poems

17 September 2012

#9: love note

 for Gwendolyn Brooks

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

#8: Backing

There was a fullness or roundness. It was of
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

#7 Escondido

Which everyone knew its meaning except me.
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

#6: How

What and why may not be genuine questions.
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.