21 October 2012
11 October 2012
not affecting a woman who changes.
Act Two, a prince moves her
and she does not move, twirls
paralyzed, head snapping
on neck, her hands flat like two tables.
In black before the house opens
their branched arms twitch. "Niet"
calls the wincing director, waving.
A floodlight leaks through his hands.
09 October 2012
part of the house, going and
coming into the foyer, fearful.
A loss takes place in the foyer
under a light, penned-in but
streaming onto him, mold-cast, pale.
He sleeps, knees stacked like blocks,
despite the brightness, tightly,
breathing hot, the mirror a wall.
A leaf has this unattainable flatness.
Short sleep done, the moon out,
the streaming slows, making him frail.
08 October 2012
Two horsehair baskets cradle bags of pasta.
Wicker wraps a carafe, seamed but holding
together, that cannot serve even as a vase.
Four green bananas lie curled there.
It was hard to buy food yesterday, there was
a street fair, swarming, swooning flowers,
we didn't make a list and were lost and unhappy.
Back on the bus, forgot beer and cashews,
tourists swelling their din in scrape languages.
Jalapenos and zucchini we dump in the crisper,
stacking cheddar with extant butter. Bananas
left on the table to change color begin to.
as he goes to close the door.
He dismantles himself completely
at a compliment. "I only seem
so nice and formal," he explains.
(Keep her separate, might he
do that, wouldn't it sustain him?)
She could sit between
his fingers and sigh there with
a gravity like reclamation - in how
he asked for her or said he would
not ask for her. Sullen, quarantined
indwelling breastbones. Hid by
skin. Basket for the table made from needles.
17 September 2012
My carrying voice drops you,
boy I love - being bothered by no one -
'no price ratchet between buttermilk and bars -
a full dozen, full donuts at a five -'
images (in glass) come upside down and
backwards, ends taking their places,
asking 'are you with me?' Taking note of some
palace fight that counted? Dropping what
your voice carries, I represent my expectation.
Across Telegraph, hundreds of blazing, shining donuts,
each repulsive. Or coffee. Or the midnight peaks
of brown cake. Some perfect question:
am I with you? Surely, when
carried, through some wherewithal.
05 September 2012
Earth, like a planet, like a spherical recognition of itself,
Roundly or unerringly restored. You came back
From Dublin; the States, belching, received you,
Restoring roundness after we drank in
Each others' hearsay, twelve or thirteen months
And change, and settle-down, and your parents
Displeased with a Nepali but accepting because
It's you. For a year your chest pitted
Against you. Now it's more "I don't know
Why they like it. They as a race or a gender
Are absurdity. Almond biscotti, its own genre,
Was all I ate there, besides popcorn at pubs
And soda bread after dinner for sobering.
Kildare flattened; the plane climbed;
There was blankness or shallowness. And here
No one has gone out of his way to restore these."
03 September 2012
You can't moon me.
I don't do shame.
Our bellies touch, magnifying mouths
red by paint - not fruit blood, not makeup
(which everyone calls expensive paint except the painter) -
That nude county that gets dust for rain, its nightshade thirst.
I can enjoy that and how your throat, cramped,
fights mine. In Deer Park Buddhist Monastery
wording, red bows to pairs of golden fish.
01 September 2012
While I lived at home, my father had eighteen birthdays.
The last ten I woke early, made coffee, strapped
the dog around my wrist to drag to the boulangerie
for scones and danishes. Returning, the house still
unconscious, but my father'd be putting away the grounds
or standing in the drive holding the paper.
When I abandoned my yellow-wall project, he did baseboards.
31 August 2012
because I should - that I should is repellant,
that is usual. So I forgo movement at home:
'Didn't you end up at Acacia?' 'No.
Expectations. I gave the night away.'
'I can not sleep on the plane.'
Bothered, I hang in uneasy languish:
heart of palm, of a virgin, heart of
artichoke, the exertion of lulling.
When I visit I will see Ryan
and Aidan and George, though I am only
visiting for my sister.
I am not late, but terrored that I might be.
Watching sleep, more than watching
one who thought you were sleeping, who watches
you, must mark a willingness to keep silent.
But not weakness, since sleeping people
have give, they cannot say they see you.
In Palm Desert a woman sold me turquoise
drops, pyramids rounded in Mexican silver.
