I think of my archives as updated relatively frequently, yet I'm over 100 poems short. That is no trivial number. Mind you, these are all essentially drafts, and that's a bigger problem. Expect a few revisions in the coming month, hopefully with titles, though we'll see.
loose 2nd draft
Is my fate to break as worlds break? Or shatter like a hull?
Earth will cheat.... but water's deep is much more capable.
I hoped to revive the old Greek sea
that ate men, gods, and stars. Revive the sirens
who kill men in their arms.
Scylla and Charybdis
might linger out there still,
but I haven't seen a single creature yet.
I haven't heard a sound. Is this my fate?
This drifting nothingness?
Galleons of steel charge west, away from the odd myth
that only men, not women, can smell of hyacinth...
While my wooden schooner dips and turns
on zephyrs and on stones, each coast a burning
meeting-place for dogs and skeletons.
I haven't seen a single monster, or heard
a single call since I cast off from the shore
and heard a thousand kind of lies
in the thousand days before...
To force myself into society, and die through that submission,
or out here, with the corpses of legends, the corpses of ambition?
I cast an eye to the horizon, where I think
my home might lie, and all the thoughtful people there
I coldly left behind. I cast an eye into the whirlpool
that glows at ocean's end, and all the bloodlines
there I'll trace, if taken by the wind.
Earth will cheat.... but water's deep is much more capable.
I hoped to revive the old Greek sea
that ate men, gods, and stars. Revive the sirens
who kill men in their arms.
Scylla and Charybdis
might linger out there still,
but I haven't seen a single creature yet.
I haven't heard a sound. Is this my fate?
This drifting nothingness?
Galleons of steel charge west, away from the odd myth
that only men, not women, can smell of hyacinth...
While my wooden schooner dips and turns
on zephyrs and on stones, each coast a burning
meeting-place for dogs and skeletons.
I haven't seen a single monster, or heard
a single call since I cast off from the shore
and heard a thousand kind of lies
in the thousand days before...
To force myself into society, and die through that submission,
or out here, with the corpses of legends, the corpses of ambition?
I cast an eye to the horizon, where I think
my home might lie, and all the thoughtful people there
I coldly left behind. I cast an eye into the whirlpool
that glows at ocean's end, and all the bloodlines
there I'll trace, if taken by the wind.
Modern Warfare
cursed by sleeplessness and sulfur thoughts
my cyber-selves on endless march
shot and shot and shot
I carry weapons now, nothing but weapons
I have spurned my environment
and my body, all new, as if every organ herniated
simultaneously, except the mutant brain.
I am electric, a soldier down to my skeleton,
with no friends and nothing to love, my voice
explodes from me. I am an endless procession of death-cries,
gathering my tiny rewards in the after-lives.
Entering this world, frustrating as it may be,
low and hopeless as it may be, is exciting.
Opening your eyes to that single instant that can be lived
over and over without pause in a tiny world,
and deciding no other world is worth the effort.
There are no mountains on the skyline in Austin,
rain starts pouring in torrents without any warning
and leaves as suddenly, the flabbergasted sun
falls face first into the humid night
splashing us with stars, and I
wish this moment of clarity could force me out the door
instead of just looking out the window before
rubbing my temples with the controller
hearing the horns blow, louder than thunder,
and falling, dizzy, into the all-consuming screen.
my cyber-selves on endless march
shot and shot and shot
I carry weapons now, nothing but weapons
I have spurned my environment
and my body, all new, as if every organ herniated
simultaneously, except the mutant brain.
I am electric, a soldier down to my skeleton,
with no friends and nothing to love, my voice
explodes from me. I am an endless procession of death-cries,
gathering my tiny rewards in the after-lives.
Entering this world, frustrating as it may be,
low and hopeless as it may be, is exciting.
Opening your eyes to that single instant that can be lived
over and over without pause in a tiny world,
and deciding no other world is worth the effort.
There are no mountains on the skyline in Austin,
rain starts pouring in torrents without any warning
and leaves as suddenly, the flabbergasted sun
falls face first into the humid night
splashing us with stars, and I
wish this moment of clarity could force me out the door
instead of just looking out the window before
rubbing my temples with the controller
hearing the horns blow, louder than thunder,
and falling, dizzy, into the all-consuming screen.
Ballad of the NPC
A sword can only cut through steel
in legends and in stories
and to enter pacts for power, as magicians do,
one must be proud, and have nothing to lose.
The archer is a coward, or a mathematician
the alchemist is clearly just insane.
The farmer is more useful than that lot --
Plowing his fields day after day, taking no laurels,
making no progress, never giving in
to bad weather or pain.
Perhaps some hero will come through,
offer assistance for a day, and in exchange
take something the farmer may not need, after all
heroes can't take chances
because villains don't.
While sentimental men like us
retreat to castle towers, woo fat, pragmatic princesses
and wait in safety for the war to end, tending
to the people and the land, because peace doesn't mean much
without food or civil order. No matter what trials they pass,
I think, we suffer more than those psychopaths.
in legends and in stories
and to enter pacts for power, as magicians do,
one must be proud, and have nothing to lose.
The archer is a coward, or a mathematician
the alchemist is clearly just insane.
The farmer is more useful than that lot --
Plowing his fields day after day, taking no laurels,
making no progress, never giving in
to bad weather or pain.
Perhaps some hero will come through,
offer assistance for a day, and in exchange
take something the farmer may not need, after all
heroes can't take chances
because villains don't.
While sentimental men like us
retreat to castle towers, woo fat, pragmatic princesses
and wait in safety for the war to end, tending
to the people and the land, because peace doesn't mean much
without food or civil order. No matter what trials they pass,
I think, we suffer more than those psychopaths.
You offer me the upper-hand, I try to give it back
to keep you somehow engaged -- it's odd, but I know
you're used to being submissive, and giving me control
is your little way of showing you don't care
enough to count me an exception, or to think
for even a second about what all these machinations mean.
between your startling eyes,
your still-young face, the way
you kink your mouth that means
something very specific, for which
there is no word, and your words,
which say something very general
and a little bit absurd
I pass, for a minute contemplating,
which transfers quickly from earnest longing
to a strange mixture of pity and envy
and for another minute, seeing
nothing at all.
What will become of your stiff shoulders,
your curious face, your pink lace underwear
and your occasional whistful speeches
celebrating, shamelessly revering some piece of art
or music, in a way that's lost to me
what will become of you, when the years
finally make you their bitch, and old age
hounds your thoughts and ravages your body?
Not that you're weak, but I think you could use the strength
that sort of battle teaches you. I think you could use
the patience. I don't know if it would erase
what I love about you. I almost wish it would.
If only because I know what you'll become
I see your future, written clearly and boldly
in the faces of women who walk the streets
all year, not just in spring.
I want you to give in
and take me with you
not for my sake, no, I just
want a hand in shaping you
and I don't
want to see you go
into the circle of hell you're destined for;
I'd rather see you pick your own.
to keep you somehow engaged -- it's odd, but I know
you're used to being submissive, and giving me control
is your little way of showing you don't care
enough to count me an exception, or to think
for even a second about what all these machinations mean.
between your startling eyes,
your still-young face, the way
you kink your mouth that means
something very specific, for which
there is no word, and your words,
which say something very general
and a little bit absurd
I pass, for a minute contemplating,
which transfers quickly from earnest longing
to a strange mixture of pity and envy
and for another minute, seeing
nothing at all.
What will become of your stiff shoulders,
your curious face, your pink lace underwear
and your occasional whistful speeches
celebrating, shamelessly revering some piece of art
or music, in a way that's lost to me
what will become of you, when the years
finally make you their bitch, and old age
hounds your thoughts and ravages your body?
Not that you're weak, but I think you could use the strength
that sort of battle teaches you. I think you could use
the patience. I don't know if it would erase
what I love about you. I almost wish it would.
If only because I know what you'll become
I see your future, written clearly and boldly
in the faces of women who walk the streets
all year, not just in spring.
I want you to give in
and take me with you
not for my sake, no, I just
want a hand in shaping you
and I don't
want to see you go
into the circle of hell you're destined for;
I'd rather see you pick your own.
There's a snake in the bathtub.
It's trying to climb into the house through the pipes
I saw its head, freaked a little
and splashed it with water to see if it was dead.
Immediately it recoiled
like some cursed creature in a B horror movie
No hiss, or background noise
(which after all only made it more unsettling)
That impulse occurred to me...
I really should have cut the damn thing's head off
if it can come through the pipes,
pass that most basic, impenetrable,
and mysterious portal that leads only
(my imagination confirms) only to a series
of other pipes.
This snake must be able to pass through solid matter.
It must be dangerous.
Of course if I'd taken the scissors to him
they probably would have passed right through
and I'd be the first victim.
Now lice emerge from the keyboard.
Spiders from the bed.
Flies erupt from the wall's speckled paint.
Soon I will fall through the cracks
and emerge crawling along the face of a mountain.
It's trying to climb into the house through the pipes
I saw its head, freaked a little
and splashed it with water to see if it was dead.
Immediately it recoiled
like some cursed creature in a B horror movie
No hiss, or background noise
(which after all only made it more unsettling)
That impulse occurred to me...
I really should have cut the damn thing's head off
if it can come through the pipes,
pass that most basic, impenetrable,
and mysterious portal that leads only
(my imagination confirms) only to a series
of other pipes.
This snake must be able to pass through solid matter.
It must be dangerous.
Of course if I'd taken the scissors to him
they probably would have passed right through
and I'd be the first victim.
Now lice emerge from the keyboard.
Spiders from the bed.
Flies erupt from the wall's speckled paint.
Soon I will fall through the cracks
and emerge crawling along the face of a mountain.
Stuck in my head, an ancient song
sung by spirits long withdrawn
from our stuck time, our era's stall --
from a stranger to my own withdrawal.
From a stranger to my own withdrawal,
thoughts pass plainly, plainly all
as night sits overhead, and dawn
rests on the bed I'm resting on.
Music without time, and time without perception
and I can't help thinking I'm the lone exception.
sung by spirits long withdrawn
from our stuck time, our era's stall --
from a stranger to my own withdrawal.
From a stranger to my own withdrawal,
thoughts pass plainly, plainly all
as night sits overhead, and dawn
rests on the bed I'm resting on.
Music without time, and time without perception
and I can't help thinking I'm the lone exception.
I want your problems, in place of mine
or in addition to
I want your problems, you know
I want all of you --
not to consume you like a novel,
immortalize a facsimile of you,
not to sit in a corner unwanted
like a pair of slack-tongued shoes
somewhere in between, you can remain whole,
but still of certain use.
I want your body, I want your soul
if I had to pick one, honestly,
honey, I have to have you whole.
I can't stand seeing only half
and divining some half-love
I'm sorry, but your soul just ain't enough.
I want your problems, I want your joys,
but honey, I'm sorry -- boys will be boys
and I don't want to play with you
as if girls were only toys, no
a doll ain't worth a penny, I don't
want your body, honey,
I want all of you.
or in addition to
I want your problems, you know
I want all of you --
not to consume you like a novel,
immortalize a facsimile of you,
not to sit in a corner unwanted
like a pair of slack-tongued shoes
somewhere in between, you can remain whole,
but still of certain use.
I want your body, I want your soul
if I had to pick one, honestly,
honey, I have to have you whole.
I can't stand seeing only half
and divining some half-love
I'm sorry, but your soul just ain't enough.
I want your problems, I want your joys,
but honey, I'm sorry -- boys will be boys
and I don't want to play with you
as if girls were only toys, no
a doll ain't worth a penny, I don't
want your body, honey,
I want all of you.
lazy sunbeam falling through trees without leaves
trees without leaves, though the sky is blue
and the grass is green, lazy sunbeams roll
like hills, churning little whirlwinds where
the air has clotted.
Stumble, mumble, live the way
you imagine others live. Do not waste your time today
trying to be yourself. The weather is perfect
for a certain familiar otherness
Perfect for a tall proud tree, dying
amidst so much life. Perfect for happiness
unless you have to try to be.
And the world is nothing but weather, you know
nobody struggles with guts anymore.
Our chickens pre-killed, our fish filleted
all we have to do is eat it. Umbrellas prepared,
stories written, nothing to do but live
leaning like a child over the rails of
these towering legacies, these empires of time
these conveniences:
Stumble. Mumble something almost worthwhile to say.
Be almost important. The weather suits it today.
trees without leaves, though the sky is blue
and the grass is green, lazy sunbeams roll
like hills, churning little whirlwinds where
the air has clotted.
Stumble, mumble, live the way
you imagine others live. Do not waste your time today
trying to be yourself. The weather is perfect
for a certain familiar otherness
Perfect for a tall proud tree, dying
amidst so much life. Perfect for happiness
unless you have to try to be.
And the world is nothing but weather, you know
nobody struggles with guts anymore.
Our chickens pre-killed, our fish filleted
all we have to do is eat it. Umbrellas prepared,
stories written, nothing to do but live
leaning like a child over the rails of
these towering legacies, these empires of time
these conveniences:
Stumble. Mumble something almost worthwhile to say.
Be almost important. The weather suits it today.
Death is around the corner and I have nothing
I have absolutely nothing
death is close and getting closer all the time
and I have absolutely nothing
and I have nothing and death
is getting absolutely closer, closer
and quicker and I have nothing
less and less and nothing at all to show
for my years and for my work
and for my effort, for my past
or for my future.
I can't sleep and I have absolutely nothing
and death seems so close and I can't sleep
and everything seems distant, getting further
quicker while death is close
and I have nothing.
I have nothing from the past to keep
nothing to show the future
nothing right now to hold on to
I am getting older and every year
goes by faster and I have nothing
and less, it seems, less and less
quicker and quicker I'm losing things
less and less all the time.
I have absolutely nothing and death
death is around the corner and I have nothing
and I have absolutely nothing and death
death is so near and there's nothing
else near and this room is empty except for death
and death fills this room and nothing else
and all I see when I look at anything in this room
is nothingness and death and everything
is worthless I am worthless and I have nothing
and I am nothing to anyone and no one
is anything to me and I have death in abundance
close and getting closer and nothing else
I have nothing, absolutely nothing
nothing I have absolutely
nothing I have
absolutely nothing
nothing, and death
is coming, death
and death is
and death
death
death
death
death
I have absolutely nothing
death is close and getting closer all the time
and I have absolutely nothing
and I have nothing and death
is getting absolutely closer, closer
and quicker and I have nothing
less and less and nothing at all to show
for my years and for my work
and for my effort, for my past
or for my future.
I can't sleep and I have absolutely nothing
and death seems so close and I can't sleep
and everything seems distant, getting further
quicker while death is close
and I have nothing.
I have nothing from the past to keep
nothing to show the future
nothing right now to hold on to
I am getting older and every year
goes by faster and I have nothing
and less, it seems, less and less
quicker and quicker I'm losing things
less and less all the time.
I have absolutely nothing and death
death is around the corner and I have nothing
and I have absolutely nothing and death
death is so near and there's nothing
else near and this room is empty except for death
and death fills this room and nothing else
and all I see when I look at anything in this room
is nothingness and death and everything
is worthless I am worthless and I have nothing
and I am nothing to anyone and no one
is anything to me and I have death in abundance
close and getting closer and nothing else
I have nothing, absolutely nothing
nothing I have absolutely
nothing I have
absolutely nothing
nothing, and death
is coming, death
and death is
and death
death
death
death
death
I don't see any way out.
Tangled like a guileless slave with the belief
that I deserve to be where I am, serve
those who are used to being served, but not as well
not quite as well as they're accustomed to.
