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poems:
I was of three minds, [reading Wallace Stevens]
Among twenty snowy mountains,
(Like a
tree
it was a small part of the
pantomime.)
are one.
The beauty of inflections
traced in the shadow
Do you not see how the blackbird
and lucid, inescapable rhythms;
of one of many circles.
flying
in a green light.
in a glass coach.)
(The river
is moving
it was evening all afternoon.
Early Morning
(i)
I could sleep in my clothes and
wake to an empty glass of whiskey
and scratch my tufted head while
wondering where the morning went.
I could afternoon in an outside café
watching people doing smoking a
cigarette and a thimble of coffee
strong and black another cigarette
and eat very little not to do overdo it.
I could bury my evening body in
paper and ashtrays and books of
heroes unsung and underpaid and up
I could sit until very early wondering
if any were really worth a damn.
I could wait for the sliver between
night and day so sharp my mind
is stretched and unsure of nothing except
whether it is tomorrow or yesterday
but certainly not today.
I could have one just one more drink
if n’only if it’s swift with sleep and
the sparrows cross town don’t wake
and think it’s time to chatter me up
and up, too late—there they go!—and
now I’m quite sure I’ll never sleep again.
Four
Haiku in the American Idiom
for WCW
Dropping
my wheelbarrow,
I
reached for your sweet, cold plums.
Forgive
me, William!
-
So
much depends on
poetry—red wheelbarrows
are notwithstanding.
-
Depending
on how
much
you’re asking for that red
wheelbarrow,
I’d buy.
-
Your
plumbs are sweet and
cold,
William—you probably
should
have them looked at.
Pantoum (ii)
The river still,
the oarlocks tight,
above a swirling
purple glow.
As shadows shade
the evening light,
the night—an
endless picture show.
Above, a
swirling purple glow
of
half-remembered thoughts and sights.
The night, an
endless picture show
below the depths
of waters bright.
Of half-remembered
thoughts and sights
we thought, but
now we’ll never know.
Below, the
depths of waters bright,
a secret stream
through which we row.
We thought. But
now we’ll never know
the river still,
the oarlocks tight.
A secret stream
through which we row,
as shadows shade
the evening light.
Train Yard: Bedford Park Blvd. West
The snow—it blankets everything
with equal indifference.
Pantoum (i)
The tired clock
of afternoon,
dripping seas of
sand and time;
returning
voyages, the moon
sees circles
mirrored as design.
Dripping seas of
sand and time,
the oarlock
smooth and sure, and soon
sees circles
mirrored as design
and memories
across the dunes,
the oarlock
smooth and sure. And soon,
(the spinning
compass of his mind
and memories
across the dunes)
the weary monk,
bereft and blind—
the spinning
compass of his mind—
lunges, pulls, is hauled and hewn.
The weary monk, bereft and blind,
repeating
penitentiary hues,
lunges—pulls—is hauled and hewn
(recurring hours,
days divine)
repeating
penitentiary hues
from morning
lauds until compline.
Recurring hours,
days divine,
the tired clock
of afternoon
awaits its
respite, rest, and shine.
Returning voyages: the
moon.
Marginalia
for KV
A great
truth
comes w/
a foot-
note which
itself is
foot-
noted
w/a
reference
to
another book
(which is
currently
out
on loan).
That book
has
a great
truth
also foot-
noted &
cross-
referenced
w/a foot-
note
to the
first book
containing
a great
truth.
So it goes.
Early Morning Villanelle
I cannot think, but drink, and think to
say:
“What falls about my feet?” I’m
indisposed!
I wonder where I left the light of day.
My feet, too light and large (to my
dismay),
will ask me now, again: but why, suppose,
I cannot think but drink and think to
say?
Who knows? I answer not, because I may
forget exactly where I put my toes.
I wonder where I left the light of day?
Not here, although I dally and delay.
My pedantry reviles, I stink my clothes.
I cannot think, but drink.
And
think—to say
I slipped beyond the corner of today,
would mean I’d find tomorrow in repose?
I wonder where?? I left the light of day!
If one could catch me when I fall who knows
how swift I’d
dance again with death in throes!
I cannot think, but drink, and think to say:
I wonder where I left the light of day.
Meal Prep
for Amelia
chicken &
chocolate
&
berried
melon
(crackle)
fried in
lemon
& oil
boiled
tomatoes
baby
(chopped)
potatoes
fish-stock
(ladled)
carrots
shallots
& salad
(tossed)
w/
seasons
& spices
the reasons
we cook
& we
eat
&
love
to en-
joy
(yum!)
Word Salad
Let us begin
with
a slice of
lettuce! This sand-
wich, dry, needs
mustard.
Must a turd
linger in
the toilet of
our soul?
(Let us,
faithless, pray.)
Stalling
Articulate
what it is
to you:
art—
I’m not
trying
to anger
you, tick
you off—too
late are
we, us
two
for (such)
games.
(A tickle
in the
throat, best
soothed
with milk—
lait.)
Are you
a tic
in the
Artic?
—U better
drink up, it’s
cold and
late.
poems: