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“A Thinking B”

“A Thinking B”

I filled myself up with earth,
thinking: when does transformation occur?
when does all become set straight?
My hands belabor being, are you
in this world upright, known and completely
flout with the tiniest sign of weakness-
a lodger in longing, figuring it out, day long
taste of almonds all shiver
and waiting final hour, the mother
is gone from her house,
you will not find her again,
no matter the things you didn’t say.

It is ‘must keep’, every crevice of place,
that, over there, this mark of depletion
carving out space in you-
hand signed, the initials of your father,
to be rich in loss is to be poor in rib,
in right angle, format, packed rut,
to be stop clock, run out of the ugly strain
you had, at birth, learned how to navigate,
spin into sweaters, worn never.

I enter the same way I exit, logical-
that there might always be lock-down,
nest and need, organon-
this is where love lays itself in light,
you must only watch, tell us
what you see, measure it,
grieve it not, it is un-owned, this tremble
of yours.

“Sarah’s advice”

“Sarah’s advice”

Put all that you’ve gathered,
the heart from your family war
with it’s moss edged in deep,
in the last place you touched,
your body remembers.
How your hands, when pressed to light,
do not show through.

It will be this way for a long
lasting while,
when you find that mark,
having endured, uninvited
in the real world-
no one will ever again sing to you
the song that you had never been sung.

You’ll see light has not poured in
because it is pooling out, bit by bit,
from inside the body,
the places you can remember, anchor down-
tie a knot into to keep in place-
safe, even, in the grooves of it’s divide.

“Guest room for Autumn”

“Guest room for Autumn”

In any ‘two type’ ending,
I am body
traveled (let loose that invisible scar)
every town-
bar closing,
the one you’d hope to meet
having moved on.

Hours put between the first light
in those windows
dancing, secret against secret-
(a seed in the cusp of a mountain)
as if only the body had been the witness.

But something grand in you
had been roaming for a long time.
Needing little at first, until
such hunger- the hurt to boy
name what named the boy
hurt, every test of self,
light, hitting objects, life-
hitting light, and now
a disjointed photo, that answer,
nowhere am I nowhere,
but everywhere am I somewhere.

“When time had known prior measure”

“When time had known prior measure”

Being young everything matters
so desperately- so right now,
after this it can’t be made the same
ever again.

Abandoned play by play
the dusk nearly unloading
it’s great grief in some eternal
back pocket. Mother,
when it’s all over
what will you name me?
Not being able to love as deeply
as unintentional, automatic
as before.

Our madness will never out reach
this prior life, light in searing Autumn-
cool kids turned hipster forgetful
alive, called living, but something awful
from where I sit.

To swim in memory
it’s as if you can touch
only the edge-
and so much of it is dragged
already straight into the less
well lit room, foraging narrative
from soil that barely births
surprise, barely reprises our better half.

“Admiration and dialogue for feminist poets”

“Admiration and dialogue for feminist poets”

Be on, peon, the spot heritage flees on.
Save your crooked coked up sister the trip
to the emergency room.
Buy her a dictionary and have her define
all of the drugs shes on.

Had to be a good citizen-
then you could learn to be a good writer
whose belonging depended on ‘wow’ words
and bias, bass, treble.

Rinse America out of your clothes-
give profusely to charity, be sure
to tell everyone about it,
each new small philanthropy project-
your part in it, the amount.

City buses, that black man
with the attitude-
that white woman
with the gratitude,
now watch everyone in the park
levitate, ask for change-
be denied.

Park police are nudging anyone bold
enough to have fallen asleep-
now I know why you got to pay
someone to be understood,
so that when your talking crazy
you still get the blank eyes, deep concern
and universal amicable nod.

“The Distortion of the engine”

“The distortion of the engine“

You begin to understand
it’s someone else’s pain,
then yours-
then yours
whats the difference?
Magic may not be what you’ll hear
the only thing that you’ll hear
as you move around in this room without context
no assured voice is speaking
listen now: this is how it says
and what it says is: “ Loss is temporary “
tell me things
because love is faint
not think you know until the moment is right
go alone
until you’ve upturned every stone
dream of water
touch me
I wont leave
I will not leave
go afraid
go wasted
door to last star to every road
is burned out
not built to last
not last in line
the wind stinks like everywhere else
all the people inside me
winter window
I change the details
the texture of a dream
you should never trust me
I just wanted to hurt you
by this: destroy you’re sand castles,
your fingerprints on the snow.

