by
a gathering of fears
like strands of mist
collected to a fog
to drape the landscape grey
these are my intuitions
the way I move the dark
my hand outstretched
as if looking for a friend
in an incomplete gesture
toward a familiar stranger
yes it is her wait but no
then I quickly look away
these are my truths
vaguely concrete
(March 24, 2018)
by
I am told they say the language
is always already there waiting
to speak to hear to wallow in
like in omphalos blood coated
before the nascent cry cuts
sharply through the thick air
I have lost my metaphor
which becomes my metaphor
absence replaces other semblance
I suppose one cannot escape
language’s chains as they rattle
like bones in a cup the words
we speak in guarded greeting
each morning each to each
(March 23, 2018)
I hone a knife
against my arteries’
thrum. The blood
slips a sacrifice
into a broken cup.
Worse than a cliché,
I am my own cliché,
a banal aggregate
waltzed about
in a leaky sack.
I vaguely sing
along discordantly,
not truly knowing
the words to my song.
(March 21, 2018)
he looks for a different door
in rooms without walls
in rooms which don’t exist
for exits to other spaces
traces of other selves
still trapped in former places
between the comings and goings
everything occurs off stage
implied in his scripted lines
yet here there is no drama
no audience no fourth wall
nor any walls to cross at all
he exists here now like you
alone with no place to go
(March 18, 2018)
are you listening
I’m not sure
I am
another other
who can hear
such whispers
wake the dead
from uncertain ground
you are as I
another other
with an answer
without question
for anyone else
to stand upon
(March 17, 2018)
In almost a religious ritual,
he castigates his niggling doubts
in a timid formality of failure.
Even now, as he folds his thoughts
neatly into another inaction,
a new desire falls softly to regret
like crumbs from a banquet table
scatter slowly across the floor.
Doubt and regret feed each other
a fetid feast lavished with fear.
He imagines a different world
free from this hunger, where he moves
forthrightly without pity, instead
of staring blankly at an empty bowl.
(March 14, 2018)
by
moments decades gone by
twist tightly at my throat
I cannot speak beyond garbled
syllables juxtaposed like a collage
each angle cuts a new facet
to bend the light of reason
as prisms blur rainbows
across a darkened wall
I am shattered into colors
frayed and inarticulate edges
until what I once knew whole
fades into inconsequence
and regret like memory reverberates
throughout the gathering darkness
(March 9, 2018)
by
if I could say,
then I would
not have to—
the inexpressible
drives every attempt
to define
Frost’s wall
Stevens’ jar
Eliot’s need
lines and circles—
outside— the other,
the ineffable
nothing comes
from nothing
(March 7, 2018)
an almost symmetrical row
of imitation leather chairs
stretches a divide across
the stark waiting room
we all sit alone
filling out forms
looking at our phones
watching shadows
on the floor slowly
trace time’s passage
in a futile metaphor
(March 6, 2018)
by
I drown in increments.
Pebbles added to my pockets,
like time, pull me to earth.
I’m bored with minutia,
the cynical laugh
in disdain’s cheap fear.
My eyes ache; shadows,
like dark angels, run
with knives between rooms,
searching for something
to clean the blood off
the brain-slicked walls.
(March 6, 2018)
after Rexroth’s translations
In the empty classroom,
I hear the girls laugh
down the hallway.
I think of you,
who is not here.
*
early march morning
spring whispers
on the tree’s edges—
redbud, mountain laurel,
ornamental pear
*
as memory
a mist hangs above the creek
out behind the house.
by noon, it is gone.
(March 6, 2018)
Tangents follow tangents
As I speak. Transitions
Diverge from an initial
Turn in conversation,
Like fractals of ice spread
Across eyes of the dead.
I stop and cannot see
I’m lost in an older tale.
From birth, the labyrinth unfolds:
Where I’ve been, where I go
Tangle as each step implodes
Into my present quandary,
Much as snow sifts across
Barren hills beneath the stars.
(March 3, 2018)
by
Poetry is existence: the bark
Of the primal tongue gnawed
Into the first cave’s wet clay.
I summon myself with words
Others have spoken. They offer
A bastion, a solace to live out.
Each line defines, creates tension
Between what I know and silence;
Where I am, where I leave off.
When reading late at night,
Or walking in morning fog,
I vanish into some other
Like a fish blindly mouthing
Voiceless O’s into the air.
(February 28, 2018)
by
I look to a mirror
And see I am old,
Balding, skin dry,
My beard greyed.
The skin of my hands
Has thinned like plys
Of ice on water, early
Winter mornings.
I first read this poem
My class read today
Forty years ago, when,
Like them, I still believed.
I am old; there is no
Resolution to this poem.
(February 27, 2018)
by
little of what’s said
can pass without
interpretation—
to encompass within
a new language the old,
a translation unfolds
my metaphor of cloth,
my change of clothes,
my understandings,
like an old television,
flickering in the dark,
slips frames unfocused:
alone, I do not know
What’s left to put on
(February 26, 2018)
subtext 