Tuesday, April 21, 2015

back again

small person
    forward      down
   clipping torrent
new details
                           at 10


My wife, oh
      my wife
   she beat me up
I'm sorry
I'm stupid
I'm sorry
     I had a stroke
                  my birthday
           give me a minute
       I just don't remember
       give me a minute
                     a refill
                     one more week

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Not exactly feeling it tonight

Some efforts, nothing quite hitting the feeling.


sometimes I remember
you like late-night oceanography
documentaries, the things
we did, inexplicable like
goblin sharks and angler fish anchored
in tenacious dark waters but
with a science comprehensive
to obscure experts
with thick glasses and beards

one nuclear affection, ignited
and decaying daily
exponential rates we couldn't outrun
or survive and no number
of late-night conversations
or tender face-to-face touches
could mitigate the disaster of us


let me just be
to lie here, still
to disconnect
from wants, needs
demands from all
outside angles
each moment a new request,
take a number, wait in line
don't absorb
not a single one of these things
actually matters at all
disregard this chaotic world
I'll just take a glance
through Niedecker
I'm not the only
confessional naturalist

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

unfinished things following me
around unaware corners
common and consistent symbols
not specific to the dreamer
shoulds versus wants
some shoulds are non-negotiable
how not why
moving toward forward
tyranny of past inhibitions
faced and overcome
these threatening impulses
belong to some other little girl

Monday, April 13, 2015

Fragmented Bits

Eternal sweet heartbroken
swooning cello's voice wraps
tender gentle fingers soundful about
my shoulders, slides note and note
upward into purely melancholic


birds fly like they are bound two to a tether
always the same direction, symmetrically parting and coming together again
nearly touching
then to fly away again, precise
inverted cuves
unspoken calculus of perfect balanced movement
expressed in unmeasured function


Have to get out of my head.  Is it silly
to feel like writing about happiness isn't good
that I seem to find better words when
the writing comes from a place
of agony and dissatisfaction?
We write the best and truest things
from vulnerable moments.


mountains dearer than my own heart's blood
some part of me shall always want you
when I am gone away

Making up

A Monday

i’m sick to expiring
of relentlessly volunteered
irrelevant bits of

every moment a new “i need”
a new falsetto dissonance
disbelieving number of offspring
and not a care-taker in sight

sudden unexpected craving
for dear old souls
deaf leading the blind
recalling jaunting sagas

every weekday sunrise
a new dread
retrace the circled process

my noose at my left shoulder


flirtatious April breezes
not as warm as you want
sky half-clad in tomorrow's storm
I'll lie still and without people
clamoring, no one asking
needing, claiming, insisting
all the ragged shreds of patient
grace remaining
in little dusty corners

all the calls are responsive
calls of finches scolding
mourning doves chased away
from food and drunken robins
declaiming atop the tulip tree
sun retreats. becomes languorous
a contented fading interrupted
only when the arthritic old dog
decides the birds
can mate another time

Friday, April 10, 2015

Tonight's page

I should be reviewing Algebra

she sits
in the same spot
every night
at the same
blank points
at the same
blank things
(every night?)

we could ask
if there's a point
but look
at her
graying skin
absent eyes
flesh melting
into uselessness
we know

we can judge
we won't be
asking about the razors
ribboning her lungs
and the claws
up her throat
or even the picking
needles pulling
apart her lips
the scalpel in
her brain
is a waste
of our time

we don't see
the knives
in her heart 
we'd be here
for hours 
how sorry she is
her self

Thursday, April 9, 2015

I am kind of happy

Even looking at this half-assed week and a half that has gotten away from all my intentions, I'm a tiny bit pleased with all this original writing.  Maybe because I've had some wine, but I'm rather taken with the fact that there are pages - plural - of things that have come from my stagnating brain.

I hate this poem - looking at old journals was better than writing this miserable confession

I have come to a conclusion.  Being less self-conscious might be a desirable state of being.  There's an early spring night warming pavement with cooling breezes and I'm sweating in front of a computer, thinking about algebra homework I should be doing.  A tiny bit of resentful hatred fizzes beneath my knuckles.  A bit drunk on Pinot Grigio, which is strange enough in itself.  I want to say something about my numerous flaws, how profound the notice of others is, and why it should not matter that I care so very much.  Except I'm a product of my formative stages, and no amount of therapy or self-actualization is going to repair any of these damages.  I am like one standing at the edge of a crowd watching the unfortunate scene fall out, like the seamstress observing a mannequin in robes that needs to be pushed away instead of hugged tight to my side.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Something resurrected


the copper of one’s hometown
is more precious
than the gold or silver corner
of the end of the earth

skeletons of a life full-lived
here a dance hall
here the grocer
the narrow shack where
Mr. Last-Full-Time-Resident
ate his supper every evening
peopled by the muted ghosts
and pacing spectres in periphery
congregating about boney foundations

damp-handed air strokes
living necks
sunny tamarack burial grounds

dry pine-bough shrouds