by
at best—
a bird flits
across the yard
with a divine grace
from bush to tree top
as if each wing-beat,
dip, and glide
were planned
more likely— I wing
each moment; in chaos
I flail, arms akimbo—
a cartoon character
only cognizant as I fall
slowly through clouds
into a soft puff of dust
that pocks the ground
(October 4,2018)
Ritualistically
like fingers slide
along rosary beads,
I worry the minutes,
feel the grain
of the past,
then shift between
decades and days
as if idly shuffling
a tarot pack. I heft
each moment’s density
tasting the cold hours’
iron passage
like blood clots
which slowly drop
from bones
strung across
a killing floor.
(October 3, 2018)
I cannot focus too long
anymore on text
on the flow of sentences
from page to page
or often from word
to word except for
the sounds they make
like small rocks clack
agains a well’s wall
before the ruffled splash
absorbs what small
meaning was left
among the tightly
criss-crossing ripples
(September 29, 2018)
with no cautious
humility
to amend
he steps lightly
through his
incompetence
as if there
were
some place safe
where he could
escape who
he has become
(September 29, 2018)
Am I here?
Can you hear me
anymore?
I am no answer
to your questions,
implied, or stated.
Is this what’s left–
to fade in and out
like a side-show ghost?
Am I here
scratching inside
the house’s walls,
like a rat
slowly dying?
(September 27, 2018)
“Chorus But there is no remembering the human mind.”
— Gertrude Stein
Even in the act,
the mind is not
remembered.
Memory is
remembered
as past.
Yet mind
mediates
creation
of a present
past cast
as memory–
a story still
told today.
(September 27, 2018)
in this vacuous world the air is pulled
from these lungs like a scream on a string
a whirlygig’s motion without purpose
other than to click and clack in the wind
as winter branches break against branches
with a self-flagellating destruction
my words flail against themselves in anger
searching for a simplicity not there
I’ve desired to speak since I was a child
but have been hesitant to raise my voice
above the churning storm outside the door
the constant turmoil conspires to control
like a hand at my throat each syllable
until all I could say is ground to dust
(September 26, 2018)
by
as if an aura buzzed
a neon glow along an edge
of a byzantine saint
a low level dread burns
on the periphery of his days
like a star verging on collapse
everything everywhere constantly
distracts toward simple
chaos toward tangents
askew to well ordered
paths desired in his constant
scrabble for affirmation
instead of beatific joy
in the exploding universe
by
I step out the door,
Another muggy fall day:
Mules trudge through the field.
Mud slowly sucks at my step;
I shall fall and become earth.
(September 20, 2018)
by
The young girl thinks
constantly of the proper
manner to serve
a volleyball true.
The smack-smack
of leather against
the polished wood floor
dominates and supersedes
the hard-lined proofs
of geometry; the arc
and vector, with
the slightest bump,
returns her to the game’s
concrete abstractions.
(September 19, 2018)
by
There is less to do,
less to talk about now.
Where do I lay
my belief like a sack
full of rocks? When
do I shuck off
the tired traces
and stand unburdened?
There is no where
to go, but here–
and finally I have come
to a place I have
always been unknown,
a place that is mine.
(September 18, 2018)
by
advice to my 15-year-old self
Keep writing; it defines you.
you are about to meet your wife;
she is not your current crush.
Your dad is dying.
In a couple of months, he’ll know.
It will take two years.
Except for your wife,
who you do not know yet,
no one thinks like you.
Poetry will save you
now, and again forever:
so read more, write more.
You will become who you are.
Quit German, learn Spanish.
(September 17, 2018)
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