TONIGHT


ten years ago today


Tonight, here, on the edge of the West,
we are sweating in a bistro, drinking
iced cider and doughuts as the leaves
fall down around us in the hot wind.
Lightning glistens off the windows
and surrounds us in dramatic flashes--
it's just so damned big out here,
so open, no place to hide in all this
flatness, this is everything we're
afraid of, and love, the darkness,
all of this October heat, the wind,
all the withered trees rattling husks,
and driving here all day, in the dying
afternoon haze, the highway lined
with skunks and bloated deer and the lovely
smell of decay, and then, in the grove
of birch we saw a rolled car and medics
kneeling in deep grass over a body.
All around us, the world was
turning lavender and rust, bending
to the wind, and in the hills, the cattle
were slowly coming home. The sky wheeled
with hawks, as if what was happening here,
here of all places, mattered, and I thought back
to how ten years ago my father died,
how these things come to matter in ways
we can never really know.

PELIGROSO


written in Minneapolis, October 6


At Ludington we'd been walking
the pier just like always, the sun

fresh and full on our faces, the wind
gusting up the waves in heaving

sprays, and so we ventured into
the deep, dancing between billows

of green, then blue, then oil-slick black.
The swells sucked and swallowed the rocks,

then flooded the air with rain and
mist, cold foam, delicious agony!

We knelt behind the salacious
lighthouse where the wind sullied our

souls and small boats dallied and dipped
indecently. We hid there in

our lee cove and necked til our bones
chilled in the summer sun, ridiculous,

and headed back for avacados
and gouda cheese, back through the

swells and the gusts and the heaving
waves and all the vertiginous

sway when we spotted the skinny lads
in red trunks, all ribs and tanned flesh

running along the pier, several
diving in, and one red rescue boat

bobbing up and down in the green
shallows, banging against the rocks

and the DANGER/PELIGROSO
sign, it happens so fast, someone

strayed too close to the pier or was
pulled out by the rip tide and now

standing on the shore a family
of Mexicans, their black hair pasted

wet on their foreheads, shivering,
staring out at the malevolence

of the world, at the boys diving,
deaf to all of the shouts drowned out

by the wind and waves crashing
at their cold, shriveled feet. It is

so hard to love in this world of
terrors, something we must always

learn, something that seems to wash
over us again and again.

EMIGRE


That apartment on Stanford, just
south of the shotgun shacks in Freetown

and east of the Montrose cruisers,
we lived in a brick duplex above

Mr. Williams and his suspenders
who hid behind the blinds except

on rent day when his soft white flesh
ventured into the sun to collect

his check, 300 bucks got us
a second floor kitchen and front

room connected by a bedroom
and two swinging doors that creaked

and flapped like fake applause.
All day you taught in schools and I

worked with accountants -- we drove
home to shrimp and cerveza, gin

and gyros, curry and claret,
lizards basked on the brick balcony

as we burned our skin, at night
wood roaches flew blindly against

the screen door, bumping in the darkness
like the drunk strangers we'd known

in Pittsburgh. At dawn the roosters
crowed and scratched the grass, and

Mexican boys with cars that spelled
Esmeralda and Rosalita

sped down the street begging chicitas
for rides and the baseball lot filled

with men from trucks and shrunken gloves
and every spare moment I hid

behind my desk with my Underwood
propped up on three Houston phone books

writing words in a strange tongue to
satisfy someone in a distant

city, words that betrayed me, words
that I did not even mean, nor

even know that I did not mean,
I was an emigrant to so

many things then, to love, to
myself, to the world around me.

ECHOLOCATION


How I come
to know you, sending signals

into the emptiness between
the world of matter and dark

matter (which no one really knows)
until I find you & some impulse

returns, both a shiver and a calm,
something I've known all these years, a

universal constant, the pulse of
a quasar, heart beat from the

very beginning, a galactic
tuning fork! Like a dolphin

swimming in the night sea, I chase you
in the heaving, follow your mindstar,

your dance in the wet wilderness.

A CANTICLE FOR BEING


We sat there on the back deck in
the cold sun, bare feet and faces
exposed as the snow melted, we
were reading and thinking about


getting old, I was reading poems
about our bones, our skulls, the stars
and the shimmering sea that waits
us when we die. I was ready


to die, you too, embraced there in
a halo as the melting snow
splashed down into puddles and the
neighbor's wind chimes moaned like a


Tibetan flute and that's when that
bird appeared overhead, so tiny
we could not find him, singing, and
the cool wind off the snow sent shivers


through our flesh and then that unseen
bird broke out in ecstasy, divine
jubilance, absolute rapture,
a celebrant, a symphony


of giddiness, liquid trills and
warbles and whoops and hillbilly
hollers!



I swear as we squinted
at the sky we could feel that sea
shimmering at the edge of
everything! Suddenly, starlight,


the essence, the radiant truth,
the star shake quaking us! And for
a moment we were blind to this
world, it all seemed to melt away


and our eyes transformed into warm
stubborn stones holding on to the
day and the faint heat, this star, this
soul, this ash and bone, the light


penetrating the skull, this eon
stretching itself in all directions,
this bliss of being resting in
the center of our flesh and what


more we can never know for sure.

You are driving
on some splendid
day. There's a faint
chill in the sun,
a hint of winter
still as the maples
explode in green
madness, the fireworks
of tulips and crabs,
how the light pours
through the windshield
and on your hands
as you turn the wheel,
how all of this
is just splendid!,
the glory of those
hymns you sang on
Sundays, her strained
voice and you holding
up the hymnal
like a prayer
as the stained glass
fell on you singing
"O For a Thousand
Tongues to Sing!"

You just want to
tell her of this
moment driving,
this feeling, the sun
on your fingers,
the cool edge of
something vanishing,
something about
all of this, not
straining or trying,
just this joy, this
pang, this sliver,
and when it pierces
you it all wells up,
just for a moment,
the heart swells,
you gasp. It is
the infinite,
the eternal,
the elusive yet
again.

LEAP OF FAITH (Revised, 12.31.06)


The woman on the bus
yanks the cord with
the intensity of her
life, it's comical, how she

hangs onto that line
and yells at the driver to
stop as we cross the bridge,
we are suspended

above the abyss.
STOP THE BUS NOW
she shouts PLEASE STOP
THE FUCKING BUS

until we pray for the driver
to give in and the bus
jerks to a halt
we all lurch forward

as if bent in prayer.
The woman scrabbles off
with her black trash bags,
her ballast, she means to

take her life, and as
the accordion doors
seal shut with a shush
an ambulance screams by--

she means to fly
down below down into
the valley of death and
transfiguration, we


cannot even imagine,
we smoosh our faces
against the undersea glass
as she mounts the bridge

wall and spreads her arms,
and for a moment she
floats in desperate space, she
flies, and falls, and someone

shouts HALLELUJAH!
for her soul, and ourselves
as well. The bus moves on,
a blessing for these

pilgrims bearing witness,
seeking redemption in
a sign, a symbol,
anything to live on.

LEAP OF FAITH


The woman on the bus
yanks the line with
the intensity of her
life, it's comical, how she


hangs onto the line
draped atop the smoke-
tinted windows like some
abject garland, she


yells at the driver to
stop as we cross the bridge
that spans the valley,
we are suspended above


the abyss, she shouts STOP
THE BUS NOW PLEASE LORD
STOP THE FUCKING BUS in
a shrill monotone until


we pray for the driver
to give in and someone
shouts LET HER OFF FOR
CHRIST'S SAKE and the bus


jerks to a halt and we all
lurch forward as if bent
in violent prayer and
we all grab something to


brace ourselves, the woman
scrabbles off with her black
trash bags, the weight of
her life's belongings, her


ballast of her last will
and testament, she means
to take her life, and as
the accordion doors


seal shut with a hush an
ambulance screaming with
siren whips by in a mad
rescue, she means to fly


down into the valley of
death and abandoned
train tracks and brick smoke stacks
far below, so far we


cannot even imagine
what life down there is like,
we all smoosh our faces
against the undersea glass


and watch as she mount the
concrete wall and stumbles
on the edge, she spreads her
arms and she floats in the

desperate space, she flies
and falls and we stare
grim-faced and silent
before we return to


our seats and someone shouts
HALLELUJAH we all,
each of us in our small
voices whisper a prayer


for her lost soul, wherever
it may be, and for
ourselves as well,
and the bus moves on, a


blessing, a relief, we
are pilgrims seeking
redemption, a sign,
anything to live on.

WHEN THE MUSIC'S OVER (TURN OUT THE LIGHTS)


And so the performance
was over, the last words

of the tragic opera
fading, the tambourine

still chillingly alive
and shimmering like God's

breath, I lay on my cot
in the dark and waited for

it to come, in one void,
a wave of nothingness

crashing over me,
the room drenched in drama,

but there was no God
moment, no God consciousness,

no light, no stellar scream,
no cosmic swirl, instead

the room filled with dark matter,
a muffled absence,

not a terror or dread
or even an onrush

of regret, just a darkness
spreading its terrible weight,

no relief from its anguish,
just nothing, nothing,

nothing at all, until
the mind drifted away on

this dark matter spreading
in the nooks and crannies,

just diminished and lost
in the great blindness,

it was all black gravity,
I did not expect to

awaken, certainly
not in the closet,

fingers scraping plaster,
head clunking the wall,

the edge of death, the brink
of life, a trap, and the

long moan, the 3AM
freight droning, my eyes

cold stones and blind, dead stars,
I did not expect this,

this gulf, this muffled need,
this persistent voice

at the heart of something,
this anger, this stupid rage,

this lone whisper of light
shouting. For days I sat

alone, a lump, an
insubstantial substance,

something, consciousness
watching as the ghosts

appeared and whispered
in some unknowable tongue,

voices of the dead and living
indistinct, smothered,

the weight of lifelessness
itself, I had almost

joined them, these ancestors
waiting all around us,

drifting in orbit, my mind
a dead star, a cold

stone in my head slowly
warming, returning to

the grand opera, the carnival
of the senses and the

absurd roar, the theorems
and proofs I once understood

slowly unraveling into order:
a point, a ray, a line,

the universe was giving way
to tiny chunks of routine,

and soon enough, a
reprise, an encore,

the show must go on, you know,
the opera never truly

ends, the last shuddering
note gives way to the first,

you remain in motion,
only the direction shifts.


