Untitled

 

I go

about the house finding

new places

for old things –

my books crammed

in the last drawer

of my chest,

your words folded

carefully

in the one above –

the shelf unfilled

table empty

there is too much

and too much missing

from the weight I carried

with me to this land

 

Morning

in this neat suburbia

with its neat

rows of neat houses -

I dress

in the clothes

from a city that shrieks in the night

and by morning has died

and rebirthed itself

leaving the messy aftermath

of loss and creation

 

Morning

in this neat suburbia –

a cushion room

for the insane    we

who have

and have lost

too much

are in a little corner of

the world playing

with our own demons –

in these mornings nothing

happens

and nothing is real

 

In these pristine mornings

who

can say there is something

wrong

with the world

and who still grieves over

those wrongs?

And if

there is still grief

where nothing happens

and nothing is real

what does that mean?

 

You,

around whom

this foggy stillness shatters

and the world becomes

real

Tell me -

tell me upon which shelf

I should place this grief,

folded in what way

tucked in which drawer

Tell me

what have you done with yours?

Tell me

what shall I do with mine?

 

I go about the house

finding new places for

old things.

Villanelle

What comes out of this pain?

echoing through centuries the lament

of being alive and human and sane

We carry on in the wrong lane

tracing the paths of our descent

to find what comes out of this pain

As gatherers we venture out for gain

from our flimsy paper tent

of the alive and human and sane

Walking while predators line the plane

all that happens now happens with our consent

to what comes out of this pain

And this time the Earth does not birth grain

we return with bodies and heads bent

to be alive and human and sane

Many of us have lain

tired nights, long, bodies spent

for what comes out of this pain

of being alive and human and sane

Untitled

 

Your jacket lies

in my room

where I come to smell it

should I begin

to lose your scent

You said

I don’t know

how

this began,

or when

amnesia seizes us turning

bits of our lives to void

the wells empty

and hunger

sits at the edges

of our tongues

 

—

 

After I had poured myself

into you

after we each had drunk

and satisfied ourselves    moment-

arily we sat with bellies

full still groping

for that last drop    the last

gulp which would

quell our hunger    but

the lie never surfaced

 

—

 

we came to each

other as a land

of forgotten landmarks

bodies rigid with

subdued desperation

there is the cracked

sidewalk I tripped on

and scarred my knee

there is

the hill you climbed

chasing june-bugs

 

—

 

later in your car I

tell you lies    there

is no sidewalk    no

chase

 

you roll

my words on the edge

of your tongue we swerve

violently off the hill

I don’t know

how

this began

or when

your body

slashed open

as I grope for

the last drop

with which to quell

this hunger before

the void forms itself again

Song of the Sirens

 

the sounds break open

and die at your feet -

what are we

supposed to say to this?

the heretical sound

of music this night when

no words can be said

to our children

of what we have done to ourselves

of what we keep doing –

 

tonight the sirens

sing us to sleep

to a chorus of rhythmic bombing

tonight the sirens

wail    somebody

has been shot, somebody

has been knifed, somebody

raped

or all three    or somebody

has been netted

with bullets, dragged

into a cell, stripped

mutilated,    or somebody

has choked on a pretzel

 

.tonight

we lay our children to sleep

shutting the fairytale we told

them so they may rest peacefully

tonight    in some other world

that we do not know    (do not wish

to know)    a child

lays entrapped in

the song of the sirens

 

tonight the sounds break

open

but die at your feet –

tomorrow there will be nothing

to say of this.

bullshit

At this hour your eyes are sore
Your body asks for sleep;
the only sound from the window is
that of the wind
and an occasional sparrow awoken
by whatever awakens it and causes
panic   the bird’s little heart racing faster than it does

You fall asleep at your table     a pen between your fingers
and an unmarked book on which rests your head -
you are awakened
by whatever awakens a tired human being  and causes
panic    your heart racing faster than it does

The birds outside are silent now,
the only sound comes from your flipping pages
and the almost inaudible hum
of the table lamp you read by.
If you sleep you will wake;
you cannot stop.
Too much is still left to be

finished.

Can you tell me how it made sense to you

dearest,

to sift through the sands that blew upon you

in heaps, mountains now; Can you tell me

how it made sense

to pick out grains from crumbling sea-shore castles

and hour-glasses and shells?

(Your fingers were dry when they found you,

the sand had caked about your fingernails.

There were traces of sand in the crease of your lips,

but they say it was an errant nail that finally did you in -

cut you up from the inside just the way you would have liked,

after the bath there was not a mark on your body

nothing to tell us you died fishing the grains from the mountain you were buried in)

Your room smells of old
history books, musty paperback novels
that have been felt
with eyes and read by hands, and later
rested on sturdy mahogany shelves.

You’ve left your glasses on the bed
stand, next to a picture of your wife -
you told me
she died romantically, her head in your lap
on a trip to the alps or some other cold
place. I wonder
if she thought so.

