpiper-scuffed mud pies
Blurred grey-red skies
Remolinea, baila con horizontes
Aquí en la arena, presente
Laugh,
Things don't last
Corre,
Siempre hay más,
Pupils wide to the fires
Escucha el chasquido y
el mundo de gris revienta, abriendo
Its soul in the splatter-paint sky
The sea is frying, bubbling gold-brown,
Papas, huevos, bacon,
Pum Pop Sizzle Plop
Los sonidos que hace el mundo en
el nacimiento, la mañana,
La otra vez, ¡bailamos! to blue parade
Cracking open another egg day,
Sonrisa side up, hey oye,
Las traes.

Thursday 6 January 2011

Yesterday (Or maybe it was a couple days prior)

Yesterday I let myself fall in love--
Well that was dumb,
I know you wouldn't give me a second thought,
that I am only another extraordinary face in a long line
of smiling ones, wowed by your radiance
I wish I could just tell you
So you could shoot me down.
You were dancing on the sand,
You fell through my hands onto your back, oops
We were harmonizing different songs
but I wasn't the one you asked to keep you company
when you went to do the dishes
I just want to know

If I write you out of my knotted head and
onto this screen does it make it better or
worse I want to forget how strongly
I feel
If I leave enough hints behind the
scenes if I tell enough friends
will someone spill the beans
And then at least we can be together
in the space where you chide me
for my foolishness and I apologize
and we wipe up food on the floor.

Saturday 1 January 2011

Marinero

Después de Mar Adentro

"Marinero ya se fue..."
El humo remolinea tranquilo
el momento después:
Una Rosa, la espina que rompe
un globo de cumpleaños,
La ayuda, el ahogar dentro del mar,
Flota callado, trauma al cuello,
¿Quién eres, ¿Salvador?
Lo que es nacido de la carne,
Rosa, multifoliado,
florecerá,
llena de gracia,
hojas bonitas--
Amor sin sexo,
Sin posibilidad,
Amor sin duda, Amor,
¿de verdad? (O sólo de Verbo,
solo de nombre.)
La ley pertenece a lo espiritual.
L-s cortes y los golpes en la mente.
La caja en medio de la sien,
La pájara esperanza, esperando
En el respiro contra la vela.
Padre, el espíritu pongo en el vacio




Oye Marinero, tan lejos de aquí,
entre estrellas,
¿Adónde va Eärendil?
¿Cuánto tiempo entre el cerrar y abrir
de ojos?
Guiando los esclavos
en el estribillo sobre las olas,
Mi vida en infierno,
El libro dice.
Y yo aquí, esperando.
No piensas en que te amamos,
Que yo, una mujer frustrada,
Tengo la esperanza de vivir,
de verte una vez más hijo, mi amor.

Julia entre las hojas de
Lo que fue posible
Cerró la puerta, cierra la boca
contra los besos del amor.
Besa la muerte.
Cierra el libro.
Cierra la ley.

¿Y cómo te sientes al fin?
¿Viviste conforme a la carne?
¿Por qué no escribes un torrente de
poemas? ¿No hay otros más por otros días?
¿Otras maravillas? Mira...
Que quieres fin,
eso lo entiendo,
pero la posibilidad...
Siempre pienso yo en la posibilidad,
de lo que posiblemente será.
Me mareo, ¿Por qué te vas?

Julia se mareó,
Olvidó todo, la hoja frente a los ojos,
No siente nada. No siento nada.
Solo ausencia.

Levanto las velas, enfrente una cruz
Un poco de espuma sobre la pluma,
Bajo tu cuello, Marinero,
Una almohada de espuma,
Gladiador muerto sobre arena, luchando la muerte.
En sangre escribiste la pena, que
La vida no vale,
Moriste para que podamos morir,
En paz, digno.
¿Nos dejas aquí?
vivir solo?
no.
Una vela,
Espero el viento.