Monday, December 28, 2009

Poem for Monday, December 28, 2009


What We Learn from Trees

I. The Junipers in the Man's Front Yard

stand three feet tall
fortify the corner of Oliver & College
solid
humble green sage (is this man
a sage?)
their trunks--light almond, sleek
are magnificent like scoliosis
you'd think they're swaying
with the winter breezes
but they're sturdy, steadfast
oxen bearing hundreds of pounds
with a unified fixed gaze


II. The Christmas Tree on the Concrete

has served its purpose
and now rolls around in a
cruel new milieu
in its artificial spruce glory
pushed back and forth
tauntingly
by two gusts of frigid wind
no ornaments, no lights
not even a discernible base
a wise old tortoise
knocked flat on its back, helpless
as the last Christmas song
drones out


III. The Condemned New England Elm

is two hundred thirty-five years old
dubbed a "local treasure" in
Yarmouth, Maine
presided over America
during all its red-white-blue wars
but none of this matters
in a few weeks
stainless steel blades will slice
through its diseased trunk
and an old man will cry
while it rains
sawdust

IV. Nothing

lasts
forever

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Poem for Saturday, December 26, 2009


The Last Flower

was planted on the ledge of a precipice
smothered in moss, lush and
slippery

by a selfish man
as most men are

he did not want anyone to reach
his frail violet legacy

people have climbed and climbed
cut new muscles at torrid altitudes
darkened their shirts with sweat

some wanted to pick it, spitefully
some wanted to sniff it, desperately
one man wanted to speak to it

because nobody else
would speak to him
did he exist (?)

the last flower

is kept alive in our minds like
the smell of our grandmothers' living rooms
the first time we sampled chocolate

the time when
we realized our hearts
are for more than breathing

you will see it
right before you open your weary blue eyes
one final time

and you will see me
touch my hair, try to capture my soul
settle for my heart instead

you will see it--

there

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Poem for Tuesday, December 22, 2009


Camaraderie

Driving like madmen, westbound on I-40
with the Norwood brothers and their
hillbilly rock

snare (tap bang tap bang), whistle
guitar (pluck pluck pluck), whistle

the sky, indecisive as ever
spitting out drops of rain and swallowing
them back up, like stomaching
a shot of whisky

hazy winter fog bonds with cigarette smoke
another friendship formed in
the universe

snare, whistle
snare, oo-wee

nobody speaks what's on our minds
(hamsters on wheels, sweating to produce
that unspeakable thought):

we're fucking old, man
but we can never disband

la la la la

Friday, December 18, 2009

Poem for Friday, December 18, 2009


Golgotha Has Changed

The children on the hill look up, are met
with sunlight
a diaphanous hazel-eyed gaze that angels
dot with invisible lines, as if to make
geometrical puzzles for entertainment
they (the children, the angels) think
we have never been afraid of anything tangible

the dirty, arid hill is dangerous
sharp fossils, land mines
holes that have no bottoms nor reason, but
the children laugh, dance above their predecessors'
peaceful bones, galavant around with
cowboy & indian wanderlust because
God will wash his hands, suture our silly wounds

when the moon relieves the sun, as it
has always done
the ground glazes over with ice, and
the children skate & slide, hold hands
sing songs that lack meaning to them
the angel brass band blares, the drummer boy
pounds his snare
golden notes zoom in the air, up there

up there
God smiles, contemplates his creations
then he goes to bed
for the first time
since everything

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Poem for Wednesday, December 16, 2009


The Waiting Game

when you depend on yourself
for stimulation

it's gets
damn difficult

a semester now of being done
w/ textbooks & intellectual
masturbation

dusty library crevices
coffee & literary chit-chat &
you run into a friend at a bar:

"I'm movin' out of Arkansas, man!"
"What're your plans?"
"I applied at Brown and San Fran State."
"That's awesome, man!"
"What about you?"
"Shippin' out with the Peace Corps."

& suddenly you get religious
praying northward that your single-
basket eggs won't cracksplatter

all over that hipster shirt
(your friend prays too)

your mind's become a spatula
flipping winter days over to spring
when your plans fructify
it'll all be gold, baby

quit smoking
keep reading and writing
go to Siberia
it'll all be gold, baby

back for the master's
handshakes with friends
sweet golden
coitus

but you can't deny
how the meantime is
so

fucking

pyritic

Friday, December 11, 2009

Poem for Friday, December 11, 2009


Vagabonds

I. South Korea

A long plane ride and blurry cab drive later, my friend
arrived in the forgotten war zone he
was welcomed with the stench of silver fish as the
locals burned his throat with soju (the "bastard child" of
Heaven Hill and Ozarka) a rapid acculturation of
etiquette & congested streets
he teaches little boys and girls English; they
pronounce their "r's" like "l's"