They bobbed in my ears when I nodded,
the burnished tricolor of pillows,
and swiveled when shook.
No wonder Larry drank.
I meant I'm not different,
except I can't
drink because my head thought
punishment nourished it.
or not in the mood?
I kept misunderstanding:
John's sapphire hat blustered.
To put this off for health,
Larry said, and drop dumb talk.
A molten Hefeweizen maedchen.
I am not trying, John balked.
29 August 2012
or person, or amount of money, for future
reference, to then map the extant coordinates.
That way, only affirmation shows up in a scan.
To betters I can chart my two-forward, one-back walk,
calling nausea humility - you buy four bananas
and have set to eat them in a pattern - one
shrivels, is broken by flies, but you hold
your pattern, so in your kitchen, everybody wins
(even the dead banana, since it belonged to you, who won).
27 August 2012
What is worth keeping, my friend
said, is what you will use longest.
She folds and sniffs, fending off
a cold. I don't have anything good
to tell her about today. Even though today
was sunny, campus crowded.
I felt at odds with my body and guessing
about others' made it worse. Asking where
do I find this, which I thought would be easy,
made a mess of some clerk's morning.
It is not worth keeping the clerk's face in my mirror,
and I am practicing reverse-empathy today.
I am the practice of applying the theory, rising with it, like breathing.
To speak to my friend, I use old words but nicely.
I feel - she feels - we are helping each other get inoculated.
26 August 2012
31 July 2012
26 July 2012
* tinct.ae, Latin.
VPAR 3 1 NOM P F PERF PASSIVE PPL tinct.ae
> tingo, tingere, tinxi, tinctus V [XXXAO]
> tinguo, tinguere, tinxi, tinctus V [XXXAO]
wet/moisten/dip/soak; color/dye/tinge/tint, stain (w/blood); imbue; impregnate;
24 July 2012
22 July 2012
Shrewd, she chewed
gum last night,
barely drank or kissed.
A dead dog woke
her up, smearing the
dream with black liner.
She coughs, but
none sounds like
it will be last.
Whistling, she strokes
the high kettle;
"I know, I know."
12 July 2012
in our houses, but in yours it is closer.
An unforeseen shake-up, says control,
hurts oversight. My body hurts and I don't want to stress it with making poetry. Making is effortful and I'm not even awake really. The coffee dehydrates before it kicks. Reading Bly only makes me more depressed about my political ignorance. Is that knowledge, that I know to be depressed? Or that I know ignorance. If I had the interest wouldn't I get informed? Yesterday my shelter dog turned seven and 7-11 served free mini Slurpees and unlimited refills. Hearing the train caught in the ivy fence behind my kitchen conjures what might be an earliest memory, toddlerhood summer at Powerhouse Park by the ocean on 15th Street, being up in the tree with parents' arms locked beneath me like nets, batting and crying to the passing Coaster. It stopped in Solana Beach and continued south somewhere weekdays around 4, when we went to the park. I made my first friends there and learned to climb trees. The drawling horn sent out many rich tones at once and it was happy-pain loud, the blast like tunnel wind. Then the red bars would blink back to neutral and opened the split roads to beach traffic. We could get pizza from Del Mar Pizza or parents could get beer from Americana. I feel lazy and unfulfilled when my tries at poems stall and self-absorbed half-memories leak out like soreness from lax muscles. There was nothing Bly-sad about Powerhouse Park in the 1990s except leaving it when I watched other kids have tantrums and resolved to be well-behaved for my parents.
06 July 2012
23 June 2012
Dad heaves spit over into the sink, washing his face.
Do you think they would let me retake? I
ask through the door. "There's a fee though."
When I am out of town I say I hate California.
Out back, gardeners buzzing down wisteria.
Scaly rolls cool, iced on a rack in the kitchen.
The view of out back shows the gardeners' mouths
bandaged in red bandanas, sweat dyes their shirts.
Mom places a plate of cantaloupe outside for them.
I think about Mexico, Tijuana and tamarind candy.
All the country is my work area, but the when
makes difference. A window I have not
looked at a long time I see now
does not reflect my house back to me
but shows the next-door garage and its white
contents, nothing, and when open shows
the street. A whip and rifle decorate the wall.
I turn to breakfast again and away from it,
nauseated by smell of old coffee. On his porch
he simmers with a cigar and the TV
turned to the horse races ($100 on Dairy Cream).
