Sunday, January 15, 2017

A Soft Entanglement

Somehow proceeding
malleably out of sight
of that tight brittle little

cage of fear which had
preceded and impeded it,
a soft entanglement

emerges easily now into
comfort. Stark form gives
way to something warmer,

darker, undulating into,
under and around itself:
a former ‘you’ slips

incrementally from its
containments to succumb
to the conditions of what

has become a latter ‘you,’
the folderol and subtle
business of existence

that you are. Its gentle
charms enrapture –
enwrap you in its arms.


Saturday, January 14, 2017

Anywhere to Go

We don’t know why it didn’t wander off.
It hadn’t softened toward us since it had arrived –
whence we never knew – but harbored itself coolly,

glancing here or there at this or that or him or her,
occasionally where we were. We clearly hadn’t
caused the smallest stir. Then various components

on its surface of what we assumed was skin began
to glow. This turned out to mean that it would
speak to us, though very low.

“Is there anywhere to go?” We heard it
almost as if we had heard it in our heads, sleeping
in our beds. So deeply that it made us really wonder

if there were another place to go. We found ourselves
replying to it, “we don’t know.” And then we went
somewhere within we hadn’t been, which made us

slide down every slippery degree of yes into 
the singularity of no. We were aghast we had
to add, “but we don’t think so.”


Friday, January 13, 2017

Miracle Man

for Doug Melton

Miracles are tangible – they sprout
impossibility without a single doubt –
or the importunate desire to proclaim
or boast or flout what they’re about.

I know this now because my laptop,
which had crashed, has been restored
by the miraculous abilities amassed
by my computer guy who on the sly

I’m sure keeps planets turning in the sky –
that is, when he is not, through his
remote manipulations, altering the DNA
of apparatuses like mine, bringing them

to such unparalleled capacities for
fine performance laptops surely never
in their circuitry imagined could be had.
The very mention of his name –

Douglas Melton – melts the glowing
dawn of an enlightenment in the forlorn,
unclad, unknowing dark in me. What
else can I be but insubordinately glad?


Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Not Even You

Aerodynamically ill-advised
aberration in the skies
(by other better sorts despised),

awkwardness all undisguised,
poignant yearning in his eyes,
somehow flies.

Does life abound?
Has evidence been found?
Are we the only blip of it around?
The former has a hopeful sound.

But do not misconstrue
the “blip” side to be too
statistically unlikely to be true.
Nobody knows. Not even you.


Monday, January 9, 2017

Less Dove than Doubt

Pursue her heart?
You lack the art. Can’t play the part.
Under her oppressively alluring spell,
you handle very little well.

Love? Less fluttering dove
than shuddering doubt. A candle
burning yearning out, a pallid sputter.
Love makes you stutter.


Evolution of a Bedroom

above: in situ on Facebook. below: cut and pasted here.

Evolution of a Bedroom

The most recent "on this day" reminders Facebook has been coughing up included, today, pics of my first onerous trip to Ikea - which I made a year ago. God I hated that place (tho thank it on my knees for my bed!). But as I thought of the bed I love which I got there and the bedroom I love that it's in, my memory's dominoes tumbled further back to the plans I'd drawn for my-home-to-be a few months before ferrying in the cold to Ikea Hell.

I love looking at the drawings I drew. Because they turned out to be of what's here now! To all you architects and contractors and interior designers, this would be daily fare: drawings (duh) become reality. But to me! - and especially because the architect who thought they were fine is a Yalie (among whose impressive architect grads I know more than a few) - hooo-eee did this ever seem not only like a personal best, but evidence (which god knows I tracked and reported every bit of here) that this thing WAS going to happen. So the grim memory of Ikea (which again I bless) spawned what I feature here: this visual depiction of the Evolution of my Bedroom. Which is to say, the creation of a kind of heaven.

The pics: first you'll see the library I slept in on east 10th street for a long long time. It's a kind of rich Edwardian excess, like the whole rest of that apartment was, something I liked a lot - once loved a lot - enough to think I would still probably engender some version of it in any new home. But oh, the more THAT notion ripened, the more it rotted. I do not (it turns out) LIKE Victorian/Edwardian clutter. And this had been that, god knows. So the difference between that shot and the solo shot of my bedroom next to it mostly underscores the blunt fact of that shift. I am in a clear well-lighted large space and in the 9 going on 10 months I've been here I've not deposited anywhere in it ONE single blobby mass of piled stuff. So it turns out I really do like it this way better....

But a bedroom is more than space, open or cluttered. And to have a studio AND a bedroom - is to be granted prospects of personal life which still seem beyond luxury to me. That they reflect me in essential ways - and are so different - describes another kind of richness: whose divisions proceed from gentle separations in me -- what I guess I must always unconsciously have intended to be reflected in the identities of each of these rooms. To know the luxury not only of being able to shift your energy from one space to another, but to have that space welcome and make an exactly appropriate body for it - well, I don't know, maybe all you guys out there have long been doing this, particularly if you live in actual houses, but to me it's new stuff.

It isn't new stuff that New Yorkers tend to create wonderful personal spaces. I've long maintained that New Yorkers who love New York (ergo who stay here no matter what) know how to create home almost instinctively - partly the instinct of self-preservation: you need a haven here - and (it turns out) I need a haven here not least, dare I use a word I mightily dislike, "artistically" - which is to say, to have a place that invites me to make manifest in very specific ways those particular portions I glean daily from the enormous content of the city's glory. New York is like a great big Id. It requires a supple ego to learn how to be a generous but discerning arbiter of what gets 'in' & played with - to moderate the city's overwhelming DRIVES - and for that, you need a 'home' which embraces and encourages - not generally, but which does so for the specific eccentric peculiar YOU. I know so many people - I'll immodestly claim I've been one - who've made studio apartments seem like les enfants du paradis - 'children' (if you can call homes that) of each of our very particular sense of - (only word I can think of) - the sublime. (Dick BoriesReed WoodhouseDonna BoguslavDavid SchechterFrank KoumantarisRick Shupper - oh so many others! - I'm thinking of you.) You don't know you're in a 'small space' - even if by a tape measure somebody decides it is one.

This was really true of Quentin Crisp's home. Like Whitman, it contained multitudes, but they did not swamp you. They were the visual & spatial reflection of something that you experienced as indistinguishable from what you knew of Quentin's core. And that was one amazing core.

Anyway, this is very heady stuff to the likes of me. Which is why I've gone on about it now and probably will continue to do so for the rest of my wackadookacockatoo existence.


Sunday, January 8, 2017

Here, Gone

Hush! Watch! Barely touching,
hovering above the skin, a fingertip 
attunes and wields: though
fingertips know more about the skin 
they cause to blush, of course, 

than what the skin conceals.
Someone else just riffled through
you like a random breeze – tickling,
teasing, breeding weakness
in the knees. At times like these

you wonder if the wonders never
cease. Of course they don't –
and this one won't, although already
it kaleidoscopes to memories.
Touch withdrawn: here, gone.