Sunday, November 02, 2014

self portrait w/ nude, on fire





and then late afternoon shadows and
the stuttering scratch of
leaves down forgotten streets 


the shadows of lovers, of
unwanted children and forsaken saints 


god and then no
god and then
all of the days i waste waiting to
                              see you again 


an empty room filled with ordinary ghosts and
no one says we have to be here but
no one gives us permission to leave 


this is called the art of standing still 


this is pollock in the
seconds before his death 


not acceptance but panic and
not understanding, not
ever

not ever


and i keep telling you this but
you still aren’t there



Sunday, October 12, 2014

ernst



klee




miro



Head of a Woman, 1938 by Joan Miro

after the age of giants




And this is not nothing, this sky, these
clouds, these hills, and it’s not the
whole story because nothing ever is,
but listen.  Distance is an important thing.
Forty feet from the bridge to the tracks
below.  100 miles between the woman’s
body and her husband’s faith.  And have
you ever tried defining yourself by
something other than sorrow or fear?
Will you crawl from lover to lover with
nothing to offer but fading bruises
and the promise of more?
 

It’s okay to pause before you answer,
to consider, to weight your options. 
It’s okay to accept the fact that we’ve
never really meant anything to each other.
This is why the sunlight casts shadows.
Why time only moves in one direction.
The moment arrives one hundred
million times a day, and then it passes.
The song is forgotten.  I wanted to
sing it to you, but you were married.
You were crying.  It was a sound
just like any other.



Friday, September 26, 2014

one for neverending love







and i will be me and
you will be the song i
sing with a mouthful of
blood and who was it that
ever promised you happiness?

how is it my fault
you chose to believe him?

why should victory feel
any different than defeat?

because love and hate



even here in the clean, cold light of early april,
in the solemn emptiness between
berkshire and speedsville, between  somewhere and
somewhere else, nowhere and
nowhere, the shit of civilization
growing up through the weeds and dirt, the
cigarette butts, styrofoam cups, fast food wrappers,
the wounded and the dying
 

the trees and the hills
 

crisp blue sky
 

no sound of traffic or of industry, but two
empty beer cans and a shattered bottle
on the side of a rutted dirt road
 

taste of rust when I
turn to kiss you
 

birds
screaming


Thursday, September 18, 2014

you and i lost in the forest of meaningless symbols





the sound of human voices in
                          august rooms


the sound of heat or the
weight of it


thunder at the edges


mountains grey in the haze or
blue beneath a colorless sky


asks where’s the map?


answers why do you need it?
and both of them naked
 
both of them waiting


and pollock is dead, of course,
                              and cobain,
                               and christ,
just to give you a better idea of WHEN
                                                  and
she has freckles on her pale breasts


he is never quite comfortable
in his own skin


says i’d like to see the desert and
she smiles at him and laughs


says but i need to get home


you see?


there are always places to go but
they will never be arrived at


there are some reasons more important
than others, or at least there
those who see it this way
 
one more time he says and she agrees


there is here and now and then
                                       (later)
there is the idea that HERE and NOW
are fading into the past


sits alone in a darkening room
and begins to understand this