Poem Without Revisions

He issued the definition

like a hand coming out of the sunlight,

like the universe was suppose to fill up.

He said, "There is more importance

leaving the white carnations of our world."

There was a parade turning down our street.

There were trucks and very shiny automobiles.

There were people throwing candy.

For a moment I felt that I might be coming home

to my dear wife.

And I hoped for a long time.

The summer was almost over in the tomatoes.

There was only one window in which the swallows could leave.

We walked to the field where no horse was.

I could not sing.

I could not say anything.

Not Responding to Things Directly

The few lines of your neck wear you down

like the sodden robe of your last miscarriage.

I am undulant and endeavoring your inner tube delicacies.

On 7th Avenue the cat thinks it must be in heaven

or else why would it be smiling?

Why would it be pawing the suburban subconscious?

And since we are alone, Love,

in our dreams, your contumely umbrella

has hidden you amid the vast oceanic waves.

I’ve flagged you down so we could shake hands.

Like an unhealthy child or a shallow reservoir,

I’ve swam a bit unsteady over the shoals,

squandered my stocking stuffers,

losing a little luster, but also the debris of doubt.

I won’t be much longer in this crawl space.

My landscape, mostly the curve along your chin line

up to your rhododendron eyeliner.

But it is late, it is almost night fall,

and in the sad demure of rain we raise the toasting glass

to speak anecdotally of this young prince.

Saying it so it might happen

We were told to sit on the pavement,

it was ordinary pavement. As if we needed marmoreal

protection from the loiters and people shopping.

The branches shook above the nasturtiums, which

were shaking their rebuttals at the ice cream

pamphlets. This was some college town

someone shouted. That this would be, "a good novel

some day." And in that way we looked at each

other in disgust. Once making love my mind was thinking

that in a hundred years I would never think

as I do now, nor shift my seat in peradventure.

The structure of the bricks was

a kitchen floating over the roof

tops. We were eating our cotton

sweaters. We were trying to acclimate

to our extremeties. We were having a good time.

This was the way we thought about the world.

In Search of Popsun

The Alps Go out from here. We dropped our baskets And went out hunting. There was incredulous Love making. We heard things from the hereafter. We commandeered safe passage Out through the rolling Atlantic. We heard of an attractive hand at the firing range that drew in the pack of hyenas, A few of us responded with a Map of the constellations Others began to desire Brilliant foliage And a few bills in their bill fold. We were waiting for it to get cold, For it to snow, to go out looking through the snowy streets of New England, And find that This is not such a crazy place For a famous hat, In Hartford.

Regular Poetry

 

The coffee was steaming when Doc took off his wig

we didn’t even know he was wearing.

We found a hat within a hat.

Two years before, Lorca shredded me

with a flower stinking like an overripe melon.

That was for I thought I knew better.

Another hat emerges and someone kicks it.

It hurts, like reading a poem with an understanding,

an oar passing over the water, dripping in an orbit

only a few astronomers can comprehend.

Finally You

Last night we finally got wind of the new greeting card. It sounded like shrimp head or lunch pail. But those are things of profound sadness and we decided to rename it, like houseboat or inscribed straggle. It now appears under your pillow like air pocket or  willful sample of a lonely tooth. We suppose it is like wine wasted on the telephone. But we are similarly misled, and it is like the Indian Ocean. Hint it is written like leaf with a passion or long yellow Septembers. From the window we look out onto the slipperless streets. The mailman uses his telescope as an alias. He carries the mail like a deceased brother at a New Year’s Eve party. We don’t take it personally, but are happy when he’s gone. He is a normal letter carrier. Like shag over the ballpark, or nightgown obviously not stitched, funny simple novel or two smiles playing, nothing is heavier than a nickel but the sweet fronds of thought melting like butter between a sandwich, Japanese blooms in fall or hints not unlike statutes left in the rain. In words a thank you letter finds you amid the postcards, taxidermied pigeons, napkin notes. 

Raining All Over The World