Sunday, July 31, 2011
What magic is available? –
you wonder what you’ve got.
To what new use, for instance,
might you put a flower pot?
At first you thought you wouldn’t,
shouldn’t, couldn’t, can’t –
but then you rashly dared
to root and bloom a Poet Plant.
Bearing grieved resemblance
to Dame Edith Sitwell –
sorry and unwilling thing! –
it didn’t look a bit well.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Like gas, opinions fill out
any outward limits
to which they’re confined
within which they quite
frequently appear to breed
small bloated children.
The pressure of dominion
The pressure of dominion
they pursue is absolute
and they’ll achieve it –
unless (as I would do,
if I were you), you take
some measure to relieve it.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
lolling, lying, sleeping,
waiting naked to be
clothed and used
and brought out of their
thick ennui and into
some free business
curiosity, to manifest
the fused expression
of a point-of-view:
time to bring ‘em up
and on and carry
they depend on you.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Foundations of your psyche rest on careful applications,
in light layers, of soft certainties: assembled for their
idiosyncratic comfort and allure: and yet, except for those
anointed through your intimate permission to the task
of grasping just exactly what lies tied or stretched or dyed
behind the mask of your unapprehended privacies,
too few are ever let into The Secret of What’s Underneath.
Today – please dare! – bequeath us just a glimpse:
we wonder, and we care. Let us see your underwear.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
It looks up from peering down,
frightened and expectant – kneeling –
nervous hands assess the ground –
looking for assuagement: feeling
for what’s fallen, what might fall,for what’s risen, what may rise –
to stop the breaking heart of all
that threatens to implode the skies!
It’s all in vain. Blank entropy
will drive the whole thing to a halt.
Anxiety is, was, will be,
does what it does. It’s not its fault.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Oh, fortunate sweet band of friends!
Whatever else may have transpired –
whatever other aims or ends
we may have thought we once required –
today, right here, we know our dreams
of understanding can be lived:
no longer plagued by awkward schemes,
no clotted plottings need be sieved
through some resistant colander
of Mind; nor are we doomed to sail
like der fliegende Holländer
alone forever, left to wail
unheard, unloved: no, we
have found camaraderie!
Friday, July 22, 2011
They’re shy at first
but once you start
by an assiduous performance of concern
for their demeanor and their features
that you care –
Before long they will pop up, ooze out,
seep in, leap and cantilever through,
into, above, below and over
The natural condition
of their volatile existence
to your composure.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
You always know he’s been here –
faint narcissus scent – a purplish haze –
your senses all accelerate –
ascend a pitch – amazed at colors
that you hear as well as see: chiaroscuro
gentling neon orange: all that once was
tasteless isn’t any more. You’ve found
the way to make it glorious again!
He’s left it at your door.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
She makes them out of ice and snow –
these children of hers: daily animating the tableau
of their sweet circumspection, good behavior,
by incising bright new angles in them: as their savior –
yet again, again – she carves into each frozen face
the favors of fresh gesture, nuance, grace,
to lend expression to the gliding panoply
of what the heart can feel: beneath the widest canopy
of glacial night, they will not go; they won’t grow old.
All she ever has to do is keep them cold.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Your dream again exceeds its bandwidth
and creates another human sandwich
and whoever you are with is blue, again,
and you are pink, again, you think – at least,
the last time, surely, this was true. Long hair –
you do remember that – but male or female?
This sweet envelopment does not appear
to fuss much over this detail: apparently
it’s less the point than that the slumber
within slumber of the scene anoints you with
a tendrilled and intense familiarity, warm sheen
of skin on skin condensed from something
deeply known: that in the large resource
from which the two of you have generously
grown reside the closest chances you’ve
yet come upon to answering the song inside:
or what you think, now, waking, might have
been a song though you're no longer sure
you ever heard it. It isn’t bad to sleep alone:
you pretty much prefer it. But if the chance
comes up again, perhaps you won’t defer it.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Just when he was sure he knew what had transpired
(his life expired), he acquired
an extra set of eyes, and nose, and full-lipped mouth
from chest to groin,
which grew to spread along each loin
the tufts of an impressive pubic beard.
True, he found this weird.
And yes, peculiar that his head
and body sprouted hair which flamed a startling orange-red –
and that he sat upon a pink-ringed yellow pillow levitating –
which, beneath him, seemed to be disintegrating.
But what most struck him strange
was that he’d somehow found a range
of movement, here, sufficient to attain
the sitting posture of a lotus – without pain!
He never dreamed he’d navigate so large a hurdle.
As far as he could recollect, he used to be a turtle.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Lately, every time Despair
besets, entreats –
Goofiness pops in, resets
the beat – and everything’s
askew. Part of you
would like to cry: another
part erupts Achoo! – just
for the sake of making noise.
Despair loves the lugubrious.
Goofiness loves toys.
Despair finds Goofiness
nefarious. To Goofiness,
(nicknames it Stinky).
Feelings can get kinky.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Daisy only ventures out on perfect
beach days. She puts her polka dot bikini on,
and strides along the strand from dawn to dusk.
She dabs a little musk upon each inner arm
at sunset. By then the hordes have
come and gone and Daisy gets to wait again
for her Don Juan, who she is sure
will only swim out from the center of the sea
on days so grand they guarantee an ecstasy.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Strange how when you’re severed
from your puppeteer you do not
always fall into a heap. Amazingly,
some manage to discover on their
own volition how to creep: eventually –
bravely! – even leap. Though some
of us, of course, unlike Pinocchio,
do not get up and go. We stumble
and we fall and sometimes really rather
would not move at all. Which is best?
