THE SECRET NOTEBOOKS

Everyone, it seems, keeps
a secret notebook in which
they write their most profound
thoughts and ideas, thoughts so
deep they frighten you with
their stunning clarity and
grace, philosophical knives
that cut to the very essence
of what we know, and beyond,
the inexplicable mysteries.
It turns out we all know
how to define beauty, how
to resolve the universal
paradox, the story of
human origin, the
stupefaction of the life
force, we know why we love,
why we pervert love, why
the Babylonians built
a tower and a ziggurat,
we know why the praying
mantis devours her lover
when mating, we know
why the locust swarms, how
the mind translates all signs
and symbols in every
language, why we score our
skin with the truth when stars
burn under the surface,
we know why some of us
are born imbecilic,
stricken by lupus or
leprosy, are devoured by
craving, stung by evil's
honeyed lips, torched by
obsessions, why some of us
drown in schizophrenic seas,
why the agonies of desire
and loneliness scratch us
so horribly, why we
prey on children, lop off
the arms of boys with
machetes, why we pray
to goat heads, blood-stained
altars, ethereal manifestations
of abstractions.

We keep
these words a great secret,
hidden even from ourselves,
every night we scrawl them
with fat pencils, or ashen sticks
pulled from the smoldering,
feldspar, chalk, our blood and
piss, bone, spider silk, our
souls, the traces of our flesh,
our nails, and the tablets, the
journals, the notebooks, they
are everywhere, we surround
ourselves with extraordinary
truths, clarifications, theories
that explain everything, they're
quantifiably certain,
phenomenologically ever-
apparent, they're ontologically
indisputable, and yet,
and yet they're indecipherable,
a great babel, indeterminate,
but the very fact that all of this
truth exists, that we all know,
and what's more that we do this
at all, that we record this,
that we keep these riddles
and divine knowledge, this
esoteric gnosis so private
not only from each other
but from ourselves as well
and that hey, we've always
done this, and that we always
must, knowing that there's no
hope for breeching this innate
indwelling truth, this
instinctive constant we know
as the intuitive gospel,
the preternatural preface,
the undeniable, whether
or not what we know is
sacred or profane, well,
that's the only thing we
don't know, isn't it? I mean,
I'll show you my notebook if
you show me yours.

You first.





,

UNTITLED

Just now I recall that red bug

driving past Boogie Records, the

head shop, the People's Coop,

we were firebombing Vietnam,

burning Detroit, and your roommate,

a Navy rat who eavesdropped

Cuban radio for plots to overthrow

America, you drove to crazy

Haberman's wedding, Pressley rolled

joints while you held the wheel, eyeballed

the centerline in gas fumes.

You stopped off at Hamtramck,

Margie's gypsy Polish bungalow

so they could fuck while you drank Schlitz

tallboys and ate fried pickles and

drowned your head in the sink.

Wedding day was sweltering.

You drank gin and tonics with rich

strangers at Crazy Haberman's

reception, sweating off the beer

and fried pickles and driving buckets

of balls into the depths of the

Birmingham Hills Country Club,

the migraine taking over, the taste

of silver on your tongue, stoned on

hash when Crazy Pete snuck out

behind the kitchen, then Crazy

Pete's father-in-law grilled you--

"What are you doing with your lives?"

and Crazy Pete was thinking Fuck

man, I'm just gonna get fucking

stoned and make love to your daughter

and laughing that crazy-assed laugh

that made you think, shit man, Birmingham

fucking Hills, this guy's fucking

looney tunes, and Pressley thinkin'

I don't know and you were thinking

When did I learn Bolshevik? When

did I become a leper? When did I

turn into Tiresias? stirring the burning

gristle of chickens grilling on the spit,

wielding swords of flaming Greek cheese

in the night, pouring libations, gin,

champagne, Asti, spouting apostate

invectives, proselytizing

to the checkered trousered golfers,

cursing the bastard sons of Ford

and Chevrolet, all the captains

of industry, and when the Greek

boys serving the drinks hauled you

behind Pressler's bug and kicked

and punched your ribs till the fire

raged and emptied your stomach

and lungs, you barked like Cerberus

at the country club gates, the

ancient fireworks exploding

overhead, ashes dying in

punk.