So start the derisions, so start the beatings.
From every one I learned a lesson,
I swear, even if I make the same mistakes again
even if I show no sign of understanding.
There are too many stars in the sky
for me to begin to define what a star is.
There are too many fish in the ocean
for me to catch one, flay it, study its anatomy
to begin to catalogue them one by one would be to kowtow
to the immensity of life.
Save that for my masters, who have nothing else
to bow to. I haven't got the strength left in me.
I don't see any way out
because the innumerable winding paths
blur into an impenetrable fog.
Tangled like a guileless slave with the belief
that I deserve to be where I am, serve
those who are used to being served, but not as well
not quite as well as they're accustomed to.
So start the derisions, so start the beatings.
From every one I learned a lesson,
I swear, even if I make the same mistakes again
even if I show no sign of understanding.
There are too many stars in the sky
for me to begin to define what a star is.
There are too many fish in the ocean
for me to catch one, flay it, study its anatomy
to begin to catalogue them one by one would be to kowtow
to the immensity of life.
Save that for my masters, who have nothing else
to bow to. I haven't got the strength left in me.
I don't see any way out
because the innumerable winding paths
blur into an impenetrable fog.
As terrifying as it is real,
as real as it is boring
cup after cup, the days go
by, weather changing outside the city,
inside is only slow decay, the scattering
and then regathering of dust and thoughts.
I can't percieve in my small way
the tiny ways in which
everything I see is either growing
or falling apart,
and the simple knowledge that it goes on happening anyway
bores and terrifies me, as I am bored and terrified by
television, genocide, and people.
There is no danger in lightning,
but I hear it crackle constantly.
There is no danger in poison,
yet my food and drink taste tainted.
There is no danger in betrayal
and yet seething torrents of love and hate
mash together in the currents of the sky.
As terrifying as it is real,
as real as it is boring,
I make sandwich after sandwich,
drinking coffee all the while
past the time it takes to think every thought
past the time it takes to bore of every person
past the time it takes to overcome all fear
past the time it takes to wear out all of my sarcastic smiles.
as real as it is boring
cup after cup, the days go
by, weather changing outside the city,
inside is only slow decay, the scattering
and then regathering of dust and thoughts.
I can't percieve in my small way
the tiny ways in which
everything I see is either growing
or falling apart,
and the simple knowledge that it goes on happening anyway
bores and terrifies me, as I am bored and terrified by
television, genocide, and people.
There is no danger in lightning,
but I hear it crackle constantly.
There is no danger in poison,
yet my food and drink taste tainted.
There is no danger in betrayal
and yet seething torrents of love and hate
mash together in the currents of the sky.
As terrifying as it is real,
as real as it is boring,
I make sandwich after sandwich,
drinking coffee all the while
past the time it takes to think every thought
past the time it takes to bore of every person
past the time it takes to overcome all fear
past the time it takes to wear out all of my sarcastic smiles.
terror and hatred, hatred and terror
not explosions in my mind, there is no
Hiroshima in my mind, there is only the slow march
of a war that is a real war,
that is give and take of ground, starving out,
trench-foot, beating with a rifle butt
because there's no steel left for ammo, one
particular general, well known, skins
his victims with a fishing knife,
there are famous ones like him who stand around
like books for their complexity of meaning,
spots to focus on. But there are also the faceless thousands
writhing and dying or living in hopeless fear
or dead already, their families dragged
across the mire and raped.
terror and hatred, hatred and terror
and every false respite condenses the world that much more
brings the war that much closer, makes it real.
Until I do believe, finally,
that we are all monsters, and yet
we are all victims, and yet
we have no say in anything we do.
And that anyone who doesn't think those things are true
it's only because they never think at all.
not explosions in my mind, there is no
Hiroshima in my mind, there is only the slow march
of a war that is a real war,
that is give and take of ground, starving out,
trench-foot, beating with a rifle butt
because there's no steel left for ammo, one
particular general, well known, skins
his victims with a fishing knife,
there are famous ones like him who stand around
like books for their complexity of meaning,
spots to focus on. But there are also the faceless thousands
writhing and dying or living in hopeless fear
or dead already, their families dragged
across the mire and raped.
terror and hatred, hatred and terror
and every false respite condenses the world that much more
brings the war that much closer, makes it real.
Until I do believe, finally,
that we are all monsters, and yet
we are all victims, and yet
we have no say in anything we do.
And that anyone who doesn't think those things are true
it's only because they never think at all.
Last night Salmacis entered my dream
and whispered many things to me
that I can remember just well enough
to be unable to repeat.
It wouldn't be fair to say I've been waiting for her
though I was starved, and she offered food,
and I was tired, and she offered rest,
and nothing in this world could compare, drought of droughts,
with the way her vagina satisfied me.
Today I trimmed my hair, deactivated my facebook account
and wrote a poem that makes me a little uncomfortable to read.
Is it the language? The juxtaposition of symbols?
Nevermind. My life is slipping away, the years collapse
and I am covered in dust and regret. I don't know what to hope for.
I've felt this way before. A series of girls coaxed me away
from feeling suicidal, yet so afraid of death I couldn't breathe.
Now, again, I lay awake at night
trying to draw a circle around eternity
so that it won't keep me awake a second longer.
Now I feel that life is a part of eternity, as well as death,
and so this moment is conceptually no different
from the third hour of the fourth evening of the eight hundred
and thirtieth year after my death, to me or to anyone else.
I have cut the comfort of conversation, alienated myself from the girl I love
because it is precisely that comfort that has made this darkness come.
Salmacis, you horrible monster, come back
I hate you, and that hatred helps me sleep.
and whispered many things to me
that I can remember just well enough
to be unable to repeat.
It wouldn't be fair to say I've been waiting for her
though I was starved, and she offered food,
and I was tired, and she offered rest,
and nothing in this world could compare, drought of droughts,
with the way her vagina satisfied me.
Today I trimmed my hair, deactivated my facebook account
and wrote a poem that makes me a little uncomfortable to read.
Is it the language? The juxtaposition of symbols?
Nevermind. My life is slipping away, the years collapse
and I am covered in dust and regret. I don't know what to hope for.
I've felt this way before. A series of girls coaxed me away
from feeling suicidal, yet so afraid of death I couldn't breathe.
Now, again, I lay awake at night
trying to draw a circle around eternity
so that it won't keep me awake a second longer.
Now I feel that life is a part of eternity, as well as death,
and so this moment is conceptually no different
from the third hour of the fourth evening of the eight hundred
and thirtieth year after my death, to me or to anyone else.
I have cut the comfort of conversation, alienated myself from the girl I love
because it is precisely that comfort that has made this darkness come.
Salmacis, you horrible monster, come back
I hate you, and that hatred helps me sleep.
589 revisited
Suddenly
our eyes are almost touching
we can't close them, no
that kind of violence would be
unforgivable
and we would never trade
this closeness for
the ability to see, for focus, we
would rather stutter over
the soft shapes
semi-reflections and shimmerings
the wavering pupils, searching
for the joy of searching.
We would much rather stare than see, and we
would never give up
feeling (or being) this close
to each others' eyes (or to each other)
to be able to see (or comprehend) one another, yet
every day we do, and every day;
Is it the distance? Is it our growing
recognition? I don't know, but every day
your eyes seem less like portals, more like jewels.
our eyes are almost touching
we can't close them, no
that kind of violence would be
unforgivable
and we would never trade
this closeness for
the ability to see, for focus, we
would rather stutter over
the soft shapes
semi-reflections and shimmerings
the wavering pupils, searching
for the joy of searching.
We would much rather stare than see, and we
would never give up
feeling (or being) this close
to each others' eyes (or to each other)
to be able to see (or comprehend) one another, yet
every day we do, and every day;
Is it the distance? Is it our growing
recognition? I don't know, but every day
your eyes seem less like portals, more like jewels.
The internet is a horrible distraction.
Where was I? Have I come here again
to list, like an accountant,
the things I believe opposite those I don't
add, subtract, quantify somehow
their effects, and who's to blame?
Get me away from this horrible form of expression!
I realize that I'm only writing these obscure
personal, transcendental (which is another word for simple)
and repetitive odes because the information
is close at hand, and it doesn't take long
to jot them down. It is, in short,
a bad habit, which I use because I'm out of practice
and indolent, and this interstice
can only be ended by force of will.
But the internet is a horrible distraction,
and people are a horrible distraction
and I am a horrible distraction.
Where was I? On this blank sheet of paper,
wandering again. Drawing idly with a branch
tossing stones, knuckle deep in gravel,
grass around my toes, air runs through my skull,
and I do think I'm freer here
than in an actual wilderness, and more at home
here than in my actual home.
I just need to clean house. Mark my territory.
Lay claim without laying waste, return
as a king returning from a war, and unload
all these treasures and turn them into wealth.
Where was I? Have I come here again
to list, like an accountant,
the things I believe opposite those I don't
add, subtract, quantify somehow
their effects, and who's to blame?
Get me away from this horrible form of expression!
I realize that I'm only writing these obscure
personal, transcendental (which is another word for simple)
and repetitive odes because the information
is close at hand, and it doesn't take long
to jot them down. It is, in short,
a bad habit, which I use because I'm out of practice
and indolent, and this interstice
can only be ended by force of will.
But the internet is a horrible distraction,
and people are a horrible distraction
and I am a horrible distraction.
Where was I? On this blank sheet of paper,
wandering again. Drawing idly with a branch
tossing stones, knuckle deep in gravel,
grass around my toes, air runs through my skull,
and I do think I'm freer here
than in an actual wilderness, and more at home
here than in my actual home.
I just need to clean house. Mark my territory.
Lay claim without laying waste, return
as a king returning from a war, and unload
all these treasures and turn them into wealth.
Tonight, only you can calm me
your voice, your words, it must be you.
why am I so picky?
By the morning it will be
someone strange, someone new.
why am I so fickle?
Can no one person satisfy me
just for a month, just for a week or two?
why am I so sickly?
There is something seriously wrong, that
I've never doubted. I just can't decide
if it's in me or in the world, this disease.
My friends claim there isn't a difference.
My friends are idiots.
The symptoms may be the same
but the cures are polar opposites.
Do I change the world, or allow the world
to change me? There is of course some middle ground:
what my friends call sanity.
your voice, your words, it must be you.
why am I so picky?
By the morning it will be
someone strange, someone new.
why am I so fickle?
Can no one person satisfy me
just for a month, just for a week or two?
why am I so sickly?
There is something seriously wrong, that
I've never doubted. I just can't decide
if it's in me or in the world, this disease.
My friends claim there isn't a difference.
My friends are idiots.
The symptoms may be the same
but the cures are polar opposites.
Do I change the world, or allow the world
to change me? There is of course some middle ground:
what my friends call sanity.
Have mercy upon us, O LORD, have mercy,
for we have had more than enough of contempt,
Too much of the scorn of the indolent rich,
and of the derision of the proud.
I have made way through dirt and dirty things
towards a light that buries with its weight
the bones and stones of the living,
as the dirt of the abbey buries the dead.
Light so thick it could be swum like water
if my arms were not weak to the point of uselessness.
If my legs were not worn to the point of breaking.
If my soul were not heavy with dirt and dirty things.
It tangles through my skull freely as wind
there are times I feel it must be pulled out, and so I pull
often it takes some little grime with it, and drifts upward again.
Once it took a piece of my brain, a little one,
on accident, I'm sure. I'm sure I could have retrieved it, too,
if I wasn't in so much pain.
I think that the light is playing with me
in the absentminded way that children play.
So make my way back, heavy-hearted, scorned
by my own expectations, my own weight.
Make my way back through dirt and dirty things
towards a light that is light and buries nothing.
for we have had more than enough of contempt,
Too much of the scorn of the indolent rich,
and of the derision of the proud.
I have made way through dirt and dirty things
towards a light that buries with its weight
the bones and stones of the living,
as the dirt of the abbey buries the dead.
Light so thick it could be swum like water
if my arms were not weak to the point of uselessness.
If my legs were not worn to the point of breaking.
If my soul were not heavy with dirt and dirty things.
It tangles through my skull freely as wind
there are times I feel it must be pulled out, and so I pull
often it takes some little grime with it, and drifts upward again.
Once it took a piece of my brain, a little one,
on accident, I'm sure. I'm sure I could have retrieved it, too,
if I wasn't in so much pain.
I think that the light is playing with me
in the absentminded way that children play.
So make my way back, heavy-hearted, scorned
by my own expectations, my own weight.
Make my way back through dirt and dirty things
towards a light that is light and buries nothing.
I've made a lot of mistakes.
I don't know what I was doing.
The first time I thought it was ok.
The second time I couldn't help myself
after that I didn't think at all.
New Years Eve my mind exploded,
a pastiche of stories, none of them mine,
of the addict's overdose, the predator's plan,
the young man's mistakes, the cops' injustice,
the victim shrieking, but I was both the victim
and the murderer.
Yes I was the murderer, that night.
I hope I can't remember it, but I refuse to try.
Without beliefs, my mind would wander
without a home, I'd run my mouth
at anyone to get through another hour.
Overnight a thousand posters
bearing a face no one but I could recognize,
it didn't look like me, but it was me. It stared
cold, desolate, and it was me. But only I knew it was me.
Cold, desolate, it stared. I stared. It stared at me.
Every corner a grim reminder of something
too big to comprehend, some thousand intertwined mistakes
starting at birth, ending here, same old city,
but suddenly. Suddenly. Everywhere I look is me.
They're going to find me. I'm under all their noses,
and I killed their sweetheart, their friend, their Esme.
I'm under my own nose, and I smell like death.
Every corner a grim reminder, every grim corner a reminder
I've made a lot of mistakes, more than you'll ever know.
Now, now, once again, the hate rises in my throat
the hate rises like a wet warm stench
and I know where it must go. Where I must go;
I know the road well by now.
I don't know what I was doing.
The first time I thought it was ok.
The second time I couldn't help myself
after that I didn't think at all.
New Years Eve my mind exploded,
a pastiche of stories, none of them mine,
of the addict's overdose, the predator's plan,
the young man's mistakes, the cops' injustice,
the victim shrieking, but I was both the victim
and the murderer.
Yes I was the murderer, that night.
I hope I can't remember it, but I refuse to try.
Without beliefs, my mind would wander
without a home, I'd run my mouth
at anyone to get through another hour.
Overnight a thousand posters
bearing a face no one but I could recognize,
it didn't look like me, but it was me. It stared
cold, desolate, and it was me. But only I knew it was me.
Cold, desolate, it stared. I stared. It stared at me.
Every corner a grim reminder of something
too big to comprehend, some thousand intertwined mistakes
starting at birth, ending here, same old city,
but suddenly. Suddenly. Everywhere I look is me.
They're going to find me. I'm under all their noses,
and I killed their sweetheart, their friend, their Esme.
I'm under my own nose, and I smell like death.
Every corner a grim reminder, every grim corner a reminder
I've made a lot of mistakes, more than you'll ever know.
Now, now, once again, the hate rises in my throat
the hate rises like a wet warm stench
and I know where it must go. Where I must go;
I know the road well by now.
wasted love there was no love feel sad but do not hope
others might feel sad for you, not on this occasion.
The walls are cracked, the ceiling cracked, spiders
dart into the kitchen for a drink, such is our atmosphere
of chill and calm so severe that we notice every
minor inconvenience, every speck of decay, and so
of course your loss seems large from where we are.
