Poems remain forever unfinished, only to be completed by each new reader - Dan Eric Slocum
Saturday, December 31, 2011
truth in the light
falls
into full view
on the floor
at the support group
before the eyes of many.
Brave descriptions of romance
even true love
lifetime companionship
every need met; adoration
and abundance.
Why now, three months later,
do you hate the way he eats?
----
Friday, December 30, 2011
enter the mystics
a steep, solitary climb
on this snow field could be
so noisy. Nisqually Glacier
on the left, all day long, belching
thunderclaps. ice walls and
chasms waltzing, (the summer warmth-
the invitation to the dance.)
and you feel (could it be love?)
for this mountain. and you feel your age (young)
Rainier has seen five hundred thousand
summers.
this volcano, capable of such destruction,
from a distance, is the quintessence
of peace. (past lahars speak to the contrary,
of course. the geological history is frightening.)
but up you go (moth to flame?)
life is a roll of the dice. oh,
the numbers are good. (in your favor)
at ten thousand feet. (yes. that is the summit just above:
four thousand feet from your very own feet) a few hundred
thousand years of this view. what a thought!
(what has been seen?)
you will see science on the mountain.
(that mountain will chew you up)
always in motion, each glacier a
huge extended tongue. crevasses bring the surface
texture. deep, deep cuts born of moving ice.
dear Mount Rainier is the unlikely muse;
a place for dreams
(hoping, praying)
You’ll find enough ether here to move
your most secret thought. (absolution,
if it is needed. the last confession)
and here, on Rainier, is the staircase.
everywhere you look. (so many ways
up the mountain.) Your staircase and you know it.
for memory’s sake
for navigation. (motivation)
for God’s sake
for time will tick you forward
(off the mountain); so much less time spent
in the present moment, searching
for powerfully spent other (past)
moments.
the whiteness will come full circle.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
surface tension
on my shoulder
with premeditated fingers
or glimmer flesh
a torso flash, floating
in loose fitting pants
do choose
each word you whisper
whiskey voiced man
and when you pause
to breathe
look at me.
Monday, December 26, 2011
my true voice
to arrive on this, thrumming pulse.
Constant; but too vast for any calculation,
enumeration, description.
(loving rhymes and chromosomes)
The ethereal light
almost phony, corny looking,
until you’re too close to move away.
It is real, pilgrim
You’re in.
And then you know.
Eternity.
Love.
Just in time, the Truth.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
fresh sheets (title by r)
nursery.
baby powder bare
crispy bright white
receiving blanket white
swaddling
hopes for futures on
other soils
pressed innocence
helpless to a
threaded surface
orbs of coming days
behind crusty slits
their focus on linen canvas
bounty in the mainsail
of a crib.
2
night.
crease-less sheets
to be imprinted with the
moons and rivers of life
human forms on gravitational
earth. Above and below
fibrous threads
warm
with muddy swamps of thought
or
recollection
a glassy shard of lust
on a fold
in your brain
and now
wet
on a fold
in your stunning fresh sheets.
3
final.
Earth
her
fresh muddy sheet
warm
sun warm
earthworm warm fresh and sweet
with blood
insects torn apart
now give way
to a corpse heavy box
forked into her steaming throat
threads of root, grass
perfect count
fresh bed
eternity bed
final bed
dirty and pristine
shoveled in as angel arms.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Aurora Borealis
I have traveled with you in my mind
to the north; me the student. you the teacher, forever.
many times
together on the floes,
above
the land of Eskimos.
you know the way
the ocean becomes clotted with ice the way pudding refuses to
separate, under-stirred. the way the seal-hunters only acknowledge our presence,
indignant; respectful?
together on the floes,
above
the land of Eskimos.
But, the Inuit teach us nothing about survival we
(you especially) have not known for years. we turn away
laughing, knowing we are the hunted;
laughing, still.
you, with the bad heart
me flailing all the way, of course.
what have we left, at best, on this speck of white ice
or green,
twenty years? If that.
and we are laughing, even crying
crying, because we know this is as far as we can travel
to the north; at least safely.
