1
If the gathering geese
tell me anything, it is flight.
Perhaps I can hold the world
in the palm of my iPhone,
but pixels are not reality.
Take that, Zuckerberg.
2
Her smile was like the sun
on summer grass, withering
where it shone most bright,
turning what had been green
and fragrant brittle and sickly
yellow. I had to get away.
3
There is nothing
like the glitter of ice
in the eye of a woman
who has decided to disapprove.
It is a blizzard.
4
But no one, man or woman, can hold back spring,
however long we scare off Father Christmas.
No glare will keep the flowers from opening,
no arched brow will stop up the rivers,
and, my dear, your frustration
will only melt the snow, swell
the streams, and let me float my raft away.
5
But rafts float finitely,
and all flights must land.
My new, improved, waxless wings
take me nearly to the sun
but the sun only blinds me,
the light of life too bright,
the projection of growth
too much for my skin to handle.
6
Earthbound again,
I find myself drawn
back to the cave,
the cool streams
and chilling breeze
making me wonder
if I ever left.
7
Back to Ground Zero, then.
To the cold of the womb
rejected, to the narrow rock straits
staring me down as I huddle
beneath outcrops, the towers
throwing twin shadows across
my eyes, my lies, my soul.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Goodnight
We smoked three cigarettes,
then you drove away
leaving me a burning filter
and an unasked question:
that night, lost in the woods
by your father's house,
the woods in our hearts,
when it seemed the dark
surrounded, invaded, devoured
our very beings,
was it the man who appeared
wearing a long white trench
and a white panama hat
who saved us--or was it you?
then you drove away
leaving me a burning filter
and an unasked question:
that night, lost in the woods
by your father's house,
the woods in our hearts,
when it seemed the dark
surrounded, invaded, devoured
our very beings,
was it the man who appeared
wearing a long white trench
and a white panama hat
who saved us--or was it you?
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Our Last Conversation
When the sun overfilled the horizon’s seawalls
we lay there still, the silence of night on our lips
the morning’s dew wrapping our bodies
the harp-plucking fingers of the stars
thrumming final vibration across the heavens.
What did we say, that night? Rapturous things,
lines and stories and sonnets
that now only night remembers.
I drew a picture for you, one filled with lines
simple and complex, lines like rainbows
arching over hard canvas, lines like pearls
strung across the night sky
whose brightness made the stars jealous
and whose self-contained glow
even our friend, the Queen of Faerie
and of the Undying Lands, embittered
beyond all recognition of loveliness,
one night when she lay looking at stars
and wishing that one single man in her realm
could bear the beauty of a star, or that one
single star in her realm could outshine all the others,
when she looked up into the night sky and saw
a string of pearls as beautiful and well-made
as a human spine.
I remember the picture; I remember the hope.
I do not remember when you, rising and shaking off
your blanket of frost-colored dew, decided
that no magic and no harpsong could match
the adoration of flashbulbs, the glitter of a thousand
grins all focused on you. I laugh
sometimes to think about it, but my laugh
is as bitter as the Faerie Queen’s grin.
we lay there still, the silence of night on our lips
the morning’s dew wrapping our bodies
the harp-plucking fingers of the stars
thrumming final vibration across the heavens.
What did we say, that night? Rapturous things,
lines and stories and sonnets
that now only night remembers.
I drew a picture for you, one filled with lines
simple and complex, lines like rainbows
arching over hard canvas, lines like pearls
strung across the night sky
whose brightness made the stars jealous
and whose self-contained glow
even our friend, the Queen of Faerie
and of the Undying Lands, embittered
beyond all recognition of loveliness,
one night when she lay looking at stars
and wishing that one single man in her realm
could bear the beauty of a star, or that one
single star in her realm could outshine all the others,
when she looked up into the night sky and saw
a string of pearls as beautiful and well-made
as a human spine.
I remember the picture; I remember the hope.
I do not remember when you, rising and shaking off
your blanket of frost-colored dew, decided
that no magic and no harpsong could match
the adoration of flashbulbs, the glitter of a thousand
grins all focused on you. I laugh
sometimes to think about it, but my laugh
is as bitter as the Faerie Queen’s grin.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Stars
I remember looking up at the stars and whispering,
Dear God, please let me never be like them.
A great, flaming ball of gas? God asked. No,
I said, a pinhole in the ceiling of a decrepit universe.
I take offense at that, God said.
Sorry, I said.
You can guess what He said back.
