There are seven ways to cradle that baby
One is slow, light and blue
One is actually two
Three us four and that is seven
The baby makes its way up and out
Of its place of rest like
There’s nothing wrong with lifelike
There’s only truth and a mind shaking
Its way up and out for all to see
And only some to ignore
written 2 hours ago
12.30.2006
12.25.2006
I Told Her Not To
I told her not to
Glue the map of the world
To the front of the expired calendar
December turned to its opposite side
The glue is for the grains of sand
The belly piercings to the art installation
The glue is for the girl with the wooden shoes
Glue the soul of her everlasting body
To the ends of her shoes
Like that
Not like that
No, I told her I’d be her
Mother and mirror
Enemy and sedative
But why would she listen?
Listening is false
The truth transcends voice, upsets sound
I told her to tear the atlas pages
As close to the binding
As possible, it’s better that way
Went under the bridge
Over the tunnel, haloing the water
Almost every day
From 1985 to 1988
From 1996 to 1999
From some other year to some other year
I don’t know
But she wasn’t there
Next time
She’ll be there
I told her not to
Stand in her aura like that
Shaking the jewels from her memory hat
It’s a crapshoot
Sixes for signs of life in the river
Sevens for love on dry land
Eights for something long forgotten
I told her not to
She did
Bless her soul
December 19, 2006
Glue the map of the world
To the front of the expired calendar
December turned to its opposite side
The glue is for the grains of sand
The belly piercings to the art installation
The glue is for the girl with the wooden shoes
Glue the soul of her everlasting body
To the ends of her shoes
Like that
Not like that
No, I told her I’d be her
Mother and mirror
Enemy and sedative
But why would she listen?
Listening is false
The truth transcends voice, upsets sound
I told her to tear the atlas pages
As close to the binding
As possible, it’s better that way
Went under the bridge
Over the tunnel, haloing the water
Almost every day
From 1985 to 1988
From 1996 to 1999
From some other year to some other year
I don’t know
But she wasn’t there
Next time
She’ll be there
I told her not to
Stand in her aura like that
Shaking the jewels from her memory hat
It’s a crapshoot
Sixes for signs of life in the river
Sevens for love on dry land
Eights for something long forgotten
I told her not to
She did
Bless her soul
December 19, 2006
12.18.2006
The One Who Chose Not To Glue the World
you can run your fingers through your platinum
you can sit there like you’re too young or something
you can yearn for colder weather, a kettle drum
you can try to make film stock out of nothing
and I will be there to write it down
I will be there to nod my head in rehearsed approval
I will be there because I liked the song
the first time I heard it, in your open air market town
you can run your fingers through your platinum
you can plan on moving to another better city
you can feast on failed appendices of actions undone
you can squeak by and eke out and look smart and pretty
and I will be there to write it down
I will be there to weed it out and answer you
I will be there because I loved the film
the first time I saw it, in my old high rent hometown
you can sleep all day and shun the sun
but don’t forget to
run your fingers through
and through and through and through
something needs to go there
someone needs to feel it
March 30, 1999
you can sit there like you’re too young or something
you can yearn for colder weather, a kettle drum
you can try to make film stock out of nothing
and I will be there to write it down
I will be there to nod my head in rehearsed approval
I will be there because I liked the song
the first time I heard it, in your open air market town
you can run your fingers through your platinum
you can plan on moving to another better city
you can feast on failed appendices of actions undone
you can squeak by and eke out and look smart and pretty
and I will be there to write it down
I will be there to weed it out and answer you
I will be there because I loved the film
the first time I saw it, in my old high rent hometown
you can sleep all day and shun the sun
but don’t forget to
run your fingers through
and through and through and through
something needs to go there
someone needs to feel it
March 30, 1999
12.13.2006
All the Bones In My Body
(please don't be creeped out by this one. I wrote it 9+ years ago)
all the bones in my body
are coming back to haunt you
you didn’t think I’d want you
but you are wrong, I want you
with all the bones in my body
this bone is for breathing in
this bone is for breaking things
this bone is for causing pain
this bone is to blame
this bone is for fucking up
this bone is for feeling love
this bone is for God upon me
the bones, all of them, in my body
September 10, 1997
all the bones in my body
are coming back to haunt you
you didn’t think I’d want you
but you are wrong, I want you
with all the bones in my body
this bone is for breathing in
this bone is for breaking things
this bone is for causing pain
this bone is to blame
this bone is for fucking up
this bone is for feeling love
this bone is for God upon me
the bones, all of them, in my body
September 10, 1997
12.10.2006
Blueprint Blues
melancholy in your irony
your blueprint blues have killed
all insight into why or why not
he does this thing to you
don’t worry, it’s not over
your second chance will come
you’ll have options you can cradle
in your hands, your still soft hands
you could kill him and why not?
you could ease him into sadness
equal to your aforementioned blues
you could do absolutely nothing
and force his arms around you
you could clear your throat and scream
like in 1995
but dear, your blues are honest
and his are made from sugar
throw the ring into the water
I know you live near water
watch the shiny speck float freely
while your blueprint blues turn black
loved by nothing, loved by no one
loved my memories and shadows
and if this eases nothing
and if this makes you cry
then cry like tears are trains
rolling west and south and west again
there is love and there is failure
there are eyes still left unseen
there are misinterpretations
there is this and this is nothing
you are wrong to wait for nothing
I am wrong to want to kill him
he is wrong to ask for everything
I was wrong to never tell you
but that forest is the pines
and the pines will live forever
as will fragrant lilac memories
I know you live near water
but the blueprint blues keep playing
in your swaying lies your secret
back and forth and back again
in melancholy, sway back again
part of peace is what it isn’t
part of that is what you keep inside
you can sleep beside him
you can dream away the silence
you can store away the pictures
of the poses and perfect places
the past stays in parentheses
open arms and closed regrets
piles of bones and eerie fragments
moving vans and dust and dirt
hanging wreaths and tiny tears
the brightest angel shines alone
what this is not is a longing
for that moment of rescinding
all that slowly came before you
what you were silently born into
what this is then is a prayer
that your blueprint blues are just a song
that you find your lone hill pine
that the wind is swaying with you
April 20, 1997
your blueprint blues have killed
all insight into why or why not
he does this thing to you
don’t worry, it’s not over
your second chance will come
you’ll have options you can cradle
in your hands, your still soft hands
you could kill him and why not?
