Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
My fingers determined, my fingers ready to touch your skin
in warm yellow latesummer light, ready
to keep warm under the cold evergreen burn.
I distract myself with purchasing books, reading perhaps half at best,
stories by Dennis Johnson, poetry by Whitman, his disciple, Hart Crane;
and minimalist novels which speak to my slowed-down heart.
Inside my chest there's a dull thudding in time
with the opening and closing,
replaced by a latent smashing in the night
when you visit me in my sleep, when you crawl in bed with my sleeping self.
Your whispering floods my dreams with pages we haven't filled yet;
I wake only to knock an inkwell over on my sheets,
which is, with my morning cough-cough-wheeze, a true catastrophe.
You're not here yet. The calendar
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
heaven in hell and hell in heaven (a series of messages i sent myself or myself sent me or some other thing)
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Where were you love last night, when my heart
was pitching and whirling like a sailboat
in a high-break sea?
My dreams nightmares and nightmares dreams,
I woke up with Death in the sheets next to me.
He laughed and shook his scythe.
He knew it was a lie, he knew he was just being efficient
scaring the shit out of me, that fuckheaded bastard,
he made a face and said he was havin' such a good time,
working for free on his offday, no killing,
no taking-of-prisoners-to-the-great-blue-fiery yonder,
just scaring, like halloween.
But without the candy?
The candy is essential for shitless-scared nights,
nights when you're not next to me
but the nightmare is, when
it's not right it's all wrong and not real,
and then I wake to a pillow,
lime-green in a house I don't know
on an air mattress, hungover
or under my grandpa's dried open eyes.
(Everyone else's overseas somewhere.)
There's no punchline, just a harrowing arcing climb.
There are a million stars in the sky, lovely
but too much humidity to find
them or sometimes,
to even breathe.
As I woke I started thinking about Rumi,
about weeping, about just wanting to exist.
I sat up in the dark bed and knew it was okay.
The shadow of the old man and
Death-on-holiday were invisible.
I cleared my throat and tried to think:
The stars are up there firing off, making newer and better lights and there's nothing I can do to stop them, though I'd give it a go.
The stars are up there firing off,
making newer and better lights
and there's nothing I can do to
stop them, though I'd give it a go.
That's what I told myself,
and keep telling myself,
until this hibernation is over;
until my insides expand again and quiet this dull night roar;
or when at last the morning winks at me,
and I find you on the other side of the sheets, grinning,
a smile on your morning voice.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
I listen with all my ears:
The night is full;
coyotes howl in the hills
beyond my Papa's pastures;
the insects crescendo, climb to a monotonous, lovely roar,
and the old rusted propane tank still holds vigil.
I've journeyed far to sit on this porch
built with his hands and fine for summer nights,
summer sweat-heats and rains.
(I am here,
have journeyed far,
only to listen.
This blackness is a canvas singing;
I will sing with it.)
The moon hangs in the cleft of these green oak mountains,
full and huge and orange,
a childhood thing to be eaten
and savoured; savour I do, thinking of the mountain names,
Indian names: Boktukalo, Kiamichi, Ludlow, Zaffra,
and the moon, unnameable, watching them all.
My smoke hesitates in the air,
full in the humid warmth, winding
and expanding, expiring above me.
But this place has not expired.
The cows are in their pastures, silent
old dead Keith's house is still and empty on the hill.
(The insects roar and
the moon fills the sky.
The song I knew has not ceased.)
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Walt Whitman, from the 1855 Preface to Leaves of Grass