Dear God, please let me never be like them.
A great, flaming ball of gas? God asked. No,
I said, a pinhole in the ceiling of a decrepit universe.
I take offense at that, God said.
Sorry, I said.
You can guess what He said back.
Friday, September 23, 2011
To my children, if I have them
a rainbow is a treasure
a smile is rare
a friend is rarer
but don’t change your face
or change your form
just because some rare friend
with a rainbow for a smile
thinks you should; light
the night with a heart surrendered
not to some cave wall
shadow, reflection
of another person’s picture of you,
but to light, to truth
whatever the cost, and to love,
whatever the loss.
a smile is rare
a friend is rarer
but don’t change your face
or change your form
just because some rare friend
with a rainbow for a smile
thinks you should; light
the night with a heart surrendered
not to some cave wall
shadow, reflection
of another person’s picture of you,
but to light, to truth
whatever the cost, and to love,
whatever the loss.
Anthology
Let’s get out of here, you and I
(while the evening is spread out against the sky—
and, you know, patient etherized upon a table,
muttering retreats, one-night cheap hotels, oyster shells),
and while we run, shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
You are more lovely and more innocent
than a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water
and the blood of innocence; sing your song
of sixpence, your queenliness, and bake your pie
to be sold by the little goblin men with their whiskers
and their rat tails, so that the hollow men, the stuffed men
may shamble down and, raging against the light’s dying,
may take their pies with them as they climb Mt. Fuji,
losing pieces of themselves, but slowly, slowly.
Do I contradict myself? No, I don’t, it’s just that
my vast multitudes are smarter than your vast multitudes,
so you can never hope to comprehend my world
of etherized, shambling, snail-like rat-tailed hollow men
whose world will end
in both fire and ice, slowly,
not with a bang but with a whimper.
[With many, many apologies to T.S. Eliot, Bill Shakespeare, Christina Rosetti, Dylan Thomas, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, and Issa. (William Carlos Williams is in there too but in my opinion he deserves anything he gets.)]
(while the evening is spread out against the sky—
and, you know, patient etherized upon a table,
muttering retreats, one-night cheap hotels, oyster shells),
and while we run, shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
You are more lovely and more innocent
than a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water
and the blood of innocence; sing your song
of sixpence, your queenliness, and bake your pie
to be sold by the little goblin men with their whiskers
and their rat tails, so that the hollow men, the stuffed men
may shamble down and, raging against the light’s dying,
may take their pies with them as they climb Mt. Fuji,
losing pieces of themselves, but slowly, slowly.
Do I contradict myself? No, I don’t, it’s just that
my vast multitudes are smarter than your vast multitudes,
so you can never hope to comprehend my world
of etherized, shambling, snail-like rat-tailed hollow men
whose world will end
in both fire and ice, slowly,
not with a bang but with a whimper.
[With many, many apologies to T.S. Eliot, Bill Shakespeare, Christina Rosetti, Dylan Thomas, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, and Issa. (William Carlos Williams is in there too but in my opinion he deserves anything he gets.)]
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Grace and Old Atlantis
Let’s get out of here, you and me. But not
to any of those expected places,
the ones where they’ll look for us:
Ireland, Tokyo, New Guinea, Middle-Earth, Alderaan.
Let’s go into that old room in your old house,
the one with all the spider-webs
and the ghost of the dead girl
crying over her broken roller skates
and throwing blood at us,
the one where we once discovered a lake
with dead men floating to the top
to speak to us of dread things: the ships
of old Atlantis, the ones that carried world-destroying
crystals, the crews the king cast out because he could find no grace
in them, whose captains plotted and returned, and at the docks
where the sailors sang they unleashed a throne of blood
and swept Atlantis away.
The king could have saved them, remember?
But he was a coward. Let’s go save them,
go push the king to his fate so his people live.
Or if not that, let’s go down to the dead-end street
with the woods, where the trees slant crazily
and the stream winding through
seems like one of your mother’s unending sentences,
the ones like the prayers at church
that start off so innocent, bless us and our endeavors,
and grow to include the county, the state, the country,
the president, the world. Your mother,
bless her soul, has no idea of the world
we inhabit. Probably better that way.
Let’s go sit under the trees, feel our souls
slant in an empathic crazy tumult,
let our conversation slant sideways,
and revel in the grace we’ve found in each other.
to any of those expected places,
the ones where they’ll look for us:
Ireland, Tokyo, New Guinea, Middle-Earth, Alderaan.