Yet the curse of man (or the one I'm most concerned with)
is the ability to see beyond what he can see, and there
I've spoken to you of the children of God -- I'm trying
to drop that religious moniker, they're so much more than that.
The children of God will say what a good thing it was
that this little bit of wasted love was wasted.
You know they're my invention, and I have to side with them.
Did I say they were my invention? No, I only gave them a name.
Come to think of it, you might be one of them.
What was I saying? Something about love, something about
the people I admire... Oh well, just don't expect me
to feel sorry for you today. You know how stubborn I am
(moral, in my opinion, and that makes a difference)
and how loyal. Feeling sad for you now
would be an insult to your strength, and to my sadness.
others might feel sad for you, not on this occasion.
The walls are cracked, the ceiling cracked, spiders
dart into the kitchen for a drink, such is our atmosphere
of chill and calm so severe that we notice every
minor inconvenience, every speck of decay, and so
of course your loss seems large from where we are.
Yet the curse of man (or the one I'm most concerned with)
is the ability to see beyond what he can see, and there
I've spoken to you of the children of God -- I'm trying
to drop that religious moniker, they're so much more than that.
The children of God will say what a good thing it was
that this little bit of wasted love was wasted.
You know they're my invention, and I have to side with them.
Did I say they were my invention? No, I only gave them a name.
Come to think of it, you might be one of them.
What was I saying? Something about love, something about
the people I admire... Oh well, just don't expect me
to feel sorry for you today. You know how stubborn I am
(moral, in my opinion, and that makes a difference)
and how loyal. Feeling sad for you now
would be an insult to your strength, and to my sadness.
In the bible God is defined as a human system.
One of those systems we've created, that is,
that appeared at a fixed time by our own ingenuity
and yet describe and contain all of time
from our perception at least. In the beginning was the word;
mathematics, logic, and reason. From these we created
and maintain the sciences, physics, society;
in short, we created the world.
And after creating it, it had always existed.
The name God is nothing but an anachronism, but
it may yet serve a purpose. For this form of creation
that integrates into all creation, enriches
and redefines all creation, needs no name
yet has a thousand. Let God describe the feeling
of contemplating that contradiction.
Let God describe the unreasonable love of reason.
One of those systems we've created, that is,
that appeared at a fixed time by our own ingenuity
and yet describe and contain all of time
from our perception at least. In the beginning was the word;
mathematics, logic, and reason. From these we created
and maintain the sciences, physics, society;
in short, we created the world.
And after creating it, it had always existed.
The name God is nothing but an anachronism, but
it may yet serve a purpose. For this form of creation
that integrates into all creation, enriches
and redefines all creation, needs no name
yet has a thousand. Let God describe the feeling
of contemplating that contradiction.
Let God describe the unreasonable love of reason.
Had we not met entwined with that deeply colorful catalyst, that bleak and tiresome backdrop, that restaurant
we would not have spoken, would have never met at all. But there is something about that place that fosters friendship
especially among two souls inclined as ours. Had we not met at this specific moment, this specific month of my long life
you never would have thought that my intentions or my feelings lay more with my words than my (in)actions.
I do not love you, that you knew. Neither am I drawn to your slight white body. If I have a stake, any stake
in what you do and who you know, it's because of that old adage "don't speak to me of lovers with a broken heart,"
do you want to know what will really tear you apart? To share everything and nothing, to find a matching mind
(how closely matching? Not too close, but then that's half the point) and simply not to care as much as I had hoped.
Can we manage to maintain as we have, without change, without growth. without processing, or coming close
or drifting apart? Perhaps that wouldn't be anything new for you. It would be miraculous for me. Without a specific goal
I often let my habits fall from me. They don't stumble away out of disuse, I crumple them in a moment of hatred, festered
by the pseudomorph they make. With a goal, well it depends; the most common is to surpass that nebulous meaninglessness: friends.
In favor of what? Confidante, or lover, or brother, or even rival, I suppose. Let's not dwell on that, as I said,
my goal with you is to have no goal. Does that mean I've already failed? Not quite, it's far from paradoxical,
it's just complex. As you are. As I am. Don't presume to know me, even when I say you do. I'll try not to do the same to you.
I enjoy what we have, and that in and of itself is rare. So if I grab your ass, or play with your hair, don't turn around
and pity me, and wish you could obey, if only for my sanity. I don't want to fuck you, I just love that moment
(like stepping off a missing stair) when you change your tone, your stance, your stare.
we would not have spoken, would have never met at all. But there is something about that place that fosters friendship
especially among two souls inclined as ours. Had we not met at this specific moment, this specific month of my long life
you never would have thought that my intentions or my feelings lay more with my words than my (in)actions.
I do not love you, that you knew. Neither am I drawn to your slight white body. If I have a stake, any stake
in what you do and who you know, it's because of that old adage "don't speak to me of lovers with a broken heart,"
do you want to know what will really tear you apart? To share everything and nothing, to find a matching mind
(how closely matching? Not too close, but then that's half the point) and simply not to care as much as I had hoped.
Can we manage to maintain as we have, without change, without growth. without processing, or coming close
or drifting apart? Perhaps that wouldn't be anything new for you. It would be miraculous for me. Without a specific goal
I often let my habits fall from me. They don't stumble away out of disuse, I crumple them in a moment of hatred, festered
by the pseudomorph they make. With a goal, well it depends; the most common is to surpass that nebulous meaninglessness: friends.
In favor of what? Confidante, or lover, or brother, or even rival, I suppose. Let's not dwell on that, as I said,
my goal with you is to have no goal. Does that mean I've already failed? Not quite, it's far from paradoxical,
it's just complex. As you are. As I am. Don't presume to know me, even when I say you do. I'll try not to do the same to you.
I enjoy what we have, and that in and of itself is rare. So if I grab your ass, or play with your hair, don't turn around
and pity me, and wish you could obey, if only for my sanity. I don't want to fuck you, I just love that moment
(like stepping off a missing stair) when you change your tone, your stance, your stare.
Hey Satan, save me from this fate
I can't stand I really can't face myself
through writing, or in any other way
so use your minimum wage prisons,
ignite a lonely flame -- anything you can
to assuage my fear that I am myself
Satan, come, by any of your names.
Hey Dionysus, Happy Satan, like a fat Buddha
send me to sleep, or waking, I'll stare at walls
pretending to contemplate the little truths
within the little lies within the little lives
I deride so much I can't think on them at all.
Hey Jesus, Ascetic Satan, tell me that I
by denying myself art, ability,
am learning to accept the nature of nothingness,
of the world, of the unity of all.
Tell me to sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice
and hang my head above all others
in humility.
Hey Satan, if any being spawned from any religion
could have created them all, it is you. So I invoke
your silly name, your thousand forms, legs
of a docile goat, breath of a wise dragon
calm and waiting, contemplating
the nature of God.
I invoke you even though you are meaningless, and powerless.
Real meaning, real power, exists in abundance within me,
but I'm afraid to invoke myself. Help me.
I can't stand I really can't face myself
through writing, or in any other way
so use your minimum wage prisons,
ignite a lonely flame -- anything you can
to assuage my fear that I am myself
Satan, come, by any of your names.
Hey Dionysus, Happy Satan, like a fat Buddha
send me to sleep, or waking, I'll stare at walls
pretending to contemplate the little truths
within the little lies within the little lives
I deride so much I can't think on them at all.
Hey Jesus, Ascetic Satan, tell me that I
by denying myself art, ability,
am learning to accept the nature of nothingness,
of the world, of the unity of all.
Tell me to sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice
and hang my head above all others
in humility.
Hey Satan, if any being spawned from any religion
could have created them all, it is you. So I invoke
your silly name, your thousand forms, legs
of a docile goat, breath of a wise dragon
calm and waiting, contemplating
the nature of God.
I invoke you even though you are meaningless, and powerless.
Real meaning, real power, exists in abundance within me,
but I'm afraid to invoke myself. Help me.
I feel that today is a day
when the beauty of a million little things
must be reaffirmed -- but
right now I can't seem to think of them
can only sense a muddled collective
like the glitter of the sun on speckled streets.
deeper within, I know, we all know,
that these things must reaffirm themselves
that worry isn't something kept inside us
but an emotional static that penetrates the town.
The child who can't bring himself to bathe
the woman who is singing painful songs
in a voice that's on the edge of ecstasy
the child wrist deep in mud and gravel
the man whose life is not slipping away
every flower is a soldier in their army
every raindrop is a footstep in their march
every smile is a bullet in their weapons
and they pierce us all directly through the heart.
look up to the terrifying heavens
the stars beyond number, what do you think?
And each one host to several planets,
each planet host to something indistinct --
Infinity and eternity don't have to be the rocks
against which all our tiny heads will break
though they describe the inconceivable
in terms we understand perfectly - those of death -
they circumscribe enough immutable beauty
to weep with joy across their horrid breadth.
when the beauty of a million little things
must be reaffirmed -- but
right now I can't seem to think of them
can only sense a muddled collective
like the glitter of the sun on speckled streets.
deeper within, I know, we all know,
that these things must reaffirm themselves
that worry isn't something kept inside us
but an emotional static that penetrates the town.
The child who can't bring himself to bathe
the woman who is singing painful songs
in a voice that's on the edge of ecstasy
the child wrist deep in mud and gravel
the man whose life is not slipping away
every flower is a soldier in their army
every raindrop is a footstep in their march
every smile is a bullet in their weapons
and they pierce us all directly through the heart.
look up to the terrifying heavens
the stars beyond number, what do you think?
And each one host to several planets,
each planet host to something indistinct --
Infinity and eternity don't have to be the rocks
against which all our tiny heads will break
though they describe the inconceivable
in terms we understand perfectly - those of death -
they circumscribe enough immutable beauty
to weep with joy across their horrid breadth.
Panorama of Sylvia Claire is finally complete! I'm excited, even if I show no outward signs. I would like regular updates to resume from the point forward, but realistically I can't promise that. Good luck to both of us, eh?
I give myself to luck, on the banks
of the tumultuous chasm where random chance
by force of numbers becomes certainty
and certainty, by weakness, becomes death.
As every weakness, every certainty must
eventually become death to an extremist
a philosopher, or a victim of depression.
I give myself to luck, knowing this,
and into the chasm I tumble again
because every decent moment in my life
was on that climb.
of the tumultuous chasm where random chance
by force of numbers becomes certainty
and certainty, by weakness, becomes death.
As every weakness, every certainty must
eventually become death to an extremist
a philosopher, or a victim of depression.
I give myself to luck, knowing this,
and into the chasm I tumble again
because every decent moment in my life
was on that climb.
Some people need to be tempered in the elements, like a sword.
Others need to be tempered by emotion, the slow wilt
of a directionless love, the ghostly thunderhead
of dissatisfaction, of hate for one's governors
and the lies of the state, necessarily peppered
by the swift, intense rain of love for one's people.
Some need to be tempered by words, and never leave the library,
which is the universe. Some need to be tempered by warmth, and inaction,
like an egg. Some need to be tempered by harsh critique
and pure rejection, and if they ever get their way
they become soft and docile and useless.
Most of us will never be tempered at all,
if only because we haven't found our way.
We will be called the ignorant masses,
the lazy, fawning aristocrats, the Nazi army.
Of course to some extent it's true --
but don't dwell on that, it's only the nature
of those without the courage to enter the forge
to follow one who has come and gone from it.
And it's only the nature of a man subsumed in fire
to rage against those who aren't in pain.
Others need to be tempered by emotion, the slow wilt
of a directionless love, the ghostly thunderhead
of dissatisfaction, of hate for one's governors
and the lies of the state, necessarily peppered
by the swift, intense rain of love for one's people.
Some need to be tempered by words, and never leave the library,
which is the universe. Some need to be tempered by warmth, and inaction,
like an egg. Some need to be tempered by harsh critique
and pure rejection, and if they ever get their way
they become soft and docile and useless.
Most of us will never be tempered at all,
if only because we haven't found our way.
We will be called the ignorant masses,
the lazy, fawning aristocrats, the Nazi army.
Of course to some extent it's true --
but don't dwell on that, it's only the nature
of those without the courage to enter the forge
to follow one who has come and gone from it.
And it's only the nature of a man subsumed in fire
to rage against those who aren't in pain.
Knowing me not at all, Orpheus sings
a song composed in his lonely repressing of reality,
expects me to be wooed, or won, or delighted
by the simple words, the simple melody
of a man whose worldview's blighted
by the image (not the truth) of me
Knowing the birds not at all, not a bit,
Orpheus sings his little diaries
as if they flew, or in any way divined
the rightful path of air through
the wrong-as-mortals sky.
Foolish carpenter, he builds
a table for human contentment, while
the hand of god designs an ugly, little thing
that seems to have no purpose, yet
can transform oil and ozone
into oxygen and water and light.
If I begin to sing, I open myself
up to that critical comparison, that
demonic inequality. Instead I weep
and weep and weep and weep
and hear his singing, and weep
and weep and weep.
a song composed in his lonely repressing of reality,
expects me to be wooed, or won, or delighted
by the simple words, the simple melody
of a man whose worldview's blighted
by the image (not the truth) of me
Knowing the birds not at all, not a bit,
Orpheus sings his little diaries
as if they flew, or in any way divined
the rightful path of air through
the wrong-as-mortals sky.
Foolish carpenter, he builds
a table for human contentment, while
the hand of god designs an ugly, little thing
that seems to have no purpose, yet
can transform oil and ozone
into oxygen and water and light.
If I begin to sing, I open myself
up to that critical comparison, that
demonic inequality. Instead I weep
and weep and weep and weep
and hear his singing, and weep
and weep and weep.
Woken up again, in a strange city.
By what, I don't know, but I'm in the basement
of a strange house in a strange city,
and I've woken at the same time every day here
for a month or so now. Walking the streets
at all hours of the day, I take notes
on the people I see, so I can faithfully repeat
that yes; people are the same everywhere you go.
Or that they aren't, because I think
that may be an important thing to know.
The air is different -- Rilke said
that all cities smell in Summer, well,
living in the middle of Texas,
in the age of machines, I never smelled anything
except on the coldest days of winter,
except in this city, and one I visited as a child.
Here the people are serious, the streets are all named
after presidents or trees, and the weather is mild.
Every little detail means so much to me, only because
the city is strange, so different, so similar,
and contains both the affirmation and the destruction
of everything I've ever known about life.
Honey rises from the street drains, until it drowns me.
This is their idea of punishment?
By what, I don't know, but I'm in the basement
of a strange house in a strange city,
and I've woken at the same time every day here
for a month or so now. Walking the streets
at all hours of the day, I take notes
on the people I see, so I can faithfully repeat
that yes; people are the same everywhere you go.
Or that they aren't, because I think
that may be an important thing to know.
The air is different -- Rilke said
that all cities smell in Summer, well,
living in the middle of Texas,
in the age of machines, I never smelled anything
except on the coldest days of winter,
except in this city, and one I visited as a child.
Here the people are serious, the streets are all named
after presidents or trees, and the weather is mild.
Every little detail means so much to me, only because
the city is strange, so different, so similar,
and contains both the affirmation and the destruction
of everything I've ever known about life.
Honey rises from the street drains, until it drowns me.
This is their idea of punishment?
I'd rather walk a thousand miles than watch you fawn over a douchebag
I'd rather drink my heart's content and drown it there and die
than spend a minute sober here, where the highway takes a steep dip down
perpendicular to the earth, and cars enter the ground.
than spend a second sober here, and try to meet your eyes
confidently or shyly, in a world not my own, not one
I would ever choose in a million billion years
to be born in, to see, to know about.