II. Belgium

My friend leaves in January when winter bites the
hardest she will land in Brussels to German
and Dutch words resounding with 18th century church
bells, see the EU headquarters, and buy mussels & beer
people will filter through the town squares as
a pigeon or two pick at frozen bread crumbs she
will read and contemplate a steadfastly gray sky
at the cafes & think of writing me

III. Japan

The schoolchildren, all clad in formal eastern education
garb, watch my friend write simple English
sentences on the whiteboard fifty pairs of almond
eyes listen & occasionally raise hands, watch the
sweat clump under his arms
in the evenings, he trudges through the city with
sushi and greens packed on ice in every window &
hears the clicks and dings of Pachinko machines (but
he still retires to the park, amazed at
the cherry blossoms)

IV. El Salvador

My philanthropic friend will find himself at
the place of the savior in February, hot
and wet with the blood of conquistadors from
centuries ago stuffed with papusas, he
will belch in Espanol and converse with
the old madre at the fruit stand "Our
people are poor and unhealthy," she will explain
"I am here to help," he will reply

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Poem for Tuesday, December 8, 2009 (II)


Tonight, I Move Mountains

In my my southern dreams, there are
mountains that defy God, festooned
with kudzu and scuppernong.
Naked little cherubs float above, squeeze
the vines, and a river of juice
flows beneath my fair-haired legs:

sustenance for my odyssey.

I will follow the ungulate footprints
embedded in the fertile delta and smell
them to determine how alone
I really am.

I will follow the ungulate droppings
and race the scheming sky--a dying
candle, indigo now but darkening.
It can kill baby pilgrims like me:

stopping my molecules with cold
or simply breaking my bones.

I will drink the juice and listen
as bird chirps and leafy wisps
become rhythmic jazz in my mind.
My steps will match the blown
brass and tickled octaves.

I will pass bone-weary prophets
who lie beneath fruitless trees like
squished maggots.
They all smoke cigarettes and
get drunk off sour moonshine:

the moon will shine at night, and
the moon will melt by morning.

I will trudge on for them, for
me, for every sentient soul
once good.

In my southern dreams, the vines
are electro-slippery, judas to my grip.
The rocks will succumb to gravity
faster than gunshots.
The cherubs become sirens, summon
harpies with lugubrious shrills:

Awwwwwwwweeeeeeeeee!
Wyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee?

But, I will drink the juice, and
I will sweat with fire, fear
seeping out of my pores.
I will sing my own songs, my
jazz, and I will not be afraid
to fall beneath the earth.

I was once good, and
I will move mountains

tonight.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Poem for Tuesday, December 8, 2009


Late That Morning

She woke up
the bedsprings creaked
we both became

conscious
we left
the radio on
all night
the music melted
like lipstick beneath

a nervous sweat
the fan blades
cooled us, droned
embraced the smoke
from our cigarettes

I saw all of this
with sleep
still in my eyes
with her number
smear-inked on my hand, fading

Poem for Monday, December 7, 2009


Wee-Hour Drizzle

This wee-hour drizzle has struck (I'm
shivering). My bloodstream
is a frozen tundra, my capillaries are
solid fish stuck in a glacier, mid-swim.

My eyes are frozen open, so I
think about what I've come to accept:

I'll always sleep shirtless, even if I'm cold.
Many library books will never be opened.
The finite and the infinite are oil and water.

The list goes on; we don't.

This drizzle goes on for months before
birds' feathers flap northward bound.
I'll try to think of you for fireplace
warmth, but you're frozen with everything.

Between my brain cells, talking
to me in a block of ice with blue-lipped
determination. A silver smile, a white
cloud, and eventually no colors.

And I will go deaf in April from
all of your words resounding at once.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Poem for Saturday, December 5, 2009


The Fourth Kind

Rum and coke snuck in a movie theater
went down our throats during the
previews, warmed us up.
Watched a film about alien abductions

in Alaska; they always struck at
3 AM. Barn owls glared down at the
insomniacs and flew in through
their windows. It was a

hoot. Still cold, I sought the opportunity
to be abducted and explain myself
and humankind to my new ET friends.
But why would they

spare me?

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Poem for Wednesday, December 2, 2009


December Blues

The first December morning bled frost all over
cars & grass. It galvanized
the dog shit and whisked away cigarette ashes
into another dimension.

It's going to be another cold one.

I scraped the ice off my windows for ten
minutes, watched the shavings float down
on invisible parachutes. There was
enough to clump into a snowball but
no one to throw it at.

Defrost, defrost, de-
frost.

Driving along, there were old ladies wrapped up
like Christmas presents in coats
& blankets. Their bells and red buckets
jingled in the frigid breeze but
no coins clinked in the slots.

Hard times this month.
Winter was right on time to hoard
the food scraps & chap our lips.
Nothing to do but wipe away the
sleep, sing the December blues.

Fa-la-la-la-la.