like dice falling still onto felt
before our losses are collected
we wait for the next step
the ordered denouement
to tumble quietly into place
without our resistance
(August 10, 2014)
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Auguries
“we are led to believe a liewhen we see not thro’ the eye”— William Blakealways a bit unfocuseda blur a half second beforewhatever happened nextwhat ever happened insteadmore than something elsean alternative to what is nowa laughable ephemeralitycast across a vague horizonI step out at dusk and watchthe slow rolling clouds shiftlight across a sycamore’s leaveslike paint splashed across canvaslife flows too quickly to seethe infinite unfolding from you(August 8, 2014) -
niggling doubts undermine
by
A bundle of little fearsgathers around my heartlike sticks tied for kindling;I quiver at each possible spark.Hooked chains attach to my backlike disembodied hawks liftingtheir tortured prey aloftwith an ease beyond logic.I run through this vacant field again,the grass tall like summer corn;the thin green blades slicemy thighs cleanly from the bone.I know only I can control my thoughts,yet others seem to differ.(August 6, 2014) -
Dead Babies on the Beach
Gaza, summer 2014Among the detritus flecked with sand:opaquely polished pop bottles, woodfrom worlds away, tangled plasticfishing line, damp beach towels,beer bottles, wet fast-food boxes,jelly fish lying flat as if defenestrated,all coyly draped in sea-weed strandslike bathing beauties in the sun,unmediated beneath an infinite blue skystreaked in fading traces of smoke.(August 5, 2104) -
Metamorphosis’ Perpetual Moment
To struggle out of her definition’s confines,she followed dutifully his song out of his hell,yet missed her old life unfolding as well.Does the butterfly regret the change?Look back to the chrysalis with nostalgia,to the moments before the casing’s breach?Discomfort is neither transition’s beginning nor end,for movement falters only in an imagined death;whether real, or metaphorical, is inconsequentialfor our misunderstandings of this moment:another story to wrap ourselves between,another tale needed to explain a heart.He stands before her singing his songs.She wonders where she has become.(August 5, 2014) -
opening gambit
by
I leave doors openeven when closedI want you to enterwithout asking to comeI hesitate to approachawkwardly toe the dirtunsure how to broachthe common thresholdall the manneredexpectations clotwith social obligationswhat I wish to sayso I wait door ajarfor your next move(August 4, 2014) -
to have empathy
is to be mocked –after allhow can one carewithout recompensethe coins dancing like strippersacross a wet table tophow can one carewithout a controla quick jerk on the reinsa provided purposeto explain a kindnessas other than kindnesshow can one carewithout reasonsyllogisms embedded in the eartheasy for even the blind to readobviously to protect usfrom the fear beyondthe tangled wirepanting like jackalsbreaking marrow bonesat the endof every outstretched hand(August 4, 2014) -
meander
Syllables cohere slowlyuntil strands of meaninggrow within these silentspaces between our words.Distraction breaks the flowlike boulders in the streamof our conversation,froth into icy air.I fall into silence;little remains but ashto console our lost words.I listen to the unsaid,trust the silence to speaklike a stream beneath leaves.(August 1, 2014) -
Suburban Life
by
I miss living in central Austin, except for the peopleand the traffic, (fourth worst in the country accordingto The New York Times, right behind Los Angelesfor Christ’s sake), and of course, all the noise from allthe people, who would have thought death had undoneso many, as Eliot cribbed from Dante, and the trafficmakes me want to scream like a Siamese in heatdesperate for a mate. But what can I do? I just wantto see the Monet to Turner exhibit downtownat the Blanton before it leaves to some other artsy-fartsycity much farther away than Austin, the only town in TexasI can stomach, liberal oasis that it is. So I jump intothe Honda, hybrid of course, and head down the interstateto take in a little culture, as the owner of Shakespeareand Co. accused me of doing in Paris thirty years agowhen I didn’t respond fast enough to his overly interestedqueries as to why a skinny Texas boy was wanderingaround Europe for months looking at pictureshanging in the Louvre and other fancy-pantsmuseums which seemed to be in every cityall across Europe no matter how small. But thatis neither here nor there now, the Blanton isthe Blanton and right here, and Paris is sofar away, that I gird my loins, so to speak,and brave the lethargic interstate’s quandariesin search of somewhere beautiful to be.(July 31, 2014) -
unmoored
by
“If you want to live your dreams, wake up.”— Phil Jacksonand then he wokeand it was overand she was gone(July 30, 2014) -
Morning Art Lesson
by
An egg yolk’s aesthetics residein the mouth; the momentthe membrane keeping it wholepops, and the gold oozecoats the tongue’s desirein a hen’s genetic matter.Eating is destruction,ecstatic and savory:Dionysius, Christ, Osiris –flesh tattered, tasted, scattered;renewed within a life,a constant drive to bewholly a part of the worlddancing in the golden light.(July 29, 2014) -
Elemental Process
I bend my wordafter a fashionedflowering; an idea,its nestled rootscurled betweenrock and soil,pushes into air.There, there I waitfor the next thoughtto drop like water;until overflowing,I am bathedin the cool sheenof Pentecostal fire.(July 28, 2014) -
Mamie’s Last Meal, 1979
The ambulance squattedlike a carnival ride,its lights promising a salvationwhich arrived too late.Mom called for helpas soon as Mamiehad called,then we hurried to her.Inside, the phone still layunhooked on the floorwhere the EMT’s found her,dead.Uneaten on the kitchen table:a half glass of milk,one fried egg on a white plate,a dry piece of toast.(July 26, 2014) -
Mirror Ball
You tell me who I should be for you;and for you, I become what you desire.But I am only me here eating yogurtwith granola looking through the glassat a cat dreaming on the mottled grass.I am just as much a construct here,in this poem, as in your lovely eyes.While outside, cicadas hum and druma tune to the rhythms of the pulsating daywhich neither you nor I can sing alone.Who I am to you, and who you are to me,are neither as near nor far to eitherthe dreamer or the dream as any wordwhich falls from your lips onto mine.(July 25, 2014)
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