I’ve been waiting naked in your room
for a while now, you said
you had to go take your blue
pill -

The cloud car ran over a cloud boy today,
while he tried to fetch his cloud ball from the street.
I tripped while jumping over a puddle,
trying to save a little cloud ant
instead.
A black cloud cat crossed my path;
I was smitten by the cloud god -
he said I’d better get my dirty feet
back down to earth
before he made the clouds rain
and there was nothing left to stand on.

The sun hangs hollow
shining hollow rays
that turn iridescent when refracted
through hollow things -
and in the emptiness of the day
what more can you say except
you have no more words?
what more can you feel except
a hollow, unending weakness?

He thumbs through
your belongings
absently
when you take leave of him -
(the burgundy scarf
pale lipstick,
pencil, sketchpad)
and places them on a shelf
with similar items.

Having cleaned his room (of you)
he steps out the door
to find his pick for the night.

A leaf falls
in the garden
by the pond
on our wet picnic mat
close to your lips
singed by the sudden heat
of the gun barrel
that you held between them

I saw you
the other day
sipping tea in the place I left you
darjeeling with mint
I knew from the window;
and from the window I wondered
if it was fear that kept you still
or loss of a certain consciousness -
if you hoped you were like the steam
rising and dissipating
above your mug
or if you had already condensed
on the ceiling
or the cooling fan.

It began to rain
then,
so I left you
twice the same
once – after our bodies had aged
but we were still
youthful
and again – after our bodies had aged
and youth had fled our tongues

You remember words (not yours)
stolen feelings – cliches
You scribble down a thought
or two
and call it
poetry

There are only
so many
ways to say
you are in pain;
beyond that,
pain ceases to be;

it becomes the room
in which you live -
the room in which
too much has happened;
even the jewelry box
holds your gem,
the uneven folds of your bedsheet
cradle it,
and the vacant chair is warm
with its heat.

Recent Reads: Studies of History

Out there. The mind of the river
as it might be you.

Lights blotted by unseen hulls
repetitive shapes passing
dull foam crusting the margin
barges sunk below the waterline with silence.
The scow, drudging on.

Lying in the dark, to think of you
and your harsh traffic
gulls pecking at your rubbish – natural historians
mourning your lost purity
pleasure cruisers
witlessly careening you

but this
after all
is the narrows and after
all we have never entirely
known what was done to you upstream
what powers trepanned
which of your channels diverted
what rockface leaned to stare
in your upturned
defenseless
face.

~Adrienne Rich
1986

untitled (poem)

When the only chance at freedom
lies splattered
on the sidewalk

When God offers no solace
and even
ceases to be

When anger is not a feeling
but an entire
state of being
and
despair is not a condition
but a thought process

When the only way to salvation
is the razor-straight path
of a bullet

Then come and ask me
why I speak of death
as if it is a blessing that will
release me.

Untitled (as usual)

Crimson drip
drops on the carpet
she holds up a piece of cardboard
smeared
“abstract -
its what I feel like
beneath you”

The bell ding-dongs between words
so she gathers up her
art
and washes crimson spots
from between the creases
of her skirt and the unpricked
tips
of her fingers

Never
forget to shake hands
curtsy, a little
like the well-bred lady
that you are.
Serve tea,
serve biscuits serve
drinks serve -

You can buy services now
for a mere
twenty dollars

You can buy servitude now
for a mere
kiss

Recent Reads: The Fact of a Doorframe

The Fact of a Doorframe

means there is something to hold
onto with both hands
while slow thrusting my forehead against the wood
and taking it away
one of the oldest motions of suffering
as Makeba sings
a courage-song for warriors
music is suffering made powerful

I think of the story
of the goose-girl who passed through the high gate
where the head of her favourite mare
was nailed to the arch
and in a human voice
If she could see thee now, thy mother’s heart would break
said the head
of Falada

Now, again, poetry,
violent, arcane, common,
hewn of the commonest living substance
into archway, portal, frame
I grasp for you, your bloodstained splinters, your
ancient and stubborn poise
-as the earth trembles-
burning out from the grain

~The Fact of a Doorframe,
Adrienne Rich

Thought

I thought of you
today
(and yesterday night when I was
wrapping
your wedding present)
I thought of you as
less
than human -
something I never allow myself
to do (not even with you,
or people
like you)

I felt less anger then
as I thought of
your (nineteen year old)
wife
and her
worthless
husband (I thought of you as
less than any
living thing;
less than any
thing)

And then
I asked this
confident(ly indifferent)
girl (a dichotomy
of selves)
how she had allowed
something as pitiful
and repulsive
as you
to hurt her;
to hurt
me

(and then I
stuck a bow
on your
present
and went away)

Somewhere in the dark AM hours

Night comes and I
wish to talk to you (again)
I have not
spilled tears for a while.
I would like to
discuss
at length
my growing discontent with
life and how I have again,
once, many times,
erred.
I wish to proclaim once more
my innocence
and how fate has brought
me to this.
I have not, I swear,
followed my own footsteps
round.
Can I too assert the fact
that I am nature’s making?
The nature of man has made me
and of nurture I can only
say
I have rejected it.
You see, these words
layered with meaning I’ve used
as bricks and boulders.
Only the toughest get in (and survive).
So night comes and I -

I speak
to stone walls

I am not a Poet

When I speak these words
will not be mine
The ones i write are little more
than hearsay put down
to make it seem as though
There is meaning
(some greater cause)
behind the curves of my pencil
other than my whim

On Repeat

A song that has been on my playlist for more than a while – Tori Amos’ cover of Leonard Cohen’s Famous Blue Raincoat.