you could ease him into sadness
equal to your aforementioned blues
you could do absolutely nothing
and force his arms around you
you could clear your throat and scream
like in 1995
but dear, your blues are honest
and his are made from sugar
throw the ring into the water
I know you live near water
watch the shiny speck float freely
while your blueprint blues turn black
loved by nothing, loved by no one
loved my memories and shadows
and if this eases nothing
and if this makes you cry
then cry like tears are trains
rolling west and south and west again
there is love and there is failure
there are eyes still left unseen
there are misinterpretations
there is this and this is nothing
you are wrong to wait for nothing
I am wrong to want to kill him
he is wrong to ask for everything
I was wrong to never tell you
but that forest is the pines
and the pines will live forever
as will fragrant lilac memories
I know you live near water
but the blueprint blues keep playing
in your swaying lies your secret
back and forth and back again
in melancholy, sway back again
part of peace is what it isn’t
part of that is what you keep inside
you can sleep beside him
you can dream away the silence
you can store away the pictures
of the poses and perfect places
the past stays in parentheses
open arms and closed regrets
piles of bones and eerie fragments
moving vans and dust and dirt
hanging wreaths and tiny tears
the brightest angel shines alone
what this is not is a longing
for that moment of rescinding
all that slowly came before you
what you were silently born into
what this is then is a prayer
that your blueprint blues are just a song
that you find your lone hill pine
that the wind is swaying with you
April 20, 1997
(if you knew me back in '97, could you remind me who/what I'm writing about here. I've forgotten)
12.06.2006
The 10800 Block
there would be quiet valley nights
I would find myself in bookstores
reading epics of shipwrecks
blessing what I had left
across the wide boulevard
my trudge would turn to glory
as my body made its way
and the ransom went unspent
as my body spilled to bed
and my dreams went unwritten
there would be those nights
now the valley is old and distant
I don’t live there anymore
the din of those places
has turned to what I have now
pre-recorded suspicions
and rain water shoes
I traded quiet valley nights
for what I’d thought would do
and it did, now I think
of running and swaying
of jumping in the waves
of leaving this city
with its porcelains and smooth cool changes
of leaving with her
and taking our chances elsewhere
October 5, 1999
I would find myself in bookstores
reading epics of shipwrecks
blessing what I had left
across the wide boulevard
my trudge would turn to glory
as my body made its way
and the ransom went unspent
as my body spilled to bed
and my dreams went unwritten
there would be those nights
now the valley is old and distant
I don’t live there anymore
the din of those places
has turned to what I have now
pre-recorded suspicions
and rain water shoes
I traded quiet valley nights
for what I’d thought would do
and it did, now I think
of running and swaying
of jumping in the waves
of leaving this city
with its porcelains and smooth cool changes
of leaving with her
and taking our chances elsewhere
October 5, 1999
12.04.2006
11.30.2006
The Lure Of The Last Bus Out
the lure of the last bus out
is laughter and dead flowers
the pining of the young
or at least the younger than you
is laughter and dead flowers
the pining of the young
or at least the younger than you
the lure of the last bus out
is condensation and lips pressed
the density of proper nouns
the innocents alone
you can’t break spells with sincerity
no, not anymore
is falsity and repression
the giving in of fortune
misdeeds twisted open
is avenues of spent trees
the dying out of here
there’s time ahead, there is
January 24, 1999
11.27.2006
Red Tambourine
Play the disco music
With the red tambourine
Shining like a tractor trailer
Freshly waxed and full of diesel
With the red tambourine
Shining like a tractor trailer
Freshly waxed and full of diesel
Hit the harpsichord
With hockey sticks and hambones
And lie about not working tomorrow
In a flash of lava light
The longest walks are always in the rain
It happened again
To sing a love song
To yourself
Run the children ragged
Make them sing for their supper
Hide the house keys in their pockets
So they jingle pretty sounds
Paint your toenails red
Tap your feet to ancient songs
You thought you had forgotten
Until you hear the opening notes
In a buzz of broken beats
The longest walks are always in the rain
It happened again
Don’t be sorry
To sing a love song
To someone else
With the red tambourine
Hot like summer sweethearts
Sweating through the sheets
Don’t be sorry
To sing a love song
To someone else
11.24.2006
The Open Door
I would always lean to
The open door
When confronted
With choices like:
A philosophy of reason
A night of dangerous beauty
A life of gravity
The open door
Could be any of them
No locks, no knobs
No struggle
All I ever wanted
Was a nickel word in a dollar sentence
Don’t disturb the open door
The open door
When confronted
With choices like:
A philosophy of reason
A night of dangerous beauty
A life of gravity
The open door
Could be any of them
No locks, no knobs
No struggle
All I ever wanted
Was a nickel word in a dollar sentence
Don’t disturb the open door
11.23.2006
Born In A Piano
She’s sorry
She longs to atone but won’t
She’s rambling
From west side to east side
To darkness in mid-ranges
Of octaves and half-notes
She was born in a piano
Or at least near one
She does the count backwards
Like a deadline or a shuttle launch
Then
It’s still in the crowd
The song crescendos
The air is taken out of the room
By a collective intake of emotion
That saps the strength, the wisdom
The long deep forgotten
Reach of the descent of all man
Her song ends
The audience applauds
She’s confused
She sweeps her hands across the room
Considers the darkness
And bends to pick up a dropped feathered earring
She loves the spotlight not for what it shows
Of herself to the crowd
But for the dust it illuminates
Like a cast iron skillet with its sparks
And the light is warm too, on the nights she’s cold
Which is most nights
Because she prefers to wear a T-shirt and a sari and a skirt
She prefers that the windows stay open at all times
Why close the universe?