Click our hips and knees throughout
the Universe or huddle in a bundle
under house arrest? We marionettes
must face so many tests! Me? I am
an unstrung bum. I'm gonna rest.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Say at last you’ve found a private
pasture to lie down in – take a midday
summer nap: next thing you know
a squeaking creature’s crawled up in your
lap as if you were its mother and from
out of nowhere some lost hungry sister
and her brother come and lean against
you as if you were a discarded mattress:
show no interest in your strangely yellow
supine fatness but attend instead to that
small squeaking creature who’s been
climbing on you like a bed, and whom
they wonder what he’d taste like, crushed
and mushed and spread on bread.
Say you wake up and discover none of it
(yup, you're an alien) was in your head.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Peculiar, being peered at.
But you look back.
The blunt irregularity
of barging in like that
is shocking and delicious.
You’re grateful nothing
mocking or malicious
taints the stare –
or mars the rout
to extinguish doubt
something else is there.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Motives as inscrutable as aliens
address their tasks by passing round
our faces as if they were reasonable masks:
attempting to induce a sense of safety
by allowing us to think that we’re in charge:
but secretly retaining by duplicity their utter
freedom to upend: remain at large.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
in memory of two friends who recently ended their own lives
I wonder if, when people die
by their own hand,
they die in ways they never
otherwise would understand:
I wonder if, remanding
to oblivion their breath
they do not glimpse unique
oblique effects of death –
surprised into illumination
by the sudden dive –
a consummation so coerced
that it conspires to contrive
an exegesis peeling open
that odd egg Existence –
ripping into sight its thick
commitments and persistence.
Something to suppose.
All I know:they chose to go.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Hand in hand, to walk on sand, through water, in the rain,
sharing, in companionship, the pleasure and the strain:
each secret lure – each intricately idiosyncratic bent
to which you’ve ever lent
your wishes and your life:
the strange deliciousness of strife –
the predilections you exhale: a breathy cough
proceeding from what you had thought you wanted, flying off:
to stride along the stormy beach, its roiling foam of sea,
exchanging fizzling bits of you and drizzling bits of me:
investigating privacies of every stripe,
the whispered wet and ripe
experience of being here:
that, my dear, is our frontier.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
can be a little much.
Sometimes they lack
the common touch.
But when they sit there
quietly and gaze
at you, engulf you
in their brilliant haze,
and thoughts you never
thought before abound,
sometimes you’re glad
they stayed around.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Bringing into being is a daily chore.
First you must create yourself (again)
and then create whatever more
you need to lend a meaning to: a Zen
approach to senselessness – to give it
form it seems to want to have that day.
Life is oddly willing to obey: to live it
is to co-conspire with it: to push away
whatever neither of you wants to do
and concentrate on something closer
to a pleasurable culinary rendezvous.
Checking out the produce – grocer
and his customers: sniffing, poking souls.
Procreating, co-creating – filling bowls.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Forebears fashion you.
Confluences of the slew
of influences which assail,
afflict, affect, embrace
and feed your chances
of a life proceed as keenly
as a surgeon’s knife
throughout your tenure
as a living being here.
Capacities to see or hear
or think or taste or smell
will swell and ebb inexorably
as genetic markers draw you
through their web. My daddy
had flat feet and Alzheimer’s,
and boy, was he a crooner.
I have his voice, a bit,
and feet, and wonder how
the rest of him will treat
me with its legacy, years
from now, or sooner.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
“Style, in the broadest sense of all,”
said Quentin Crisp, “is consciousness.”
It isn’t always bliss to find this out.
It takes examining your loves and hates
which rarely will not quantify some
qualities you may not want to flout.
And yet if you are to be true to you,
they’re crucial to pursue. What to do?
Grope the potent metaphor. Condense
your gory impermissibilities into some
indecipherable tantalizing trope. Soon
you’ll give your psyche hope – and do this
all the time. You’ll hide it in a rhyme.
You’ll nestle in a covert fame what
you once wrestled secretly in shame –
through the mortar and the pestle
of imagination’s alchemizing rapt intent
to get away with crime. Your purple hair
and calligraphically attenuated aubergine
moustache will artfully imply your hidden
cache of secret ardor for the private
batting of the lash of some bright eye
belonging to a species you dare not
describe. You’ll acquire mystery –
and a transgressively alluring sheen.
And who knows – maybe end up
on the cover of a fashion magazine.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
I've tried to beg
the table leg
to cease its importuning:
it will not stop communing
with my dreams –
setting up its schemes
to worry me awake –
to make me take
the other route.
I can’t dispute
its blunt opinions
without making minions
of them hastily appear.
When I say no, they jeer.
I’d like to chop it up
but that would hop it up,
I'm sure. Its face
would find another place
to taunt me,
and to haunt me
and to drive me mad.
Why would it be bad
to do its bidding?
You must be kidding.
Friday, July 1, 2011
You sang so sweet and long and hard and loud –
you ripped the tender surface of their hearts:
corralled their painful loves into a crowd –
and parsed them one by one into their parts;
you bled their essence through vibrato and a beat
until they almost couldn’t take the sound –
but also wouldn’t let you rest and stop, retreat –
because of what they’d lost and what you’d found.