Was he in Hawaii like he’d been
once in another dream?
Was he flying without wings with his daughter beside him
before they roused him from whatever lousy joy
with a baton at the window with a show me your hands
o corrosion of coriolas
o cauterization of victrolas and cylinders and disks
of the uncanny silence of lands and lakes
o the noisy skies, jewls of the viscous depths
o kupu, hanasu, mourning
When I say I love you, I don’t
mean to bring the corpse hounds
to find cadavers, I mean you—
even chapped and wind-burnt—
hallucination invented metaphysics,
separating out the divine. Now,
remove everything added
in the process of knowing.
like dante coughing up a lung
staring back at the maze of waves
he was spit from
dripping rags on sand
We may have crossed paths
In our recontextualizing process.
I guess I never really looked up.
will there be poetry
when there are no longer flowers
when honeybees are extinct
the privileged
luxuriating deep underground in their silos
Times are hard in the world. Everywhere
there are beings who stone innocent
bystanders by talking apples.
Angels wrap themselves in the pages from
detective novels and fall asleep.
And the world keeps going ‘round
in swift wings for the fall
in scorching June alley ways
in handshakes in bare knuckles
in the fading throttle of oscillation
It would like to take the equivalent
of a cruise and tour of Italy, lie under
a bikini colored sun for weeks, months,
letting the world catch its thankful
breath—but history can’t relax, no
No, we won’t save an ant today,
nor a stray.
We slurp ramen noodles, wash it down
with schnapps, buck up for the night.
Ever been shattered by a woman’s
Voice surge so deep smacks the
Soul out your bones rattles your
Frame like shingles on a hurricane night
The news shows iguanas falling from the trees,
immobile in the cold weather, fair game for hawks
or chefs who claim they taste like chicken.
I, too, am immobile. Frightened,
I stay too long in bed.
One day it’s my 33-year-old cousin found dead in bed from an overdose; another day, it’s high school seniors raising their arms in the Nazi salute for a yearbook photo; another, it’s government protesters washing with bottles of Coke to help minimize the sting of tear gas.
with whispering gasps both knew passionate power lust and optimistic love appearing before them in the language of ghosts accused of being tour guides of loss mastering the imagination which was inspired by little toy soldiers
All I can do is stay alive.
The hills demand it.
The sparrow song asks for this above all.
The End of Days is a braggart myth
no adult citizen permits,
as the leaders and their minions,
(mad as moons) bow to Chaos.
Meanwhile, we remember Mommy,
Too. We won’t disregard her tears,
Or fail to recall the owl potholders
She so carefully crafted the nights
Our baby slept intermittent hours.
icebreaking with melts with lunch
in the lurches of steeples
viral as medical substitutions of unstung stringers however the baby swims
in the bathwater pitch-plumb
for the knickers in venous splashes of bloods
Your trip, your sped up present
escape to a certain future
followed by white lines
road signs, that are not important now
never smashing statues
while preferring to polish only a pretty few,
like a posh prince or a ship of dreams
as he lets decay lay waste to the rest
My 2020 vote will not be
an endorsement
it won’t be a thumbs up
a fist bump
an Amen
or an Aho
you could see the blue in there
read for the blind birds of prey
we will sink into the marsh slowly
then we will be a part of everything
his father wanted to raise his son in the others’ eyes
even though he knew the boy would never be a god—
it’s not something aspirational, you’ve got to be in it all the way
"Great band", I told her as I dried my hands.
I was lying, as they were a horrendous
country rock garage band
trying to masquerade as a blues band
in the very white small city
of Eugene, Oregon.
Let us make a barricade against the light; let us let no more light in.
We have enough light; we do not need more light.
We will not recognize this country when it is swarming with light.
I wince at the artistry of finance,
but suffer without suffering for my gift-wrapped
photo: all the village women tote bright heavy
jugs down a shaft where water awaits
Poetry, like cartography, can condense
the world aesthetically, until we see
that the last line of my poem is not ambiguous,
but lucid, perfectly lucid: “More delicate than
the historians’ are the map-makers’ colors.”
now it's a suburb pull
meat from fire and inevitable
face grease and cigarette
decorative scarf yells from
audience, hierarchy howl
There are legends and reports
that an ebony creature travels
the woods of maritime Canada,
often scoffed at, never proved.
no, to tell you the truth
I am innocent but
I am pleading guilty
because I need to get out
for my job before next Thursday
this planet, which waits for us, accepts
its name. this planet fails to communicate
its displeasure at the name we've chosen for it;
her moonlets dance; her seas call us
hit one time only! in kansas somewhere
then gone as quickly! squandered shot returns
but now i stay anxious / crack reminds me
every turn in view caresses Cautious
On the iceblink
is a happy hue:
in concert with my chorus.
There is no bother of bliss.
Memory is what we make of it.
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