April 2006
She longs to atone but won’t
She’s rambling
From west side to east side
To darkness in mid-ranges
Of octaves and half-notes
She was born in a piano
Or at least near one
She does the count backwards
Like a deadline or a shuttle launch
Then
It’s still in the crowd
The song crescendos
The air is taken out of the room
By a collective intake of emotion
That saps the strength, the wisdom
The long deep forgotten
Reach of the descent of all man
Her song ends
The audience applauds
She’s confused
She sweeps her hands across the room
Considers the darkness
And bends to pick up a dropped feathered earring
She loves the spotlight not for what it shows
Of herself to the crowd
But for the dust it illuminates
Like a cast iron skillet with its sparks
And the light is warm too, on the nights she’s cold
Which is most nights
Because she prefers to wear a T-shirt and a sari and a skirt
She prefers that the windows stay open at all times
Why close the universe?
April 2006
11.22.2006
Offerings
With only four offerings left
There roam the men with mechanical arms
There swim the heavier jellies
There live the women with fractured backpacks
And new offerings in their bellies
With only three offerings left
He chooses his favorite poison
Gulps down a dose of it with his lunch
And closes his eyes ‘til they moisten
Then he remembers the sign of the cross
The size of her hips and the hammock
The moment he slips he recites the words
That preceded their epoch of havoc:
“Oh no , not again, not with the wrist
Not with the eyes of sugar
Oh no, not again, shall I make a list
With numbers and names and bullets?
Oh no, not again, not with a lisp
Not with a flourish or trigger
Oh yes, then again, clinched with a kiss
The letter is sent and delivered”
With only two offerings left
She abandons him for the ocean
Where the sun peeks through its favorite cloud
As the shoreline teems with motion
There goes a woman with sand in her hair
And only food in her belly
There roam the men with titanium fins
There swims the heaviest jelly
With only one offering left
He chooses his favorite memory
Sets it to song in a matter of moments
With a lush forgiving melody
He sings to her, he’s heavier now
His voice is low and sober
She tugs on his arm and says “isn’t it strange
You waited until October?”
October 2002
There roam the men with mechanical arms
There swim the heavier jellies
There live the women with fractured backpacks
And new offerings in their bellies
With only three offerings left
He chooses his favorite poison
Gulps down a dose of it with his lunch
And closes his eyes ‘til they moisten
Then he remembers the sign of the cross
The size of her hips and the hammock
The moment he slips he recites the words
That preceded their epoch of havoc:
“Oh no , not again, not with the wrist
Not with the eyes of sugar
Oh no, not again, shall I make a list
With numbers and names and bullets?
Oh no, not again, not with a lisp
Not with a flourish or trigger
Oh yes, then again, clinched with a kiss
The letter is sent and delivered”
With only two offerings left
She abandons him for the ocean
Where the sun peeks through its favorite cloud
As the shoreline teems with motion
There goes a woman with sand in her hair
And only food in her belly
There roam the men with titanium fins
There swims the heaviest jelly
With only one offering left
He chooses his favorite memory
Sets it to song in a matter of moments
With a lush forgiving melody
He sings to her, he’s heavier now
His voice is low and sober
She tugs on his arm and says “isn’t it strange
You waited until October?”
October 2002
11.21.2006
Below Me
(yesterday's poem was an invisible one called "...silence")
That is no grid below me
That is hearts to a floating cloud
That is clouds to a broken son
Arms akimbo and wider than lust
Shoulders shudder, lips flinch
That is no plan below me
That is nature and happenstance
That is son to a mother of one
Her home, his home, his home, far
Cups half-filled, clean
Can’t shake up for sprawling out
That is breakfast and no he shouldn’t have
Can’t make up for the devil’s calling out
That is desert below me
That is what I drove through fire for
That is what I worked and pined for
But no matter, silence is trust
Camera flashes, shutterbugs
Failing to make the metal crackle
Failing to keep the natives in
That is the cashing in of majesty
October 6, 1998
11.19.2006
Cheekbones of a Seasoned Kiss
I scrub the poison into
The walls and the floors
Taking in the scent of resurrection
I crave tastes and textures
A sunburst and a snow squall
Bringing up the range of all arousal
Topping off the cup, she calls to him
Remembering the bedroom of her youth
Drinking in her skin, he says to her
“What is there left to love of you?”
I wait the evening into
The midnight songs and whistles
Keeping under wraps my intentions
I curl with the weather
The wind piercing marrow
Sleeping in the rage of our beauty
Taking in the taste he said he’d bring to her
She’s thinking of how he lured her here
Sleepwalking to the sun, he shouts to her
“When you’ve left, what is there to love?”
November 12, 1998
The walls and the floors
Taking in the scent of resurrection
I crave tastes and textures
A sunburst and a snow squall
Bringing up the range of all arousal
Topping off the cup, she calls to him
Remembering the bedroom of her youth
Drinking in her skin, he says to her
“What is there left to love of you?”
I wait the evening into
The midnight songs and whistles
Keeping under wraps my intentions
I curl with the weather
The wind piercing marrow
Sleeping in the rage of our beauty
Taking in the taste he said he’d bring to her
She’s thinking of how he lured her here
Sleepwalking to the sun, he shouts to her
“When you’ve left, what is there to love?”
