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



Friday, September 05, 2014

excerpt 1






* *

drinking poison all day and she
said she was thirsty asked
why all it did was rain and then the
needle tracks of course and all of the
tear-stained apologies

the white spaces between houses

the smell of the river and
the same old argument

said the baby should have a name and i
told her there was no baby and
she asked why i hated her

she asked why i kept denying god

and the police had a  clear shot
but then he jumped

the streets were empty all
afternoon but i kept hearing the
sound of laughing children
 
kept getting off at the wrong exit

knew i was almost home but
couldn’t figure out why