I've already seen the stars snuffed out, not one by one
like the men of the army of the revolution, but all at once
in a huff of light and smoke, like the jews of the holocaust.
If only the best minds of my generation had been destroyed by madness!
But they are so far from madness it's sickening!
Let us pay the price for faltering, in this sick world
seeing the roads set before us, the one
toward being a righteous man, the other
toward being a good man, and a third
toward being a happy man, and, for fear of missing out
or pigeon-holing, never take a step on any one!
The price for breaking with the eye of eternal vigilance
that is the only requirement for a sensible society,
and yet too steep, much too troublesome for us.
I'd rather walk a thousand miles than watch you fawn over a douchebag
not for your sake, not for any one's, I can't stand to be reminded
that I'm revolting, and I'm the only one,
that I'm the revolting one.
I'd rather drink my heart's content and drown it there and die
than spend a minute sober here, where the highway takes a steep dip down
perpendicular to the earth, and cars enter the ground.
than spend a second sober here, and try to meet your eyes
confidently or shyly, in a world not my own, not one
I would ever choose in a million billion years
to be born in, to see, to know about.
I've already seen the stars snuffed out, not one by one
like the men of the army of the revolution, but all at once
in a huff of light and smoke, like the jews of the holocaust.
If only the best minds of my generation had been destroyed by madness!
But they are so far from madness it's sickening!
Let us pay the price for faltering, in this sick world
seeing the roads set before us, the one
toward being a righteous man, the other
toward being a good man, and a third
toward being a happy man, and, for fear of missing out
or pigeon-holing, never take a step on any one!
The price for breaking with the eye of eternal vigilance
that is the only requirement for a sensible society,
and yet too steep, much too troublesome for us.
I'd rather walk a thousand miles than watch you fawn over a douchebag
not for your sake, not for any one's, I can't stand to be reminded
that I'm revolting, and I'm the only one,
that I'm the revolting one.
you know when you set out to remember something vividly, if you can,
and it comes back to you in the half-sensible parlance of dreams?
or worse, you mix it up with some movie you saw
and then you're really lost - you'll never get the damn thing straight
and what good are the loves of Katherine Hepburn
or anyone else when you've just lost yours for the second time?
Worse yet! to realize it was a dream,
you did dream it. Then you wake, and waking has a strange quality
as if you had just fallen asleep, and everything around seems false,
and you want nothing more than to return... to wake
but you won't, not until a few years pass
and memories have combined, in their happy way,
that which is real, and that which is fake. Of course
by then it's even more difficult to return --
and it was originally impossible, or nearly
but piece by piece a memory reforms. Concentrate.
Was the chair here? or there?
Quite right, there wasn't a chair at all.
Day or night? if you're inside, what's the point?
so scratch that. What else? Was she smiling?
Was she there? were you there? well, then where were you?
and the bum who spit words at you
was once the preacher who taught a young man you admire
the principles of story telling, who brought
a smug, senseless woman to the brink of pride,
who treats you like an insect, and is afraid to die.
And the moon! but no,
not the moon. Not the panorama of insects.
What then?
Not a face, but like a face remembered in a dream
when one has no body, no constrictions,
where you are not divided from the things you love
or the things you hate, but you are one in oblivion -- that face
that face seen from the inside of its body's belly
and that eye that contains the world.
and it comes back to you in the half-sensible parlance of dreams?
or worse, you mix it up with some movie you saw
and then you're really lost - you'll never get the damn thing straight
and what good are the loves of Katherine Hepburn
or anyone else when you've just lost yours for the second time?
Worse yet! to realize it was a dream,
you did dream it. Then you wake, and waking has a strange quality
as if you had just fallen asleep, and everything around seems false,
and you want nothing more than to return... to wake
but you won't, not until a few years pass
and memories have combined, in their happy way,
that which is real, and that which is fake. Of course
by then it's even more difficult to return --
and it was originally impossible, or nearly
but piece by piece a memory reforms. Concentrate.
Was the chair here? or there?
Quite right, there wasn't a chair at all.
Day or night? if you're inside, what's the point?
so scratch that. What else? Was she smiling?
Was she there? were you there? well, then where were you?
and the bum who spit words at you
was once the preacher who taught a young man you admire
the principles of story telling, who brought
a smug, senseless woman to the brink of pride,
who treats you like an insect, and is afraid to die.
And the moon! but no,
not the moon. Not the panorama of insects.
What then?
Not a face, but like a face remembered in a dream
when one has no body, no constrictions,
where you are not divided from the things you love
or the things you hate, but you are one in oblivion -- that face
that face seen from the inside of its body's belly
and that eye that contains the world.
I apologize for the lack of updates. I've been lazy. Panorama of Sylvia Claire is approaching its fifth draft, and though I feel most of it is ready, the beginning is not, and that's quite an important part. I increasingly feel as if I'm treading old ground here, but that is an unavoidable symptom of growing older, and can be made useful.
Cry not for our nation's dead
they shall not have died in vain,
let us look to the future instead.
The sons who've felt a soldier's dread
and seen their fathers bent by pain
cry not for our nation's dead.
The daughter's who've prayed and said
"The past dies too if you are slain --
let us look to the future instead!"
join their mothers in the flower bed
to busy the hands, busy the brain.
Cry not for our nation's dead
leaving their families; they never fled
but stood brave on some distant campaign!
Let us look to the future instead,
or better still the home front, where we're led
by gods of greed to war for their sick gain!
Cry not, for our nation's dead!
Let us look to the future instead.
they shall not have died in vain,
let us look to the future instead.
The sons who've felt a soldier's dread
and seen their fathers bent by pain
cry not for our nation's dead.
The daughter's who've prayed and said
"The past dies too if you are slain --
let us look to the future instead!"
join their mothers in the flower bed
to busy the hands, busy the brain.
Cry not for our nation's dead
leaving their families; they never fled
but stood brave on some distant campaign!
Let us look to the future instead,
or better still the home front, where we're led
by gods of greed to war for their sick gain!
Cry not, for our nation's dead!
Let us look to the future instead.
Who was it that said
everything real doesn't need us?
well, he made me feel
the penetrating all-reality of the things
around me, exactly how real
(that is, far too real) every single thing
I see now is.
yet it feels illusory, passive,
transient. Perhaps that's the way
that real things are, that everything
beautiful and lofty, everything great
is an invention of our feeble minds,
a dreamt-up comfort, a dreamt-up truth
(what is real isn't always what is true)
and it brings us such joy, such awe,
because it is both natural
and irrefutably ours --
everything real doesn't need us,
everything great relies on us completely, that is
knowing it doesn't need us, kneels and swears
allegiance anyway, out of respect, or love,
or some other sugary sentiment.
everything real doesn't need us?
well, he made me feel
the penetrating all-reality of the things
around me, exactly how real
(that is, far too real) every single thing
I see now is.
yet it feels illusory, passive,
transient. Perhaps that's the way
that real things are, that everything
beautiful and lofty, everything great
is an invention of our feeble minds,
a dreamt-up comfort, a dreamt-up truth
(what is real isn't always what is true)
and it brings us such joy, such awe,
because it is both natural
and irrefutably ours --
everything real doesn't need us,
everything great relies on us completely, that is
knowing it doesn't need us, kneels and swears
allegiance anyway, out of respect, or love,
or some other sugary sentiment.
I've done alright, I think, despite you.
Wish I could avoid your silencing palm,
wish you didn't shine so brightly
on weekends, at night, whenever I'm alone,
and need the broad darkness to guide me
home like an ocean, without reference, I could drift
and find direction without forcing it.
wish I could turn it on and off,
wish I could alter or hide it,
I've done alright, I think, at least
I know my faults (and everyone else's)
which is an ok place to be, at least
if you're no good at finding praises.
wish I could avoid speaking of it
wish I could not speak at all,
for the trouble I've caused, for the people
I've hurt, for the days I've sat panting
and clutching my heart. Achilles gave his ankle for it
Samson gave his hair. Every great man has his glory, has his fall.
Great women have their sons, and have their glory,
or at least their victories -- yet I can't think of one
at the moment who fell, except maybe Joan of Arc
(but let's face it, who didn't they burn in those days?)
wish I could forfeit this wavering voice
wish I could write for my time, and my life
instead of these songs that make no sense at all
and even their nonsense makes no sense at all
and even you must see what it's all worth
how little it's all worth
when the people you detest are more loved than you
and live longer and better lives, and all you have
to show for it are wishes, and doing alright.
Wish I could avoid your silencing palm,
wish you didn't shine so brightly
on weekends, at night, whenever I'm alone,
and need the broad darkness to guide me
home like an ocean, without reference, I could drift
and find direction without forcing it.
wish I could turn it on and off,
wish I could alter or hide it,
I've done alright, I think, at least
I know my faults (and everyone else's)
which is an ok place to be, at least
if you're no good at finding praises.
wish I could avoid speaking of it
wish I could not speak at all,
for the trouble I've caused, for the people
I've hurt, for the days I've sat panting
and clutching my heart. Achilles gave his ankle for it
Samson gave his hair. Every great man has his glory, has his fall.
Great women have their sons, and have their glory,
or at least their victories -- yet I can't think of one
at the moment who fell, except maybe Joan of Arc
(but let's face it, who didn't they burn in those days?)
wish I could forfeit this wavering voice
wish I could write for my time, and my life
instead of these songs that make no sense at all
and even their nonsense makes no sense at all
and even you must see what it's all worth
how little it's all worth
when the people you detest are more loved than you
and live longer and better lives, and all you have
to show for it are wishes, and doing alright.
If we haven't yet had enough, then we never will.
I for one am still complacent, and I think
will never learn a decent lesson, no matter what.
Poetry! When I've known from birth
that a handful of people have controlled the world
from dawn til dusk, and night is falling soon
and hard and fast, and I write poetry!
How self-indulgent, not even egocentric -- id-centric.
And idiotic. What is it the corporate monoliths have done?
Well, they started a war to make money for their
ammunition business (it sold guns to families, not just soldiers)
and they got government funding shifted that way
away from education, which they turned into a racket
by cycling textbooks for no reason at all.
This is only a fraction. They've monetized warmth,
food, shelter, knowledge, art, and love.
And we are complicit, and complacent, and for all
our petty moral squabbling, we are all equally so.
So. So. If we haven't had enough just yet, it's only because
No. We all have different reasons, there are too many to count.
I can only marvel, dumbstruck, at how well the founding fathers
emulated the states of Rome, and play
the fiddle as we fall.
I for one am still complacent, and I think
will never learn a decent lesson, no matter what.
Poetry! When I've known from birth
that a handful of people have controlled the world
from dawn til dusk, and night is falling soon
and hard and fast, and I write poetry!
How self-indulgent, not even egocentric -- id-centric.
And idiotic. What is it the corporate monoliths have done?
Well, they started a war to make money for their
ammunition business (it sold guns to families, not just soldiers)
and they got government funding shifted that way
away from education, which they turned into a racket
by cycling textbooks for no reason at all.
This is only a fraction. They've monetized warmth,
food, shelter, knowledge, art, and love.
And we are complicit, and complacent, and for all
our petty moral squabbling, we are all equally so.
So. So. If we haven't had enough just yet, it's only because
No. We all have different reasons, there are too many to count.
I can only marvel, dumbstruck, at how well the founding fathers
emulated the states of Rome, and play
the fiddle as we fall.
Fresh rosemary growing in a vacant lot
in the best of all possible worlds
tastes like something that can't be tasted
and I know that half
of the person standing on this dais
is a statue, and the other half is living,
but for the life of me I can't tell which.
If I could explain exactly what I felt
and then decode what that explanation meant
and then could communicate that cypher
to fresh rosemary growing in a vacant lot
along with like-a-nose, and posies
of forget-me-nots, if I could only
see every day what I see today
(because I do, in fact, and yet...)
but in the best of all possible worlds
miracles are nothing without novelty,
and 90% of us are slaves to poverty.
in the best of all possible worlds
tastes like something that can't be tasted
and I know that half
of the person standing on this dais
is a statue, and the other half is living,
but for the life of me I can't tell which.
If I could explain exactly what I felt
and then decode what that explanation meant
and then could communicate that cypher
to fresh rosemary growing in a vacant lot
along with like-a-nose, and posies
of forget-me-nots, if I could only
see every day what I see today
(because I do, in fact, and yet...)
but in the best of all possible worlds
miracles are nothing without novelty,
and 90% of us are slaves to poverty.
More than I've realized, my room is my sanctuary
and anyone unwelcome there is a nuisance to me.
There are many I would like to see, out and about,
at a bar or at a theater, many I would carry on my arm
and this, I think, wouldn't mean much. Even the other rooms
of my house, they don't belong to me, and don't mean much.
You're the only one I want in my room right now,
here where there is reality, where there are stakes,
where I'm alive. Will you come?
But I'm not here to ask that question!
Today, I only share desires, and by sharing
communicate, unite, in my own way --
the question means so much more, don't you think?
The moment of asking, the catalyst
between the instant and eternity, just as, leaving my room,
I leave the eternal stasis of solitude
for the momentary joys of transitory days
for the sole sake of the hope
that I can find some transitory thing
some contraband to bring back into this place
where things are able to remain.
and anyone unwelcome there is a nuisance to me.
There are many I would like to see, out and about,
at a bar or at a theater, many I would carry on my arm
and this, I think, wouldn't mean much. Even the other rooms
of my house, they don't belong to me, and don't mean much.
You're the only one I want in my room right now,
here where there is reality, where there are stakes,
where I'm alive. Will you come?
But I'm not here to ask that question!
Today, I only share desires, and by sharing
communicate, unite, in my own way --
the question means so much more, don't you think?
The moment of asking, the catalyst
between the instant and eternity, just as, leaving my room,
I leave the eternal stasis of solitude
for the momentary joys of transitory days
for the sole sake of the hope
that I can find some transitory thing
some contraband to bring back into this place
where things are able to remain.
High contrast sensation; electricity
in 2 billion colors lit beyond
the half-imagined truth of distant stars
and yet the sky, outside the window looks
brighter and more colorful and more electric.
Dive into the glittering trees.
Two hundred deaths and counting,
and counting only me.
This is the world
This is the world
This also is the world.
There is contrast on the screen, contrast too
between the screen and reality, and further contrast
between these two contrasts. This I can add,
this I have seen:
Darkness is easy, it's only one thing.
in 2 billion colors lit beyond
the half-imagined truth of distant stars
and yet the sky, outside the window looks
brighter and more colorful and more electric.
Dive into the glittering trees.
Two hundred deaths and counting,
and counting only me.
This is the world
This is the world
This also is the world.
There is contrast on the screen, contrast too
between the screen and reality, and further contrast
between these two contrasts. This I can add,
this I have seen:
Darkness is easy, it's only one thing.
oh yes I'll accept
this hokey corporate jewel -
sure, some doubts remain
but all my friends say
that it's exceptionally cool.
and what else might
an American patriot want?
A big advertisement to ride around
and hear from every man in town
damn that lucky, lively cunt!
Does this make me a bourgeoisie sympathizer?
Oh just take the gift, relentless scrutinizer.
this hokey corporate jewel -
sure, some doubts remain
but all my friends say
that it's exceptionally cool.
and what else might
an American patriot want?
A big advertisement to ride around
and hear from every man in town
damn that lucky, lively cunt!
Does this make me a bourgeoisie sympathizer?
Oh just take the gift, relentless scrutinizer.