MY FATHER IN CHICAGO

In my dream you're alive again,
I meet you walking Michigan Ave,
panhandling, coffee-stained cup
in your thick wind-worn mitts, nothing
big, just a few bucks, pocket change.
I dip in and search for coins, just
as you did at the Knob Hill Tavern
when I wanted a nickel for
the juke or a slim jim. You
pulled out a handful of dirty
coins, dust-lined rootbeer barrels,
ten penny nails, and sorted
them with a miser's patience
which I later discovered was
just fatigue and too much beer,
you wanted this nickel to mean
something, something you had no
words for, so you just handed me
the coin and I smelt its terrible
mettle, held its heat in my fingers
and placed it on my tongue to taste
the Indian. You drank beers with
carpenters, painters, plasterers,
Cookie, Emo and Jimmie,
black men and white men, men you'd
trust your life with, fuck the politics,
men who dragged their tired souls into
this tavern and confessed their fears
in hopes they might redeem themselves,
knowing their thick callused hands
betrayed the gentleness of prayer.
And so we meet here in the cold
winds of Chicago, father, your
eyes like knot-holes, fierce and distant,
we agree to the old arrangement,
I don't know you, you don't know me,
I reach for my wallet and pull out
some dollars and fold them in your
cup. Here mister, I say, get yourself
something just as you told Cookie
and Emo when they lost everything
and you walked by thinking It's a
shame, a goddamned shame, knowing
there was nothing else you could do
for them, you drove the truck back to
the Knob Hill and buried that in
drafts. Here mister I say, pretty sure
I don't slip when I look in your eyes
and say something like Here dad,
that raw grizzled face, carpenter
greens, then give yourself something,
knowing full well you won't, that
in this dream I keep walking
the cold sun of Michigan Ave,
staring at the slippery reflections
of people in the windows,
muttering to myself like an angry
street prophet, schizophrenic,
promising myself to never return,
to never look back, to never
dream this dream again.

CORPORATE SECRETS

Inside the top secret 

corporate research facility,

under the scan of covert 

cameras. Security 

greets you at the desk 

where you divulge your

identity, sign in and sign 

off your rights to

anything you may see 

or think about anything

you see, your badge

clears you for certain

corridors and labs, 

the complex systems lab

but not the human-centered 

design interface compound,

the cognitive architecture 

facility, but not the 

mainframe endoskeleton, 

when you step into 

comprehensive risk 

management an escort from

human resources shepherds

you to the relative safety

of stylistics, surface analysis,

where all of the desks and

drafting tables are draped

with sheets, as if the joint's

being moth-balled for the 

season, or one of the

company geniuses is 

making tents for some 

fabulous glass-walled

executive sleepover!

Let's face it.  You're no spy,

no undercover snoop, 

no operations espionage 

expert, you wouldn't know

a secret formula from

a secret recipe or a 

secret phrase for $50

on Groucho Marx, is there

some classified code

buried behind that man's

furrowed brow?  Is there

some cryptic truth 

disguised in that woman's

crossed eyes, her cold 

stare behind those cloak-

and-dagger hornrims?

There are scarlet A's

burning on everyone's

breasts, ulterior motives,

darker forces, you avert

your eyes, dare not get

caught gaping at anything,

his handsome carriage, 

her bold calves, you're

just waiting for security

to retrieve you from

your proposed visit 

which was, what?, 

you no longer recall, 

please, relieve us 

of these badges, this

confidence, we're 

breaching security even

now just thinking

about it.

 

FALL

Listen. I don't want to 

get dramatic

or anything like that but

while you were gone

the leaves fell, the yard

denuded itself, now

stripped and naked

to the morning sun

so when I sit here 

drinking coffee and 

watching my breath

into the cold openness,

I wasn't thinking 

of you or me or

all those mornings

we've spent listening 

to the crows howling

in the silver birch splashes,

the woodpecker working

the apple tree carcass,

the splendid cardinal 

swaying in the highbush

cranberry, you spreading

orange marmalade on

croissants, no, those 

are vestigial remains,

what we once beheld. 

No, I was just thinking 

of you sleeping naked 

beside me, twisted

in the sheets, and,

well, so naked, so

lovely, so nude.