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

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 mere words, spirited incantations
you can’t break spells with sincerity
no, not anymore

the lure of the last bus out
is falsity and repression
the giving in of fortune
misdeeds twisted open

the lure of the last bus out
is avenues of spent trees
the dying out of here
there’s time ahead, there is

January 24, 1999

Red Tambourine

Play the disco music
With the red tambourine
Shining like a tractor trailer
Freshly waxed and full of diesel

Play it all night long
Hit the harpsichord
With hockey sticks and hambones
And lie about not working tomorrow

It happened one night
In a flash of lava light
The longest walks are always in the rain
It happened again

Don’t be sorry
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

It happened one night
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

Play the disco music
With the red tambourine
Hot like summer sweethearts
Sweating through the sheets

Don’t be sorry
To sing a love song
To someone else

(a few years ago)

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

August 12, 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

Offerings

With only four offerings left

She chooses her favorite potion

Splashes a dash of it onto her wrist

And drives the long way to the ocean

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

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

That is blindness and castaway thunder
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

That is paralysis and stained lightning
Failing to make the metal crackle
Failing to keep the natives in
That is the cashing in of majesty

October 6, 1998

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

Moving Rivers, Imagining Shipwrecks

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

there was music, there was integrity
the rest was unimportant
the movies weren't very good
but there was music, there was integrity

moving rivers, imagining shipwrecks
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

April 12, 1996

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)

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 was not what I wrote about then
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

March 30, 1998

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

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

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 boom box felt like surgery
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

But murder isn’t easy
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 night you thought of falling into the river?
was it the next morning when you woke up beside me?
was it the stupid Tuesday morning when you demanded too much?

you are kind
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

February 6, 1998
(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

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

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

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 Tempe mist
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 USA
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 South Pasadena
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

The Scoutmaster

The scoutmaster raises his right
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?”

Summer 2002

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

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 Chelsea Hotel

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

late 90s/early 00s

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

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
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

burning hose, worn soles, little eyes, open wide
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

February 17, 1999

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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