And why, dear, aren't you published?
the doe asks, almost plaintively, although I know better
than to accuse her of that. Curiosity is, we know,
its own rhyme and reason, to be revered and not ignored.
I answer in the way unpublished poets do:
Ambition? Hah! If I had that, I would be king
of all the oceans, greater than Alexander
with his tiny world, I would hold all in my hand
like a savior or a tyrant!
Money? Feh! what need? I have all I want here.
A can of beans every other day, coffee and wine
every hour on the hour, enough left over
for a ticket to the theater, that is,
if I can't wriggle in for free.
Surely, though, I seek legitimacy? How can one be happy
writing in the dark, unsure of quality? How can one
define themselves that way? To this I say
I'm not quite sure. But I know poets, I've read
their magazines, and frankly
I don't think I could ever shove my head
that far up my own ass.
Better yet -- I have an answer that trumps all 3 of these!
I'm lazy, unmotivated and already half-asleep.
the doe asks, almost plaintively, although I know better
than to accuse her of that. Curiosity is, we know,
its own rhyme and reason, to be revered and not ignored.
I answer in the way unpublished poets do:
Ambition? Hah! If I had that, I would be king
of all the oceans, greater than Alexander
with his tiny world, I would hold all in my hand
like a savior or a tyrant!
Money? Feh! what need? I have all I want here.
A can of beans every other day, coffee and wine
every hour on the hour, enough left over
for a ticket to the theater, that is,
if I can't wriggle in for free.
Surely, though, I seek legitimacy? How can one be happy
writing in the dark, unsure of quality? How can one
define themselves that way? To this I say
I'm not quite sure. But I know poets, I've read
their magazines, and frankly
I don't think I could ever shove my head
that far up my own ass.
Better yet -- I have an answer that trumps all 3 of these!
I'm lazy, unmotivated and already half-asleep.
For the sake of drama let it rain --
to make meetings more romantic, partings
more bittersweet, days inside
more forced-upon than granted.
For the sake of tragedy let it snow --
to hide the dying hiker, and his calls
to cover the bulbs and the hatchets
and strip the trees. To chill the maiden's heart,
worsen the knight's disease.
What is the weather of comedy? Clear skies --
I can't see it any other way. The joker, after all,
doesn't notice the weather at all,
and so it should be with his audience.
To dally a bit in a scene without world,
with no trivialities in the way of the absurd.
Today the fog is thick as a brain's gray matter
and nothing like an emotion penetrates.
Our eyes nuzzle the air, as a sobbing child
nuzzles his mother's breast. Our mouths
itch towards a smile, but cannot make the leap.
And we recognize, without a hint of excitement
that some evil men are hording souls
and turning them to gold, and killing billions.
to make meetings more romantic, partings
more bittersweet, days inside
more forced-upon than granted.
For the sake of tragedy let it snow --
to hide the dying hiker, and his calls
to cover the bulbs and the hatchets
and strip the trees. To chill the maiden's heart,
worsen the knight's disease.
What is the weather of comedy? Clear skies --
I can't see it any other way. The joker, after all,
doesn't notice the weather at all,
and so it should be with his audience.
To dally a bit in a scene without world,
with no trivialities in the way of the absurd.
Today the fog is thick as a brain's gray matter
and nothing like an emotion penetrates.
Our eyes nuzzle the air, as a sobbing child
nuzzles his mother's breast. Our mouths
itch towards a smile, but cannot make the leap.
And we recognize, without a hint of excitement
that some evil men are hording souls
and turning them to gold, and killing billions.
"For all your yapping... Not one comment!
WHO are [you] writing for because as far as I can tell there's no one here!"
Ah the mark of the attention whore - here
I'll give you everything you crave.
To write in the void of heavens colliding
with tragedies in the mind of a lunatic - and trust me,
we are all lunatics - to write
between trees in the forest, crumple the pages of your notebook
and one by one leave them in piles of wet leaves.
To drag a pen through the sand on an empty beach
and throw oneself into the ocean.
To drink three liters of Gin and scream
poetry at the children falling from the balconies
that hang out over college campuses like clouds
over rivers in winter.
Poetry falls from the sky in one hundred degree weather
rises from ovens on a winter day -
it never graces the desolate plains of the internet
where demons and children play.
It cannot exist under the horrifying gaze
of more than one entity, as it can't exist
in more than one space, or at more than one time,
it is the indecipherable instant.
Seek it, it cannot be found.
Quickly seen it scurries quick away -
simply put, poetry does not exist
or seems so clearly not to
that it makes no difference.
As I do when I get my way.
WHO are [you] writing for because as far as I can tell there's no one here!"
Ah the mark of the attention whore - here
I'll give you everything you crave.
To write in the void of heavens colliding
with tragedies in the mind of a lunatic - and trust me,
we are all lunatics - to write
between trees in the forest, crumple the pages of your notebook
and one by one leave them in piles of wet leaves.
To drag a pen through the sand on an empty beach
and throw oneself into the ocean.
To drink three liters of Gin and scream
poetry at the children falling from the balconies
that hang out over college campuses like clouds
over rivers in winter.
Poetry falls from the sky in one hundred degree weather
rises from ovens on a winter day -
it never graces the desolate plains of the internet
where demons and children play.
It cannot exist under the horrifying gaze
of more than one entity, as it can't exist
in more than one space, or at more than one time,
it is the indecipherable instant.
Seek it, it cannot be found.
Quickly seen it scurries quick away -
simply put, poetry does not exist
or seems so clearly not to
that it makes no difference.
As I do when I get my way.
If I wanted to be the largest man --
I could. I don't know if I could be as charming as Hitler
or as saccharine as Disney,
but I could be large in my own way.
It's difficult to know our own size
I assume, based on the monsters
I see on the street. To know you have no right
to judge another person, that you deserve
absolutely nothing, and yet
should get more than you've been given.
It's very difficult to be alive
without ice cream and scotch and vagina.
And suddenly whenever I hear someone complain
about another's work, or claim
they're good enough at anything to be respected
all I can think is "Have you seen Michelangelo's David?
What's the big deal? My dick is like twice that big."
I could. I don't know if I could be as charming as Hitler
or as saccharine as Disney,
but I could be large in my own way.
It's difficult to know our own size
I assume, based on the monsters
I see on the street. To know you have no right
to judge another person, that you deserve
absolutely nothing, and yet
should get more than you've been given.
It's very difficult to be alive
without ice cream and scotch and vagina.
And suddenly whenever I hear someone complain
about another's work, or claim
they're good enough at anything to be respected
all I can think is "Have you seen Michelangelo's David?
What's the big deal? My dick is like twice that big."
plastic houses one by one
sink under the plastic sun
moving but inches every day
plastic people work and play
towards what goal, what end?
let us not pretend
they have one, or have thought
to instill one there is not.
Coins like secrets exchange hands
die-cast people make demands
and lies like coins are paid
to keep them pacified, dissuade
them from acting out in force
the terror of their die-cast course.
Plastic houses one by one
emptied by the work they've done
emptied and left that way;
left by life, left by decay
sterile as a patient under the knife
empty of decay, empty of life.
sink under the plastic sun
moving but inches every day
plastic people work and play
towards what goal, what end?
let us not pretend
they have one, or have thought
to instill one there is not.
Coins like secrets exchange hands
die-cast people make demands
and lies like coins are paid
to keep them pacified, dissuade
them from acting out in force
the terror of their die-cast course.
Plastic houses one by one
emptied by the work they've done
emptied and left that way;
left by life, left by decay
sterile as a patient under the knife
empty of decay, empty of life.
your heart is gold, cool and malleable,
how does it feel when someone close to you
bites into that sweet flesh to see if it's real?
close your chest, dear, I trust you.
your muscles are sore, your fingers fragile
and popping, your cushions of fat
melting in my hand like a cube of ice.
At this rate you will disappear.
at any rate, I've already forgotten you
once, and though just to say it makes me
unspeakably sad, I can't guarantee
I'll remember you this time.
All these little games you practice to keep you strong
have left you weak with exhaustion,
and powerless to stop me from consuming you.
You know as well as I do that
there's another muscle you should be exercising
your flesh gets stronger and stronger,
while under my cyanide breath
your heart becomes worn and muddied
and ready for extraction.
how does it feel when someone close to you
bites into that sweet flesh to see if it's real?
close your chest, dear, I trust you.
your muscles are sore, your fingers fragile
and popping, your cushions of fat
melting in my hand like a cube of ice.
At this rate you will disappear.
at any rate, I've already forgotten you
once, and though just to say it makes me
unspeakably sad, I can't guarantee
I'll remember you this time.
All these little games you practice to keep you strong
have left you weak with exhaustion,
and powerless to stop me from consuming you.
You know as well as I do that
there's another muscle you should be exercising
your flesh gets stronger and stronger,
while under my cyanide breath
your heart becomes worn and muddied
and ready for extraction.
dark clouds gather on the rim of the city
full of kids who aren't kids, adults
who aren't adults, and a thousand smiles
directionless, shapeless, happy and whole
as rain comes falling from the sky
sky sky, thunder peals like the line of bells
some foolhardy pilot propped on saturn's rings
and we hear saturn ringing constantly
but that wasn't what I meant to say
I sat down specifically to try and say
for once nothing about the sun or the rain
or the climate or the people or the sky
my brain, poor sore muscle
is rattled with sweat and wine
like the brain of an oracle
and my tarock pack and my tarot pack
and my tarocchi pack show numbers, their faces
erased, so that I can't tell
a sword from a rod from a coin from the world from the fool
perhaps it is the soft, white wood
that a coffin I saw once was made from
or the cold stainless steel that seems to decorate
every sterile restaurant in town,
collecting dust and grease and discontent
except for today. Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe every day, we'll see. and by see of course I mean
guess about relentlessly.
full of kids who aren't kids, adults
who aren't adults, and a thousand smiles
directionless, shapeless, happy and whole
as rain comes falling from the sky
sky sky, thunder peals like the line of bells
some foolhardy pilot propped on saturn's rings
and we hear saturn ringing constantly
but that wasn't what I meant to say
I sat down specifically to try and say
for once nothing about the sun or the rain
or the climate or the people or the sky
my brain, poor sore muscle
is rattled with sweat and wine
like the brain of an oracle
and my tarock pack and my tarot pack
and my tarocchi pack show numbers, their faces
erased, so that I can't tell
a sword from a rod from a coin from the world from the fool
perhaps it is the soft, white wood
that a coffin I saw once was made from
or the cold stainless steel that seems to decorate
every sterile restaurant in town,
collecting dust and grease and discontent
except for today. Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe every day, we'll see. and by see of course I mean
guess about relentlessly.
Hiding in a summer squash
the saintly mother of a long-depressed
hash-obsessed half-poetess
waxy, flamey, flickers lamely
trying to re-manifest
as light. Ghost mother, no need.
Your daughter wants no more of you,
she needs your strength, and when
you disappear she'll rifle through
her memories and discover her memories
and kill you again to grow stronger.
All this is necessary
to progress through a generation
through this coreless, stagnant universe.
This and more, and her and I
carving a summer squash in autumn.
She chatters with spasms of you
and professes all your secrets.
She expects I care because I love her,
well, I'm done mourning.
I'll make dinner from your pulp
joy from your carved shell, an off-kilter
holiday from your axle-true funeral.
That, more than caring, is what life means to me.
the saintly mother of a long-depressed
hash-obsessed half-poetess
waxy, flamey, flickers lamely
trying to re-manifest
as light. Ghost mother, no need.
Your daughter wants no more of you,
she needs your strength, and when
you disappear she'll rifle through
her memories and discover her memories
and kill you again to grow stronger.
All this is necessary
to progress through a generation
through this coreless, stagnant universe.
This and more, and her and I
carving a summer squash in autumn.
She chatters with spasms of you
and professes all your secrets.
She expects I care because I love her,
well, I'm done mourning.
I'll make dinner from your pulp
joy from your carved shell, an off-kilter
holiday from your axle-true funeral.
That, more than caring, is what life means to me.
I wonder if I've lost the ability to register tragedy.
I can't seem in my mind to make anything in this life matter
can only feel the barrage of moods
like an animal on LSD, I can scramble
towards meaning like a roach on his back in the bathroom sink
can scramble towards the sky, or at least
try not to drown
I see desolate, rainy beaches, or foreign deserts
where nothing survives, and think
if I could only go there, be there,
I could be inspired, fall
in love with the world again, but I couldn't. Or if
these are my desires, did I ever really stop loving it? perhaps
I'm only mystified by what my love's returned -
nothing new, nothing beautiful, nothing ugly.
As if I thought this were an exchange, an argument with life
but was only sacrificing love to some great, unchanging sky.
A white van passes by, a grackle flies past
I breathe through book-lungs
and watch the leaves turn brittle, delicate and brown
not from autumn, silent muse, but from a drought
no liquid could diffuse, a van whiter
than anything in nature passes by, the driver
never noticing a world exists outside.
I can't seem in my mind to make anything in this life matter
can only feel the barrage of moods
like an animal on LSD, I can scramble
towards meaning like a roach on his back in the bathroom sink
can scramble towards the sky, or at least
try not to drown
I see desolate, rainy beaches, or foreign deserts
where nothing survives, and think
if I could only go there, be there,
I could be inspired, fall
in love with the world again, but I couldn't. Or if
these are my desires, did I ever really stop loving it? perhaps
I'm only mystified by what my love's returned -
nothing new, nothing beautiful, nothing ugly.
As if I thought this were an exchange, an argument with life
but was only sacrificing love to some great, unchanging sky.
A white van passes by, a grackle flies past
I breathe through book-lungs
and watch the leaves turn brittle, delicate and brown
not from autumn, silent muse, but from a drought
no liquid could diffuse, a van whiter
than anything in nature passes by, the driver
never noticing a world exists outside.
too much fire, too much sleep,
elemental dissonance, the shocked desire
disruptive alchemy in the cleavage of a new-age god
7 arms inside her, and a hack beatnik
designed her for just this kind of new-stupidity.
yesterday a song grew stronger
twice the size of a New York monster
stomped around the avenues of my heart, where
voluptuous candy-mouthed maidens sang
little tyrant songs, his children and his enemies,
and crushed and arooed in the way mad monsters do.
I wish I could dispute it - liver-death
pickled thymus, a beating red soursop with a stony village on top
I wish simply not to know. And see the sun
like a prehistoric man, fire-in-the-sky
day-lantern, god-ball, radiant sun.
Watch food and shelter and pain and sorrow
shoot from the earth in incomprehensible forms
pole, or leaf, or great yellow spikes around a sulfurous smelling orb
and feel that magic, know that fear, and yet
crush that magic and that fear in your hand like a dollar bill
not to smile at it, not for any reason. Just to feel.
Because these are the tools of our work, and no sane man reveres his tools.
elemental dissonance, the shocked desire
disruptive alchemy in the cleavage of a new-age god
7 arms inside her, and a hack beatnik
designed her for just this kind of new-stupidity.
yesterday a song grew stronger
twice the size of a New York monster
stomped around the avenues of my heart, where
voluptuous candy-mouthed maidens sang
little tyrant songs, his children and his enemies,
and crushed and arooed in the way mad monsters do.
I wish I could dispute it - liver-death
pickled thymus, a beating red soursop with a stony village on top
I wish simply not to know. And see the sun
like a prehistoric man, fire-in-the-sky
day-lantern, god-ball, radiant sun.
