there's got to be more below the surface
I’m lucky not to drown,
second by second, as I
walk down the street—
what with all the lies
and recriminations
I mouth, then swallow,
like a gluttonous beast
devouring itself wholly.
Perhaps it’s fate not luck
which keeps me afloat? But that
requires some god to blame,
and explain the curses directed
daily over rosary beads, like
mendicants to a self long lost.
(September 5, 2021)
There is no causality, no maze
to transcribe into memory,
simply a chance to breathe
near the bottom of the stairs;
and, like a mouth singing
arias, I crack open the bones
in my chest to find a way
into the warm flesh, to dip
my worn fingers slowly in,
to feel the heart’s contours
define the next last moment,
to map another return into
the ocean’s lost metaphor.
(August 25, 2021)
Tomorrow I go back on contract for my 33rd year of teaching. Last year was one of the worst years because of distance learning and the lack of contact with my students. The Students are always the best part of teaching, and for the last eight years (starting my 9th) at Ann Richards, I have had the best students ever, every year. Last year it was important that we teach remotely. The students, their families, my fellow teachers, my family and friends were at risk to this horrible deadly disease. We stayed at home and did what we could through a screen full of little boxes, because we had to. This year there is a more deadly, more virulent version of the same disease, and even with the vaccine, which a too large group of people refuse to take, and with no vaccine for the under 12 group…. which means ELEMENTARY CHILDREN….. It is more dangerous than ever to go back. Yet, here we are.. going back into the classroom. Cases are already being reported at my school, and the district where my wife teaches, and across Travis county. I fear for what will happen over the next few weeks and months, as we go full bore back into the schools.I fear for my students. I fear for my grandchild who is starting in a pre-k program. I fear for my family. And all of this is not necessary, we could stay remote. At the very least the elementary schools should stay remote, until the under 12 children can be vaccinated. I don’t understand what is the end game of the politicians like the Texas Governor, who seem to want children to die. What is the benefit to them? I want to believe in a hell, so the people who are forcing this to happen have some place to go.
“Props and other disinherited
paraphernalia are never enough.”
—Susan Howe
My hands cradle my face,
covering my dead eyes.
Worn thin like ragged cloth,
I am tired of my life:
Before sunrise I wake,
slowly move down the stairs,
and start again. Morning
rituals of coffee
keep the old dramas near,
private. I want to wail,
long howls into the dark.
Instead, I feed the dog,
whose tail wags happily
as she eats her kibble.
(August 9, 2021)
A nostalgic old man,
whose whispers adhere
to the flames’ tongue,
tells his one story again.
You are charmed.
So the chains slip
into your veins,
your heart, your lungs.
The air thickens your breath,
until every song you hear
is the only song you hear,
then you can no longer dance.
And the fire burns down,
for nothing’s left to say.
(August 6, 2021)
With disdain,
he turns
from the mirror,
leaving
himself
behind
like a cicada’s husk
caught
on a tree’s bark.
(July 29, 2021)
Yes, poetry burns in feral anger—
a knife flash fast at the shadowed church door
cuts through a dank cassock’s folded black cloth,
twisting quickly below the priest’s fat rib.
Yet, the mundane’s slow-etched eddy of truth
leaves its testament in the margins
of the more violent rush and tumble
relevance churning in the crowed streets.
My life is easily enough dismissed
with the trivialities of the day
dropping their dead petals across my path
like roses in ecstatic agony.
Yes, poetry burns in feral anger—
and burns and burns throughout the dullest day.
(July 26, 2021)
Night Terror
“When are we not in a dream?
…when are we not skeletons?”
—Sy. Hoahwah
I don’t remember
the dream before,
I cracked my head hard
against the wooden night stand;
the fine grained ephemera,
which held the dream together,
burned like flash paper into the air.
A lightning ball exploded
my darker vision, as the dream,
too agile to cradle, threw me
deftly from sleep onto the floor.
Not existing fully in the fluidity
of sleep, nor the concrete warmth
of the morning window’s light,
I held my head in my hands,
eyes shut, as the lightning flash
faded, leaving only the muscles
in my neck to burn like trees
broken during the night’s storm.
(July 16, 2021)
Flying free
through the blind night,
bats,
with their high lyric cries,
justify
the walls around them.
(July 19, 2021)
She said
I can’t imagine you young
in school
a time when you didn’t know
everything—
*
I know less and less each year
he thought
so much confidence and verve
years ago
now only anxiety and doubt
(December 18, 2019)