“Things I couldn’t tell you then”

“Things I couldn’t tell you then”

If you’ve eaten once-
suddenly, its as if you’ve eaten
All the forms
confronted with a great swallow.

The self
manufacturing pills
then pouring itself into the wall.
My body (wise ass) mentor
hates glitter left on train seats
by sticky half smelling women
on the run from bars
at the end of the night,
being forced to take some part of them
home with me.

It makes me begin to hate Proust,
watching two male lovers
court each other discretely
in the street below
and acting as if the biggest thing on his mind
(even then) is the vigilant watch
for the sticky semen some insect will bring
to impregnate the fertile flowers of France.

When a room is unheated
everything seems dire,
But I still think that if you are in that tree
while telling me you are stuck in traffic
on the L.I.E.,
you should just come down now.

“The color of gratitude is the sound of understanding”

“The color of gratitude is the sound of understanding”

Lay it down, this one time. What has beaten you
will one day be some new strange food. Will be
like nothing you are after in this moment.
Go another hour if you can,
lay pit against palm,
call your mother’s name-
give permission to nothing greater
than the smallest memory.
Stretch it until the finest lines
grow on their own.

Light in the room
you had been left to fend for yourself in,
going dim.
We have no winter grounds,
no favorite stores, best dishes,
here. So lift only voice
which comes when it comes, so unwilling,
broken by need, plant and row
in the hydra, say a few kind hello’s.
Believe that there might be something underneath,
a small town you can remember, forget,
remember, forget.

This one time,
it will be in you-
(enough strength)
to walk steadily, full bodied, away-
and toward lasting rest.

“The days in which I never even bothered to change clothes”

“The days in which I never even bothered to change clothes”

I am far between the good rain.
At night I store gifts inside the houses
of other peoples lives,
mixing colors into a distance of time,
or a watched passing bright
near the foot of the tree,
its stamina, like a scar of summer
running toward the notion of food-
(is) sensed.

Tell me what I missed
while I was busy being important?
Did the firmament rename itself?
Has the landlord become bitter,
feeling outside her world?
Very often the walls too
repeat the sounds they hear
in the claw of out yonder-
oblivious people bound to each other
but blind to the kernel of the real thing
inside each of them.

I have missed, something, you-
its not important.
The ecology of the world
understands its loss,
many of us wanting to learn
what we already know-
it is called a ‘defunct event’.

Over and over the no light
absent pushing into the unfinished home,
the fatigue one feels
from having to constantly match
the right memories.
A blue and ruin until the whole facade
experiences static- counting,
not counting stones,
a little self awareness.
A figure who will tend to it’s landscape.

For me speaking isn’t easy.
There are so many arrangements
to make beforehand,
preparing ground to play it safe,
to move close up, actually.

“I came close to enjoying the world today”

“I came close to enjoying the world today”

Experience? Asks the panorama,
what type of earth have you known?
Were you attentive? Attendant?
Did you know much in that place?
Or were you only admiring the visibility-
the double ground, where world
might or might not crack open
and give that shell a river
from which your place could pulse,
owning outcome, good intentions?

I am very tired with grievance,
the blame game that disconnects human fabric,
our experiences, our extending,
kindness, yes, perhaps,
but be there in person this time to deliver,
hand it over with the heat of your loss
pressed into the fold of your unspecified ‘safe place’.

‘I am no one’, no one says,
great portions of the world still suffer, are you counting?
Keeping up?
Toward the living you will invade,
doubt certain appearances, commonalities-
just where is it, you think you have come from?

I am not total,
coming the front fruit of the senses
bruised, am I happy?
‘No one has to be’, thinks decency.
Off this boundary some rove, disappear,
own their mental impossibility.
This world is shoveling nothing into itself,
whatever could be called a reasonable expectation
must be readjusted to evaluate someone else’s hunger
by much more then one’s own theoretical type of hunger.