It is as far as we can travel alive.
Friday, December 23, 2011
near white center
Thursday, December 22, 2011
the sweet bird is singing
so sweet, and I love it.
(but as daily sustenance?)
this is the weight I carry; the albatross of my lifetime.
no more
too much, too sweet
(brain on the very brink)
can this little taste of arsenic in sour milk
save me from myself?
Sunday, December 18, 2011
mimosa
Saturday, December 17, 2011
blue skies
your face in south-lit shadow
your chocolate candy eyes
teeth;
electric
lips;
rose- from chill
want;
evergreen in a sea of red and gold
perfect
fingertips- alive in parting-
dancing for blocks
beneath a certain sky.
Friday, December 16, 2011
____ins__k
the rain is a channel to you (one travels great distances
quickly; one appears transformed)
I, the many, many shapes I take as if by magic
through the water.
for clarity;
I am not invisible, but you will never see me
staring into your starving eyes
perched in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling.
Spider-like.
we all strike our little deals
stake our little claims
settling on this, I'll give up sanity
what power and vision I have
despite my pathetic, quivering
madness.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
my teeth
on some screen—somewhere in Guam
via satellite.
“That man on TV sure has nice, white teeth.”
pause.
big smile.
“They’re caps.”
click.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
the exquisite, now
and body? perfection
youth's tight edge.
I imagine you
old; ninety.
dimples supine
at rest
deep
in lovely furrows.
cocoa and wool for hair
now.
then,
wisps, snow on
crown and crotch
long limbs
your ears
stretched at gravity's call
an eternal walk to the dirt.
how it brings you nearer
and whiter.
even in brown
and solid
reality
your beautiful face.
Friday, December 9, 2011
while still a baby
1)
snow face.
lilly white; sun plays tricks;
you are the magic canvas.
When you were a puppy -- no sounds; congenital deafness --
NOT A SOUND. only sight. only smell. only feel. only taste.
no fight.
no game.
no worth.
No hearing for the stupid little pit bull. Damn you to Hell, you bitch!
They called you ‘bait dog.' (Angel, my beloved animal guide)
how could you know you would save my very life?
you spent ‘babyhood’ as bait. And the aggressors? Your breed.
Pit bulls. Mean Ones. Fighting Ones. One-Hundred pound males with
intact testicles -- jaws like sharks. ALL muscle. They tried to blind you with bites.
— and the human trash involved —
2)
When you. YOU! My white Angel -- when you were discovered in Moses Lake, Washington.
In that lonely orchard,
your deaf ears were nearly-frozen.
When you, my whiteness, were rescued, your head -- covered with pus filled bites. They nearly blinded you. (your milk chocolate eyes still shining) Delicious. Beautiful.
When YOU (you; my beloved companion) found deliverance from HATE and CRUELTY, you were dying,
a tiny puppy. Nearly frozen. Nearly blinded. (legs tortured from the feces filled crate)
Only monsters torture puppies (fight ‘em); and these monsters
are still with us: free. They still fight those dogs. It’s just for fun.
Maybe a little money. They hide it from police. It is illegal; we all know that.
3)
Angel. You survived. You thrived.
You see -- and you see those who love you.
Angel, you see the beautiful days ahead.
Angel, you 'hear' the truth in your own way.
And just so you know,
--- those monsters will rot in Hell ---
----
Thursday, December 8, 2011
hand of judgement
and exploration, not destruction,
the boy pulls the wings from a Monarch butterfly.
he knows it would live only a few months, anyway.
(in the wild)
but he hadn't meant to kill it.
(or even maim it)
what had he been thinking?