,

What would your life be like if, as in "Branded," you had to constantly, daily, prove that you were a "man"? How might you do that? Like Sisyphus, forever fated to accomplish what cannot be achieved. An eternity of doubt, fear, self-abnegation, self conscious inadequacy.

EXISTENTIAL MOON


The streelights
a string of blue
milk moons above
the snow, votive
candles, a prayer
vigil for you.

The streelights
a string of blue
milk moons above
the snow, votive
candles, a prayer
vigil for you.

NOTES FOR A POEM ON A TV SHOW THEME SONG


Wherever you go
for the rest of your life
you must prove you're a man.

from "Branded" theme song


It seems
they will

not take you
at your word

or just
your sex,

they want
something

more, a sign,
a proof

that you
are not

something
they fear

and yet
something

they need,
a promise

of where
you stand,

where they
stand so they

can breathe
freely, so

the world
they shape

makes sense,
so they

can go on
living with

men.

PRAYER WRITTEN ON THE 10 BUS IN DECEMBER


I love mornings like these
when the snow moon stares down
and the sky is milksnow
and moonlight, the air so
cold and pure it hurts
to breathe and your skin
shrinks to ice and you gasp
with wonder, a prayer
that the world is buried
and it's all so deliciously
cold and milk blue and
empty, so quiet that
you hear your blood
quicken, your breath
a miracle, you're
alive after all! And
for this blessed moment
you are a holiness,
a ghost haunting all
the loveliness.

1. This blog does not have headings, and so there is no distinctive visual cue to catch the eye. I miss that. Without that header, everything looks like bland text, just uniform letters and words, indistinguishable, words recklessly and carelessly tossed into hyperspace.

2. I kind of like the sestina below, but a blog is a terribly inflexible and unforgiving site for composing something like a sestina. The entry box is the size of an instant messenging window, and the word processor is definitely primitive--no color, no size options, no font options, no spacing--it's like writing on one of those primitive word processors from the early 80's, no WYSIWYG, but uniform letters and codes--you have to imagine what all of these codes will look like once they are executed. The composing is so small you can't see down or up much--you're limited to about 20 lines. You can't move easily, or edit or revise easily--it's clumsy, almost like returning to a typewriter. (More like returning to one of those gharish hybrid typewriters and computers that saved 3-6 lines of text at a time before you had to replenish the screen.)

3. A blog like this, black background, sans serif font, small print, desperately needs visual augmentation of some sort.

4. This blog looks infantile compared to the other two templates I'm using. Is it all about serif? About headers and color print? A less stark background? The column width is different, too.

5. Without headers or titles, the archival function seems minimized. I LIKE having a visual reminder of what I've written...

Write a sestina with the following words:

bridge
sugar
blue
swing
fall
leave
--------------------


bridge
sugar
blue
swing
fall
leave

leave
bridge
fall
sugar
swing
fall

blue
leave
swing
bridge
sugar
fall


fall
blue
sugar
leave
bridge
swing

swing
fall
bridge
blue
leave
sugar

sugar
swing
leave
fall
blue
bridge

bridge swing
sugar fall
blue leave

----------------------------------------------


Bridge over Lover's Lane

It was on Lover's Lane bridge
that they first met, just past Sugarloaf
Lake, shimmering in July's blue.
She saw him hanging in the tireswing
dangling, all naked legs, saw him fall
into the dark water, the leave

this world, it was so easy to leave!
She met him shivering on the bridge
after his stupendous fall,
oh he was a hero, her dripping sugar!
He climbed down to the tire swinging
and sailed out across the blue

depths, oh he was a hero!, his blue
lips quivering, she could not leave
this bridge, this trestle, that swaying swing,
she felt naked on that wooden bridge,
she could taste the delicate sugar
of his breath! How could she fall

so far, so full, so quickly? How could she fall
so much in love, lost in the sudden blues?
He was her hero, her glimmering sugar,
no wonder she'd taken leave
of her senses on this rustic bridge!
There was no rescue from this swinging

sight, this naked boy on his sweet swing
like her own sweet singing, his fallen
beauty, she'd lost her wits on this bridge,
there was no escape from the blue
quavering everywhere, she must leave
this frank display, this fine and naked sugar

swinging so alone and wild, this sugar
sweetness lilke maple syrup, this swinging
and swimming ache, her hero! How could she leave
the world just now, how could she fall
back into the world's slipppery blue,
the emptiness of time? This bridge

was her bridge! This swing his swing!
The sugar she tasted a sign of her own fall
not from grace, but a blue star she prayed to leave.

What's up with this blog?