Watch food and shelter and pain and sorrow
shoot from the earth in incomprehensible forms
pole, or leaf, or great yellow spikes around a sulfurous smelling orb
and feel that magic, know that fear, and yet
crush that magic and that fear in your hand like a dollar bill
not to smile at it, not for any reason. Just to feel.
Because these are the tools of our work, and no sane man reveres his tools.
The duck is not allowed to make a sound.
In this heat, he hides beneath a bridge
and quacks like meteors sound in my skull
cratering my chewing gum brain.
No one may speak! Sun!
how dare you shine on me?
come down this instant, you monster!
Why, where would you be without me, duck?
Dying by the dozens in an ocean of muck.
And you, oh great and cynical sun?
shining like a magma flow, on nothing, on no one.
Yet do you show the slightest gratitude?
Hah! You throw it back in my face, you argue
and spit ale and chunks of meat across the room
shouting in your best barbarian voice
that I know nothing, while you feast
and feast on things I've left untouched for you
Oceans, valleys, useless beautiful things
you seem to treasure so much, idiotic ingrates!
Choke, go ahead, sun, choke on being seen.
Duck! Quack one more time, I dare you!
We'll see how you like a philips head screwdriver
inside that wonky corkscrew vagina!
This is my Earth, my home,
you wear out your welcome quickly
arrogant beasts, idle, thankless beings!
My world! My Earth!
Don't you dare ignore me.
In this heat, he hides beneath a bridge
and quacks like meteors sound in my skull
cratering my chewing gum brain.
No one may speak! Sun!
how dare you shine on me?
come down this instant, you monster!
Why, where would you be without me, duck?
Dying by the dozens in an ocean of muck.
And you, oh great and cynical sun?
shining like a magma flow, on nothing, on no one.
Yet do you show the slightest gratitude?
Hah! You throw it back in my face, you argue
and spit ale and chunks of meat across the room
shouting in your best barbarian voice
that I know nothing, while you feast
and feast on things I've left untouched for you
Oceans, valleys, useless beautiful things
you seem to treasure so much, idiotic ingrates!
Choke, go ahead, sun, choke on being seen.
Duck! Quack one more time, I dare you!
We'll see how you like a philips head screwdriver
inside that wonky corkscrew vagina!
This is my Earth, my home,
you wear out your welcome quickly
arrogant beasts, idle, thankless beings!
My world! My Earth!
Don't you dare ignore me.
violent Viola, tuned by the deaf matron
to perfect pitch, I almost have the urge
to destroy it, not quite out of fear
of her perfection, or even fear of all I lack
and will always lack, not fear of perfect music drifting from
the arms of a woman without hands, while I
dumbly stutter over strings that twist and snap,
wrenching notes from the source of sound
like a raccoon cornered, trapped, and wrenching
sounds like lengths of intestine from his gut.
No, those fears are meaningless, unfounded.
I have the urge to destroy this the same way
I would destroy any miracle in reach.
If I had discovered the rosetta stone
I would have scarred its surface, and shattered it.
I can see it now, tired from the journey
walking through the ruins of pompeii
placing dinosaur bones here or there, and keys
and sitting down with a pot of coffee at a table
where a woman dead for thousands of years still sits
and waiting for another explorer to come, I'll turn, and say
"Oh, I didn't see you come in."
And pour hot coffee down the pillar's throat
as I would poor acid down the deaf matron's
to scar something miraculous in the name
of making it seem more miraculous, when I only
want to punish their dumb luck.
to perfect pitch, I almost have the urge
to destroy it, not quite out of fear
of her perfection, or even fear of all I lack
and will always lack, not fear of perfect music drifting from
the arms of a woman without hands, while I
dumbly stutter over strings that twist and snap,
wrenching notes from the source of sound
like a raccoon cornered, trapped, and wrenching
sounds like lengths of intestine from his gut.
No, those fears are meaningless, unfounded.
I have the urge to destroy this the same way
I would destroy any miracle in reach.
If I had discovered the rosetta stone
I would have scarred its surface, and shattered it.
I can see it now, tired from the journey
walking through the ruins of pompeii
placing dinosaur bones here or there, and keys
and sitting down with a pot of coffee at a table
where a woman dead for thousands of years still sits
and waiting for another explorer to come, I'll turn, and say
"Oh, I didn't see you come in."
And pour hot coffee down the pillar's throat
as I would poor acid down the deaf matron's
to scar something miraculous in the name
of making it seem more miraculous, when I only
want to punish their dumb luck.
In this part of the country, where the withered oil-stalks
fool the grass to wither, pushing early summers
and late summers and long summers,
the hedge-apples and the roses are indistinguishable.
Sentimental people like to say that if you
give a lady one of these roses, her hands will bleed
even if you pick off every thorn. They can't tell
much difference between people and pincushions anyway.
Yeah, this last month has been long and white,
day and night reaching into each other, and everything
looks pretty much the same. Whiskey and water,
sun and rain. In this part of the country, to be both trite
and content with triteness, love and hate seem much the same.
It's too hot to get close, trying to yell
is liable to make you suffocate. Only a cold brown ale
shows any emotion at all, sweating under our dead weight
sparkling like an auburn eye, bubbling like
an autumn laugh. The trees won't change colors this year,
they won't even sprout leaves. But you'll know
summer's ending when the line of old cars turn
from grey steel to red-orange rust
and fireflies light dances in their chassis.
fool the grass to wither, pushing early summers
and late summers and long summers,
the hedge-apples and the roses are indistinguishable.
Sentimental people like to say that if you
give a lady one of these roses, her hands will bleed
even if you pick off every thorn. They can't tell
much difference between people and pincushions anyway.
Yeah, this last month has been long and white,
day and night reaching into each other, and everything
looks pretty much the same. Whiskey and water,
sun and rain. In this part of the country, to be both trite
and content with triteness, love and hate seem much the same.
It's too hot to get close, trying to yell
is liable to make you suffocate. Only a cold brown ale
shows any emotion at all, sweating under our dead weight
sparkling like an auburn eye, bubbling like
an autumn laugh. The trees won't change colors this year,
they won't even sprout leaves. But you'll know
summer's ending when the line of old cars turn
from grey steel to red-orange rust
and fireflies light dances in their chassis.
tonight I saw a golden stream of light
spread across the blue-green world
and noticed, for the first time,
strangers eyes, and the rain of leaves
that preceded autumn this year by a lifetime
what lifetime? The life I lived
by your side, in your arms, the years
we spent together, married, kids,
all that tragic cliche crap we somehow
took seriously, even relished in
the beauty of the too-often repeated play.
The lifetime that began and ended in a single hour.
Divorced from you by a kind of death
I've become terribly familiar with,
I know the world saw a splash of divinity
across the never-ending sky that unites us all
unites us, suffering, desiring, all,
and tried my best to smile knowing
you aren't special, and neither am I.
spread across the blue-green world
and noticed, for the first time,
strangers eyes, and the rain of leaves
that preceded autumn this year by a lifetime
what lifetime? The life I lived
by your side, in your arms, the years
we spent together, married, kids,
all that tragic cliche crap we somehow
took seriously, even relished in
the beauty of the too-often repeated play.
The lifetime that began and ended in a single hour.
Divorced from you by a kind of death
I've become terribly familiar with,
I know the world saw a splash of divinity
across the never-ending sky that unites us all
unites us, suffering, desiring, all,
and tried my best to smile knowing
you aren't special, and neither am I.
there's nothing worse in this world than a poet.
always exalting in that lame way they exalt,
never stopping to have fun and just have fun
with a beer and the bass and warm body
grinding against them in the dark, strikingly dark
and youthful house of a summer afternoon.
feh, it's so difficult to believe in anything
or say I do for even a minute.
come, come, let us whisper of the tendrils of the beast
who devours our world, piece by piece.
Will he listen? Not like a king - I can't imagine
him listening that way. No, he will listen rapt
and wondering at all the big words we choose to use
and why we choose them, and he will marvel
as a child marvels at the things we do,
the beliefs we seem to cherish, and why?
He can't tell. As the teenage dancers can't tell
there is more than the rough tumbling of bass
and the jagged unconsciousness of drugs, and will dance
in a sexually stunted, awkward dance
and go home and weep about the times they didn't cum.
No, I definitely think there's nothing worse
in this world than a poet. Who is useful only to other poets,
and who feels only anger at people who aren't.
and writes his little chastising remarks
on tissue paper and leaves them in the rain.
always exalting in that lame way they exalt,
never stopping to have fun and just have fun
with a beer and the bass and warm body
grinding against them in the dark, strikingly dark
and youthful house of a summer afternoon.
feh, it's so difficult to believe in anything
or say I do for even a minute.
come, come, let us whisper of the tendrils of the beast
who devours our world, piece by piece.
Will he listen? Not like a king - I can't imagine
him listening that way. No, he will listen rapt
and wondering at all the big words we choose to use
and why we choose them, and he will marvel
as a child marvels at the things we do,
the beliefs we seem to cherish, and why?
He can't tell. As the teenage dancers can't tell
there is more than the rough tumbling of bass
and the jagged unconsciousness of drugs, and will dance
in a sexually stunted, awkward dance
and go home and weep about the times they didn't cum.
No, I definitely think there's nothing worse
in this world than a poet. Who is useful only to other poets,
and who feels only anger at people who aren't.
and writes his little chastising remarks
on tissue paper and leaves them in the rain.
More birds than people here
eating scraps
of pesto, sushi rice, fair trade coffee
feathers sleek as a photograph
eyes quick and wide
as a hypochondriac's
In this haven we act
as human cornucopias & they
take advantage of us, as if
we were their mothers
as we feed them, bathe them,
keep away their predators
and think nothing of it, their
paradise being only a byproduct
of our miraculous excess, perhaps
this is how the universe regards us
scavengers of starlight,
rarely noting, never thanking
our aloof benefactors
eating scraps
of pesto, sushi rice, fair trade coffee
feathers sleek as a photograph
eyes quick and wide
as a hypochondriac's
In this haven we act
as human cornucopias & they
take advantage of us, as if
we were their mothers
as we feed them, bathe them,
keep away their predators
and think nothing of it, their
paradise being only a byproduct
of our miraculous excess, perhaps
this is how the universe regards us
scavengers of starlight,
rarely noting, never thanking
our aloof benefactors
once upon a time
there was a little girl who was cursed only to speak in quotations
but
only in quotations she memorized before the age of 12
unfortunately, only words set to rhyme and rythym remained in her brain when she reached 18
and, distraught that she could only communicate in the parlance of disney music, she reached out to youtube for a community that could understand and love her
and found it
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXFNYXHBmNg&feature=related
there was a little girl who was cursed only to speak in quotations
but
only in quotations she memorized before the age of 12
unfortunately, only words set to rhyme and rythym remained in her brain when she reached 18
and, distraught that she could only communicate in the parlance of disney music, she reached out to youtube for a community that could understand and love her
and found it
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXFNYXHBmNg&feature=related
not everyone survives cancer, you know
I had forgotten. After five or six scares,
five or six treatments, five or six survivors,
I came to think that cancer
didn't mean a death sentence anymore.
but what do I know?
I can't decide now whether comedy and tragedy are
to use a tired metaphor, two sides
of the same coin, or the same side
of the same coin, whose other side
holds apathy, ennui, and boredom.
one other time I've mentioned cancer in my poetry -
I postulated that its genesis was
in being born without love. How
many times have I abandoned a work halfway through
because I didn't understand it at the time?
Does cancer feel the same way,
when it picks a target and everybody boos?
no, I'm the wrong
person to be writing this.
This isn't fair. I'm not
objective, and I don't
know anything about disease
or tragedy - the worst moments
in my life were, after all, by all accounts,
invented entirely in my head!
sleep, for now. And then death.
would it be better to live
and rage as I never have before?
no - I would spend my last moments sleeping.
Ask anyone I know, it's true, it's true.
it's not the same when it happens to you.
when it happens to me I'll know
what an idiot I am, if I don't already.
I had forgotten. After five or six scares,
five or six treatments, five or six survivors,
I came to think that cancer
didn't mean a death sentence anymore.
but what do I know?
I can't decide now whether comedy and tragedy are
to use a tired metaphor, two sides
of the same coin, or the same side
of the same coin, whose other side
holds apathy, ennui, and boredom.
one other time I've mentioned cancer in my poetry -
I postulated that its genesis was
in being born without love. How
many times have I abandoned a work halfway through
because I didn't understand it at the time?
Does cancer feel the same way,
when it picks a target and everybody boos?
no, I'm the wrong
person to be writing this.
This isn't fair. I'm not
objective, and I don't
know anything about disease
or tragedy - the worst moments
in my life were, after all, by all accounts,
invented entirely in my head!
sleep, for now. And then death.
would it be better to live
and rage as I never have before?
no - I would spend my last moments sleeping.
Ask anyone I know, it's true, it's true.
it's not the same when it happens to you.
when it happens to me I'll know
what an idiot I am, if I don't already.
my demeanor? oh! I apologize -
it's my perogative to criticize,
and when I'm drunk I compromise
my ability to compromise
and so,
stranger bro,
whether you are smart or dumb,
preoccupied with what's to come
or what went out last week,
I'm a freak
wrapped in calm delirium
I speak
maybe because the day was hot,
maybe it's the rum I shot,
or the girl who takes
up all my thought, or possibly
the decades of philosophy
I took and then forgot
but yo,
stranger bro
I hope we're cool when morning breaks
and hours pass, 'til, wide awake
we go
to placate the strangers stranger
than the great strangers we know
who sow the seeds of greater woes
than strangely meeting, we let flow
I'm completely lost in rhyming now
and I don't remember what I was saying.
it's my perogative to criticize,
and when I'm drunk I compromise
my ability to compromise
and so,
stranger bro,
whether you are smart or dumb,
preoccupied with what's to come
or what went out last week,
I'm a freak
wrapped in calm delirium
I speak
maybe because the day was hot,
maybe it's the rum I shot,
or the girl who takes
up all my thought, or possibly
the decades of philosophy
I took and then forgot
but yo,
stranger bro
I hope we're cool when morning breaks
and hours pass, 'til, wide awake
we go
to placate the strangers stranger
than the great strangers we know
who sow the seeds of greater woes
than strangely meeting, we let flow
I'm completely lost in rhyming now
and I don't remember what I was saying.
reverence? feh. I don't pay much attention.
ya think I don't know that every goddamn thing I see
is a miracle of science, coincidence, impossibility
personified? I see people driving on the interstate
risking their lives to get around someone, maybe
gain a second on their trip. Don't they know
that going sixty miles an hour is a goddamn
impossible miracle, and that they're only demeaning
the ridiculous luxury by risking their lives to push it
slightly further into insanity?
but reverence, no. That implies I care.
that would mean I really got down on my knees and wept
when I turned on my AC in 100 degree weather
or saw a drama created 50 years ago channeled through
some modern box bigger than my body,
made of light and plastic, with even the faces
of the dead returning in perfect clarity or
drinking pure, clean water, cold as ice
without leaving the comfort of my home
(and what a miracle the home is in and of itself!)
I know this, yet I feel no reverence at all
for the immensely beautiful things our people made.
The reason? feh. Not one I can think of, unless, maybe
it's the realization that even genuine miracles
get boring pretty quick.
ya think I don't know that every goddamn thing I see
is a miracle of science, coincidence, impossibility
personified? I see people driving on the interstate
risking their lives to get around someone, maybe
gain a second on their trip. Don't they know
that going sixty miles an hour is a goddamn
impossible miracle, and that they're only demeaning
the ridiculous luxury by risking their lives to push it
slightly further into insanity?
but reverence, no. That implies I care.
that would mean I really got down on my knees and wept
when I turned on my AC in 100 degree weather
or saw a drama created 50 years ago channeled through
some modern box bigger than my body,
made of light and plastic, with even the faces
of the dead returning in perfect clarity or
drinking pure, clean water, cold as ice
without leaving the comfort of my home
(and what a miracle the home is in and of itself!)