Let’s go into that old room in your old house,
the one with all the spider-webs
and the ghost of the dead girl
crying over her broken roller skates
and throwing blood at us,
the one where we once discovered a lake
with dead men floating to the top
to speak to us of dread things: the ships
of old Atlantis, the ones that carried world-destroying
crystals, the crews the king cast out because he could find no grace
in them, whose captains plotted and returned, and at the docks
where the sailors sang they unleashed a throne of blood
and swept Atlantis away.
The king could have saved them, remember?
But he was a coward. Let’s go save them,
go push the king to his fate so his people live.
Or if not that, let’s go down to the dead-end street
with the woods, where the trees slant crazily
and the stream winding through
seems like one of your mother’s unending sentences,
the ones like the prayers at church
that start off so innocent, bless us and our endeavors,
and grow to include the county, the state, the country,
the president, the world. Your mother,
bless her soul, has no idea of the world
we inhabit. Probably better that way.
Let’s go sit under the trees, feel our souls
slant in an empathic crazy tumult,
let our conversation slant sideways,
and revel in the grace we’ve found in each other.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Young People, Beware of Love that is Actually Vampirism
When I say I love you, I mean exactly that.
When I tell you that the way you are bending over
to pick up the remote
is the wrong way,
it is only because I do not want you to strain your muscles.
When I tell you the way your mother raised you is stupid,
it is only that, well, what you said she said is clearly stupid.
When I tell you that you are washing the windows wrong,
it is only because washing them right will make you feel better.
And when you have learned all of my lessons,
taken them into your heart to let them rest there,
to eat at you, eat away all the old stupid habits you used to know,
when the outer shell that you call your Self
has been replaced by a garment actually worth wearing--
me--
then you will be happy, as I am happy. Come, take my hand,
and let's begin.
When I tell you that the way you are bending over
to pick up the remote
is the wrong way,
it is only because I do not want you to strain your muscles.
When I tell you the way your mother raised you is stupid,
it is only that, well, what you said she said is clearly stupid.
When I tell you that you are washing the windows wrong,
it is only because washing them right will make you feel better.
And when you have learned all of my lessons,
taken them into your heart to let them rest there,
to eat at you, eat away all the old stupid habits you used to know,
when the outer shell that you call your Self
has been replaced by a garment actually worth wearing--
me--
then you will be happy, as I am happy. Come, take my hand,
and let's begin.
Autobiography II
Fine. Don't believe me? Then subject me
to one of your tests--your meyers-briggs,
enneagram, ink-blot. Reduce me
to a number or two, to a little colored box
that is easy to analyze and classify.
You will no more know me
this way than you know anything
through mere words on a page,
no more than you know a sunset,
a mountain peak, a flight,
merely by reading it.
But it will give you a neat illusion,
it will make you happy,
and the colored box will be pretty to look at.
to one of your tests--your meyers-briggs,
enneagram, ink-blot. Reduce me
to a number or two, to a little colored box
that is easy to analyze and classify.
You will no more know me
this way than you know anything
through mere words on a page,
no more than you know a sunset,
a mountain peak, a flight,
merely by reading it.
But it will give you a neat illusion,
it will make you happy,
and the colored box will be pretty to look at.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Writer's Block
Sometimes the words just don’t come,
so I retreat into a land with tall clouds the shape
of towers, minarets pointing to a golden sun,
a sea stretching to the horizon filled with ships
as big as worlds, ships which communicate using birds
as big as a man, with great flowing wings
as long and as colorful as rainbows,
with beaks that could cut a star,
with haloes like the milky way.
The great world-ships cast off from docks
that contain cities, and have all the heartbreak of cities,
lovers walking hand-in-hand, old men alone with dogs,
old women sewing clothes for grandchildren who never call,
ladies in flowing finery with dresses designed to make your head turn
and looks designed to make you ashamed of looking.
But I am gone, on my world-ship,
where everyone knows my name:
the monkeys in the jungles, the bell-boys
of the woodlands, the horses and the cities
of the plains. In my world-ship I am king,
and I need not worry about the piece of paper
sitting on my desk, blank,
a quill pen on top of it dripping ink.
so I retreat into a land with tall clouds the shape
of towers, minarets pointing to a golden sun,
a sea stretching to the horizon filled with ships
as big as worlds, ships which communicate using birds
as big as a man, with great flowing wings
as long and as colorful as rainbows,
with beaks that could cut a star,
with haloes like the milky way.
