Once again
I’m too tired
to write anything
that can cohere
beyond this apology
for something
I cannot do;
yet long for,
as if I were
a younger man
on a first date
bending for your kiss.
(April 2013)
-
my mother myself
–Nancy FridayIt was the decades of her need and guiltwhich drove me madly through life, even nowthat she’s dead and scattered these past years.How long does it take to slough off the lastof the omphalos blood, the bloody cowl,that first transformation of sperm and egg?In a photo before Lisa and Itook off for Europe, she sat in her chairin the rumpled tidiness of her home,her brow furrowed in a mastered worry,her hand cupped to her mouth as if in shock:this morning, I saw myself sit that way.(April 2013) -
Eros Sits In Between
by
not the here or thereyet somewhere otherthan either or morenot a fixed point butalways beyond the fingertip’s outstretched touch(April 2013) -
Dream Journal # 7: Three Visitors
he holds his secretslike shards of broken glass:an ogre as a womansits down and sighs,“Listen to my story,Listen to my cries.”An ogre as a tree approachessending roots beneath the ground,“What words grow here?Why would you even care?”An ogre as a parableinsinuates his whispers,“I can help if you let mecontrol what you hear.”he stands as if to go;blood drips to the ground.(April 2013) -
Mom and Dad at Dinner
by
our endless chattera teasing needlelike a sewing machine in reverseeventually ripping seamswhere there were noneDad, worn from work and age,would explode,rough-neck invectiveswashing over usdrowning our noisetapping his rough hand lightly“Now Ralph,” Mom would offerour levee against the deluge.
(from “fragments of water, 2004-2006) -
Killing the Father
by
His last breath hung in the airlike frost holding the room still.The pudding-thick phelgm, I pulledfrom his mouth, fell from my fingerslike ice almost melting.And still he comes:a face risesto melt and tatteras if hot glassblown by wind.It remains Christmas.His arm stilled by strokelies across the starchedtablecloth, a tombstonetumbled into snow.The tree’s lights blinkunfocused. He stares, waits.The room is cold.I wait in the corner.Spittle fails to lash his lipsas he opens his mouth to speak;his face blurs, shifts like lava.A rumble swells his throat,pushes up to his mouth,twists across his tongueto erupt past teethgnarled like fingers.Unlike a shout.(Summer 1990, Bread Loaf) -
like a flurry of wind in the corner
by
he knows as well as she in novelsthat deflection onto other’s talesnever masks the true protagonistand a melodramatic dénouementto an over-complicated plotwill only fall eventually into farceall the misunderstood narrativesbecause misunderstood remainbroken threads beneath a loomyet still the tale he tells so clearlydiffers enough from her by degreesto cause his clichéd story to collapsehe wants to offer more than infidelityyet knows how these stories unfoldso withholds his true exegesis(April 2013) -
3. Differentiate and Blend
December 26, 1995The swirl and unfurl of the pastfollows no pattern, except now.The future lies less entangled withmeanings than with hope’s dreams.I hold these multifoliate strandsweaving my patterns on a wind.(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995) -
Just Days Ago
“all the eventsthat are the marrow of the gods.”–Jim HarrisonJust Days agoafter morethan thirty yearsof making loveto each otheragain, we droveinto town for sushi,then to a bookstoreto wander aislesvaguely searchingfor yet anotherbook to read.As we drove,we talkedof all the catswho have livedwith us sincewe first movedin togetherdecades ago.Different setsof cats connectto different times,different houses,different agesof our children.Hours later,as we returnhome to the house,now empty,where we raisedour children,our four catswait anxiouslyoutside the doortails twitchingin irritationat the passingof time.(April 2013) -
justify
by
square off the marginstightly along the edgesthe distance betweenthe words gather closeor fall away to conformto newer boundariesI adjust my definitionsto justify my life butthe space betweenthe words shows through(April 2013) -
Definition’s Constraint
A fundamental conversion of the world of images: the constraint of a multiplied meaning liberates that world from the control of form. So many diverse meanings are established beneath the surface of the image that it presents only an enigmatic face.”Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilization. 1964.I write youonto the pageas if or soI can exertsome controlof you or meto please withinthe tormentof this worldI’m easierthan someI imagineknowing no morethan what I writeof me and youbound by the playof these wordsI place upon uswe existin the otheras a longingto freelysubmit intothe dominanceof our word’snuancedconfusion(April 2013) -
Six Days in a Row, From "My Book of Changes" April 1995
by
7. Power Destroys and Creates
April 10. 1995Beneath the earth, a river
flows like muscles beneath
my skin. Flood waters
destroy farm and flower
disregarding detail. My
frustration bursts forth.15. Complaint
April 11, 1995Ignored by sparrow and bee,
a seed falls from a dying
thistle. Complaining is a form
of braggadocio; I continue on,
too far to turn back – – Where
will I fall, on fallow or fertile ground?6. At a Mile Stone
April 12, 1995“Don’t go there,” my students say
warning off a sensitive area.
What I have to say is modest.
I am alive. I have troubles. I am.
Can I “make it new?” Cliches fit
well, sayings ring clear, truth lasts.16. A Question of Purpose
April 13, 1995Play music others can hear.
Thunder booms from the depths
of the earth shaking the air
with splendor. Your words
echo thus in those that listen,
loosening the tension at our hearts.50. Feed the Fire
April 14, 1995I am the wood thrown
in this fire. Food
lies in the cauldron,
but it is not for me.
I have work to do
to clarify this vision.60. Acceptance
April 15, 1995In accepting what I cannot do,
I run the risk of ignoring what
I can. Limitations differ from
complacency. Acceptance
does not comprise fatalism.
Redefine limits, enter a world.
(from My Book of Changes, 1994-1995) -
Sloughing Off Our Skins
“I’ve got to lose this skin I’m imprisoned in”— Tymon DoggThe bones, which hold us to this earth,fracture like thin ice frosted acrossthe surface of a pond. Our delicatebonds part as the deep pulseof the water shifts like muscleunknotting beneath tired skin.Eventually, all scars form a nostalgiaof a healing once mired in personal pain.We let go of the words, which brought us here;let go of the explanations and equivocationswe wield in our defense of the beliefswe hide within; brush off the remainingbits of ice, and step into a newer light,the sun warming us to the center of our bones.(April 2013) -
Reflections In a Broken Frame
“And shuts me up in the blind mirror of what I give you.”–Luce IragarayYour eyes are mirrors where I see myself.My eyes are walls sparkled in shadow.You are the music of the sun.I dance into the smoke charring the ceiling with ash.You are photons of light sliding through rock.My mind is wood kindled in your thoughts.I am lost within a blind mirror.(April 2013)
subtext 