This Morning

I'm on time.
The road moves
under the car
against the grain
or all the same
still at war
and going back
for more
no time to
wave. Continuous
disruption
thoughts that lapse
into the lack
of continuity
dark morning brings.

Oh Yes

Yesterday I died.
It was my third and final time.

At least at last
there is no more
falling leaves
hostility.

I should have been a pair of retractable claws
clicking across the hardwood floors
of quiet living rooms.

Death fit around me
like a brand new sock.

Over-the-calf,
tube,
the way life entered:

I in
you, I in
you, I in you.

No idea what to do
with myself now.

All of the people I loved
are here except
of course the ones down
there.

Only there is no up,
no down. No here here.

I saw you standing on our maple tree
on the lowest branch
no human can reach
and you were smiling
not remembering that I was gone.

“Good times, good times.”

A fatal belief in things
coming together.

Cartoons shout Hooray
therefore I was
OK with my children watching
them in moderation.

The white breath of waiting
for the bus
against the multi-colored leaves
in late October . . .

where I would have been
today.

As a century is
something only thought of.

Yesterday I died.
My daughter climbed our tree
three years from now.

This Morning

A blue jay splits
the arborvitae screen;
a tight blue-green spiral
launched from the hand of
my three-year-old son.

This Morning

Cold fog over Candlewood Lake;
upside down on the rocks
a white row boat points the way out.

Collision

When I die
Will you marry me?

Nonsense

We are a sculpture
or an open
book? We accumulate
no detail in time.
We reside in our tent
of fire. Remember when
we froze too big to think.
Hushed little creatures
under the sea of
some raptor-named
fantasy world.
Smoke waves
against the sky's lost page
we no longer stand.

This Morning

Water boiling for Vaughn's oatmeal
in the kitchen behind me.
Chorus of “surf's up, surf's up,
ho daddy, ho daddy,” coming from
the living room where Vaughn and Dash
are kneeling on the hardwood floor.
Harsh hush of cars rushing by outside.
Sharma's claws tug at her ottoman
tucked under the desk
in the dining room. I stir
the oatmeal and bring it to my daughter
not because she asked politely
but because we must be going soon.

Proverbial Sonnet (55)

A movie's a fine bulwark against time
but nothing outlives a powerful rhyme
like an insect of radiation-resistant airs.
I should have been a cluster of spiky hairs
stretching out and vibrating my wings
intuitively as I play my courtship songs.
My hate is a purple hydrangea that stings:
a yellowjacket tucked under mophead poms
with hard-shelled face and long black-seed eyes
and well-developed primitive mouthparts
for capturing and chewing what I should
have been. My hate is a minor pollinator,
a sweet-toothed scavenger disrupting picnics
and, nest-back, passing it on in trophallaxis.

Yesterday Morning

Tumbles of low fog
over Lake Lillinonah;
an empty parking lot
of dandelion seed heads.

This Morning

Cold morning
Gas pains

I was trying to think
Of something that
Was there

What time is
Dew

Some attack
Is coming

Long Coat Variations

I know that long coat.
I know that gray
striding through
the lost grass
of the golden brown
plains. I know
because I was there
watching through
the hole in the sky
just over the horizon
through which that long
coat man
was being shot,
framed by silence
like any old word
exactly placed,
and moving that way, too.

*

I remember turning
to my invisible sheriff
and sneering, “See you
in hell,” then pulling
the trigger and watching
him fall
back into the trough.
My teeth, like saloon doors
stopped mid-swing,
flashed as I smiled
at the splash and the blood
rivering through the white-
shirt valleys, out of
his chest and into the water.
I turned back, I suppose,
to the big black steed
my eight-year-old self
could never really mount.

*

It's been a long time.
It's a long time
coat. The buttons
on the coat
are entrances
to the cave
in which I am buried.
Let me show you.

*

In love, one
is Jesse James,
and the other,
Meramec Caverns.

*

The long coat
hanging like
a shadow from
the lowest limb
of the bare-
branched years.
Someone was
inside?

*

I will show you
the cave later.
I used to go there
often. A wild
cat would take me.
It's been a long
branching out
in the opposite
direction. I
don't remember
exactly what
it was that used
to rip me up
and take my bones
for firewood
that I might visit
with the sky—
an animal
or spirit man
from the forest
of dark long coats?

18 x 2

and I still
walk around
with holes
in my jeans,

scarecrow
flannel, and
The Misfits
in my head.

This Morning

Time is
someone's at
the door.

Under

To be without mystery
under the trees, the leaves
among you, you star

          *

Beyond the highway
under the tarmac
across the bridge
wait a minute
under is misleading.