I know this, yet I feel no reverence at all
for the immensely beautiful things our people made.
The reason? feh. Not one I can think of, unless, maybe
it's the realization that even genuine miracles
get boring pretty quick.
god it's been a strange
life day week or month, no I can't
tell if I'm hungover or sick or what
I say things I don't think
I say, or ever would, but yes
I think things I would never think as well.
Desires contradict,
if they dictate anything at all
the flying of the bicycle is
like the falling of an avalanche,
the cracking of the whip is like
the smell of coke and oil and ranch
and here I am in bed again, where I often lay
for hours in the morning wasting time
without diluting any of my senses with sensation
only filtered light, and fan-blown air
and the mystery of time,
the way it passes when there's no one there
life day week or month, no I can't
tell if I'm hungover or sick or what
I say things I don't think
I say, or ever would, but yes
I think things I would never think as well.
Desires contradict,
if they dictate anything at all
the flying of the bicycle is
like the falling of an avalanche,
the cracking of the whip is like
the smell of coke and oil and ranch
and here I am in bed again, where I often lay
for hours in the morning wasting time
without diluting any of my senses with sensation
only filtered light, and fan-blown air
and the mystery of time,
the way it passes when there's no one there
Dear Time Warner Cable
I should mention first of all that I'm a long time customer,
and have never really had a problem with your service.
Sure, when you sent someone to install it,
he hooked everything up wrong and blamed it on the telephone pole,
sure you charged us for that month even though
we didn't get your services and it was your fault,
but overall, I expect that from corporations.
Today, however, I have a complaint. In an automatically sent email
you included the line "Thank you for allowing us to serve you."
I don't take kindly to being patronized off-hand by a service
that is simply supposed to report to me how much money
I owe you. You do not serve me at all, you don't even know
who I am, and if you were truly thankful, why,
you'd pay me for the opportunity! I am frankly insulted
that you think so little of me
as to include such a blatantly false, patronizing remark.
Here are a few suggestions on how to change this line
so that I don't withdraw from your service immediately:
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Pay up."
"Thank you for choosing Time Warner Cable."
"Thank you for allowing us to siphon money
from your account without giving any rationale
for the amount we charge for services that
may or may not actually be given."
Sincerely,
I know you don't care what my name is.
I should mention first of all that I'm a long time customer,
and have never really had a problem with your service.
Sure, when you sent someone to install it,
he hooked everything up wrong and blamed it on the telephone pole,
sure you charged us for that month even though
we didn't get your services and it was your fault,
but overall, I expect that from corporations.
Today, however, I have a complaint. In an automatically sent email
you included the line "Thank you for allowing us to serve you."
I don't take kindly to being patronized off-hand by a service
that is simply supposed to report to me how much money
I owe you. You do not serve me at all, you don't even know
who I am, and if you were truly thankful, why,
you'd pay me for the opportunity! I am frankly insulted
that you think so little of me
as to include such a blatantly false, patronizing remark.
Here are a few suggestions on how to change this line
so that I don't withdraw from your service immediately:
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Pay up."
"Thank you for choosing Time Warner Cable."
"Thank you for allowing us to siphon money
from your account without giving any rationale
for the amount we charge for services that
may or may not actually be given."
Sincerely,
I know you don't care what my name is.
...Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
- from Burnt Norton by T.S. Eliot
I came up with the best line of poetry of my life
told it to Sylvia, who repeated it like a bird,
let it twirl my head for hours, rewriting bits
of words, went for a walk, and heard
some crack-addicted homeless guy shouting it to the world.
I guess, sometimes, art and dementia are the same thing
"This is the kind of thing," Sylvia said to me
"that most people post on facebook or twitter."
Oh, for any other era! One that wouldn't, at least,
invade my space with myspace, my face and my book,
what a shitty place we live in, when we really look.
And it is I, the poet, who's looked on as the beast!
At least Sylvia understands me. Lets me wallow in
my half-hearted arrogant pretension for a moment or two
before saying "we may not be perfect,
but at least we enjoy ourselves."
it's a relief that my depression is a joke to her
in the same way death is a relief for cancer patients.
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
- from Burnt Norton by T.S. Eliot
I came up with the best line of poetry of my life
told it to Sylvia, who repeated it like a bird,
let it twirl my head for hours, rewriting bits
of words, went for a walk, and heard
some crack-addicted homeless guy shouting it to the world.
I guess, sometimes, art and dementia are the same thing
"This is the kind of thing," Sylvia said to me
"that most people post on facebook or twitter."
Oh, for any other era! One that wouldn't, at least,
invade my space with myspace, my face and my book,
what a shitty place we live in, when we really look.
And it is I, the poet, who's looked on as the beast!
At least Sylvia understands me. Lets me wallow in
my half-hearted arrogant pretension for a moment or two
before saying "we may not be perfect,
but at least we enjoy ourselves."
it's a relief that my depression is a joke to her
in the same way death is a relief for cancer patients.
when the buildings rose like giants' teeth
and every open road compressed against me
like a throat, you spoke, your tongue
mocking the world's lack of one, your lips
reminding me of how we entered this,
you said, you know, there's nothing we can do,
the whole modern world's conspiring against us
knowing this to be essentially true, I said,
yes well, but look, towers all around us, set with jewels
that any king a hundred years ago would dream of -
a bustling city where a little dementia means nothing
and a little conversation means so much, and beneath
it all, a thousand seeds waiting for our guard to drop
besides, if you want, there's always somewhere we can run.
but it's next to impossible to be romantic about
this world. Probably because we're in it.
You said how? where, exactly, could we go
where none of this asinine cultural propaganda
or crumbling economy wouldn't follow, evil eyes
wide open, where we couldn't see
the teeth of these towers in the distance, drawing near?
having no answer, no faith that an answer existed,
I only answered that we'd find somewhere,
drove her home to an empty kitchen, leaking pipes,
humid bare white rooms, made love to her there
and forgot about it all.
and every open road compressed against me
like a throat, you spoke, your tongue
mocking the world's lack of one, your lips
reminding me of how we entered this,
you said, you know, there's nothing we can do,
the whole modern world's conspiring against us
knowing this to be essentially true, I said,
yes well, but look, towers all around us, set with jewels
that any king a hundred years ago would dream of -
a bustling city where a little dementia means nothing
and a little conversation means so much, and beneath
it all, a thousand seeds waiting for our guard to drop
besides, if you want, there's always somewhere we can run.
but it's next to impossible to be romantic about
this world. Probably because we're in it.
You said how? where, exactly, could we go
where none of this asinine cultural propaganda
or crumbling economy wouldn't follow, evil eyes
wide open, where we couldn't see
the teeth of these towers in the distance, drawing near?
having no answer, no faith that an answer existed,
I only answered that we'd find somewhere,
drove her home to an empty kitchen, leaking pipes,
humid bare white rooms, made love to her there
and forgot about it all.
The cold air is only passing through the valley
to charm an army of blue
and bottomless concrete streets
in its wake heat takes on
a visceral pulsation and anything that
isn't visceral turns from an ache
into a thought, like
desires do after masturbation.
how can I
outlive the dandelions? granting wishes
as they burst into a thousand dandelions
drinking - imagine it - milk and honey
from dry brown soil, transmuting
cum into gold, I
who was born deformed in a valley
overcast by the shadow of a troublesome brute
without a sun or moon to see me through
and howled like a dandelion, resolved
to other peaceful colors,
blue-green and gray, nothing circles the earth,
that is, she wears no ring, proving
at very least that she knows there may be a day
when we fall into her cold, pulsating heart
and she can no longer feed us.
how can I make a cowardly amends
for what she has done for me?
any morning in the park, disentangled from
my books and fantasies, down where
the event horizon dims,
where no one has passed or even tried
I will watch, dumbstruck,
as the dandelions condense and recombine
and multiply in ever-shrinking gardens,
oh, delicate nature,
how your childish hands skip over
our delicate flesh
and caress our bony elbows
nostrils and knees...
have you lost the will to punish us?
even as we cast you into that final peace
that is summer and winter simultaneously -
I want to give you my blood
and my meat, but am overwhelmed
by a nepenthe of apathetic dreams
and so, I can only watch these small weeds grow
as we are thrown into a black hole
whose field of gravity contains
more light than all the stars of heaven in their prime.
to charm an army of blue
and bottomless concrete streets
in its wake heat takes on
a visceral pulsation and anything that
isn't visceral turns from an ache
into a thought, like
desires do after masturbation.
how can I
outlive the dandelions? granting wishes
as they burst into a thousand dandelions
drinking - imagine it - milk and honey
from dry brown soil, transmuting
cum into gold, I
who was born deformed in a valley
overcast by the shadow of a troublesome brute
without a sun or moon to see me through
and howled like a dandelion, resolved
to other peaceful colors,
blue-green and gray, nothing circles the earth,
that is, she wears no ring, proving
at very least that she knows there may be a day
when we fall into her cold, pulsating heart
and she can no longer feed us.
how can I make a cowardly amends
for what she has done for me?
any morning in the park, disentangled from
my books and fantasies, down where
the event horizon dims,
where no one has passed or even tried
I will watch, dumbstruck,
as the dandelions condense and recombine
and multiply in ever-shrinking gardens,
oh, delicate nature,
how your childish hands skip over
our delicate flesh
and caress our bony elbows
nostrils and knees...
have you lost the will to punish us?
even as we cast you into that final peace
that is summer and winter simultaneously -
I want to give you my blood
and my meat, but am overwhelmed
by a nepenthe of apathetic dreams
and so, I can only watch these small weeds grow
as we are thrown into a black hole
whose field of gravity contains
more light than all the stars of heaven in their prime.
On her windowsill the moon surveys
a line of bottles. The light plays
through them as liquor did before,
"Why put emptiness on display,"
I ask, "instead of something fine?"
"Scribbled notes," she says,
"for my next memoir."
pours another glass of wine
and adds a bottle to the score.
a line of bottles. The light plays
through them as liquor did before,
"Why put emptiness on display,"
I ask, "instead of something fine?"
"Scribbled notes," she says,
"for my next memoir."
pours another glass of wine
and adds a bottle to the score.
someone in the other room is crying out in pain
I'm in pain but make no sound, and I prepare
to lift my sore body once more and work through
the night, wishing, rather, that there was some
impermanent form of death I could retreat to.
Paralyzed by disease and desire, if the two
aren't in fact the same, I make no sound
only nod at those around me, wave
at people I recognize along the way.
Trapped wherever I am (I don't recognize it,
should I?) I picture sitting on the edge
of a dirty creek I used to sit in every day
on my way home from school, both
to revel in the natural beauty and
to avoid returning to a house full of demons
and there I see nothing except my self,
my own face staring at the profile of my own face
so that there must be four of me at least,
and nothing else. So why
picture the creek at all? What,
exactly, am I thinking? I don't want to think.
I hate myself. When I go to work, I listen
to the drugged out old men ordering their food
and all I can think is that they're wasting my time.
But who has wasted more of my time than I have?
If I hate them, how much more must I hate myself?
I make the burger, shove it across the counter,
and tell them to enjoy, smile big as all outdoors.
I'm in pain but make no sound, and I prepare
to lift my sore body once more and work through
the night, wishing, rather, that there was some
impermanent form of death I could retreat to.
Paralyzed by disease and desire, if the two
aren't in fact the same, I make no sound
only nod at those around me, wave
at people I recognize along the way.
Trapped wherever I am (I don't recognize it,
should I?) I picture sitting on the edge
of a dirty creek I used to sit in every day
on my way home from school, both
to revel in the natural beauty and
to avoid returning to a house full of demons
and there I see nothing except my self,
my own face staring at the profile of my own face
so that there must be four of me at least,
and nothing else. So why
picture the creek at all? What,
exactly, am I thinking? I don't want to think.
I hate myself. When I go to work, I listen
to the drugged out old men ordering their food
and all I can think is that they're wasting my time.
But who has wasted more of my time than I have?
If I hate them, how much more must I hate myself?
I make the burger, shove it across the counter,
and tell them to enjoy, smile big as all outdoors.
put up six poems today. I'm almost caught up.
----------------------------------------------
I stare at nothingand I see you.
I felt thirteen years old
when I saw your panties today
but, to be fair,
you shouldn't ride a bike
in such a short skirt
and I hate feeling like a creep
but I do like feeling thirteen,
since I felt so much older at the time.
Now thunder is sounding from every direction
and clouds are cluttering up the sky
as they always do when god gets an erection -
not long before he sprays us in the eye -
and I stare at you
and I see nothing.
I remember the day
you wore your hair up
and I finally saw your face
for what it was.
I remember the day
we smoked weed by the pier
you were so paranoid, I thought
it was hilarious, and everything
I did made you so upset.
You know, it's true, when I look at you...
I want to fuck you worse than ever
but you're such a bitch, and you're so stupid...
I wish I was a misogynist when I was thirteen
so we could've done it then. Now I realize that
believing in gender equality
doesn't just mean that some men are scum,
it means some women are too
and I look at you
and don't know what to say.
The sky is linoleum, a slime
distilled, shedding flakes of forceless wind
hiding the sun, so dull and thin, hiding
Well. look into the eyes
well, see, the children of god
are crying, asleep, with too little here
to sustain them, too much form,
too little meat, the children of god
fumble the streets as if they were nothing
but ordinary children, slave
to linoleum skies and drought and vinegar
and humid, windless circumstances.
Too much forgotten, so much, in fact,
that we think god is omnipotent and benevolent
and wise. That the trees press their roots
into gray styrofoam packing peanuts and accept
the diseases of the fauna, wipe
fungi away as if they were parasites
and begin waving in restless circles
afraid of the weeds around their feet.
See the bluebird on a branch, near
that cluster of pinecones? So smooth
and sleek without his wings, without even
the wounds where he bit them off.
So cute without his feet. When the children
of god wake up and realize
that god has died, can you imagine
how angry they'll be?
I can't wait.
They're so cute when they're angry
and they paint such pretty things.
distilled, shedding flakes of forceless wind
hiding the sun, so dull and thin, hiding
Well. look into the eyes
well, see, the children of god
are crying, asleep, with too little here
to sustain them, too much form,
too little meat, the children of god
fumble the streets as if they were nothing
but ordinary children, slave
to linoleum skies and drought and vinegar
and humid, windless circumstances.
Too much forgotten, so much, in fact,
that we think god is omnipotent and benevolent
and wise. That the trees press their roots
into gray styrofoam packing peanuts and accept
the diseases of the fauna, wipe
fungi away as if they were parasites
and begin waving in restless circles
afraid of the weeds around their feet.
See the bluebird on a branch, near
that cluster of pinecones? So smooth
and sleek without his wings, without even
the wounds where he bit them off.
So cute without his feet. When the children
of god wake up and realize
that god has died, can you imagine
how angry they'll be?
I can't wait.
They're so cute when they're angry
and they paint such pretty things.