It’s four in the morning, the end of December.
I’m writing you now to see if you’re better.
New York is cold, but I like where I’m living.
There’s music on Clinton Street all through the evening.

I hear that you’re building your little house deep in the desert.
You’re living for nothing now.
Hope you’re keeping some kind of record.

Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair.
She said that you gave it to her,
On the night that you planned to go clear.
Did you ever go clear?

Last time I saw you, you looked so much older,
Your famous blue raincoat, torn at the shoulder.
Been to the station to meet every train.
You came home alone without Lilly Marlene.
You treated my woman to a flake of your life,
And when she came back, she was nobody’s wife.

Well, I see you there with a rose in your teeth-
One more thin Gypsy thief. I see Jane’s awake.
She sends her regards.
Mmm… heaha… heh-ha… mmm-mmm…

What can I tell you, my brother, my killer,
What can I possibly say?
Hey, I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you,
I’m glad you stood in my way.

If you ever come by here for Jane or for me,
Well, your enemy is sleeping now an’ his woman is free.
Well, thanks for the trouble you took from her eyes.
I thought it was there for good, so I never tried.

And Jane came by with a lock of your hair.
She said that you gave it to her,
On the night that you planned to go… clear.
Sincerely, L. Cohen.

Title-less once more

There are footsteps outside my door

a knocking

somewhere far off

a glass drops, shatters

into precisely

seventy-three

little pieces

of which

one bounces,

ricochets,

and finds home

in the vitreous humor

of my abuser’s eye

Untitled

She has

blackhole eyes

that devour light

with all the hunger of a chained wolf

and lips petrified

in a smile as empty

as her shell

and sometimes when the moon is full

and winds howl

you can hear

the drip-drop of rain

echoing inside her

Lyric Snippets of the Day

“Hey Jupiter
Nothings been the same
So are you gay?
Are you blue?
Thought we both could use a friend to run to”

~ Hey Jupiter, Tori Amos

“Once I wanted to be the greatest
No wind or waterfall could stop me
And then came the rush of the flood
Stars at night turned you to dust
…
Lower me down
Pin me in
Secure the grounds
For the later parade”

~ The Greatest, Cat Power

“Here in this hole that we have fixed
we get futher and further and further
from what we must do
I saw you asleep beside a hole
your skull inside that hole
your eyes blackened by the sound and the thought of god
where should I hang my head?
where would you like for me to hang my head?”

~ In This Hole, Cat Power

“I’m not sure who’s fooling who here
as I’m watching your decay
we both know you could deflate
a 7 hurricane
you could have spared her – oh but no
messiahs need people dying in their name
you say “i ordered you a pancake”
you say “i ordered you a pancake”

~ Pancake, Tori Amos

Abandon

his back to the air

flies

(of some Roman street)

circle the rot of his flesh

eating maggots, eating him

sun-warmed steel singeing

filth lies on the cobbled street

Where Poeticism Falls Short -

I lean against
Cold porcelain
And brush
My poetic teeth
Then wash
My poetic face
While I consider
Taking a poetic shit
Like any other
(unpoetic)
being

Poem about something

Light filters through the curtains as I write this. Another miserably failed attempt to sleep.

I can’t decide what to write about anymore, much like my inability to speak of or about anything.

I just deleted a piece.

Words come and go
as lovers and soul-mates that weren’t
as green grass that fades
to gold then yellow
and eventually
dies

words come and go as the days pass
to night
as I stare at the twilight of my dawn
and hope there was
time

(Poem will be edited..and worked upon… That came out of no where)

Despair

Night falls – trips,
Over the blanket
That is itself;
And plummets
Into a bottomless pit
Where we reside.
Where a million suns cannot reach
Nor shine
Enough
for us to believe we are
Loved
By a lord
Or even remembered
By one of our own.

Night descends
From these shameful depths
Into the bottomless pit
That is our selves -
Where we eviscerate all traces,
Hide what cannot be eviscerated,
Disguise what cannot be hidden -
Till all we were
Has suffocated
Under a dark blanket
We mistook to be night
And a heart-stopping thrill
We mistook to be freedom

You, In Other Words

I could
spin
you
into words
once.
Phrases,
sentences,
letters and symbols
of
what you were -
are
to me.
And I’d share
these few morsels
of
you
with
you
and you
would tell me
how
beautiful
they were
not knowing
it was
you
held
in each
curve
and cross.
And you
would smile
to me
and say
you
loved it
and I
would smile
to me
and wonder.