The great world-ships cast off from docks
that contain cities, and have all the heartbreak of cities,
lovers walking hand-in-hand, old men alone with dogs,
old women sewing clothes for grandchildren who never call,
ladies in flowing finery with dresses designed to make your head turn
and looks designed to make you ashamed of looking.
But I am gone, on my world-ship,
where everyone knows my name:
the monkeys in the jungles, the bell-boys
of the woodlands, the horses and the cities
of the plains. In my world-ship I am king,
and I need not worry about the piece of paper
sitting on my desk, blank,
a quill pen on top of it dripping ink.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Autobiography
I am really quite simple.
If you want to understand me,
get up with me at seven on Easter Morning
(while realizing that I never rise before one
in the afternoon unless forced)
and come with me down into the valley,
into the woods,
to the bank of the stream
where three rocks almost make a bridge,
pause, and hold still while katydids
fly through the air around us,
buzzing the glory of the risen Christ,
the risen sun.
If you want to understand me,
get up with me at seven on Easter Morning
(while realizing that I never rise before one
in the afternoon unless forced)
and come with me down into the valley,
into the woods,
to the bank of the stream
where three rocks almost make a bridge,
pause, and hold still while katydids
fly through the air around us,
buzzing the glory of the risen Christ,
the risen sun.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Romance 2.0
I.
I remember the thrill
when I saw your facebook status said "single" again.
Illusion can do that.
In the old days, you'd have had a tower built for you.
Oh, don't deny it.
You, with your diamond blonde curls
framing your lithe fox's face
like a pharoah's headdress,
your movement like a caged tiger or a mad eagle,
are the sort of person who gets things built:
the Taj Mahal, the Kremlin.
In those days, I would be a knight,
seeking your tower in the woods,
performing great feats to be allowed access at last.
Now, and tomorrow, your castle is in the air
and the weapons I am granted--
smiles, nods, murmurs,
likes, lists, lines, losers--
are harder to wield
(and no match for a good blaster at your side, kid).
Tomorrow you surround yourself with walls of facebook,
lines and boxes and a thousand gleaming smiles
projected onto the eyeballs
of a thousand boys
look at a thousand carbon copies
of you in your adorable blue bikini.
Your walls are guarded
by an army of likes
and by a thousand gleaming comments
given liberally, the way a good princess
should distribute her wealth. I'm sure I can
see through your walls,
see the soul
beneath your limning jewels, see the sadness
lurking in your heart
as it lurks in the heart of every person.
I think that if I stare
long enough at your status, your list of likes and loves,
the pictures of you
in a dress, in pajamas, in a bikini and always
wearing your diamond glimmer smile,
I will soon see what everyone
has missed, a negative image
formed by white space
stripping the jewels, the glim and glitter,
wrecking your walls down.
II.
That night we spent beneath the stars,
not wrapped in each other's bodies,
or in each other's souls,
but our spirits sleeping together,
is one I will write about forever.
You turned away from me that night,
though I didn't know it yet.
How to put that on facebook?
Tonight I wove a web of magic words,
caught a glimpse of a woman's
soul, experienced the greatest sense of loss
of my admittedly young life,
saw the moon dissolve, calcinate, mortify,
and burst alive, discovered
that the philosopher's stone is a process,
never an event.
If you can identify, click like.
III.
The truth is.
The truth is this.
The truth is, when I looked between the lines,
beneath the glimmer, beyond the blue of the bikini
and the blue of facebook's banner,
when I tried to find you,
all I could find was myself.
Like swimming the moat of the castle,
slaying the dragon, taking the secret passage
to the central chamber, and finding a mirror.
In that mirror I saw myself,
rat-whiskered, pig-tailed, and bleeding.
So when you turned away from me
in that black-and-white park
to project your technicolor smile
on the world, I let you go.
But it was not for your sake. It was for mine.
After all,
facebook is not about connecting,
it's about projecting.
IV.
As if there's anything you want to hear from me.
As if.
But if I could, I would tell you this:
Remember how the moon
smiled on us that night. Remember
how we realized the sky was not black,
but a deep purple different from any color
humans have captured. Remember
the way your hair shone in the moon,
as if you swam in moonbeams.
There is grace in everything, dear. In everything.
I have struggled for a long time
to find the grace between us,
but that's because it wasn't there.
We can't project grace onto each other.
