“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)
The cat sleeps nearby;
I ma cold and need a nap:
the day fills with tasks.
**
Snow on bare branches
melts as fresh green buds beckon
after the sun’s light.
**
Light rain saturates
the garden after a grey week,
I write listlessly.
(September 15, 2018)
by
The sadness in the open rose
falls like petals to the path,
while you are somewhere else,
and I am nowhere near.
I hold on to the shreds
as a cicada’s husk
to a tree still clings
to a life not its own.
All maps are tattered
to an unstable memory–
which forms and reforms
until a landscape adheres.
Slowly I have fallen onto
a shapeless and empty road.
(September 15, 2018)
by
Morning light’s enough,
As my students quietly write—
How we change our world.
Young trees grow to provide shade,
As the old begin to fade.
(September 14,2018)
She moves the block to the right
slightly, turning its axis
parallel to the table’s edge.
It is now as she imagined,
arranged in her mind’s symmetry,
aligned with the larger world.
Life would be easier if only
every one would take care
of everything instead of her.
But they don’t. So she does
what she can to help
put things in their places.
Yet the world she desires
rarely mimics the world
she lives within,
and the difference grows
as roots in a forest
askew to any explanation.
(September 7, 2018)
by
The river runs dry,
and he has no bait
for stones. Distantly,
delusion shimmers
a claim on intimacy
somewhere beyond
the moving horizon.
He writes towards
her, casting out lines
in hopes of catching her
in a turn of phrase,
where she will see
herself, and come
to know his slow intent.
(September 7, 2018)
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