          *

Under the fountain water
I could see the wind
and feel gravity
and for a second
I wanted not to return.

          *

Under your eye
a yellow leaf
on dark grass
curled up around
the edges, holding
midnight
rain.

          *

I hit my head
on the rock under
the peonies when
I fell for you.

          *

Rock. Snake.
And what
comes next.

          *

Under the mirror
alteration

anything animal
still

chattering monument
sensation

mouth opening
till

the black blaze:
gone.


          *

Under a feather
pillow
fingers grip
climbing up
the tree
the sparrow
leaps
from when you sleep
at last.

          *

Under your tea cup
intuitive knowledge
wets and warms
the tabletop;
the light slants in
as I lose my page
looking at you
and all that I know.

          *
Under the range
where the mouse got away
from our cat
there’s a hole the size
of a silver dollar:
that is my church.

          *

Under the last page
or rather behind
a couple of blanks
to fill out the signature.

          *

Under the moment
indebted
by the window
the dog twitches his nose:

the deep unconscious
wisdom system
wants to go for a walk;
I put on my shades.

          *

Under command,
utterly damned.

          *

Under the sound
of cricket cliques
the animal worm
just moved along.

          *

Under the bark
the revelation
of ants
was lost on the beak
which pecked
because.

          *

Under the brick
nothing
but some ashes.

          *

Under the rosary
my mother’s hands
like scorched earth
under a forced march.

          *

I bury my loved ones
under my bed
every night
I close my eyes.

          *

Under the leather
the hair on my arm
stood defiantly
against the summer’s
ninety-degree sun.

          *

Under the bleachers,
mouth-to-mouth.
A thousand stomping feet.
Touchdown someone.

          *

Under the paper
more paper
and all of it under
dust.

          *

Under the sun?
Oh, corpses . . .

people voted for.

          *

Under the moon?
Beats me . . .

alone in my room.

          *

Under my face
I’m already
asleep forever.

          *

Under the sink
it sounds like the mouse
has returned.

Feet grown cold
on the kitchen floor,
I’m not sure I care.

          *

Under the stem
I pause and stare
at the golden skin
I’m about to bite.

          *

Under the vacuum
the spot that was missed.

          *

Under the river—
How the hell should I know?

          *

Under the eggshell
an aureole
flies
back and forth
through a cup of milk.

          *

Under the flies
it was starting to snow
on the stove
the kettle screamed
to be picked up
is all she ever wanted.

          *

Under the dawn light
breaking through the blinds
he imagined he was
a pyramid.

          *

Under the clock
the waves
smack the shore—

“It’s a long way
to the top
if you wanna rock . . .”

          *

In the Moses basket
under the crib
stuffed animals
impersonate the dead.

          *

Under the chair,
squeaks and moans;
over it, streaks
of silence and poems.

          *

Under the skull
the sun rises
and sets
among mothballs.

          *

Under my thumb
the page of a book
I was hoping
you would read
so I can ask you
about it.

          *

Under the night-
gown, the old
north wind blows—
the private language
everybody knows.

A Sheltering Sky

Aurora borealis, born to dance . . .

Sidereal glaciers, love's invisible spiders.
Home is wherever I'm squatting with
Elvis houseflies in my hair.
Looking at the fjords of night between
The blue punk rock clouds, I recline and
Evaporate like juice in a pan. We sleep on
Rooftops whenever we dream, secretly
Inviting the leopards and cobras of
Night to stride and slither to our sides as we
Grind our teeth and sharpen our minds.

Solar winds, track changes, due north.
Karmic evolution, born to boot . . .
Yellow teeth of the sun tease my arm.

________
In memory of Jim Carroll
August 1, 1949 – September 11, 2009

And partly in response to Politely Homicidal's call for acrostic poems having to do with the sky

Proverbial Sonnet (54)

We topped our Boboli with garlic and anchovies
and kissed so much we burnt the crust. We took
our halves into our first own living room
and sat down with a quilt on the worn blue rug
in front of the TV because we still didn't have
any furniture yet. I Shot Andy Warhol
was originally planned as a documentary
but the filmmakers found almost no footage
of Solanas or anyone to talk about her.
We fell in love with Lili Taylor for a little while,
and after, we wrapped around each other
like a metaphor. Puzzle pieces across
the floor, we snapped into. You had the hair
of a young Bernadette Mayer that year.*

______
*I was picturing Mayer's photo as I
remembered it from in the back of An
Anthology of New York Poets. I thought
KC looked a bit like the little face
in that photo of Mayer in those days.
I don't have a copy of that anthology
on hand, but I think I still remember
the picture well enough to describe it:
swimming sleep, the waves mail,
December sun, soft April sky,
September notebook, snowy July,
eventual belly, zippered smile:
a lot of action in that captured lack
of motion, entire movements to understand.

