setting myself a series

I'm setting myself a series of serious tasks
such as: describe the last thing you'll ever see.
Make a complete list of trees without using any trees.
Draw a picture in words, using exactly one thousand,
without counting, then sell it for a song about a magical
fountain. Once you find it take a dip and soak the wrinkles
back in; start a garden with a single leaf and one forbidden
sin. There are no weeds just crappier flowers and undesirable
kinds of grass. I'm setting myself a series of serious tasks,
with escalating levels of significance invisible to everyone
but those with a specific kind of innocence, legally described
by certain artful phrases starting with "not guilty, by reason of,"
and after that, irrelevant. One person's expert testimony is another's
sandwich: fried baloney, slice of cheese, and easy on the mayonnaise.
I'm starting on my list of serious tasks without delay, you see. Sneak
into the choir loft, inject the hymns with harmonies from avant-jazz
practitioners. Bebop with the Seraphim. Return to where you don't
belong and make them take you in.

A Time Must Come to Put Poetry First

I've become a real ass-kicking poet over the years.
A lot of people don't realize. I'm a poet with bells on.
I've got some kind of poet super power, I could be Poet
Laureate of some parallel dimension where that's still
being done.

Wait, I checked - it is still being done. Current guy:
one Charles Simic. Well, watch out buddy. I got your
number: one less than mine. I will be the X+oneth
U.S. Poet Laureate, where X = the current number of
Poets Laureate that have been.

I will insist on a name change to the position. I will be
the first United States Secretary of Poetry. This will represent
an elevation of the post, to a cabinet-level position. The
U.S. Dept of Poetry under my tenure and direction will be
the greatest ever, and everyone will say

So, what are your plans next? You've revolutionized the game,
got people talking about poetry again, got poetry classes and
poetry programs reinstated into our nation's school curricula,
improved our poemland security, revitalized the formerly-flagging
poem industry - which has never seen such boom times as it's seeing
right now!, you've dealt a hideous and brutal blow to terrorism
with your Operation Patriot Poem initiative, and what are you going
to do next?

"Well," I'm going to say, "I've got to go write a poem."

Love At First

when we first met, our first word was a kiss
like a work of creation, a word of first cause
God speaking to void, saying

"let there be this"

when we drew back and opened our eyes, there it was.

someone had introduced us - but they were walled off
by the moment our eyes met, widened, and shone
all peripheral vision was scrambled and lost
as we drew much too close to see anything wrong

and we smiled, and searched ourselves, rummaging minds
for some great thing to start with, for something to say
we drew closer and closer and never a word -
'til we suddenly closed the whole gap in one play

and we kissed

for so long someone said, "man and wife!"
and we pulled back and grinned, we'd both been convinced
we clasped hands without words and escaped with one life,
and we've never had anything much to say since

"burnt toast"

burnt toast scraped with butterknife
- across, across, across the grain
of char and ash and brittle black
held careful, tilted, over can -
no more than thrice! Then wipe the knife,
and cut a slice of butter, thin, and blend
it in, and blend it in, across the face
so cool and flat. Then set it on the plate
and lift the plate, and with decision, fast
- before you've time to change your mind -
tip it in the trash.

the rowers home

the rowers home are bound; they row
with purpose
each as sure as each

united in direction and belief
that home
is within reach

each rower solitary, each alone,
they pull
as one

their boats are scattered evenly, and all
towards the sun

each rower, facing backwards
contemplates
the wake, behind

the sea is fine like isinglass,
and endless to the eye and mind

the long haul calls not urgency
but confidence, and constant nerve

bending backs, with even pulls
steady toil, strength conserved

pull onward, towards a destination
none can see and none have known

a sea of scattered boats, a sea
of lookers back

and rowers home

Another Poet Dies Plying His Trade, Heroically

I deal in delightful abstractions. I
make rowboats out of windsaws
and then set them tumbling, to the
boisterous delight of the children,
whom I also proceed to set tumbling.

I paint elephants out of glass and stars,
I wind strings around the wind and
kick my heels to a beat that is neither
sound nor rhythm, but perhaps snow.

I let the rain rain down on its own. I
neither approve of it nor aid it in
any way. I rebuke the moon, for its
importunity. It retires each night, abashed.
Then some nights it won't show its face
at all, but it always comes back.