(lip quivering)
and now there is shock and exasperation as the
still-alive 'butterfly corpse-to-be' scurries on the dirt
looking like a roach or beetle; wingless,
ugly as a monster
why the tears?
as the bug crawls out of sight
the boy looks down
on his hand of judgment
on his fingers; residue the color of a tiger.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
the milk sky
Monday, December 5, 2011
mule
Sunday, December 4, 2011
time and date of my choosing
—Swan Song by Bruce Hornsby
1)
‘muffled snow‘ — the sound — the still world —
the just-fallen white --
the ‘any sound’ -- laughter (sobbing) transformed; absorbed first
by the fluff trees and marshmallow carpet.
(finally it reaches my ear) -- diminished.
2)
the night before O.J. Simpson’s acquittal, Prosecutor Clark,
on tape, pleading a final time; deliberations to follow. “He did it,”
she said to the jurors—but for the muffled snow, perhaps,
a different outcome? Still, could we not hear through such obfuscation?
(even in relatively warm Los Angeles; muffled.) the snow.
3)
2001, beautiful late summer morning, the towers fell into muffled snow.
(my body shooting bolt upright in bed—TV on overnight) “And it appears
a plane has...” But my wide eyes still gluey—and cotton batting
in my head? Tom Brokaw rambling on and on, as I clear what seems
a quart of snow from my ears. -- Is this real?
4)
and now, with years having passed—all the many times—
all the muffled snow -- I am so confused. I’ve become another.
--barely recognizable --
Can you not hear me?
5)
but there is a time and date when the dazed middle-aged man—
I indeed recognize as myself -- finally -- emerges. Has the snow cleared?
Have I actually chosen this day?
6)
—or have I been tightly wrapped in a chrysalis? did I confuse
the swaddling for the sound after snowfall? do I see a light now? -- yes?
(the kind you see at the end)
I can hear the sounds, yes?
-- answer me --
7)
or at this time—and on this date—have I become a butterfly?
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
certain knowledge
always
catching my eye
in that shape.
An eternal chasm between sculpture
and what will never be.
The frame of you
and me.
Soft screams in carefully chosen words;
the noise of knowing
a bereft gut.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
night of lightning
my night of lightning
on a Kansas prairie (only I remember) -- bolts up and down for hours;
repeats in this Century
looking down on Temple Mount.
Jerusalem is a long way from Kansas City.
take a glass light bulb -- put it on the floor, lit (aglow),
and then step on it. though the
bulb will go out -- look at the shards of glass
and visualize the pieces as still lit.
zoom out.
now, see each illuminated piece as an event in your life to come.
find the way between
the glowing, shattered pieces.
you’ll be fine.
have a valid passport and don’t get stuck in New Jersey.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Lowell
bifocal glasses
then; and
now I see my life
on your parallel
split.
I dreamed of flying
again last night, and
today I flew there
with you at my side;
you in your blue plane,
white,
me on the cloud top.
And I can see you
smiling
just a leap away.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
forever cat gone
Friday, November 25, 2011
i (eye) - for Margo
try it will, find it will
a
gap__a__space
a missspelling.
My being
electrified in some poetic way
justified by rationale
my reasons why. Crucified.
Then sanctified
by
your eye.
i
thank
you
Thursday, November 24, 2011
kiss
the very moment its feet leave the wire
and its wings actually carry it into blue sky.
Flight; but not knowing
you could fly
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
consider the sunny day
Bodies and parts of them
strewn,
scattered as a child would leave playthings on the den
floor;
the after-Christmas floor
A bounty of bodies; reality not terrible enough
over the span of time
to usher peace
Aortas still split. Guts fly
as teeth clench in distant meeting rooms.
Power and peace divided on tables.
When women are crowded behind the alley entrance
mission doors.
Their lives and babies’ lives
lacerated,
eviscerated as the wolf undoes a sheep in the night,
with only the moon to watch.
The carnage still not enough
to halt the scatter of bullets in the streets
or the viciousness that releases them.
Orphaned infants scream with forever-bruised hearts
while we deny under sunny, azure skies.
