reworking a sketch from some time ago

the party #2


3 a.m. fluid filled
full of ardor
shadows and cacophony
an unending stream of stimuli
breaking on the rocks

the worst and the best things that could happen all at once and right now that is enough but is it?

and even that little crash is enough to break another rock
let in a little more liquid
seep
see the seep?

it carries all the effluvia of then into the current of now
no idea when that is but it's sometime soon to be sure

the flesh is going unintended
the heart wants what it wants
thus spake the ridiculous queen
from a dozen crimson mouths
all belching smoke and poison
all liars and prophets behind eyes that have already seen tomorrow
(so many heads)

the scribbler in the corner gets up suddenly to dance, falls down and no one notices

that's what kind of party it was.



-- dec '16

a thumbnail sketch

tadpoles


so these tadpoles turned into frogs one early September morning
balanced on a rooftop belonging to someone they'd never met
waiting for the sun to come up
praying the sun would never come up


as the shadows would evaporate like dew
and the scars left behind would show clear
and he hoped she did not hear the gasp
as a tail dropped and rolled sloppily down the rusting tin




it landed near a pair of checkerboard hightops
a lavender sweater and a straw hat
unnecessary in the dark and the warm
steady toes, sure feet anchored to the top of this small pad

until one of them leapt



--apr '11/oct '16

something seasonal

from the little black book on the back of my desk, furiously, seriously scribbled (no doubt)



autumn again


you thought that merging with all that was in flux would pull you out
but it was an eddy
                             and no one heard you swirl

the crack never fills
ticks, nails, leeches, ants, coffee cups, grease, shoe rubber, conversations, right & wrong
i'm on my knees
                          blind, groping

i suspect i dissolve as i age
absorbed into some god-awful solution whose sole purpose is to kill me utterly along with everything i remember
                  leaves in the storm pipe

you know the answer you will get
why do you ask the question?
the equations inside your language are unsolvable
                                                                                maybe illegal

i read somewhere that you have to be the path in order to walk the path
but i still crawl
farsighted & crooked
                                  tracing fallen things over slickness

***

so now we sleep like mosses over old brick
slow and unaware, green and steady
the familiar fuzziness in and around us always

***

we'll try again tomorrow
                                       (next season)


--sept '16

a list

the box

this box is unimpressed by that box
unimpressed by the plastic tape and lo-ply cardboard
what's left of an imagination smeared across the interior of the bottom

the box implies mobility and immobility
a cage that takes a journey
a warm embrace and fake enthusiasm
entertainment behaviors swirling around commodity

the box hides art through misdirection
it contains all the platitudes and wan suggestions of life lived successfully
all the hobbies we could ever want

the box opens up to all values
commodity value
use- and exchange-value
moral value
even aesthetic value
close your eyes
stick your hand in and rummage
you may be surprised

the box holds the truth of itself but communication is limited
we are asleep beside the light switch
our fingers are numb

the box empties out a religious text in its own way
the cliches of martyrdom and passion and sin have no place here
everything truly is permitted inside the box

the box is a maze of dialectics
the box is the original home of the lost and found
the box never presents the third option

the box is an empty frame for a dream
a magnetic field condensing around sleepers
gathering all swimmers in its wake
drowning some in flux

the box implies pointy sharp & edgy
narrow & sectarian
the box could be the cult of the hidden
or the miracle of the revealed

the box knows resistance
knows decay

the box is not an oracle
does not assert
the box loves only itself
expresses its wildness of being in code

the box knows that poetry is the only language of truth
and thus we may only know each other through this shared art

the box knows also how ridiculous this art is
knows that it should be opened and laughed at
or dismissed entirely
knows that it should be smashed
knows that it should be recycled

the box shares this truth
the box is the biggest eater

the box will not cram imagination into a corner
or empty it onto a childhood floor
the box rattles around the universe in the trunk of a bumper car

the box cannot smell and thus is never offended

the box is authentic even when its contents are not
the box could be a gun
or a balloon
or a handshake
or a telephone call

the box always comes back as itself
the box is behind your bumper sticker
the box fuels your ethic

the box is life and thus fragile
the box will eat itself
and leave its art behind



-- sept '16

may contain artificially flavored poetry

cinnamon


"bend your head backwards until the sky turns to water"

she said as she drove the '78 trans am on an unlined road
red horizon chrome sunbeams black earth impossible blue
everywhere

i can still smell the inside of that car
and the side of her neck from the passenger side
serious road stare and hair whipping round

coffee in the holder
incense in the glovebox

engine ready to burn all fluids


--aug '16

observations

there was this couple


their hands moved everywhere around the table in a dance of avoidance four north poles bouncing around a round box lost but for the ordinary things around them waiting to be held

a glass of tepid water

                                  a half-eaten sandwich

                                                                     a cheap paper napkin

                                                                                                        a freshly harvested heart


***


the couple on the train stared straight ahead swaying slightly in rhythm with the car nowhere touching even though their seats were that close

wheels on rails

louder than shouting

random glances and reflections



***


two voices up ahead two bodies and a sidewalk just wide enough to contain all that talking and gesturing and still there's no contact until the stoplight and a hand shoots out to catch a misstep

sure and quick then retreats into the folds of routine

                                                                                   and the day and the night go on

and on



--aug '16

ricochet

ricochet


the day penciled itself in
then rubbed itself out.

sure, things got done,
chores ticked off

another small repair
another 30 seconds of something.


the sand dunes are all planted
                                               waiting for a wind,

exclamation points at the ready.



-- jul '16