Thursday, January 28, 2016

once or twice or
a thousand times more
the earth travels the sun
or the sea laps the shore
the quiet that comes when
the silence predicts it
the strange counter weight that is
needed to say it
you don’t know what is right
you guess only what’s wrong
you won’t take that road
that you knew all along
was the cul de sac
at the end of the road
you steer past that sign
for your very last act
that queer undeniable
heartbreaking fact
look over your shoulder
it’s useless, retract
she will always be rolling
that infinite boulder
she will until she is
immeasurably older
and stops for a minute
in webbed retrospect
knows she should have been laughing
seeking a cryable shoulder
once or twice or
a thousand times more
she lives to fill in
innumerable cracks
and that, as they say, is always that

Saturday, January 23, 2016

waiting for the storm

it’s easier than you think
especially in the quiet
of invisible ink
first it’s there and then gone
all right
curse the wand
and the magic’s inner weight
takes flight and we learn to wait
what am I pining for?
this half-eaten heart of mine
what am I waiting for?
this handless time
remember when snow
wasn’t scary?
remember it meant
free to be contrary?
when the steps you took
over bodies wrapped in white
when you didn’t look
to the left or the right
only plodded in giant steps
away from the monster   
a small child in padding
demanding the answer
without a compass
unburdened by loveless
it’s easier than you think
in aging memory on a winter night
if you’ve caught a snowfall
in dreamlike flight
storms once had a life of their own
we had no fear of
those moments we owned
the snow will come in
a preordained storm
what we have still
is a place in our home
to venture outside when the
need is to roam
in snow or in rain
in sunshine or possibly war
it takes the same imagination
it demands the same score
a storm is a win when
you’ve plodded though it
snow never sins
only innocents know it
waiting for the storm
it’s easier than you think
especially in the quiet
of invisible ink
write it down
discard it
that trail embark it
no snowshoes, no mittens, no sled dog
to market
all’s swell what the hell
it’s midnight so fuck it

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Fuck Bob Dylan
he wrote the song
I was meant to write
Shithead Bukowski
settin’ in his grave and laughin’
has no mercy on my calling
write the fucking poem he sez
he’s already in love
meaning you, my passion
today I went to the soup kitchen
and felt the full strength of
her fasten herself to me
like a crab, or kangaroo or a newborn baby
this was too much and too little
all at once
she saw the kindness
I knew the outcome
she wept and hugged
and then some
How would Bob write this
genius aggression
me on the ground
me saying things
I shouldn’t say
She fell into me in a doughnut of heat
I activated the life vests
on both of us
Don’t let them see your tears
they won’t understand
so much is in their hands
every week
every week
They are hungry I said
and she wept indiscreet
they are just hungry I said
and she nodded and left
came back a bit straighter
came back without a word
came back and served
Everything I want to write
has been written
even my epitaph will be stolen
we are a band of thieves
we are humans left longing
each moment is
churchless and
wronged and

Each moment is gone