If we could, it would be a business transaction,
like facebook. We can't put grace into a status update,
and if we make it one of our favorites,
it will burst that bond and swallow us
so that we know it not
beyond the pain of our own calcination.
Look for the grace, dear, and it will blind you.
Let it. Go blind.
It's the only way to see.
I remember the thrill
when I saw your facebook status said "single" again.
Illusion can do that.
In the old days, you'd have had a tower built for you.
Oh, don't deny it.
You, with your diamond blonde curls
framing your lithe fox's face
like a pharoah's headdress,
your movement like a caged tiger or a mad eagle,
are the sort of person who gets things built:
the Taj Mahal, the Kremlin.
In those days, I would be a knight,
seeking your tower in the woods,
performing great feats to be allowed access at last.
Now, and tomorrow, your castle is in the air
and the weapons I am granted--
smiles, nods, murmurs,
likes, lists, lines, losers--
are harder to wield
(and no match for a good blaster at your side, kid).
Tomorrow you surround yourself with walls of facebook,
lines and boxes and a thousand gleaming smiles
projected onto the eyeballs
of a thousand boys
look at a thousand carbon copies
of you in your adorable blue bikini.
Your walls are guarded
by an army of likes
and by a thousand gleaming comments
given liberally, the way a good princess
should distribute her wealth. I'm sure I can
see through your walls,
see the soul
beneath your limning jewels, see the sadness
lurking in your heart
as it lurks in the heart of every person.
I think that if I stare
long enough at your status, your list of likes and loves,
the pictures of you
in a dress, in pajamas, in a bikini and always
wearing your diamond glimmer smile,
I will soon see what everyone
has missed, a negative image
formed by white space
stripping the jewels, the glim and glitter,
wrecking your walls down.
II.
That night we spent beneath the stars,
not wrapped in each other's bodies,
or in each other's souls,
but our spirits sleeping together,
is one I will write about forever.
You turned away from me that night,
though I didn't know it yet.
How to put that on facebook?
Tonight I wove a web of magic words,
caught a glimpse of a woman's
soul, experienced the greatest sense of loss
of my admittedly young life,
saw the moon dissolve, calcinate, mortify,
and burst alive, discovered
that the philosopher's stone is a process,
never an event.
If you can identify, click like.
III.
The truth is.
The truth is this.
The truth is, when I looked between the lines,
beneath the glimmer, beyond the blue of the bikini
and the blue of facebook's banner,
when I tried to find you,
all I could find was myself.
Like swimming the moat of the castle,
slaying the dragon, taking the secret passage
to the central chamber, and finding a mirror.
In that mirror I saw myself,
rat-whiskered, pig-tailed, and bleeding.
So when you turned away from me
in that black-and-white park
to project your technicolor smile
on the world, I let you go.
But it was not for your sake. It was for mine.
After all,
facebook is not about connecting,
it's about projecting.
IV.
As if there's anything you want to hear from me.
As if.
But if I could, I would tell you this:
Remember how the moon
smiled on us that night. Remember
how we realized the sky was not black,
but a deep purple different from any color
humans have captured. Remember
the way your hair shone in the moon,
as if you swam in moonbeams.
There is grace in everything, dear. In everything.
I have struggled for a long time
to find the grace between us,
but that's because it wasn't there.
We can't project grace onto each other.
If we could, it would be a business transaction,
like facebook. We can't put grace into a status update,
and if we make it one of our favorites,
it will burst that bond and swallow us
so that we know it not
beyond the pain of our own calcination.
Look for the grace, dear, and it will blind you.
Let it. Go blind.
It's the only way to see.
In Class
A water bottle is bad
to have in class.
Without it I would sit,
uncomfortable plastic
squeak, but holding
stubbornly
to Professor's clifflike gesticulations.
With it, I sip
a constant trickling stream
and halfway through class
I have to pee.
to have in class.
Without it I would sit,
uncomfortable plastic
squeak, but holding
stubbornly
to Professor's clifflike gesticulations.
With it, I sip
a constant trickling stream
and halfway through class
I have to pee.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Thread
Take and tie this thread
around your little finger
like a morning fog that lingers
when the sun transmutes it red.
This thread will be an empire,
towers rising to your soul's ceiling
until the fire of your pyre
transmutes all our feelings
to a vaster sea than thought
could ever comprehend. My name
is not important, but you ought
to know the stage of my fame.
From our blazing calcination
we'll effect a new transmutation.