November 12, 1998
11.18.2006
Moving Rivers, Imagining Shipwrecks
that's what I do when you're not around
that's what I do thousands of miles away
from the parking lot
where I forgot
what hands and skin and air were for
where I was reminded
before I had to relinquish anything more
than was given
moving rivers, imagining shipwrecks
these are rules for living
and tomorrow, gentle evening, by the bay
I will glance sideways at the author
thinking she might see me struggle with conceit
recoiling, still thinking on my sturdy feet
the rest was unimportant
the movies weren't very good
but there was music, there was integrity
that's what I do in bed when I'm longing
that's what I do hundreds of days past the restructuring
in my blank apartment
where I don't know
which plants go where, which paintings to display
where I am reminded
of what needs to be done before the exodus day
moving rivers, imagining shipwrecks
these are rules for living
11.17.2006
Heartbreak Girls
I know the heartbreak girls
Too well, they like my eyes
They're not afraid of my stranger smile
They're half afraid of love
Half alive to the world
I've touched them
Let them go
Loved them
Held too close
Whispered the wrong word
Quietly enough
To earn their forgiveness
Until the next one comes
Broken and whole
Perfect and sweet enough for bitter
I know the hearbreak girls
I love them, they know me
Too well, they like my eyes
August 12, 2006
(postscript: I never really knew them)
Too well, they like my eyes
They're not afraid of my stranger smile
They're half afraid of love
Half alive to the world
I've touched them
Let them go
Loved them
Held too close
Whispered the wrong word
Quietly enough
To earn their forgiveness
Until the next one comes
Broken and whole
Perfect and sweet enough for bitter
I know the hearbreak girls
I love them, they know me
Too well, they like my eyes
August 12, 2006
(postscript: I never really knew them)
11.16.2006
The Dissident
I could not write about you then
just as
I can not write about you now
you, to me, are eyes directed
just above mine, though you are shorter
you, to me, are hair emblazoned
with a weariness attributable
to lost love, lost chances, lost love
and that is not what I write about now
perhaps one day, I will
write about such sad things
perhaps one day, before you die
in Vancouver
11.15.2006
Sunday
There was joy in his heart
And muddle on his mind
When he fell asleep
In seconds instead of minutes
There were dreams of leaves and elves he didn't see
The he woke to thuds of Sunday papers
And returned to sleep for six more minutes
By 9 he heard the beats
Of booming city streets
He put on his greenest shoes
And drove somewhere to sit around in a slightly cooler sun
October 22, 2006
And muddle on his mind
When he fell asleep
In seconds instead of minutes
There were dreams of leaves and elves he didn't see
The he woke to thuds of Sunday papers
And returned to sleep for six more minutes
By 9 he heard the beats
Of booming city streets
He put on his greenest shoes
And drove somewhere to sit around in a slightly cooler sun
October 22, 2006
11.14.2006
The Night She Tried To Kill Me
The night she tried to kill me
With a pillow and a boom box
We watched a foreign movie
We shared nachos and talked it over
She could tell you that
As she paints her toes the color of the sea
1999
With a pillow and a boom box
We watched a foreign movie
We shared nachos and talked it over
And when she tried to kill me
As I slept and snored and shifted
I swore I dreamt of antelopes
Chewing hay, regretting nothing
But murder isn’t easy
And I’m still here
Feeding meters with quarters she’ll never see
The night she tried to kill me
With a pillow and a boom box
The moon was fat and freckled
The clouds were nothing special
And when she tried to kill me
First with the boom box and then with the pillow
I swore I heard Nirvana
Unplugged, undead, unclean
But murder isn’t easy
And I’m not dead
Though I’d like to see the antelopes again
The pillow smelled like dryer sheets
And though my screams were muffled
They heard me on the streets
The sirens seemed like Santa Claus
She put the pillow down
She pressed play on the boom box
I heard the Velvet Underground
She could tell you that
As she paints her toes the color of the sea
1999
When Did I (You) Stop Loving You (Me)?
was it the next morning when you woke up beside me?
was it the stupid Tuesday morning when you demanded too much?
to give me time like that
to make me reform my words
reaffirm my beliefs
strategize my points taken
was it when you held the sign up right to my eyes?
was it when I offered up the licorice surprise?
was it when the hilltop seemed a million miles away?
oh the weird hazy twinkling, oh the better days
(scary - I don't know what/who this is about)
The River
I was surprised, for example, to see
Sheila E. and Kenny G. crossing the river
Holding their pedometers to the wind
To get more credit, to build more miles
To artificially attenuate the XY files
It shocked me, you see
This example of incredulity
But on the other side of the bridge
The Bacon Brothers were strumming their shit
A new song, one about the ways and means of war
Went a bit
Something like this:
"That's how I roll, old man of the mountain
Old man of the mountain, that's how I roll"
Kevin's guitar case was open
He didn�t mind the dollar bills blowing
Into the muddy Mississippi
I like coins better and is that G and E?
You wanna blow with us, Kenny?
We got a tambourine, Sheila�
And the band, now a foursome, played on
A crowd had formed
Requests were made
Someone stood to ask for Handel's Messiah
And at the sound of the first "Halleluiah"
Jeff Buckley rose from the water
"Did someone say my name?"
Kevin shrugged his shoulders
Jeff went back for his upstream swim
And in a Dinkytown café
Doughty from Soul Coughing
Played chess with the ghost of Dimebag
"I never saw him coming, Mike
But at least my hair was perfect"
And in a St. Paul chicken shack
Bjork and Matthey Barney snacked
On corn and beans and breasts the size
Of the great pyramids
As Sufjan Stevens gingerly
Took notes
And back by the river
The band grew to jam session proportions
Bjork and Sufjan and Doughty and Dime
Had made their way down
Locals had arrived
Westerberg was there, trying to conduct
But no one conducts by the river
Prince was there too
God's will he said
Dylan showed up for the last song
In a robe designed by Jeff Lynne
"Store this somewhere cool" Jeff had explained
"Or the fabric will fray
And next thing you know
It'll be you and Stevie Nicks
On a state fair amphitheater stage"
"Oh, that already happened?"
To close the night
Now framed by fireworks and a half-moon
The big band played the signature song
Of a city built on rock and roll
Bob took the lead and crooned
"I saw a tow truck
Towing a tow truck"
Coda:
Later that night
Kenny whispered "8 miles"
Sheila hushed "That's enough for a lifetime, yo"
December 29, 2004
Sheila E. and Kenny G. crossing the river
Holding their pedometers to the wind
To get more credit, to build more miles
To artificially attenuate the XY files
It shocked me, you see
This example of incredulity
But on the other side of the bridge
The Bacon Brothers were strumming their shit
A new song, one about the ways and means of war
Went a bit
Something like this:
"That's how I roll, old man of the mountain
Old man of the mountain, that's how I roll"
Kevin's guitar case was open
He didn�t mind the dollar bills blowing
Into the muddy Mississippi
I like coins better and is that G and E?
You wanna blow with us, Kenny?
We got a tambourine, Sheila�
And the band, now a foursome, played on
A crowd had formed
Requests were made
Someone stood to ask for Handel's Messiah
And at the sound of the first "Halleluiah"
Jeff Buckley rose from the water
"Did someone say my name?"