Monday, November 21, 2011
no refill
living in the Nicotine ant farm.
he arrived only in pieces; with Xanax, Seconal,
Nembutal, Valioooooooom—(the endless others)
the trailing half-lives followed him like a stench.
the cadaver still propped up; even walking with
morgue make-up.
(the walking—an illusion, a prospect? a wish?)
in his life, what of it he could legitimately remember,
he'd tried to guard the tiny, tender flame. (boxes of words
seen as trash; even by the intimates.)
we think it broke his will (and there is no pill for that)
Saturday, November 19, 2011
the everything man
don’t confuse me with someone you once found
in the middle of a lonely road, though I am him.
the world is all absolutes to me. no middles.
(begging) please no shades of gray,
and may I please help the baby out with the bath water?
I assure you, this is my final fucking position; forever
until the end. nothing changes. don’t try. not now.
not ever.
(and that is a very long time)
so, what to make of the unexpected confidante?
(freedom in absolution?)
in love with the black and white song.
then, why stake my life now on the only escape from the hole?
gray. middles.
(and not to be examined)
when the sky is melting
when there is fire on simplicity
(no fit)
I will go there. I will find the only one.
and the everything man lives in shadow;
paradoxically the brightest light.
(my puzzles, his innately leveled)
how I crave the secret fuzz, the times of very together,
when love fog obscures the sharp edges of the
dirty, daily steps.
even euphoria is manageable,
not blinded anymore by the too blue sky;
the too cheery sun.
I once thought never.
(and sweeter than this?)
pull back the large curtain near Heaven.
behold the everything man.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
rainier
Those rocks know thousands of summers.
That mountain will chew you up.
I’ve been here before.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Grandpa Fred
then life departs.
And mine,
the final eyes
your eyes
embraced.
Goodbye twinkled,
as I lowered my toothbrush
and
gaze
to your limp frame on the bathroom floor.
Mom cut onions for meat loaf
and I cried.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
vespers
Friday, November 11, 2011
right now
where are you, little angel?
searchlight
likely not there
fade out
(pipe organ)
searchlight
So,
where've you been?
likely not where you say, liar.
fade out
pants on fire, liar.
maybe some similar place--
sure.
but not there.
Oh,
by the way,
that's some power
zipped up in there,
godboy. Pants on fire
as you
thrust
a jet strong
choke hold through the hole
faster
faster
faster climb the clouds
from the chasm
below
your
conceit.
poet.
liar.
But no angel. in that crack
the moist abyss
below
you
searchlight
fade out
(altar call)
So, So
what's all that about, little angel?
smoke?
oh sure
but not you.
searchlight
unless you lie,
godboy
hiding in some familiar place.
safe. cocky. cock.
oh sure.
But it's below you
huh?
reeks!
(benediction)
So, So, So
Now.
in this light -- right now
in this good light -- you should know
all that shows, little angel liar.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Spanish coffee
ripe skins drenched in sun baths.
My Valencia is Mediterranean blue
and orange and
so hot
in a Spanish summer
it wakes me from a dead sleep
with the taste of orange
on my lips.
my body
shaking
and wet.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
science fails
the appearance and the truth are contrary. it is the eternity dance again,
the brutal and beautiful annihilation of worlds,
and cycles, and spirals; tornadic, behind a gauze curtain.
tendrils of reality visible only to the few.
one is taken to the fair days, swaddled in memory husk, sword swallowers,
human oddities, candy floss, glee.
at the heart of it all, the reflection
obscured
and defying mirror image, exact replication prohibited,
and celebrated only as theme.
lethal angels are at play (lack of pain)
in a darkening field, now.
sun loss is here
and it is sad. counting down, now.
chaos is the mist, one trifling ingredient on an ascending scale,
orders of magnitude above--
one finds the grease, essentials--
the dawn is of truth only, not physical dawn, having passed
in this world, as one moves to hunker down in a new location.
science explains only a segment of the newness
worlds repeating, etc...