Fractured, thought erased by
flippant moods, fractured, time
distorted like a falling moon
reflected in the lake so flat
and fluid, fractured, I'd rather
be battered, rotten and sore
soft as a falling peach, thick
with worms, eaten, fractured, rather
than all these sharp edges
distinctions I can't bridge worlds,
no, homes I can't enter
it comes to a head, all comes to a head
an airy froth, it all comes off
as if it might explode
a billion times
and then it goes, leaving nothing
no noise or impression I can call
worthwhile or disruptive or fractured
erased, maybe. I snap
at everyone who tries to help
punch a few cardboard boxes
and sing along to certain songs
in cathartic grumbling notes
and still feel my heart beating
fractured beats, as if
it weren't pumping blood, but sand
and I imagine only
tall grass to walk through,
and a stranger's hand, and a country
far off in the distance, on the brink
of war, a strange war
that will fracture the hillside
and I actually see the hills,
the green hills fractured
and from the great rifts made in the land
green smoke emerges, and all the dead
who ever died come walking out
carrying the eggs of fractured birds,
or else the stars which, fractured
from the edge of the galaxy, exploded long ago
perhaps a dog or two, some cows
and all those poor families
fractured by death over the years
come together again, see each other
and remember what love is.
flippant moods, fractured, time
distorted like a falling moon
reflected in the lake so flat
and fluid, fractured, I'd rather
be battered, rotten and sore
soft as a falling peach, thick
with worms, eaten, fractured, rather
than all these sharp edges
distinctions I can't bridge worlds,
no, homes I can't enter
it comes to a head, all comes to a head
an airy froth, it all comes off
as if it might explode
a billion times
and then it goes, leaving nothing
no noise or impression I can call
worthwhile or disruptive or fractured
erased, maybe. I snap
at everyone who tries to help
punch a few cardboard boxes
and sing along to certain songs
in cathartic grumbling notes
and still feel my heart beating
fractured beats, as if
it weren't pumping blood, but sand
and I imagine only
tall grass to walk through,
and a stranger's hand, and a country
far off in the distance, on the brink
of war, a strange war
that will fracture the hillside
and I actually see the hills,
the green hills fractured
and from the great rifts made in the land
green smoke emerges, and all the dead
who ever died come walking out
carrying the eggs of fractured birds,
or else the stars which, fractured
from the edge of the galaxy, exploded long ago
perhaps a dog or two, some cows
and all those poor families
fractured by death over the years
come together again, see each other
and remember what love is.
Lightning strikes, drawing yellow yarn
either across my eyes, or across the sky,
I can't tell. A forest of gray trees
hovering where, somehow, all their trunks
were amputated, sway without swaying
and move without moving the moonlight,
in the moonlight, and the waxing waxy moon
melts against my eyes
as if it were a clear summer night.
I'm reminded of a girl I love and hate
and what she does with yarn
and how she looks at trees
and moons just slightly out of place.
I slept for seven years last night,
and dreamt the longest dream
broken, possibly,
by one of the storms I scratch a sketch of now.
I hoped to sleep forever,
now I don't hope, I only survive
anticipating a cold, clear, dreamless night
with only the fragrance of old rain
to pacify.
either across my eyes, or across the sky,
I can't tell. A forest of gray trees
hovering where, somehow, all their trunks
were amputated, sway without swaying
and move without moving the moonlight,
in the moonlight, and the waxing waxy moon
melts against my eyes
as if it were a clear summer night.
I'm reminded of a girl I love and hate
and what she does with yarn
and how she looks at trees
and moons just slightly out of place.
I slept for seven years last night,
and dreamt the longest dream
broken, possibly,
by one of the storms I scratch a sketch of now.
I hoped to sleep forever,
now I don't hope, I only survive
anticipating a cold, clear, dreamless night
with only the fragrance of old rain
to pacify.
you must be so disappointed in me.
twenty three years old already, I barely
graduated high school, I've
worked for minimum wage for about five years
and my few classes at community college
amounted to nothing.
Those poems you were so proud of? They were shit.
Worse, I'm not writing as well as I did then.
When I do write, when I'm able,
I just go on about nothing, starting
conversations with people I can't stand to talk to.
What else? I'm not married, I've only been
in one real relationship and I'm still so neurotic
I can't imagine fucking a stranger.
I don't have a driver's license, I drink too much,
I only have about five friends, and I'm not good
at anything but video games. I've only read
two books this year and a handful of poems,
and I don't watch good movies or read
literary magazines or follow the news.
You must really be very disappointed in me,
but guess what? I'm much more disappointed in you.
You had everything I've ever wanted.
A few odd skills, intelligence and strength of will,
and most of all social graces and more love
than you knew what to do with
and you let it all fall away from you out of sheer laziness
and left me with nothing at all. Left me with nothing
but three brothers who also have nothing,
a lot of hatred for the world and a little bit of love
for literature and people with common sense.
So you had a hole in your heart? So what? It runs in the family.
I'm tired of revering you, dad,
and if you are disappointed in me, well,
you're not the only one.
twenty three years old already, I barely
graduated high school, I've
worked for minimum wage for about five years
and my few classes at community college
amounted to nothing.
Those poems you were so proud of? They were shit.
Worse, I'm not writing as well as I did then.
When I do write, when I'm able,
I just go on about nothing, starting
conversations with people I can't stand to talk to.
What else? I'm not married, I've only been
in one real relationship and I'm still so neurotic
I can't imagine fucking a stranger.
I don't have a driver's license, I drink too much,
I only have about five friends, and I'm not good
at anything but video games. I've only read
two books this year and a handful of poems,
and I don't watch good movies or read
literary magazines or follow the news.
You must really be very disappointed in me,
but guess what? I'm much more disappointed in you.
You had everything I've ever wanted.
A few odd skills, intelligence and strength of will,
and most of all social graces and more love
than you knew what to do with
and you let it all fall away from you out of sheer laziness
and left me with nothing at all. Left me with nothing
but three brothers who also have nothing,
a lot of hatred for the world and a little bit of love
for literature and people with common sense.
So you had a hole in your heart? So what? It runs in the family.
I'm tired of revering you, dad,
and if you are disappointed in me, well,
you're not the only one.
some days life is like some immense and petrifying standardized test
that you're not sure whether or not to take seriously -
they say it's difficult, but really they mean
you won't get all the answers right all the time.
I was a little upset when they said seventy percent was good enough
because, hey, we're here to learn, and I don't like thinking
most of my classmates get out with only a portion of what
we've been thinking of all year as necessary information.
Then they lowered the bar further, not because people started failing,
but because they complained about not passing with a high enough grade.
So I think, now, roughly thirty percent is enough to make it through
and don't worry about it so much, they know what to expect
when your next class starts.
Some days life is like public school. Everyone expects you
to be lazy, and stupid, and they'll give you a gold star
just for showing up and smiling.
In Illinois, an entrepreneur installed in one of his
many concrete cubes the stuffed corpse
of an elephant he shot on holiday. In Africa
a lion drinks from a dirty lake and has never felt
so satisfied. The sun is beginning to set, pink and orange.
that you're not sure whether or not to take seriously -
they say it's difficult, but really they mean
you won't get all the answers right all the time.
I was a little upset when they said seventy percent was good enough
because, hey, we're here to learn, and I don't like thinking
most of my classmates get out with only a portion of what
we've been thinking of all year as necessary information.
Then they lowered the bar further, not because people started failing,
but because they complained about not passing with a high enough grade.
So I think, now, roughly thirty percent is enough to make it through
and don't worry about it so much, they know what to expect
when your next class starts.
Some days life is like public school. Everyone expects you
to be lazy, and stupid, and they'll give you a gold star
just for showing up and smiling.
In Illinois, an entrepreneur installed in one of his
many concrete cubes the stuffed corpse
of an elephant he shot on holiday. In Africa
a lion drinks from a dirty lake and has never felt
so satisfied. The sun is beginning to set, pink and orange.
a second draft
-------------------------------
The leaves are gray, twisting from their branches
in epileptic fits, as the sky roils and spits
filling the avenues with tea and soil
the sun, sat on like a child by the earth,
cries uncle, rises callous and embarrassed
and begins to burn us, not out of spite or malice
but because its worthless power must be reaffirmed.
Still the dirt is in the air, the spilt smell of a
spade striking a root, or of a pine box
just built - my friend interrupts
and locks my reminiscence
away with her murky talk
and the streets are murky where we walk,
and I slow to reaffirm my footing
because the ground here, like her voice
feels as loose as pudding.
rain in summer always disrupts more than it quenches,
it leaves too soon and takes too much with it.
perhaps the plants
are greener, and there are more bugs and children
playing in the thicket, but as we pass,
my friend and I, we dwell on small
annoyances and notice only that our lips are dry
and we're out of choices.
-------------------------------
The leaves are gray, twisting from their branches
in epileptic fits, as the sky roils and spits
filling the avenues with tea and soil
the sun, sat on like a child by the earth,
cries uncle, rises callous and embarrassed
and begins to burn us, not out of spite or malice
but because its worthless power must be reaffirmed.
Still the dirt is in the air, the spilt smell of a
spade striking a root, or of a pine box
just built - my friend interrupts
and locks my reminiscence
away with her murky talk
and the streets are murky where we walk,
and I slow to reaffirm my footing
because the ground here, like her voice
feels as loose as pudding.
rain in summer always disrupts more than it quenches,
it leaves too soon and takes too much with it.
perhaps the plants
are greener, and there are more bugs and children
playing in the thicket, but as we pass,
my friend and I, we dwell on small
annoyances and notice only that our lips are dry
and we're out of choices.
for the sky to be beautiful, and yet
two clouds dance like lovers there
feeling the pain that lovers feel
before exploding into rain
and for the squirrel, wrapped around
a thin tree, climbing
in and out of the ether, up and up, and yet
for the peppers,
just beginning to flower
potted and placed on a shelf in the valley
like poisons in a chemist's shop
stretching their roots into fertile earth
and knowing nothing else,
not their latin names,
not their prices, and yet
the cats dive in and out of each other
we've had them for a while now,
and know them better than our friends
they hunt roaches at twilight -
the bigger one brings them in alive
for the thin one to kill
then they lay down and clean each other
as if nothing has happened.
seeing that the nature of things
remains at peace among the bitching yuppies
drugged out parents and useless, clueless kids
makes me smile for just a moment, and yet
makes no mark against my anger or my pride.
two clouds dance like lovers there
feeling the pain that lovers feel
before exploding into rain
and for the squirrel, wrapped around
a thin tree, climbing
in and out of the ether, up and up, and yet
for the peppers,
just beginning to flower
potted and placed on a shelf in the valley
like poisons in a chemist's shop
stretching their roots into fertile earth
and knowing nothing else,
not their latin names,
not their prices, and yet
the cats dive in and out of each other
we've had them for a while now,
and know them better than our friends
they hunt roaches at twilight -
the bigger one brings them in alive
for the thin one to kill
then they lay down and clean each other
as if nothing has happened.
seeing that the nature of things
remains at peace among the bitching yuppies
drugged out parents and useless, clueless kids
makes me smile for just a moment, and yet
makes no mark against my anger or my pride.
If, in your condo, in the morning,
you hear a faint rattle
and slip, nearly dying,
on a snake's discarded skin
ever again, don't blame me.
Snakes have had a bad rap ever since
you know, those bible stories
your momma used to quote you
as if they were gospel,
probably because they killed a lot of people
with a little peck on the cheek
or on the ankle.
My infamy is rather new.
It's something I haven't quite
gotten used to yet, but I like nature,
it has a way of succeeding with grace
everything humans fail to do,
it has a way of breaking us back down.
I've broken you down twice this week,
or at least I've broken us. I've traced it back
to the morning you called me, scared to death
because a rattlesnake
was hiding near your bed, and it was early,
and I thought that I'd rather see you bitten
than have to get up and across town
even if you died, and maybe
I did start that fight, and maybe
you did treat me better than I treated you,
but, sweetheart, a snake is a snake.
you hear a faint rattle
and slip, nearly dying,
on a snake's discarded skin
ever again, don't blame me.
Snakes have had a bad rap ever since
you know, those bible stories
your momma used to quote you
as if they were gospel,
probably because they killed a lot of people
with a little peck on the cheek
or on the ankle.
My infamy is rather new.
It's something I haven't quite
gotten used to yet, but I like nature,
it has a way of succeeding with grace
everything humans fail to do,
it has a way of breaking us back down.
I've broken you down twice this week,
or at least I've broken us. I've traced it back
to the morning you called me, scared to death
because a rattlesnake
was hiding near your bed, and it was early,
and I thought that I'd rather see you bitten
than have to get up and across town
even if you died, and maybe
I did start that fight, and maybe
you did treat me better than I treated you,
but, sweetheart, a snake is a snake.
She Said
I want someone to touch my pussy
though I can't tell anymore
what I believe, or how to write
a simple phrase I don't believe
I think I feel her near tonight,
amidst the shining of my grief
for a second only, her wet lips,
though she lives past the horizon,
past wrecked-out hulls of ships
where, every day, the tide is rising,
I think I feel the color of her skin,
beyond description, dark and pale -
not the major white of Gautier or Larkin -
but some stiffer drink than ale.
Let imagination dazzle me, for now,
let cum stain my clothes.
Beauty is a monster best let out
but when and where, god only knows,
and while good monks pass through collumns high and white,
good poets pass through trembling thighs
muttering prayers to sheer delight
no bird, or rose, or pearl, or cloud
suffices anymore. Beauty is actual,
to hell with metaphor.
She asked if I would eat her out,
and I looked away from the computer
for a second, noticed
it was raining, so I stepped outside and drowned.
I want someone to touch my pussy
though I can't tell anymore
what I believe, or how to write
a simple phrase I don't believe
I think I feel her near tonight,
amidst the shining of my grief
for a second only, her wet lips,
though she lives past the horizon,
past wrecked-out hulls of ships
where, every day, the tide is rising,
I think I feel the color of her skin,
beyond description, dark and pale -
not the major white of Gautier or Larkin -
but some stiffer drink than ale.
Let imagination dazzle me, for now,
let cum stain my clothes.
Beauty is a monster best let out
but when and where, god only knows,
and while good monks pass through collumns high and white,
good poets pass through trembling thighs
muttering prayers to sheer delight
no bird, or rose, or pearl, or cloud
suffices anymore. Beauty is actual,
to hell with metaphor.
She asked if I would eat her out,
and I looked away from the computer
for a second, noticed
it was raining, so I stepped outside and drowned.
My child tried to run from home,
but couldn't make it past the door.
In her haste, as she made
it panting down the hall,
she called me a bum, and her mother a whore.
"Is that all?" I heard her mother call,
reading a magazine in the atrium.
"Listen, honey.
I've run away before."
"You have?" her conviction waivered,
and with a surge of feeling
the likes of which are rarer every day
I slavered at the thought of all that power,
and how, if I played it right,
I could have her entranced for another hour
right until she tired and went to bed.
"I was living in Texas, and I read
that some thousand people, somewhere,
wound up dead. I don't remember how.
I had a panic attack and fled
to another state, another town.
I just ran. And then"
"and then?" her hand on the doorknob,
her face bright red -
"I came home ashamed, that nothing had changed,
that some thousand people
in some faraway world were dead,
and in Texas no one even said
'where've you been? you just up and left?'
and I was worse off than before."
"Is that it? Is there more?
If you're trying to scare me,
it just won't work. I've heard it all."
"That's a laugh!" cried her mother from the hall.
"There's one thing more, yes,
and listen closely now." I leaned in close,
brought my voice down low
so my wife couldn't hear,
"It was the best thing I ever did.
I've never looked back, I've never
looked at anything the same way since."
and she looked at me and knew I meant it
and somehow that made her too weak to go.