Kevin shrugged his shoulders
Jeff went back for his upstream swim
And in a Dinkytown café
Doughty from Soul Coughing
Played chess with the ghost of Dimebag
"I never saw him coming, Mike
But at least my hair was perfect"
And in a St. Paul chicken shack
Bjork and Matthey Barney snacked
On corn and beans and breasts the size
Of the great pyramids
As Sufjan Stevens gingerly
Took notes
And back by the river
The band grew to jam session proportions
Bjork and Sufjan and Doughty and Dime
Had made their way down
Locals had arrived
Westerberg was there, trying to conduct
But no one conducts by the river
Prince was there too
God's will he said
Dylan showed up for the last song
In a robe designed by Jeff Lynne
"Store this somewhere cool" Jeff had explained
"Or the fabric will fray
And next thing you know
It'll be you and Stevie Nicks
On a state fair amphitheater stage"
"Oh, that already happened?"
To close the night
Now framed by fireworks and a half-moon
The big band played the signature song
Of a city built on rock and roll
Bob took the lead and crooned
"I saw a tow truck
Towing a tow truck"
Coda:
Later that night
Kenny whispered "8 miles"
Sheila hushed "That's enough for a lifetime, yo"
December 29, 2004
11.12.2006
The Cajun Baboon
(in 1986 I dreamed of a Cajun baboon; yesterday I wrote a poem about it)
The night I dreamed of a Cajun baboon
Was the night that followed the cold afternoon
A Saturday deep in the dead of December
Your face and his clothes helped me remember
That light falls soft on Washington Avenue
And words hit hard when they come pouring out of you
Or me, or him
Or Paul Simon
In the suburbs south and west of the city
The sleepy people sleep as if night were infinity
And the crickets' ghosts sing their medleys so sorrowful
As their hosts recline in the gardens of Florida
And the dream crept in, wind-aided, up the prairie
The Cajun baboon shrieked but didn't scare me
Then all was quiet and he pulled out a ukulele
And sang a plaintive version of Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?
November 11, 2006
The night I dreamed of a Cajun baboon
Was the night that followed the cold afternoon
A Saturday deep in the dead of December
Your face and his clothes helped me remember
That light falls soft on Washington Avenue
And words hit hard when they come pouring out of you
Or me, or him
Or Paul Simon
In the suburbs south and west of the city
The sleepy people sleep as if night were infinity
And the crickets' ghosts sing their medleys so sorrowful
As their hosts recline in the gardens of Florida
And the dream crept in, wind-aided, up the prairie
The Cajun baboon shrieked but didn't scare me
Then all was quiet and he pulled out a ukulele
And sang a plaintive version of Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?
November 11, 2006
3 Poems (Penance)
bloglaw#1: If you promise one poem a day for the rest of your life and then you miss a day (see yesterday) the penalty is that you must post 3 poems the next day. So today you get 3 (admittedly mediocre) poems, all written on September 13, 1998 in Tempe, Arizona.
Andromeda
among the rugs draped on counter tops
I sit, a stranger, but skilled
zones away from home, tears away from clown
nearly reticent but not
in an odd way, yes
but far from out there, far from
weightless, you can hoist your bones
into well-sketched heights and dots
representing nothing I’ll ever see
nothing I can ever hope t reach
but in cold, surrounded by hot
I can hope to sleep without you
that is my one grand schemy scheme
all I have left, a clown with a cleft
that strangers without justice touch
red card, black type, all the while
hoping it wouldn’t
have a chance of not
being true or reachable
but in the long hallways of the far from home
doors cannot be left ajar
I’ll sleep safe, but still without you
in cold among hot, rootless
and free as a three-pronged outlet
Jesus Over There
has hair of frolic and atrophy
ladybugs for eyes
sugar packets and silky scarves
because Jesus over there
has the right
to get up, stand up, stand up for your right
and that’s so...
I don’t have another way
of considering this scene
before me, Jesus over there
frolic hair, atrophy hair
and outside is a
nothing but coming down
from half a moon and not a sun
spraying joy, nondenominational
onto the last peace left
in a Sunday here
in the special side room
of the corner coffee bar
in main street, medium town, western
that’s all I can say, all I can share
about me over here and Jesus over there
Blanket
Nadine doesn’t drink Fruitopia
she didn’t like the ad campaign
from a couple of years ago
she just likes to dance slow
to Everything But the Girl
she just likes to bob and weave
until they tell her to leave
closing time, every new beginning
comes from some other fuckety fuck
and that is why there is a way
out from bad rhetoric
and truly dismissive mediocrity
not in the way the small define it
- in a back alley
behind an art deco theater
in
in a Robert Altman film
from a Michael Tolkin script –
but in the way I define it
a better man, a more human screenwriter
as the lights fade into the desert
and the half moon makes a go of it
I want to be home with my blanket
and sleep until it’s gone
11.10.2006
The Scoutmaster
Hand for the judge
“I solemnly swear
To stare at the troop
With painted face
And glasses on forehead
It's what I was
Put on this earth to do
Though I like to tango as well
It's sometimes too much to do
Tangos are for the weak
The men with the yellow fingers
The women with the frosty hair
They told me to shake my fists for rage
And stomp my feet for show
But I had nothing left
My toes were weak from dancing
My fingers wouldn't splay
And Your Honor, were you a scout once?
I can see it in your eyes”
The judge says “No
Put your hand down
I hereby call a recess
Bailiff, have you seen my dancing shoes?”