I break the week in seven places, and
observe my little rituals which mean
so much to no one: cup here, saucer
and give me a kiss! I pour cream from
a little pitcher and the steam rises sweet
to someone's lips.

I walk downtown and observe the sky,
it falls softly between buildings and
so do I

I get back up from where my shoe was untied
and I set myself up, just in time to
catch a sigh from a passing lady, painted
like a very understated clown - you
could hear her sighing a mile away,
and you'd wonder what got her down

but don't ask - I did, that was my mistake
and as her eyes began to flash I knew
I should have couched my meaning in
a metaphor
or two

"Not my idea."

I have an imaginary girlfriend.

It wasn't my idea! She asked me out first. I said,
can't we try being just friends for a bit? She said
"only if you" - and she gave me a list.
And once we checked it all off, it was clear
we were meant - me "to be",
her to not
- so together we spent
every stray moment well. Sent
the bad moments back. We got used
to each other's
existence (or lack). And
she talks with a limp, and
she walks with a lilt - and
she's heavy as ice, and as sad
as spilt milk. She's as glad
as a clam, and as bright as night
sky. And you ask, what's she look like?

That's hard to describe. She
keeps changing her eyes. She keeps
changing her clothes. She keeps changing
her hair, but

she's got the same nose.

Yes, that's always the same,
so cute it's insane. She's from
somewhere Northeast of the South part
of Spain at least that's what I'd guess
from her accent and hints.
But when she makes believe,
somehow I'm not convinced.

word-of-the-day poem

Listen, I want a mausoleum with a machine inside, with pistons and gears and wheels and knives and it would be solar-powered, to run forever run clean - chopping, grinding, churning the remainder of me.

Standing outside, if you laid your palm flat on the cool stone and splayed your fingers out wide, you could feel the hum.

"mausoleum"

wait

wait
there's no more, just
wait
let it sink in

let the revelation
keep unfolding its skin
as it sits
in its bin, as it crinkles
out of crumpled up
the ball that you formed
2 for the win

a post-free-form origami
from your hands, still warm
how hard you squeezed it
wanting to compress it into
not diamonds - charcoal

to push in
on it, to fix it
in place, force out the air
but the shape won't stick
as a sphere, it pops and crackles
dry slithering hiss of a paper exhale
spreading back out again
- you can see some of
the words, now

again. But a crease of its deformed
form forms a perfect pocket for
a lit match. And it goes up in colors
- this goddamned artsy notepaper -
the design makes flames
yellow, red, violet, over
in less than a minute

and a smoked haze
of burnt green plastic

death left a message

while I was out, the call came through
"call back as soon as you can,"
but without the ever-important, "don't worry -
it's nothing important,"

so now I know,

pit

of the stomach, I know!

shit:

Who died?

it turns out,

I

the truth is not true

The truth is not true.
What we felt with a kick
in the heart, as we - sudden -
discovered the truth of the way
the world is, and would be,
and must be - as the bottom fell out
of the worlds where we live,
the truth didn't stick.

Once the world sank, the feeling
sank in, it all lifted away
in a way that made sense
without needing to say

and your heart turned around, then
to follow your head.
To make good decisions, instead of
- instead of the ones that we made,

to give shot after shot, one more patch,
one more slip, one more catch,
one more knot

and then pray that it holds
- but it didn't.

It loosed.

There's not much left I know, but it's sure
not the truth.

The archer, Science, drew its bow

The archer, Science, drew its bow, and
sighting into the distance, let loose - fired wild

let out a "whoop!" as the arrow flew true
on some deterministic path, with variables askew

Science couldn't wait to see wherever the arrow stuck
- to jump into the air and declare it "bullseye!"

But hold the celebration, archer - first,
we must have reproducibility.

why we tried

take what you want and leave
the only thing you don't get to take is me
I won't dispute your truth, but it's not true to me
and you can't even see mine, so

we can't disagree.