We stole summer from that man (his
beer and oranges) and grew up with it.
17 June 2012
15 June 2012
07 June 2012
Ivonne: Quesadilla vegetal y flautas!
We drank pink lemonade. After the meal I fished a piece of ice from S' water glass to wash my hands as it melted, then dropped it on my side plate. As it bled smaller and smaller I recalled the chips I'd laid on my burnt knees poolside. Today was significantly cooler than the weekend at one hundred and two.
In the bathroom I examined at the walls (painted tile) but found no place to change a baby. There were two mirrors plated in worked tin facing each other. On my way back to the patio I saw a big-shouldered Mexican man holding a baby in his broad arm, the baby with a pink bow tied around her head, his tiny wife chowing down on chips and a black plastic mortar of salsa.
The old couples had gone by the time I made it outside. Mom went on the hunt for Ivonne, who had disappeared without leaving our check but who burst through right after that, flustered. The wind picked up sending the mist away from our faces, which grew warmer. Waiting for Ivonne to return with the credit card worked us into a little postprandial paroxysm of laughter that culminated in S spitting a mouthful of water gloriously across the table into my leftovers.
We signed the receipt at the bar - Ivonne had vanished again. The big-shouldered man stood in the parking lot beneath a palm tree with the baby, its ears pierced with gold-and-diamond studs. The man at the barbershop next to Casuelas strode out in a blue polyester cloak to wag his finger at his friend's new baby. Eventually the petite wife came out of Casuelas, patting her hair, and the barber gave her a happy squeeze, his black hair sweating.
29 May 2012
28 May 2012
The debt is owned by us.
And if enough people stand up and call bullshit on it that's how these things have happened.
The wealth is here, okay, if you don't want to believe it -
Just that the money is not there. The money is not there.
"I think one of the things we have to remember - ah, see what you've started..."
What power does - What Master narratives do - Birgenau can talk
Without irony about preserving the Free Speech Movement and so forth.
You have paper, right, and it's a commodity with a cash value of a penny. Not even that.
But if you write a poem on it, what's it worth?
As the song goes - absolutely nothing. (Say it again.)
It's a gift economy, it goes in the face of big economy in which profit is key.
I'm gonna give you this worthless thing. For god's sake give it to the police.
I think also of the divine horseman of Haitian mythology -
The devotee of voodoo. You become the horse that the deity rides.
You are an ascetic, suddenly worthless.
But one feeds the body as well.
"Why is the Liquor on a Dish?"
I mean enough about the peaches. Running hot
26 May 2012
23 May 2012
She is sick of hiding without meaning
It, or feeling hidden. Sick
Nearly to death.
I am mean to hide out in my sickness
Without creams or medicine.
Like death, nearly.
By and by, I let my hair go bad.
Without medicines or dreams,
I am not presentable enough.
My bad hair I let go by,
Inflamed feet swelled with blood.
Enough of me is not presentable.
How will I hide?, asks May Swenson
With swelled, bloody feet inflamed,
Sick of hiding meaning without.
21 May 2012
One's fast and one outgrows you.
The bodied one which grew
Runs best when clean.
But cleaning is a grind.
Pores reek, corners rust,
Blue-eyed blind men breathe disgust
When the metal edges whine.
One sinks, the other is a ship,
Both creak their hollow hulls.
Neither swallows their blue pills.
Murple marvel graenous mop.
Could he have made an overture
Of a nature towards you?
Awfully. Sick and slenderly. Sloven.
Put nicely, it's nice knowing
How he feels, knees mirrors, knots,
The shadowy tails of sharks. Froth,
Moon-white where it crashed, sets.
Safer to avoid interrogation, needy
Patience crossing her legs. Horribly.
"I don't remember" loaded pronouns,
Their claims thick like jumper cables.
18 May 2012
Everyone knew. There was a moon to look at.
than I can see it being done by betters
four of whom ride with no names
two of whom are secretly in cahoots of
love, one of whom hides he is man.
secretly among young men, a loud
mouth. Everything today is done
with flat eyes by a processor.
I am not
how you get your name
everywhere. Ask a king that.
I would have been a great
I am not
sorry not to have gotten away. What is
a smooth close is also a flaxen chain.
