by
He knew enough
if not too much,
while pretending
he knew it all.
She, too, wanted
more, something
other, ineffable,
not here, not now.
They sat in silence,
without moving,
listening closely
for the other’s heart.
Nearby, on the wall
hung a stale still life.
(September 17, 2019)
“the fog solidifies among us”
–Tristan Tzara
As a dark spider webs
her partly-poisoned prey,
he shapes another wall
around another day.
Beneath his crippled hands
a mausoleum soars
to contain all his fears
in tightly patterned rows.
Each dawn descends to dusk,
as dusk ascends to day.
How one can thus escape,
he cannot aptly say.
Most days are forgotten,
Lost in this clotted fog.
(September 16, 2019)
A nothing—
you suppose
and assume
too much
upon others:
as if your presence,
and proximit,y
are enough,
you claim space
upon our attention.
You who speaks
a flurry
of flatulence—
Who are you
to say we’re rude?
Like pebbles,
you throw words
to blind,
mock,
and silence.
At best,
you are a gnat
flitting between
this book
and the table.
(September 16, 2019)
The mirror’s a mask
for who I think I am;
How long have I been gone?
Where did I go?
The man I see is worn
and fragile, skin dry,
wrinkled; eyes deep
with dark half-moons
floating below them
like shadows on water.
I am not who I am,
yet more than an echo.
the mirror’s a mask
for what I have become.
(September 5, 2019)
Always nearby, Fear hangs back
floating like the hint of smoke
on the horizon. The city lies
in that direction. Home lies
in that direction. We are not
going back again. Still, it comes.
Its tongue insinuates the air; soft
words clot our ears with ice.
This is the time which we live in:
slow lumbering ideas, empty and angry,
tumble through the streets like rocks
tossed by giants from mountain tops.
No one notices the viscous fire
burning the flesh from our bones.
(September 4, 2019)
his breath
like a sigh
or prayer
*
be sweet
her whispered
life’s summation
(August 30, 2019)
falls from branch
to branch to
tail to hand
to foot to
ground then
walks away
fruit in hand
(August 30, 2019)
“It’s up to poets to revive the gods.”
—-Jim Harrison
There are no more gods
to conjure our hope
against this darkness,
no soft rituals
filled with smoke and fire
to sate writhing snakes.
We must shape the dark
to find ourselves
a space to live,
protected from rain
and heat, a space
to sleep and be reborn.
We alone must be
the wood and spark.
(August 29,2019)
“the warmth spun by the word
around its center the dream called ourselves”
–Tristan Tzara
He steps into seams
to sow a discord,
so as to unravel
that which cannot
be patched with
threaded needles.
Like veins feed
extremities of flesh,
roots rip into earth
in increments
turning aside the grain
as one would wade
through water, searching.
He knows this as himself:
with walls, without walls,
doors opened, doors closed,
or no doors at all.
He stands within a room.
He confines himself
to his consigned spaces.
His hands rarely held high
in an ecstatic dance, but
tucked tightly together
holding himself wholly.
What walls wait for
him to stand before
dissolve in streams
winding their way
toward a dead sea.
So it flows, again,
emergent, never
itself, each moment
becomes the next
excuse for love,
the next consequence
to be sorted
like bits of broken glass
for a new mosaic
scattered across a table.
(August 28, 2019)
Several weeks ago something made me think about rereading Tristan Tzara’s “Approximate Man.” I searched every bookcase in the house multiple times( yes, I am obsessive). I couldn’t find it. I knew I had not loaned it out… I mean who do I know that would want to read it? Then yesterday, from across the room, I spotted it on the shelf in plain sight. I figure a ghost, or old age.
by
She spoke without preface,
as if sh knew him:
each sentence a non-sequitar
even to itself; no beginning
no end, no predicate
to bend into an open heart.
Askew to his position,
she formed a fulcrum
with no place to stand
like surf far out to sea
crashing against itself.
Until in a froth of inaction,
he drowned, swallowing his words,
as if they mattered.
(August 21, 2019)
by
Naomi, my cat,
stares vacantly into space;
she’s old, like me.
(August 17, 2019)
No one is alone:
the pale, pale moon of morning
offered to us all.
(August 16, 2020)
The lie of my truth
visors the angle
of my descent.
I have no face,
but reflection,
a mirror
to lace assumption’s
discordance.
My flesh contains
shattered selves—
a prismatic array,
where each shard
bends an image
of itself into another.
This truth lies
along an edge
of broken glass;
it slices the air
with ribbons of light,
like tall grass
cuts children’s legs
as they flee through
the last summer fields.
(August 15, 2019)
by
I received a rejection email from a lit magazine for a set of poems this morning. It was the standard, “does not fit our needs at this time” rejection. However, the magazine also told me that my poems made it to the final round of selections, before being rejected, and I should feel free (with a small reading fee) to submit more of my work in the future. It was as if I was told that my poems were almost good enough. But not being a hand grenade, nor a game of horseshoes.. almost is almost an insult. I know that it was supposed to be read as a compliment: my poetry was better than the outright rejections, yet still was found lacking. I laughed; It was funny. I am not bothered by rejection letters. They are just part of the game of submissions. A couple of years ago, I received a rejection from a magazine that had previously published a couple of my poems. In the rejection letter, the editor, I imagine in an attempt to be helpful, commented on what I could do to improve my writing, citing both positive and negative examples. I found this more troubling than the almost-good-enough rejection. The commentary was the sort one gets in undergraduate writing workshops. In other words, not really useful, or germane to what I was doing in the poem. I did not ask for feedback; I have been doing this awhile, I know what I am doing. I feel that if you did not select my writing for your publication, a simple polite no is good enough. I do not have to see your reasoning. I do not think, in the stereotypical manner, that the publisher did not “get” my writing. I just figure as the statement in most rejections pronounces: they do not fit, or they are not what we are looking for at this time. Or it is not the type/style of poetry the editor likes. I write what I write. I stopped a long time ago trying to write what I think some specific magazine, or editor will like. I don’t need a gold star, or the affirmation of someone else. I send out my work, because I would like it to be read; but, not to the degree that I will change the way I write. I am not trying to be arrogant, in fact, I see it more as humility. I write my poems, and they are poems, not experiments, or assignments. If you don’t care for my style, or what I say, that is okay. If you do like what I wrote: cool. I send my writing out sporadically. Normally, I will send out to several magazines at the same time. Not simultaneous submissions, for I write all the time and have a large backlog of poems. After my flurry of submissions, I continue writing; I forget who I sent poems to, then they slowly come back to me with rejections, and the occasional acceptance, which is always a thrill. I have never been one to see POETRY as a career, where I have to get published all the time, in all the BEST magazines. I don’t think one can be a professional poet. I do take poetry seriously: I read it all the time, I write it all the time. I even teach poetry, and conduct poetry workshops with my students. I send some out every now and then. Some get rejected; some get accepted.
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