There is no single point where our truths intersect
we are parallel lines, with no dots to connect
- no matter how far we've gone, forward and back
we'll never wind up running on the same track.

there were times when we thought we were on the same line,
when you thought I meant yours, and I thought you meant mine
because we didn't listen: just wanted to hear.
We filled in the meanings we wanted, my dear

The Rhyme Poem Is Coming to Kill You, Free Verse

you wouldn't think it
but poems that rhyme
are jealous of poems
that don't

those rhyme poems must
keep even time and space
their even ways across
the page or screen, in
ways that must seem oh
so strict and needless
to the meanings of their
words.

Rhyme poems can't relax
and be proud of their words,
no matter how hard they strike
home - because they are obsessed
with the thought of how much less
perfect a word must be, for having
been selected on the basis of sound,
instead of pure meaning.

And all poems feel very strongly,
that pure meaning is their object.

So the rhyme poem goes too hard, on
itself. Whether its words are perfect
or no, it can't credit them that. It can't
be proud of words so clearly, seemingly
chosen to fill and fit some arbitrary
artistic pattern. Its only choice is
to be proud of the pattern. To be proud
that it rhymes. Of how well the all-important
design was drawn, and filled in with blanks.
The rhyme poem has become cynical, its meter
its measure, though it knows it knows better.

When all poems had to rhyme, to be considered
respectable specimens, then it seemed that the words
could matter, could be seen as chosen and perfect.
Because there was no choice but to rhyme. Everyone
had to choose within that! But today, rhyming is
- let's be honest: silly. Quaint. And so how can any
poem say anything perfect and important, in rhyme?
How can any poem's words not seem a bit suspect,
when the impression has already been given that
the scheme is more important than what you are trying
to say? The only defense is to seem not to mean it.

While all the while, you sharpen your knife,
and scheme.

the truth is one hand with many many creepy wiggling fingers

everyone writes about the truth
their search for truth
their path to truth
as if there isn't only one
and it isn't only theirs
as if it's something they can find
outside themselves
or within themselves
Well, hell!
maybe they're right

but to me, you know
there is only one truth
and every true glimpse you
can catch of it, of a piece of
it, of a truth
you can grasp,
you can hold,
you can name,
you can call your own,
if you want.
But the truth is,
that truth
of yours, yes
- that truth you have
found - if it is true
at all, then it is only
a small part.
A part of the only
truth there is.
The truth is,
the truth is one
hand, with many,
many creepy
wiggling
fingers

the good dreams are the worst to wake up from

I'd drink your soft lips
as your head tipped back
in the crook of my arm

your neck and body on down
transformed into noodles!
Then, sudden

your intake of breath
and consciousness, back in a
moment, returning
embrace

your strength, and firm purpose
resolve, your eyes opened
again

into mine

- as I wake up.

eyes opened again

and
I can't
break the stare
through your gaze into mine
yours - burned into my eyes -
is only a retinal ghost.
an afterimage

a face projected
on a blank white screen
you burn into my ceiling
over long minutes,

before I can bear to blink.

my eyes don't sting

my eyes are not dry

and I blink. As your face fades to white,

you do not smile.

neither do I

Sacred Stones

In Eire, we walked on footpaths worn
by centuries of pilgrim boots
to standing stones and sacred springs
in hidden groves with hidden roots
and green was in our eyes, my love
and green grew soft to close us in
as intertwined, our forms combined
in one design of sacred skin

and sin was superstition, then -
a child's tale, to tease and kid
each other with; we cleaved unto
each other as the world was hid
by sacred limbs and leaves and stones
our hands and hearts were ringed around
- the grove was in a faerie ring,
a skein was otherworldly wound
around us by our hearts' request:
"For love to last, to never part!"
by silent benediction blessed
some witness worked a silent art

and in that grove, an hundred years
and more have passed - this sign remains
for wanderer to chance upon:
in whitest stone, in form unchanged,
two lovers intertwined recline.
No ravages of love's deceit,
no marks of time's decay, we lie
enamored and enarmoured; sweet

The grove was in a faerie ring
- we knew it not - our fondest wish
"for love to last, to never part"
was granted -

and they call us art.

at the start of the 13th song

The light at the end of the tunnel is gray
I'll be standing at the edge 'til the rain lets up
then I'll make my break. I will run for the sun -
I will publish my pain, and you'll take your cut

So my guitar got played 'til my fingers said nay
and I wrote a dozen songs of you done me wrong
and I beat a tattoo of you onto my chest
but I haven't got you out of my system yet

