poems

27 September 2014

#8: Work Ethic, B & Y, with a first line from Glück

Far be it from him to force his despair
on another person, which would be called
showing the hand, or alternately, folding—
yet relief I glean from folding I apply
onto his up-coiled person. I'm so sure
it would help to move him along the way
it did me. Nerve sets him going;
he accomplishes that state of dark-green agitation;
it's not fiction that one then needs recuperate.
God was generous with him. Why was he
generous? & not to press, but what figures
has he made of his good fortune?
He feels they're all failed efforts
and rejects claims he's been given some gift.
He lives where trees don't change,
barely drip with rain. Elsewhere my mentor
claims he can't help looking things in their faces.
You revealed I am frontal, he says,
That was hitherto one of my weak points.

#7: Status Report

Maybe I'll do my art today instead of anything else.
In a public space L says If you lament
good for you if you're lamenting.
Privately she says go on ahead, they'll catch up.

25 September 2014

#6: A Une Passante

I will be over here
loudly eating grapes.
"I am to wait, I do not doubt
I am to meet you again;"
I scramble three eggs
and have forgotten you are not
here to help me eat.
"I am to see to it
I do not lose you."
Ma petit cherie,
what's really at stake here?
Autumn is the blight
that yellows blotches
of the parking-lot oaks.
Turn on the exhaust,
slip in pepper and onion,
oregano, salt, splash scalding oil
onto my hands which look to be
aging faster than the rest
of an otherwise taut, nourished self.
Their veins protrude like a man's.
"[In] the uncertainty after all
that we may be deluded,"
I imagine returning
to curl beneath your nonjudgmental gaze.

22 September 2014

#5: Hell's First Circle

"Without hope we live in longing"

I am with hope and yet live in longing.
What does that make me. Foolish,
disrespectful of time—worse

than neutral (though are we not all
worse than that), like we've come here
expecting to be disappointed...

"It was a dangerous gesture
to make. It is redeemed
by his genius." The head of the flower

turning toward its source.
There you vaunt
on a hill in the distance,

bathed in bright petals.
Hideous crushed pearl.
The nerve of your person—we were
as so often at one another—

#4: Sexting

"Ultimately selfish.
It's always about you going down on me."
won't get sick of that.
in the dreams you fall in step left—
my left-hand man.
with the proper self-health you can carry
a beloved around in your
porcelain heart
without damaging either party—
it approaches a blissful
tuned-out ambling—
I wake up as happy as I fell asleep.

14 September 2014

#3: 287 (after ED)

Clear honey bloomed—
eddied below—
a boiling water pond
and separated a little—
this sweetened it—

It stayed burning!
The desk's contents went on—
then thought to melt obedient
as though that could appease—

To lift to drink spreads it—
this molten granule cloud—
froth coats the inner jar—
it's thicker—you descend—

The final slugs will taste like rot—
roiling sounds subside—
honey hadn't fully unfurled
so proudly before—its tide—

#2: 611 (after ED)

I think she means
it's always noon
somewhere—some peopled
place or not—

even without mark
like sun or angled
shadow—to direct it—
noon persists

whereon one could sit
with notes, or music,
or unaccompanied—
a sum of silence—

whole night may be
before one—such
or such quota—noon plays
at less than half its energy—

09 September 2014

#1

Wake to King of Pain. This morning thoughts are vague and clerical.
Need a piece of wood under the bed. Ought to register for a key.
I read about NYFW and feel fulfilled as an art critic in bloom, seeing structures'
virtues and issues, stretching my tastes, identifying models.
Things seem different this season; better. Less sensible per house.
It is fine to appreciate the expensive risks of others
so long as you are developing your keenness throughout.
That's a good rule, I will use it. Trying
not to shoot off rounds this morning at the walls
i.e. "back to my fury and love's nursing wound"


06 September 2014

#26: EST

None of my loves is awake yet.
Saturday on the roof: delicious switching
from side of the body to side, where the sun lasts.

We show up for work. The wind beats us.
My loves is in the San Francisco bay.

None of the roofers is smoking,
which makes it easy
and the thunder barrels through

my love amble through dreams
positing and proving daytime

None of my team can imagine.
"I am separate and special."

04 September 2014

ann arbor starts

there's so much tree outside my window it sounds like it's raining because the leaves are rubbing against each other.