“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
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
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”
In any ‘two type’ ending,
I am body
traveled (let loose that invisible scar)
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”
Being young everything matters
so desperately- so right now,
after this it can’t be made the same
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
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”
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-
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“
You begin to understand
it’s someone else’s pain,
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
until you’ve upturned every stone
dream of water
I wont leave
I will not leave
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
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”
If you’ve eaten once-
suddenly, its as if you’ve eaten
All the forms
confronted with a great swallow.
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.