There is nothing I have left to hold against you
there is nothing I have left to hold you against
and you didn't do me wrong, it just felt that way
and it isn't like the worst is all that's left of my life

but there's nothing I have left
of the best

Our Walk

gong and clang and hi-hat hiss
palm heel slap, and fingers drum
my hand slides down,
I make the metal handrail sing
from rail to rung

some bad world music rhythm king
I crown myself, as I walk down
the steep decline -
this was our walk,
I'm walking down without you now

the river runs with slanted light
the railroad bridge -
that spans the gap from cliff to cliff
- is painted gold and rose,
and all between is mapped

by memories of every path we walked
the quaint and painted ways,
in lines that crossed and overlapped
and intertwined

a thousand days

in this gay seaside village town.

Like postcards from a kinder year
- though I am bitter from the end,
I can't help write: "Wish you were here."

a bed of nails

we drag ourselves back
with no mercy at all
though we said it's the end
still we can't seem to stop

and we wrack ourselves,
pitiless, body and soul
still, it matters a great deal
who is on top

Quit Whining!

Jees! Will you
quit whining about all
this lovelorn fluff, and
how you've either had enough,
or will never give up?

It's enough to be sick
how you dwell over it
with your big boo hoo smile
and your brave, secret sniff

write poems about APPLES
write poems about TREES
it's Spring, almost Summer!
write poems about BEES!

Quit bothering people, with
love, endless love, ended
love, ending up how it endlessly
does

Quit bothering people!
Write poems about waves
and beaches, and benches,
and fences,
and graves.

Who's the One that Wants to Love me

Who's the one that wants to love me?
When will her voice be heard?
What's the chance we'll find each other?
and I don't know's on third

The temptation is

The temptation is
to change entirely
become what it was
you wanted, learn
a lesson
against myself.

Drop the act
of me
take on a new and better face
fit it on over my eyes,
a reverse-image
of what you saw in me
originally
(that I say I never was)

It's such a close fit,
in any case!

it took you
halfway to forever
it seemed -
to note the distance between
what you saw in me
(originally)
and what you saw in me
finally.

Could I flip that equation
and subtract the difference,
leaving only what you
wanted?

Well,
why not?
it sounds easy enough

for a guy like me

communion

being of familiar faith
and usually one mind,
when we disagree it is
terrible
vicious
who can tell the sense of
betrayal
bitterness
the sudden rush of blood
to heart and head: you
who I love, my one thing
the nucleus to my single cell
I surround you; you rebel and
cast me off, shall we not both
die?

Luckily, we never have
disagreed

we are

mutual vampires
each mistaken that
the other is human
sucking each other dry
and wasting away

how
many circuits
have I made of your veins?
then drawn back into me
and into you
again

the unspeakable unspoken
secretly knowing
- how could we not?
but grown to prefer
this emptiness

to blood

your voice's pull

your voice's pull
carries the song
- and it sweeps,
it is not swept along
by the currents it keeps.
As the guitar dips oars
it pulls taut on the chords,
but your voice is the course
and the shores,
and the deep.

future slips past

my life
has broken in half
there is a future, that I used to see
so clear
my whole future

a crack opened right at my feet, as I
was about to take that fateful step,
and before I had a chance
to do anything but stop,
shocked,
the crack was a chasm.
- and the future
had slid to the side
and gone behind me
the only future I ever really knew
or saw for myself,
or wanted
is gone
into the past.
it's still there
still whole
but gone behind
I can still see it,
so clear

I stand on the edge of a cliff

facing backward

Why do you hide your hair?

Why do you hide your hair?
Why do you hide your hair,
when its sheen should fly free
a wave of silken diamond onyx
strands, billowing glittering
in the wind,
shining in the glow
of thine admirer's eyes?
Why do you hide your hair?

