Thursday, December 15, 2011

Tonight


And I think if the world may end
where the moon light falls like snow
Let it end tonight so
so that I do not have to live through 

where the moon light falls like snow
and end even in our souls
so that I do not have to live through 
and live through and be through

And end even in our souls
At the end after the blue
and live through and be through
out in the snow we come into

At the end after the blue
that lives through our bodies
out into the snow we come into
where there is only you

that lives through our bodies
And I think if the world may end
Let it end tonight so
where it is only you


Friday, December 2, 2011

To My Son

When mom and I divorced


you stopped holding my hand


you stopped running into my arms


you stopped


Not because you were getting older


Not because you didn't love me


out of the coy corners of you eyes


or out of the little beginnings of a wry smile of hope


or happiness, or love.


but because suddenly at eight the world had


suddenly become a sad place


that at eight the energy coming off your fingers


coming off your eyelids


coming off the electrified tips of hair


had been snuffed out


had been closed like a house


on a street, in a city you


would never return to.


We try but end up doing nothing


but waiting for our lives to be over


Do you know I wrote two wonderful poems


filled with your brothers and was


waiting..waiting..waiting


not to write this poem to you.


Monday, November 7, 2011

To Cause to Glitter or Shine

Of the adventure we were mum
Of the sky we heard singing and checked in
Of the Japanese text we carried a handkerchief
Of morning we found something delicate
Of the months we resorted to amazement
Of the music we called for more fuzz
Of the others and the vagrants we were valleys and distance
Of the dandelions we were feeling haunted
The houses and the apartments lacked focus

On the skin travel sounded nice
Of the boys and girl circling in the atmosphere
like love swaying in all directions
we cleaned in-between the tip-toes
The rain fell and fell and fell
until the rain fell again and again some more
Of the kissing we kissed
Of the tiny messages there were volumes
Of the lovemaking laid the forms of poems.




New Letter

When they greet you
in the foreground
in the suburban
burnt out mornings
that only a dog skeleton
can absorb.
And they call you
by face and say,
"You are done
with 'you' poems!"
"With comical metaphors!"
"With lightness!"
Agree with them.
Tell them that
I am no longer sad.
I will write from metal
Of a hurrah
before charging
of all the things that fill
of all the things that I know
of the only thing I know.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Tomato

She is sick
She holds the tomato
that I have given her
from the garden.
She brings it to her nose
and smells it.
She rubs the brown
flecks of dust dirt
off until it shines
and hands it back to me

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

This Is Vaguely Somehow About the Poem

But we in our motes
(may I offer you some?)
paint the foreground
with pointed perfection
of the few glimpses
he had in Giverney
with autumn within shot
to tell us that this novel nothing
pleases the sawdust sunlight
amid the carnal comments


Saturday, July 16, 2011

With Your Coffee

Do you prefer
the anticipation
of a snowball
A room with
or without a
fish tank
An Eden-like porch
with wicker
and Adirondacks
A long sleep
with the feeling of being
awake or a short one
after a day in a hot tent
in a sweatshirt
or the right book
forgetfulness
clever understandings
ice out in the universe
eavesdropping realizations
praying mantis entertainment
the dead with a suitcase of mist
or whatever you call it
three creams and two sugars
with your coffee.



Friday, July 15, 2011

Insert Idea

Glimspes of boarders
advance like suggestions
living like the lights of cars.
Now that one doesn't always remember
that something emerges for a moment
and breathes into the atmosphere
and that we
as we sit on these bleachers
begin like an undoing
the weather of a last novel
rocking on and on
half brushed by mud
half impossible like rain touching
the dome of twilight.
Is this old hat?
Insert idea.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Drinking from Dew

The truth towards the end of morning
could ask us of anything
if it asks like the trees ask
a heavy swaying
offering to renew the scent
of tomatoes
as if the sweetness was passing.

Flowers perhaps we could ask
would still gather us up some meaning
before the people begin handing them
out on every street corner of every city.

Monday, April 18, 2011

The Stone

From my balcony
each letter in the word "complexity"
drops like fine china
and in its pieces
is a new undiscovered landscape.

In book stores
under the cover of night
tiny men ready their tiny erasers
but come to find
when they open up those dictionaries
the word already dissolving.

From the tops of mountains
it lingers only briefly.

On the river swollen with spring
the word has never existed.

In other places it has turned
simply chocolate.

And in the front of houses
the word has been replaced by single stone
that only a few can lift, even fewer can carry
and only two can love.








Saturday, February 19, 2011

Dancing at Five


I

Your kiss is the taste
of a broken heart
and sleeping beside you
your thick blood
pools in the wine
cellars of your legs
in the dreaming
of your bitter mouth

II

I do not want life to be bread
but a long trail of wooden bars
in the afternoon of spring
after a shower where the wood
smells fresh and wet
the people are new and the slow
twilight is indefinable like oil.

III

The husk of the butterfly
stayed watching us and gradually
the moist loneliness wounded you.

IV

My love, I cannot write anything beautiful
about the sea. Since you are not in it.
And no roof, or birth, or moon rises,
no fruit turns pink, because you have
not tasted it.

V

It is the skin around the eyes
the sleepy hinge to the eternal
rubbed soft with the premonition
of music and soaking peaches
that scents the rain,
that flours at the touch of pestle.

All Life is like this Afteroon

All life is like this afternoon on your young sandy face the weight of the stars the body tasting like snow a slipcover of communic...