11.09.2006
The Best of Leonard Cohen
In an old Italian villa
Swept under an ornate rug
Lies the Best of Leonard Cohen
In little black pieces
Swept under an ornate rug
Lies the Best of Leonard Cohen
In little black pieces
She invited a stranger
To American dinner
He brought a record
He stayed too long
He quoted indiscriminately…
Suzanne takes you down
And who by fire
It’s four in the morning
At the
In the old Italian villa
The rug tells the story
Her husband grew impatient
The stranger wouldn’t stop
The husband walked in rage
To the old record player
He lifted the needle
He took the record
And broke it over his knee
To a place by the river
And who by water
The end of December
I remember you well
From the old Italian villa
The stranger ran away
Drunk and full of lyrics
And American food
The woman watched the stranger
Run into the night
The husband closed his eyes
Cursed by Leonard forever
But still with his wife
Who feeds him tea and oranges
On an unmade bed
11.08.2006
Heavy Early
pull up sleeves, it’s towel time, it’s moistness
brand new pair of ten dollar sneakers
got it? candy canes and rosemary hues
tones and seafaring sagas
80 feet in 80 shoes
40 up and down the thick black line
it’s ancient and I think it’s morning
brand new pair of ten dollar sneakers
got it? candy canes and rosemary hues
tones and seafaring sagas
80 feet in 80 shoes
40 up and down the thick black line
it’s ancient and I think it’s morning
disagree and you may write your own discourse
journal paging cliff dwelling libertine witness
thinks it’s time to sleep
thinks instead of breathing there are wagons to ride
washing cars of residue from weekends in the desert
bad snake rolls
taking heavy early tolls
the shoes form a glossy scuffed pile
and long ago the ancient weren’t born
he’s leaving but he’s coming back
he’s leaving but he’s coming back soon enough
soon enough for her liking
soon enough for her liking and his
never leaving nothing
anywhere but here, temples and old memorials
running over onto the yellow in the black
he comes home and falls in her arms
even desert highways have their charms
11.07.2006
When I Was Young
when I was young
I would go to record stores
study the album covers
imprint upon my brain
the way men and women lived
so hippies, to me, wore blue suits
children in the south wore nothing at all
English men with beards got the best white ladies
the ones who wear makeup but no shoes
indoors in afternoon
when I was young
there was a man they called the critic
he had a booth all to himself
at the listening station
the critic had long stringy hair
he smoked a pipe inside the store
he never smiled
I imagined this is how they all look
the men who make decisions
like four stars or four and a half
Robert Christgau
Dave Marsh
later when I saw their pictures
I realized I was wrong
all bassists wore afros
all drummers looked away
the men who wrote the songs held objects in their hands
birds were significant
cats suggested danger
in the same way as a man selling pretzels near a park
when I was young
I thought to love someone
you'd have to iron on their name
on a black shirt one size too small
I was 12 when they told me
I'd have to wear glasses
that’s when it changed
I learned they filled the background
with extras who suggested
mystery, a weight, an angle
and they did this to distract you
so you wouldn't stop listening
this is why the critic
never looked at the covers
he only looked at the labels
so he could write down the songs
and count the stars he'd give
empty buildings evoked loss
especially if the paint was peeling
and the cars in front were old
a singer sitting in a chair
meant he was fat and sad from drugs
if he were happier, he'd stand and welcome you
but most of all, from when I was young
I remember this:
montages are creepy
August 2002
I would go to record stores
study the album covers
imprint upon my brain
the way men and women lived
so hippies, to me, wore blue suits
children in the south wore nothing at all
English men with beards got the best white ladies
the ones who wear makeup but no shoes
indoors in afternoon
when I was young
there was a man they called the critic
he had a booth all to himself
at the listening station
the critic had long stringy hair
he smoked a pipe inside the store
he never smiled
I imagined this is how they all look
the men who make decisions
like four stars or four and a half
Robert Christgau
Dave Marsh
later when I saw their pictures
I realized I was wrong
all bassists wore afros
all drummers looked away
the men who wrote the songs held objects in their hands
birds were significant
cats suggested danger
in the same way as a man selling pretzels near a park
when I was young
I thought to love someone
you'd have to iron on their name
on a black shirt one size too small
I was 12 when they told me
I'd have to wear glasses
that’s when it changed
I learned they filled the background
with extras who suggested
mystery, a weight, an angle
and they did this to distract you
so you wouldn't stop listening
this is why the critic
never looked at the covers
he only looked at the labels
so he could write down the songs
and count the stars he'd give
empty buildings evoked loss
especially if the paint was peeling
and the cars in front were old
a singer sitting in a chair
meant he was fat and sad from drugs
if he were happier, he'd stand and welcome you
but most of all, from when I was young
I remember this:
montages are creepy
August 2002
11.06.2006
The Biceps
there was a sad ending to your story
your arm skin didn’t have that glow
there was a pilgrim kind of glory
like waving from shore at a puppet show
you held on tight, constrained by your will
your muscles fighting for their upbraid
it was an old hat kind of cheap thrill
your paws ranged for plans well laid
there was a sad beginning I remember
your bandana fashion seemed strained
like true lovers wooing too tender
like asserting something unnamed
but there you stood on fragile toes
tender feet jealous of your arms
you prayed for dancing in the throes
you settled for some steely charm
there may yet be a tacked-on ending
your eyes seem ripe for writing
it’s summer, time for rule bending
a new fiction sounds inviting
what you’ll get is muscle mass
warm to touch and sore to sleep
don’t forget to cut the tall grass
what’s highest is last to keep
May 6, 1999
your arm skin didn’t have that glow
there was a pilgrim kind of glory
like waving from shore at a puppet show
you held on tight, constrained by your will
your muscles fighting for their upbraid
it was an old hat kind of cheap thrill
your paws ranged for plans well laid
there was a sad beginning I remember
your bandana fashion seemed strained
like true lovers wooing too tender
like asserting something unnamed