Why do you hide your eyes?
Why wear such dark and chunky shades
and make as if to avert your gaze?
I know your eyes are limpid pools
of green that I'd fain dive into
and swim your soul, from shallow to deep
forever to drown, and never to weep
why do you hide your eyes?

why do you shut the door?
why, when I stand with an armload
of blue and pink and white, a soft
fireworks burst, scented like spring
and gathered for you by hand? Why
open the door so gaily, wide smiles
that fall from your face - were you
expecting someone else, then? I
suppose I'd better be going, but
why do you shut the door?

why do you knock me down?
when we meet in the street,
- a chance encounter! Fate! my
dear, fate! took a hand, I had nothing
to do with it - but when I saw you
my heart leapt, and I had to say
"hello" - I had to! Oh -
why do you knock me down?

why do you kick me so?
I who have done only kindnesses
so many gifts, small things, really
when ever I'm out and I see some nice thing, I say:
"oh, that's for her!" and I think nothing of myself
but to send you it - hand-wrapped in gleaming pastel greys
and white ribbon gift boxes. Bouquets. Candy hearts. In
the old days, this was the way this was done! So
why do you kick me so?

why do you press charges?
yes, now that I've been shown the letter of the law,
I can see I may have run afoul of it, in one or two places.
But surely you can see - love, Love! is my law! - can't
you see my love wants only you, and what is good for us both?
The police say they can't see it, but you could tell them.
Can't you let me off with a warning? Later we'll laugh about this
together. There's really no need to pursue these extreme measures -
- bitch!

why do you press charges?

made of air and indestructible

made of air and indestructible
glimpsed in the trees
she tumbles and shakes
the limbs and leaves
and leaves

and there is calm

and we who are left look round,
catch eyes, smooth wild hair,
and laugh - well, that
was something else! A
storm in sunlight, sudden
and suddenly

gone

I wish I could follow the gale
and sit
with her
on a cliff
when her fit
has flown, and
her eyes gaze out
on a sea grown calm
as the sun shines warm
does her mouth set grim?
or smile at him? how do they
get along?

how does she get along

What Things Want

I went to bed dreaming and woke up
reading a novel
my guitar was already
playing itself
it had written a song that
I can't take credit for
not a bad song for a first effort!
(that I'm aware of anyway - I did
buy it used)

when I went to the kitchen,
the eggs were ready.
They said "fry us! fry us!"
I said "I don't know, guys.
I kind of want a scramble,"
"but our yolks, so perfect..."
Yeah, okay. Fried it is.
Over medium.

Food wants
to be eaten. A guitar
wants to be played
a book, to be read
a dream, to be
awoken from

and lived.

(on) Art's purpose

It's well and fine
to bake and glaze
and paint designs
of ancient days
and perfect forms
upon one's vase
but flowers draw
the oohs and ahhs

Expect from life

we are bound to expect
certain things. We are almost sure
to get them:
a certain amount of misery
a certain amount of discomfort
of diarrhea
of fever
a certain amount of piercing earache
of teeth-grinding headache
of stabbing toothache
of uncontrollable nausea
of blinding migraine
of involuntary groans, especially
a certain amount of hearing
improbable numbers of people say:
"I've never been sick a day
in my life."

portrait

her mouth is a wide
cut, her eyes
pierce
you
can't tell
who is being
and who has been
hurt

Jesus's Champagne Candy

Jesus is in heaven making
champagne candy
for the big after-party
after judgment day

and if you are damned,
and you're very, very good
as you board your bus to hell,
he might slip you a taste

well he rolls it up sweet
with a bubble and fizz
that just tickles your nose
as you suck it away

in heaven, hell, or earth
there's no candy like this
Jesus's Champagne Candy!

Love and Chains

This love and chains, take them off of me
I get love letters in the mail, sent to my attention:
"Resident," and I know someone out there loves me,
even if I don't know how to signal her back
And she's flying across the attic at night
scattering stars among the beams of light

These chains and this love, it's bound to some
big bunky ideal in the back of a truck
tied with bungee wire, with a red flag flapping
saying "hey keep back, this thing could snap - "

Yes I have a highway love permit officer
I will show it to you if you show me yours
alright, that's it, out of the car
and we all do the stance, the interpretive dance

always glad to be here at the drunk tank lockup,
always an appreciative crowd, thank you
I'd like to say hey give yourselves a hand now
you know you didn't have to come out and be here, tonight
but I appreciate you taking the trouble, take a bow

So I was looking at a product label the other day,
and I was flying in an airport bar, what is it
with these commercials for brick walls and spotlights?
these little things are funny because they are so not true

and now, a song, I think a
song. Perhaps someone from
the audience has a request?
Ah yes, I know that one.