is it vanity and selfishness that took it all?
the post-apocalyptic discussions are tedious and too human,
but what other frame of reference can one endure?
broadcloth? that is the expectation;
longing for a definitive cause at a time like this.
mystics do not trump lethal angels.
the meanness is recycled as gelatinous brew, forked steaming into the throat.
swallow hard against the crush
reverse vomit.
every pulse is violent selfishness,
every single one
through all the worlds past or ever to come.
without limit.
so parsed by awkward language, this enormous sense of entitlement
transcends any tongue. We are, but mist—or dust.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
street walker
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
oasis
evaporate
and it rains
again
and again
rivers of you
recede
yet
the swollen clouds
refuse to
move.
you.
so much of you
in liquid form
before my very eyes.
again
tonight.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
eating too much honey
alive still; and trembling,
and breathing.
all the gossamer expertly removed
to the viscera of loathing.
detritus
attached specifically to reality;
exact, past doings exhumed
waking the nearly dead
shaking the memory tree
and the exquisite details
shed as a horrible, forever puzzle.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
viscera
It always leads here
ink slides onto paper
the soulful ocean swamps mighty dikes
and suddenly
birth
some coded, photographed reality
urgent
pungent on the tablet
wet
bloody and new.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
mercury (hold it)
floating
behind gabardine's curtain?
Chocolate milk skin
espresso hair
decadence.
Candy in my mouth's
most delicious
moment.
If for even a
flash
it crosses your mind--
one brilliant second?
Let me see behind the curtain
let me be a deep, hidden
secret
an experiment
folded away on some yesterday.
for you.
For me
infinite pleasure
in a
private,
frozen
time.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
the soup
there are layers in this mist
shades of, shades of gray
not the layers of a skin; tangible,
dissectible or solid
but rather, the undulating fog.
the fingers of clouds touching my tender folds
teasing, even
opacity is thrilling, not knowing the way
not seeing the very next little step.
there is bliss in that uncertainty. Wanting
one more clue.
catch me. as I will catch you
should we trip up
upon each other
in all this
soup.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
my teeth
on the screen—somewhere in Guam
via satellite.
“That man on TV sure has nice, white teeth.”
pause.
big smile.
“They’re caps.”
click.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
in this life
We don’t treat strokes with
tough love. No ‘slaps in faces’
-- please -- for the sick?
mercy.
for cancer. Parkinson's, ALS, Traumatic Brain Injury. Leukemia.
(wounds, injuries, accidents)
We sweep our own stoops
We rescue our fallen -- the poor --
Above all; We do no harm.
In this life, (my) defender is me.
For who else will advocate?
(I was a fool to assume, incorrectly)
Who else will step up
for the man who washed
his hands to bloody digits?
bathed in television lighting -- painted
like a clown. the make-believe newsman.
the ‘limp’ is hidden. stoic for the red light.
OCD monster. (thankfully now crippled)
(memories, so long past)
What protection might I expect
with clouds of mist and whispers;
the obfuscation of reality? The lethal
edge so near.
Step up.
I will step up; and fight
like hell. For myself.
For who else would?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
cat
in the middle of the night.
my thumb is dead numb.
fortunately, the MRI is clean, just a pinched nerve. I'm relieved.
my mouth is under construction,
two implants sit waiting for the final crowns.
the little caps are being made right now at a lab, somewhere.
but my gut aches, and that's not an actual physical malady,
I have OCD; a big secret I hide from almost everyone.
a debutante ball for my soul. a cotillion.
in my poetry brain,
OCD is an animal. (a cat?)
much of its time is spent in the now; feline stalking prey,
once caught, the prey is tormented still alive, sometimes released.
I have been pawed by the cat since I was a child,
it's strange that I limp now because of something unrelated.
if someone were to ask me about my OCD, I'd say, go read about it,
Friday, October 7, 2011
pinhead (all of my angels caught dancing)
lounging, sleeping, melting
a halo of beloved cats.