[Yesterday's poem. I'll have to write today's poem tomorrow. :P]
around your little finger
like a morning fog that lingers
when the sun transmutes it red.
This thread will be an empire,
towers rising to your soul's ceiling
until the fire of your pyre
transmutes all our feelings
to a vaster sea than thought
could ever comprehend. My name
is not important, but you ought
to know the stage of my fame.
From our blazing calcination
we'll effect a new transmutation.
[Yesterday's poem. I'll have to write today's poem tomorrow. :P]
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Seethe
Seethe, and bleed,
spread your lies
across the face
of our sea.
You will never rule us.
You and your rules,
your men spreading
holy lies,
your nice suits
implying judgment
on those of us
who, seeking mercy,
scuff our knees
and tear our shirts.
You don’t see
the sunset,
rosy-cheeked
as night stretches
her arms.
You don’t see
the sunrise,
a friendly face
after the long rebirth
of night.
You don’t see
the wine in the water,
the blood in the wine,
the bread in the blood,
the body in the bread.
Until you see,
unless you understand,
you will never rule us
no matter how many rules
you use to shackle
our ankles to each other
and to you.
spread your lies
across the face
of our sea.
You will never rule us.
You and your rules,
your men spreading
holy lies,
your nice suits
implying judgment
on those of us
who, seeking mercy,
scuff our knees
and tear our shirts.
You don’t see
the sunset,
rosy-cheeked
as night stretches
her arms.
You don’t see
the sunrise,
a friendly face
after the long rebirth
of night.
You don’t see
the wine in the water,
the blood in the wine,
the bread in the blood,
the body in the bread.
Until you see,
unless you understand,
you will never rule us
no matter how many rules
you use to shackle
our ankles to each other
and to you.
Four Children
There were four of us, and we flew
higher than the heavens; high enough
to look down upon the blanket of stars
wrapping the universe, and laugh
at all those puny mortals who could not see
that all their lives the wool was being pulled across their eyes,
that the universe was fooling them,
that they lived and loved
in a cosmic fish tank.
But one of us flew too close to the great blazing sun
that truly lights the universe,
and the wax of his wings melted away
and ran blazing down his arms
in a stream of electric fire.
One of us got caught in an eddy
between two glowing nebulae,
her eyes growing wide
as she saw the birth of universes
and the death of worlds,
whirled away in the stream
of birth and death,
the eternal night sky.
Two of us returned to earth
to weep over what we lost.
I ran and whispered to the night
until the sea embraced me and I let go;
she watched me run, let me go,
and was soon consumed,
blistering skin and hair flaming like Medusa’s snakes,
in a skyborne pillar of fire.
higher than the heavens; high enough
to look down upon the blanket of stars
wrapping the universe, and laugh
at all those puny mortals who could not see
that all their lives the wool was being pulled across their eyes,
that the universe was fooling them,
that they lived and loved
in a cosmic fish tank.
But one of us flew too close to the great blazing sun
that truly lights the universe,
and the wax of his wings melted away
and ran blazing down his arms
in a stream of electric fire.
One of us got caught in an eddy
between two glowing nebulae,
her eyes growing wide
as she saw the birth of universes
and the death of worlds,
whirled away in the stream
of birth and death,
the eternal night sky.
Two of us returned to earth
to weep over what we lost.
I ran and whispered to the night
until the sea embraced me and I let go;
she watched me run, let me go,
and was soon consumed,
blistering skin and hair flaming like Medusa’s snakes,
in a skyborne pillar of fire.
A Smile
Your smile makes me rebellious.
It makes me resent the world,
those hobgoblins who look at you and fail to see
the real person beneath the pretty mask;
your smile makes me want to compose symphonies,
write sonnets, show the world the beauty they are missing.
But what’s it worth? I’ll go home,
drink a beer, and meditate on one glowing screen
or another. Everyone knows feelings are worthless,
anyway. Without feelings we might be human.
It makes me resent the world,
those hobgoblins who look at you and fail to see
the real person beneath the pretty mask;
your smile makes me want to compose symphonies,
write sonnets, show the world the beauty they are missing.
But what’s it worth? I’ll go home,
drink a beer, and meditate on one glowing screen
or another. Everyone knows feelings are worthless,
anyway. Without feelings we might be human.
A Dream
Last night I had a dream
that I was walking down Uhuru Street
and two little black boys and two little white boys
followed each other to the crest of a shallow hill,
put their stick in the earth, and proclaimed this land
a holding of Spain.