but there you stood on fragile toes
tender feet jealous of your arms
you prayed for dancing in the throes
you settled for some steely charm
there may yet be a tacked-on ending
your eyes seem ripe for writing
it’s summer, time for rule bending
a new fiction sounds inviting
what you’ll get is muscle mass
warm to touch and sore to sleep
don’t forget to cut the tall grass
what’s highest is last to keep
May 6, 1999
11.05.2006
The Moorings
(it's Sunday - time for a sermon)
I hear the sound of the canyons, undivided
The mountainside, underused
The hills with trees and eyes and rough
The seventies, the junk, the stuff
I hear the voice of the mother, motherless
The child and her daisies
The child and his grief
Heard, heeded, understood
A voice, annotated forever
I feel the moonlight lie to me
I hear the voice of someone else’s muse
I sense the water rising over there
And here it just sleeps
Then gathers and seeps
But only for seconds or minutes
Never for hours or forty days
I see the paintings of reluctant students
Creating what needs to be there
For walls are wider than windows
And the eye to the soul is closed
I see the pain in the face of the subject
There’d be tears if the paint hadn’t dried
I hear the voice of the smaller mountain
The voice of the cemetery snow
The sound of the weed-pulling waitress
It’s her nature to make it seem just so
I touch the base of the last building standing
On the street where the wild roses grew
In the cracks of the overgrown asphalt
Those were the years when we knew
That some places and all faces
Are temporary
I see the form of the mother, motherless
With her bags of blues and wires
Hanging sturdy, twined, from her shoulders
I see the outlines of two happy children
In silhouettes, there is always joy
I feel the moorings of a generation break
I make no effort to restore what has dissipated
It’s enough to love and leave
Time and place and it’s okay
They’re just moorings anyway
October 19, 1997
I hear the sound of the canyons, undivided
The mountainside, underused
The hills with trees and eyes and rough
The seventies, the junk, the stuff
I hear the voice of the mother, motherless
The child and her daisies
The child and his grief
Heard, heeded, understood
A voice, annotated forever
I feel the moonlight lie to me
I hear the voice of someone else’s muse
I sense the water rising over there
And here it just sleeps
Then gathers and seeps
But only for seconds or minutes
Never for hours or forty days
I see the paintings of reluctant students
Creating what needs to be there
For walls are wider than windows
And the eye to the soul is closed
I see the pain in the face of the subject
There’d be tears if the paint hadn’t dried
I hear the voice of the smaller mountain
The voice of the cemetery snow
The sound of the weed-pulling waitress
It’s her nature to make it seem just so
I touch the base of the last building standing
On the street where the wild roses grew
In the cracks of the overgrown asphalt
Those were the years when we knew
That some places and all faces
Are temporary
I see the form of the mother, motherless
With her bags of blues and wires
Hanging sturdy, twined, from her shoulders
I see the outlines of two happy children
In silhouettes, there is always joy
I feel the moorings of a generation break
I make no effort to restore what has dissipated
It’s enough to love and leave
Time and place and it’s okay
They’re just moorings anyway
October 19, 1997
11.04.2006
Bad Way #4
when Claudine was a girl
a younger girl
she put doll hair on kitchenware
she called them elves
she put the elves on kitchen shelves
she put them to work
for hours they would toil
silent, not devoted but martyred
they would build what she wanted
she would caress them
she would want what they built
she was below maintenance
she would give them names from TV shows
Oscar, Felix, Shaggy
Mr. and Mrs. Roper
she was an architect
even then
November 2, 1997
a younger girl
she put doll hair on kitchenware
she called them elves
she put the elves on kitchen shelves
she put them to work
for hours they would toil
silent, not devoted but martyred
they would build what she wanted
she would caress them
she would want what they built
she was below maintenance
she would give them names from TV shows
Oscar, Felix, Shaggy
Mr. and Mrs. Roper
she was an architect
even then
November 2, 1997
11.03.2006
Look Closely
The house on the corner
Of 34th and Holmes
Always has its TV on
Its curtains drawn
Its people gone
Disappeared?
Into the inner rooms
Stacked?
Inside its basement tomb
No, they're there
Look closely
Watching The Simpsons
And Family Guy
Popcorn piled high
In a perfect wooden bowl
On Halloween
The house on the corner
Of 34th and Holmes
Is cheerfully haunted
A museum of fright for kids
But with light and love and color
It doesn't scare as much as inspire
One to look elsewhere
For death, for fear, for ghosts
The popcorn is Jiffy Pop
From a stove not a microwave
Most prefer the microwave
The mother, the one in the chair (look closely)
Prefers the stove
She called it love at first sight
When she met her late husband
At the Minnesota State Fair
By the milkshake barn
Far from the haunted house that truly haunts
She walked with him
Slow and deliberate
Down the aisle two years later
With his casket 12 years after that
He left three kids and a big fat cat
The popcorn bowl has a shelf of its own
Look closely, everyone's home
April 16, 2006
(thanks Google Earth)
11.02.2006
She’s Got a Higher Purpose Now
she’s got a higher purpose now
she’s got Baltimore and puddle skips
she’s got two heart attacks
she’s got time now, time to cook
she’s got a new sponge, a clean sponge
she’s got a higher purpose now
she’s got a secret service business card
she’s got an orange clapboard house
she’s got the backstreets lit
by the dead docked boats
by the harbor tourists
circling around the blocks
looking for a parking space
looking for a power source
hoping for a familiar face
is he the one who played
the witness to the mural
in 1994?
no he couldn’t be
he was living in Jacksonville then
she’s got a higher purpose now
she’s got cats and good old Stephen
she’s got two weeks to leave
she’s got a secret service boyfriend
she’s got Baltimore and puddle skips
June 15, 1998
she’s got Baltimore and puddle skips
she’s got two heart attacks
she’s got time now, time to cook
she’s got a new sponge, a clean sponge
she’s got a higher purpose now
she’s got a secret service business card
she’s got an orange clapboard house
she’s got the backstreets lit
by the dead docked boats
by the harbor tourists
circling around the blocks
looking for a parking space
looking for a power source
hoping for a familiar face
is he the one who played
the witness to the mural
in 1994?
