from a work in progress: “process, not a journey: (68)
“I cannot keep my dreams straight.”
-Franz Kafka
some nights most nights
after a whiskey or more
years if not decades
swirl like blue smoke
at my feet
and I forget
where I am as time
falls away like an old drunk
stumbling on my way home
the familiar story
the soft path alters
and strangers step out
of the dark laughing
vaguely and I have forgotten
why I’m laughing
then laugh again
(June 23, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (64)
what he remembers now
is different than what
he remembered then
.
now he is old
and does not remember
as well what happened
.
then he was young
and foolish and remembered
trivial things
.
of little use then
even less so
now
.
as he holds
his aspects together
between fragile hands
.
facets of the past
spin off light
for a moment
.
and he sees her eyes
that first night
they almost kissed
(June 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (60)
obsessively the earth gives birth
to its dead rich and fertile
safe inside itself unseen
unvoiced like ecstatic dancers
beneath a moon-bright sky
the earth lifts the rose
the oak twisting and throbbing
into the air so i burrow deep
beneath the black soil a worm
gnashing rocks like prayers
until i find a darker god
and somewhere in the black clay
an old woman natters
lost in perpetual disappointment
and a death skull’s bored laugh’s
trapped in his life’s delusion
(May 7, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (55)
to see clearly I look
through lenses
made and adjusted
over time as my vision
grew worse
I understand to see
I must cast off
all perceptions
accumulated
within my cliches
like now as i remove
my glasses
and rub
my dim eyes
(April 19, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (52)
i’m exhausted
all day
yet at night
i cannot
sleep
i slowly stir
in my residual
bits of damp fear
like tea leaves
twirling up
from the bottom
of a cup
(April 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (49)
our lives changed
around him
the first born
.
that summer he turned one
I read dante and the moderns
for grad school
.
at night I’d rock him singing
row row row your boat
until he’d drift to sleep
.
now he has a child
and that summer
floats away into dream
.
like a mountain river
we happily crossed
splashing in the sun
(April 7 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (26)
days copy days
as if life stutters
what’s to be said
until finally
one’s last word’s
spoken
(February 16, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (22)
once I was cynical
now I’m just defeatist
–
once I was sarcastic
now I’m just bitter
–
once I was happy
now I am just old
–
like the earth I decay
a slow spiral into the sun
(January 31, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (12)
in school we were always on the move
field trips to museums to math class
with Mr. Buesing to middle school
to high school to college the future
was a threat brandished like a whip
–
by degrees our world turned
then it stopped and I stumbled
and found myself here in the mud
like a body dropped from the door
of a passing car
(January 18, 2020)
Another cold night flows
into yet another dark day.
For more than forty years,
I have spoken to silence
unvoiced presumptions,
unvoiced expectations.
Why do I still presume
tomorrow with change?
Why do I still expect
that day will come?
I’m tired of talking,
pretending some one will hear.
(January 1, 2020)