They were conquistadors,
mainly because they liked the pointy hats
(and if history is a making,
and if games are a making,
can we not unmake some of the tears of history
merely through play?).
My heart was with those boys,
as my heart is with all those who fight
to free themselves of history—
even while history is the inevitable
mother-in-law we live with.
Wewe unatoka wapi?
Anishinaabe na gedow?
…these bits of words that I know do not show me the world,
give me no insight into the blood that unites us all.
Genetics tells us that we are all related, that race is a myth,
but after all, are we not ruled by our myths?
History is a myth, too, you know.
No starry-eyed dewdrops for me,
no glasses tinted rose:
I know that the wrenching pain of history—
the shed blood of my ancestors and yours,
the thousand wounds I inflicted on you
and the thousand injustices you served upon me—
are not to be thrown aside by mere words
or by a song proclaiming peace, no matter
how lovely the song itself may be.
We must take action, and sometimes we must tell our ancestors,
the dancing spirits whose blood flows through our veins,
the breath of whose wind whisks the shadows from under our eyes,
No: I love you, but I will not carry on your fight.
And we must be as good as our word,
if it means death.
On Sunday mornings when the sky is a vault of blue
and the eagle soaring in it seems to soar with my soul,
or when a white blanket of snow has baptized the earth
and the grey sky would depress a stouter spirit,
I eat the body of Christ and I drink His blood.
It is body and blood that was sacrificed,
I believe,
not just for me and not just for the church, but for all people.
Like the woman who with shadowed eyes
turned away from me that cold spring night,
a refusal to accept love does not mean that love does not exist,
just as her refusal to see the light of the stars
makes them no less bright.
I am called to love everyone:
not just those I like and find easy to love,
but those that I disagree with,
those that I hate,
those who spit in my face and claw at my eyes.
I am especially called to love them.
I am called to love homosexuals, Democrats, Republicans,
Libertarian Anarchists, Marxists, Vikings fans.
My heart is with the rebels of Libya, with the college students of Iran.
My heart is with all those who feel judged, who feel alone, who feel
that out of the depths their cries have fallen upon deaf ears.
If the Arab Spring has taught us anything, it is that hate only holds
people for so long: that soon, there are those who will stand up to its hold,
whether it means torture, whether it means death.
I cannot love all those I should; I cannot take the pain of the whole world on my shoulders,
I cannot redeem it all; I cannot take the pain even of my friends from them onto myself,
though often I wish I could.
So I send up this prayer from the eagle soaring the heights of my soul,
past the eagle soaring the summit of heaven,
past the stars and reverberating out of time
to the muchmaligned God in whom I believe:
Lord, redeem the lonely, justify the lost, take our burdens from us;
and for all those who struggle, all those who die to redeem history of its hate,
save them too, and give our feet swiftness to run from the devils that dog our heels.
And when we fail, when we fall, arm us with flaming swords
and build us the wings to fly.
that I was walking down Uhuru Street
and two little black boys and two little white boys
followed each other to the crest of a shallow hill,
put their stick in the earth, and proclaimed this land
a holding of Spain.
They were conquistadors,
mainly because they liked the pointy hats
(and if history is a making,
and if games are a making,
can we not unmake some of the tears of history
merely through play?).
My heart was with those boys,
as my heart is with all those who fight
to free themselves of history—
even while history is the inevitable
mother-in-law we live with.
Wewe unatoka wapi?
Anishinaabe na gedow?
…these bits of words that I know do not show me the world,
give me no insight into the blood that unites us all.
Genetics tells us that we are all related, that race is a myth,
but after all, are we not ruled by our myths?
History is a myth, too, you know.
No starry-eyed dewdrops for me,
no glasses tinted rose:
I know that the wrenching pain of history—
the shed blood of my ancestors and yours,
the thousand wounds I inflicted on you
and the thousand injustices you served upon me—
are not to be thrown aside by mere words
or by a song proclaiming peace, no matter
how lovely the song itself may be.
We must take action, and sometimes we must tell our ancestors,
the dancing spirits whose blood flows through our veins,
the breath of whose wind whisks the shadows from under our eyes,
No: I love you, but I will not carry on your fight.
And we must be as good as our word,
if it means death.
On Sunday mornings when the sky is a vault of blue
and the eagle soaring in it seems to soar with my soul,
or when a white blanket of snow has baptized the earth
and the grey sky would depress a stouter spirit,
I eat the body of Christ and I drink His blood.