no he couldn’t be
he was living in Jacksonville then
she’s got a higher purpose now
she’s got cats and good old Stephen
she’s got two weeks to leave
she’s got a secret service boyfriend
she’s got Baltimore and puddle skips
June 15, 1998
11.01.2006
I Never Dream Of Names
They're calling me to come to
To wake myself, to wake the earth
To rouse the bursting fields
To harvest what I built
But I'm sleeping in this morning
I'm dreaming of a wake
A man with knives is pointing
"This is the path to take"
The coffin lies half-empty
The child too small and low
She's pushed herself to one end
With gravity, grief, or both
I nod my first and last respects
I never knew the girl
I often dream of strangers
With half a sparrow's curl
Theyr'e calling me to come home
To trumpet my return in song
To sing of highways drawn in
To exhale exhaust and cough
But I'm careful not to tip my hand
No commitments, no regrets
Songs are for the sweet romantics
With fists for wings and feet for feet
I never knew the girl though
I recognize her hands
Pale and soft and empty
Holding out for holding back
Her years were warm and heavy
With snow on each her birthdays
But her name is a mystery
I never dream of names
They're calling me to slip through
The gateway to the next day
The keeper skips his day by
Like I wished I'd slept my own
They've called enough to wake me
I'm shaking off my dusty sleeves
I'm breaking up my paper schemes
The graphs of forward motion
The charts of lost inertia
Lost as far as eyes can see
But eyes are built for sleeping
In dreams the fever cures the well
I recognize her hands
They're open to the extra space
She hopes the lid stays open
Oh god, I recognize her face
They're calling me to speak up
My voice is soft but pure
No threat I make is veiled
No promise too impossible
I switch back to the the road to town
I'm coming back to kiss the ground
To bless it, to go back home
I get tired but then I don't
Her face was all I couldn't see
To speak a word called for a cure
Medicine too slow to do the trick
Too thick to save the known world
Don't close the top, she loves the sun
And ceilings of spiders and dirt
Love requires nothing but love
Nothing but love never hurts
They're calling me to come to
I'm sleeping again, it's morning
I'm driving asleep, it's dusty
The air is ugly, it's alright
She loves the dirt under the sun
The sun as it looks from the moon
The moon as it falls from the sky
The sky as it splits from the earth
She kisses the dirt under the sun
The ground I walked on yesterday
I woke when they carried her out
When she shouted "it's okay, it's okay"
The day I sprained my ankle was a Thursday
I fell to the blacktop just like that
I asked for a nap before the hospital
I asked for my book, I asked for my cat
spring 2005
To wake myself, to wake the earth
To rouse the bursting fields
To harvest what I built
But I'm sleeping in this morning
I'm dreaming of a wake
A man with knives is pointing
"This is the path to take"
The coffin lies half-empty
The child too small and low
She's pushed herself to one end
With gravity, grief, or both
I nod my first and last respects
I never knew the girl
I often dream of strangers
With half a sparrow's curl
Theyr'e calling me to come home
To trumpet my return in song
To sing of highways drawn in
To exhale exhaust and cough
But I'm careful not to tip my hand
No commitments, no regrets
Songs are for the sweet romantics
With fists for wings and feet for feet
I never knew the girl though
I recognize her hands
Pale and soft and empty
Holding out for holding back
Her years were warm and heavy
With snow on each her birthdays
But her name is a mystery
I never dream of names
They're calling me to slip through
The gateway to the next day
The keeper skips his day by
Like I wished I'd slept my own
They've called enough to wake me
I'm shaking off my dusty sleeves
I'm breaking up my paper schemes
The graphs of forward motion
The charts of lost inertia
Lost as far as eyes can see
But eyes are built for sleeping
In dreams the fever cures the well
I recognize her hands
They're open to the extra space
She hopes the lid stays open
Oh god, I recognize her face
They're calling me to speak up
My voice is soft but pure
No threat I make is veiled
No promise too impossible
I switch back to the the road to town
I'm coming back to kiss the ground
To bless it, to go back home
I get tired but then I don't
Her face was all I couldn't see
To speak a word called for a cure
Medicine too slow to do the trick
Too thick to save the known world
Don't close the top, she loves the sun
And ceilings of spiders and dirt
Love requires nothing but love
Nothing but love never hurts
They're calling me to come to
I'm sleeping again, it's morning
I'm driving asleep, it's dusty
The air is ugly, it's alright
She loves the dirt under the sun
The sun as it looks from the moon
The moon as it falls from the sky
The sky as it splits from the earth
She kisses the dirt under the sun
The ground I walked on yesterday
I woke when they carried her out
When she shouted "it's okay, it's okay"
The day I sprained my ankle was a Thursday
I fell to the blacktop just like that
I asked for a nap before the hospital
I asked for my book, I asked for my cat
spring 2005
10.31.2006
The Shoe Store
you can pull and pull and pull but nothing will come of it
you can strain and strain and strain but nothing will inspire
you can rustle with the fabric and ask me for a gift
but nothing will come of it, nothing will inspire
you can hand me a flyer and tell me what I’m missing
you can point me to the street and tell me where you’ll be
you can scramble for an angle and take me with you
but I’m not going with you, I’m going home alone
I was young and it was sunny and we were in Anaheim
these were the tensions I had to quash in 1987
there are always ways to get in trouble into Anaheim
and it’s strange but I don’t remember their names
and it’s strange but I do remember the shoe store
and it’s strange but I don’t remember my reaction
and it’s strange but I do remember the shoe store
June 2, 1999
10.30.2006
Berkeley
I still see the remnants
of the trip we made to....
you knew where, the place that can’t be named
because we are not wanted there
as we should be
one remnant is liquid blue
one remnant is worn to thread
one remnant is burning sad songs into the firmament
and it’s sticking, I can hear it, it’s sticking
when we scrounged up the will
to step over the hooded homeless and go in for coffee
we were branding the city with our disappointment
we walked in and out quickly
because to stay and linger
would not have been Egyptian
April 22, 1999
of the trip we made to....
you knew where, the place that can’t be named
because we are not wanted there
as we should be
one remnant is liquid blue
one remnant is worn to thread
one remnant is burning sad songs into the firmament
and it’s sticking, I can hear it, it’s sticking
when we scrounged up the will
to step over the hooded homeless and go in for coffee
we were branding the city with our disappointment
we walked in and out quickly
because to stay and linger
would not have been Egyptian
April 22, 1999
10.29.2006
Welcome / Take The Body With You
Welcome. Here is where you will find a poem by me, every day, for the rest of my life, starting today. We'll start with the site's namesake, written 11 years and 3 days ago. Enjoy.
I gave too much of my time to science and history
I am better than that, more deserving of honor
so go home, take the body with you, go home now
Take the Body With You
I gave too much of my time to science and history
I am better than that, more deserving of honor
so go home, take the body with you, go home now
I tried to tell you I had no interest in keeping
my hand on the pulse of the angry and jaded
I tried to tell you but you scoffed, dismissingly
so go home, take the body with you, go home now
I have no sense of misdirected apathy and lethargy
there's not enough space in this apartment for the three of us
so go home, take the body with you, go home now
October 26, 1995
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