09 May 2012
08 May 2012
04 May 2012
03 May 2012
28 April 2012
very hard on her. It would be hard
to know without my divulging how
well my scaffolding holds up.
Games of comparison are the most
reviling games and common, and
petty. "On the other side of us
is the train station, just drive
across and it's beneath the big arch."
He makes an arch with his arms.
She says something and reverses,
not leaning on him because he is weak.
26 April 2012
24 April 2012
the errors and the stakes that looked
like errors who ended up dead
ends: "I don't
regret it." But the best glory happens
at a distance. A director might film
something hideous: albino crocodiles
gory-eyed from toxic runoff
that you see yourself in, regretful,
ignition sparks issuing from the bad
choice to align yourself with that.
"I don't think alligators have a choice."
To glorify an error is typical and
blind like the crocodiles of the Rhine.
16 April 2012
That heavy bear who sleeps with me
- Delmore Schwartz
The grinding scream of trismus
As hope’s ugly hypotaxis
Shouted on trains in men’s voices,
Apologetic in text, shirking,
Overthought of, kept from slipping
In again; talk gets mutely hurt by
Big brown black bear dumb and futile
Even clawed. The grinding failure
Of missing out shoots three. A couple
Hours later another three get shot,
Then again in three then
Stop. It reeked of extinct uncle
Larry’s alcohols and thieved silver
dollars. This bear had that man’s eye.
These submitted him to death.
14 April 2012
There once was a man who was more of a young artist who was in the habit of willing his possessions. Only, he was wrong in that these things and feelings he willed were not his; or rather, that he could only truly will them once. To will the same possessions of his, first to one, then to another, he at first saw to be a flawless production; but it soon became apparent that in order wholly to give anything a second time to a second person, or a third to a third, he was obliged therein to take back from the first recipient his gift or thought or feeling. Such distribution charts proved wearisome, and the young artist grew irritable. For in his desire to give and to will things and feelings his own, he realized that in first giving them away he had relinquished true ownership of them. There were, as children said, No Get-Backs.
To undermine his own singularity in this respect, and un-ownership, the young artist deceived the first recipient of his gifts by replacing them one night with decoys of identical size and shape, and similar in texture; the true gifts he then bestowed, though in secret, upon their second recipient. These were well-received. All parties remained ignorant of how the true owner of things and feelings can only ever claim his poverty. Nothing belongs to the artist or the recipients of things and feelings. To unlock this fable, reconsider the second recipient as the first and the first as the second, and the artist ever himself, and the gift he possesses and bestows Infidelity.
05 April 2012
The opposite of fidelity. She sits
There, handsome. I drink
Acquaintance shoulders pass and
Into Brooklyn, I saw you were there
27 March 2012
25 March 2012
22 March 2012
18 March 2012
Uglier than thought, the new word, sticker
Cleaner plainer, free, sober its guilt.
Someone should be here with me it
Thinks I’m so beautiful. Flicks flicker.
Other chests, carved locked outings, seek
Definition. The word man draws no jewels,
Retrieves a cup for wind from a dark region
Of verandas. Said the same in Arabic
Not Hindi. Leave with me, the pretty chest
Heaved. I still smell sticky from the spiderweb
Of lecture pared down and bruised, split ends
Sometimes heap in clumps, oil strands, reading
Frays in cosmos as shields of what each meant,
A unified pool leaping. Each bound strip spent
Foam caked at a sanguineous hole or porous grill brick
Stick-stabbing or scrubbing, movements for two dancers
Lids gaping in fatigue and not in awe until touching
Returns them to a region of dark, only verandas.
05 March 2012
The weekend; with the purchase
20 February 2012
16 February 2012
14 February 2012
09 February 2012
08 February 2012
07 February 2012
Eating lotus and raspberry Godiva with me,
Maddi at midnight in the Leucadia
Barnes & Noble parking lot drunk on Chablis.
Chomping to take back New Zealand, her new boy.
But there is no free and she is drunk and
A cop almost sees us. Fog crowding
Planted birches in gray seats. Some people
Are unhappy here because it’s not where
They’re from, but that’s not you. Your roots
Will save you from that. But it’s an unreliable
Voice she gets when she gets like this
Shelling her eyes out on a black beach.
I use her in a sentence, image pictures
To drill my brain with it. An easy dieresis
Of a queen in denial and the homelandShe gator-tackles. Perfect is easy.