“Boze, it’s my favorite time of the day!”
these inward travels—laying here—fetal—suffuse with color
—opioid, nearly.
dance me all the way to some orange edge.
—show me joy!
Thursday, October 6, 2011
treasure
across frozen, anonymous, blankness
ice and ice and ice
nature keeps a secret
exquisite
away from all human eyes
equally hidden and discoverable
(as secrets are)
December knows
and has discovered
the stones
which lead to ice, blank sky
and the mystery -- the
one
flower.
nature knows its
beauty
by name.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Aurora Borealis
I have traveled with you in my mind
to the north; me the student. you the teacher, forever.
many times
together on the floes,
above
the land of Eskimos.
you know the way
the ocean becomes clotted with ice the way pudding refuses to
separate, under-stirred. the way the seal-hunters only acknowledge our presence,
indignant; respectful?
together on the floes,
above
the land of Eskimos.
But, the Inuit teach us nothing about survival we
(you especially) have not known for years. we turn away
laughing, knowing we are the hunted;
laughing, still.
you, with the bad heart
me flailing all the way, of course.
what have we left, at best, on this speck of white ice
or green,
twenty years? If that.
and we are laughing, even crying
crying, because we know this is as far as we can travel
to the north; at least safely.
It is as far as we can travel alive.
Monday, October 3, 2011
epiphany; sea change
stinking of the fear journey; carrying all the tchotchkes (collected nefariously. sad!)
and so, roiling, the “I know” fingers do their magic, invisibly from behind.
you are there again, speaking in eternity voice
(God, it can be overwhelming, thrilling)
not only scent alerts the blind-deaf self,
but touch
from behind
a chilblain, hypothermia, a body death rattle;
cannot tame what has been loosed.
you and I wander, but with a surgeon’s precision, into the ether.
together.
lock-step.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
moon (January 1998)
and it breaks my heart.
Moon, I see you forever
in one orange second on that beach.
Not even the Pacific is as blue
as your eyes.
The sea swallows huge gulps of air
But you dance on the edge of dreams
twitching in your legs
You know the way to eternity.
Friday, September 23, 2011
tons of thunder
always the legend of what I wanted life to be, embellished constantly with myth.
(it could have happened, but doubtful) the gospel.
when Julia was alive, anything was possible, practically speaking in tongues- all the superlatives, over the top, and so many of us will remember it and you, and the cancer, and the charisma so unadulterated, appealing; all the seduction, the career that never was, the death; stolen from us at the zenith of your influence. Jesus!
O God bring back the dead ones, all of them. Julia, the great, bright light; and father Lowell, the ultimate teacher and giver of love, (the God-alive man) we had waited thousands of years for your lessons carried to earth (no mistaking messiahs), in reality, this is mortal flesh with a too-soon expiry, only finite years and words finding threads to be woven through generations, (seen now, very much alive, in comet eyes) red giant too close; too soon gone; you were the birth giver, once removed, now a soul-mate who lives on, with your passing, exquisite, only in memory.
grief subsides but will not pass.
and we are all still waving goodbye.
2.)
strong grandmother enigma, you cannot be disfigured by time, your Eastern European face won’t go to ether, nor will your reality be defined by the living, even by those with your flesh; it is obviously pure legend, descending directly from mystery, questions met only with a polite change of subject, a change in focus, a mirror suddenly turned to expose what? we are forced to look another direction, the moment before is lost to an ocean of time, swimming away barely missed, a shimmer and some familiar notion at the very root of it all. (in the pit of my stomach) and there you are a beautiful little girl, now long since passed and only beginning to live in some of the descendants.
how your eyes still blink in this world.