It is body and blood that was sacrificed,
I believe,
not just for me and not just for the church, but for all people.
Like the woman who with shadowed eyes
turned away from me that cold spring night,
a refusal to accept love does not mean that love does not exist,
just as her refusal to see the light of the stars
makes them no less bright.
I am called to love everyone:
not just those I like and find easy to love,
but those that I disagree with,
those that I hate,
those who spit in my face and claw at my eyes.
I am especially called to love them.
I am called to love homosexuals, Democrats, Republicans,
Libertarian Anarchists, Marxists, Vikings fans.
My heart is with the rebels of Libya, with the college students of Iran.
My heart is with all those who feel judged, who feel alone, who feel
that out of the depths their cries have fallen upon deaf ears.
If the Arab Spring has taught us anything, it is that hate only holds
people for so long: that soon, there are those who will stand up to its hold,
whether it means torture, whether it means death.
I cannot love all those I should; I cannot take the pain of the whole world on my shoulders,
I cannot redeem it all; I cannot take the pain even of my friends from them onto myself,
though often I wish I could.
So I send up this prayer from the eagle soaring the heights of my soul,
past the eagle soaring the summit of heaven,
past the stars and reverberating out of time
to the muchmaligned God in whom I believe:
Lord, redeem the lonely, justify the lost, take our burdens from us;
and for all those who struggle, all those who die to redeem history of its hate,
save them too, and give our feet swiftness to run from the devils that dog our heels.
And when we fail, when we fall, arm us with flaming swords
and build us the wings to fly.
Electric Noon
At downtown midnight's blazing height,
sky signs the color of electric sunset
and coral reefs tell me I need more sizzle,
tell me my life is incomplete,
my world going down in flames,
the single star that shines above them
across the empty universe
unreachable, not for sale, and thus dead to them.
My face in a shattered looking-glass,
too, is dead,
dead from trying to squeeze itself beneath the skin
of the men of electricity's blazing midnight—
shouting men, who wear crowns of silver flame
and whose robes of midnight purple
shatter the grass beneath their feet
into shards of glimmering green—
and when I swim beneath their skin,
my true skin burns and boils with the blood of a thousand centuries,
brimming over with the knowledge
that peace is found not in electricity,
not in humming,
but in the dark midnight of a silent country road,
in the air-made cross of an imperfect preacher,
in the steady thrum of ancient words kept and set down
and translated and printed and heard in my head,
the miracle of mystery,
when all the lights extinguish
save one,
and the faltering flicker of that hot light
becomes a cooling brook
through which blazes a single star,
the enemy of the electric men,
the sun which is all suns, everywhere,
and I come to the edge of that brook,
and I feel its cool warmth embrace me
as I slip down into it,
and I am shrouded
in a blanket of golden water
which is the hidden, silent, mysterious doorway
to heaven,
that rickety wooden house
that is my home.
sky signs the color of electric sunset
and coral reefs tell me I need more sizzle,
tell me my life is incomplete,
my world going down in flames,
the single star that shines above them
across the empty universe
unreachable, not for sale, and thus dead to them.
My face in a shattered looking-glass,
too, is dead,
dead from trying to squeeze itself beneath the skin
of the men of electricity's blazing midnight—
shouting men, who wear crowns of silver flame
and whose robes of midnight purple
shatter the grass beneath their feet
into shards of glimmering green—
and when I swim beneath their skin,
my true skin burns and boils with the blood of a thousand centuries,
brimming over with the knowledge
that peace is found not in electricity,
not in humming,
but in the dark midnight of a silent country road,
in the air-made cross of an imperfect preacher,
in the steady thrum of ancient words kept and set down
and translated and printed and heard in my head,
the miracle of mystery,
when all the lights extinguish
save one,
and the faltering flicker of that hot light
becomes a cooling brook
through which blazes a single star,
the enemy of the electric men,
the sun which is all suns, everywhere,
and I come to the edge of that brook,
and I feel its cool warmth embrace me
as I slip down into it,
and I am shrouded
in a blanket of golden water
which is the hidden, silent, mysterious doorway
to heaven,
that rickety wooden house
that is my home.
About Stuff
So I have sort of inadvertently tricked myself into writing poems every day for the rest of the month, or trying to. This is where I shall post them. These will all be first draft, mainly quick hack jobs. Read at your own risk.
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