Mi mi mi mi mi:

"Shut the fuck up, my lover
shut the fuck up, my love
you've wearied my ears from hearing too much
I'll weary your mouth, if you don't shut up"

Thank you thank you, for our next act,
a violence exhibition from Rocco and T-Bone, here,
local boys, they'll be practicing on a dummy,
yes, yours truly you guessed it.

Okay I'm done.

Runaway Parade

I told you keep a tight rein on your parade
you don't want to let it go careening around
keep a tight rein on your parade
you don't want to see it all come crashing down
down the street, the wrong way,
paved with colored balloons
see the helpful barricades
see it run straight through
with a boom and a snap
the sawhorses giddyap
they go flying to the sides,
tumble under and crack

it's a runaway parade
and the people line the way
as they panic back, they're sorry
they showed up so very early

and they staked the choicest spots
now they're wishing they had not
they have far too close a view
as the runaway parade
comes through

Ghost of a Dog

yard's haunted
nobody knows whose dog
people lived here before say
they never had a dog

or maybe they never played with it

poor thing
you can hear it
out there, nights
you throw a tennis ball out
come the morning, it's all chewed

won't come near you though
scared, I think
sometimes, you hear a whimper
sometimes, a whine

you know she just wants love

you throw a treat out there
come the morning, it's untouched
that's how I knew - it's not raccoons
plenty of 'coons out here, but
they don't go near our yard

scared, I think

it's too late for a treat

yard's haunted
poor thing out there,
whining and rustling at night
never barks

called the church, exorcist says
they don't do dogs
goddamn papists
bunch of bureaucrats, I swear

you know she just wants love

I want to love you honey!
but how can I do it? If you
were corporeal, I could find some way
coax you out where I could see you
love on your matted and smelly fur until
you knew you could trust me. Let me
give you a bath, feed you up
strong

you won't come near me, though
can't keep keeping me up like this
honey, what's wrong? who was it
chained you in this yard?

I know you just want love

Welcome to Apocalytropolis

we live in blown-out hulks, scrabbling
for the last of the canned goods
and making up art and poetry
to describe the modern human condition

the normals call us mutes
they live over there
see that gleaming dome?
inside they say are trees

they fly over, drop
care packages
but we won't eat that
it's pre-packaged
some kind of nutrient dough
probably loaded with pacifizole
forget it

we grow our own
from what's left of the loam
and we roam in packs through
burnt-out zones, metal detectors
searching for a secret cache

last week I was out with a click, I
found a shelter! Cracked it, pulled
four people out - still alive! and one dead
kid (embalmed - crazy to see) They were
hysterical, insane to be pulled out
but you know they had the mother load
of canned goods in there

got me a promotion. Sheila
thinks I'm going places and she's
a great girl and all, but I think
I'm staying right here.

Yes Yes Yall More Dope Ass Rhymes #2

I want to drive a Porsche!
to my yacht and eat borscht!
on board with the Lord,
as we sets a new course
straight forward! halfway
from starboard to port
I batten hatches and bitches
no wait that just slipped out.
when I rap sometimes I blame
my influences for it
a little bit sometimes, misogynistic creeps toward
on the conscious flow,
as we see, so we go,
in for example the word "bitches"
- which I'd know not to throw, not to use
to describe women. Whom I all value deeply
and stuff! just got all hype from the beat, there
for a minute.

Sorry.

Where was I.

Oh yeah.

On the yacht!

I speak a hundred languages

I speak a hundred languages
not well
not as a cultured native, and
not even as a well-studied visitor, no
but more like a thug
Like one who spoke
his own language,
but with contempt
with a twist in his face
at home with it, yes
- but like one at home
with squalor. To whom bitterness
made truths of lies
I know not why.
The words come to me
like strangers,
and I use them. Full-knowing
how to use them, but not knowing
what they should have meant
if better used.

my gift is a curse,
not as in some great cosmic burden, no
I mean simply that profanity
has a peculiar
fluency.
From my tongue,
spring tongues of others
as if I - a medium, by they possessed
- am entered into, by spirits
not foul, but certainly uncouth
I know not why, or who, all
they leave me is their tongues
and the words to swear by
they died, perhaps,
without cursing the world enough