3.)
sugar beet fields are certainly a part of my legend, backbreaking work behind a mule, only imagined as your reality, but that is accurate, in truth, there is part of me that dripped as sweat in those fields; no one can take that away from me, it is where I existed first, before this. and who could have known then you would die before my very eyes? face blue, death eyes (all the many years later, clear, bright, the same) ;
my own father trying to save your fast fleeting life, only to falter himself in some divine mimicry (genes, oh sure), a serene European golf course his eternity door and the electric foreshadowing; a 1970’s bathroom floor. shuffle on out, shuffle away, but we are still watching, all of us in the house, we see you (no true escape from legacy); father of my father, it rolls off my tongue, and will like poetry.
4.)
dead ones, I will not stop resurrecting you for my sanity.
bring me the Jews. bring me the Christians, the nonbelievers from all birth lands, bring all, and not just the memories, but flesh, bits of bone, sinewy decomposition; we can embrace any truth! we stand for it. detail the sea you loved, the waters you fished as the near-ultimate pleasure, the San Francisco Bay, the Mediterranean, the Dead Sea? what did you feel the first time you heard you would see another generation? (not knowing, of course, so many would follow- so many blood descendants), the boys with your face, destined to carry the other features, easily recognized as yours, and your laugh is tons of thunder- your jowls and belly seize, certain to span the lives, shooting through other decades and bodies-so like yours, big as the blood mixes/ retaining science (unchangeable: no amount of prayer will alter a double helix. that is fact) and you are with me this moment.
5.)
bring me jars of jelly from the Colorado plains, pickles, sweet and straight from the dirt to your earthy-smelling basement. balance? your absence leaves me with blank canvasses on which I can hope to dream, there are so many questions to ask you, if only face to face, can you give me one afternoon? (busy as you are in eternity) I would look you straight in the eye, humbled though I am by your knowledge, corpses don’t often talk, but I have higher expectations of your once attached soul. we share a secret, don’t we? there are not enough hours for me to contemplate you, and the rest; explore all the music history, family tree, photos and my many questions for your other world wisdom. are the traits I most dislike in others those I cannot tolerate in myself? how do my dreams materialize from black holes? imagination’s sperm and egg; always the aggrandizement becomes reality, that is the mystery only you will explain, though not now. in the end, aren’t we, individually, alone, each a tiny floating vessel of chaos? (the underlying goal is interconnectedness, but that is the exception, the rarity.) in the end, the loss of you (the collective) is beyond all the oversimplified self-help. oh words. (oh, all the great power we assign; it is our mistake) it’s over. I’ll find the shaman on some other soil, to fill my veins with food, but not here, not in some highly compared, criticized, unimportant farce. (not in public, please)
6.)
and
in the end, isn’t this world just an excuse for potential’s half-open purse?
one imagines so.
but your voice from the grave is hope for the alive world.
we are rapt.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
evidence
the old man in the mirror
speaking
while your lips move,
time chasing you down
as prey,
shaking you in folds of your former self.
how could you see your own ebullience?
glowing on the soft gel of youth
while the old man
watches,
a certain chasm,
a gulping ocean,
a black hole,
for you.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
following new stars
abusing analogies; time to move to a new room,
we look at the larger picture.
weekends mean music, no robots.
the shine (shave) of my youth long gone,
reality is finally visible through life cycles, repeating.
(are you questioning the Book of Mark? “I don’t believe in it”
Star of David) the photographs arrive electronically. I’m holding
the little mother. Angel mother is holding the legacy, moving
forward in plain view; we passively witness
the divine win limited notice. ho-hum. Thy Kingdom come.
are you really going to just give up? (not what I would have
expected from a true, full blood descendant.)
on to Israel, where Italian planes bombed Tel Aviv and Haifa
during the war. (the war’s Jews slaughtered with the queers.
gas ovens.)
Aliyah is the secret word. Hashem.
so, the spotlight is a cheesy bright, too white light,
dancing in it is the legacy I honestly inherited. birth, blood, genes.
Fred Astaire?
in hiding is the metaphor, Hashem.
in danger? yes.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
be mine
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
street walker
Monday, July 4, 2011
samsung man
Thursday, May 26, 2011
birth and such
with the enormous she/ sea turtle—
(the complexity of the mission; the forever danger!)
—on the beach—she plants them
with Darwinian flourish.
a turn.
then back to sea. gone.
simpatico?
even now, in center/ middle-age—
finally beyond my equivalent planting mission.
(deep satisfaction)
a turn,
then—
and then—back
finally back.
Friday, April 29, 2011
the secret of the cotton
white-capped monks kneeling in dirt,
song and the alliterative like.
through it all, there are the high notes,
the high point, remember?
the men touching, and then finally,
the truth of it all, at last. my soul. my soul.
God, the euphoria!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Uncle Si
with long legs
and
promising
summit
Now
with the passing of
one moon, one sun
I see his oath to me
as vapor
just clouds in the old man's eye.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
the logical case for suicide
and yet appears as ether. the obverse
is the elaborate snowflake under a microscope.
same riddle; not to be solved.
(even passing consideration is a waste,
unless the interest is simply awe)
so, is it fair to introduce an extra layer
of complexity to something barely understood?
it is just a roll of the dice, man,
linked, exquisitely to science.
(genetic code can whisper death and disease
surreptitiously- often does)
don’t underestimate the double helix.
and what of the blood?
limbs ripped at the fleshy anchor.
rape. (not your will, and sullied)
box of chaos. box of comets.
these are not pleasant scenarios.
these are not the Kodak moments.
this is the cancer end of a morphine drip.
this is the intruder set on your dignity, your life.
this is the loss of a child (inconceivably violent goodbye)
where is the bedrock of no hope now?
are you walking on it?
can you feel the solid disbelief?
(that it’s all come to this)
it’s a subtle shift of light.
the gun slides in so easily
(taste of metal, nothing new)
and there are lovely parting gifts.
what’s behind door number one?
guns
to the pulse code.
It pumps
and talks tomorrow.
Entering fiber through
capillary's path,
ears open now. Important
coded blood pumping
heart open,
somehow.
See,
the muscle holds the secret
steel strong
gunpowder
calm.
Ready as a cannon
lit
cocked; now
the white hot pulse speaks
translates in the mirror
some bulge
in the deltoid
reborn.
Sparks
in clay of flesh
florescent.
Reflections are translations.
Bump
in the fat vein
biceps
bump
bump.
River in clay of flesh.
Muscle is the secret
bedrock shifts.
Oh joy,
The Word
forever pounds the fiber full.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Dan/ 2001
And until the day you died. You called me Super.
“Super, It’s your Old Man calling.”
“Super, take the High Road.”
“Super, We think you’ve gone off the deep end.”
Did you, over the years—or in the end,
ever think about the origin of that nickname?
That day it all started? Did you block it out? Forget?
Me.
The Little Fat Boy. "SuperGut."
I remember.
Your word (vicious), your son, your choice.
(SuperGut); shortened over time to just plain old "Super."
Harmless. You shortened it.
I grew out of it, and occasionally you even called me
FlatBelly.
But "Super" stuck. I still hear it tripping off your tongue.
“Super, this is your Old Man.”
Sometimes Mike or Tom will call me "Super."
It feels good, and they don’t
remember how it all started.
Me in the kitchen. 12 years old.
I wanted to join the Navy. The Navy!
“Good -- you’re too fucking fat to ever be in the Marine Corps, so go ahead.
Join the Navy. Maybe they’ll take you.”
I hated you for that.
On that day—I wished you dead a thousand times over.
And for so long—I wanted you in a box. Gone.
The years, however, replaced my revulsion for the name
with the deepest longing.
How I crave just one more time—your voice.
“Super, This is your Old Man.”
sigh
with long legs
and
promising
summit
Now
with the passing of
one moon, one sun
I see his oath to me
as vapor
just clouds in the old man's eye.
the opening
or the top of a mountain
Providence is moving
Angels calmly watching, just out of sight
and the truth is told in whispers
I can see your soul
in my dream- my face was not my face