A Modest Response

Was
it
all
we
could
bear?

Bear
was
Could
it
be
all?

All
bare,
we
saw
it
could

cloud
all.
It,
bare,
was
wee.

We
would
caw,
pall
bear
it.

It
was
bear.
Could
was
all.

It was all
we could bear.

__________________________________
In memory of Tom Sullivan,
Jul 22, 1938 – Sep 10, 2009

Hum

by Ann Lauterbach

The days are beautiful
The days are beautiful.

I know what days are.
The other is weather.

I know what weather is.
The days are beautiful.

Things are incidental.
Someone is weeping.

I weep for the incidental.
The days are beautiful.

Where is tomorrow?
Everyone will weep.

Tomorrow was yesterday.
The days are beautiful.

Tomorrow was yesterday.
Today is weather.

The sound of the weather
Is everyone weeping.

Everyone is incidental.
Everyone weeps.

The tears of today
Will put out tomorrow.

The rain is ashes.
The days are beautiful.

The rain falls down.
The sound is falling.

The sky is a cloud.
The days are beautiful.

The sky is dust.
The weather is yesterday.

The weather is yesterday.
The sound is weeping.

What is this dust?
The weather is nothing.

The days are beautiful.
The towers are yesterday.

The towers are incidental.
What are these ashes?

Here is the hate
That does not travel.

Here is the robe
That smells of the night

Here are the words
Retired to their books

Here are the stones
Loosed from their settings

Here is the bridge
Over the water

Here is the place
Where the sun came up

Here is a season
Dry in the fireplace.

Here are the ashes.
The days are beautiful.

Complex Social Structure

Boil water
pour it over

the idea of war

rises
through sinuses


            *

Driving through fog
with dog
in the back
of the pickup

“songs of love and songs of death”

open window
songs that bark

at trees

fog lifting
leaves


            *

Hot shower
the hour

friendly fire

wipe tile

crawl
enormity

back to sleep


            *

Afterthought rains
mud brains

“If I get back home . . .”

NOISE BOT

BUSTED TEES

homo sapiens
knees


            *

Roof, roof

regarded

as dependent upon culture


            *

On top of a
twig

twirling between
fingers

the little green
bud

more brown


            *

Bumper sticker
shock and awe

YOUR VOTE COUNTS

What?

like bodies


            *

REAL MEN
WIPE THEIR ASS WITH BARK

FUCK ME IF I'M WRONG
babe


            *

Lift the tea bag
from the mug

the idea of war

pressed
in sunken chest


            *

Turn on Angel

turn out light

watch
and forget

someone else
will write

There were all of these things to be said

There were all of these things to be said
but no means to say them, no words.
I guess the things were feelings, things
that were felt, the way you might run your fingers
over leather or some other fine material
if you were a person who actually cared
about fine materials, which I am not
which is why the best I could come up with
was leather, though I did a second later
think of cashmere, but I instantly rejected
that because it made me think of Seinfeld
in the episode where the office cleaning lady
falls for George and anyway cashmere isn't
how I roll, although I did own a cashmere blazer
when I was in high school, we got it on sale
at Marshalls, which I know now is a discount store
for items which if they were books would be
remainders, at least I think that's how it works,
and so my mother and I we bought that gray
blazer there just before my sophomore year
of high school, I know it was then because
I remember one time in home room I made
the blazer dance-like to my off-key humming
rendition of Led Zeppelin's “Kashmir” which
I then medleyed into Scatterbrains's “Don't Call Me
Dude,” which was a hit with Rich and, later,
Erik and Dan, which was everybody in our class
who would get the Scatterbrain reference except
for Jerry who was always hidden under his hair
and pretty humorless at least until he got a few
beers in himself, but I wouldn't know that until
the end of the year and this was the start of the year
and I didn't mean to go off on a tangent, in fact
I forget what I was getting at originally, it's like
that cartoon in The New Yorker a couple of weeks ago,
on a dusty old west road these two cowboys
are walking away from each other, hands on
their six-shooters, the classic Hollywood
showdown, but the one in the foreground has
a puzzled look on his face and a thought bubble
over his head which reads, “Damn if I didn't start
walking in this direction for a reason . . .”
which is exactly my point, I knew where I was going
but now I don't, though I remember now
where I was then, when I didn't have the words
to get to where I wanted to go, wherever that was.

Proverbial Sonnet (53)

Good morning, kiss. You are awake. Today's back roads
have blossomed behind my eyes. Ted Berrigan is alive.
The minute blue night was only pretending
to be awake. Your drive into work, a brown sliver
under the whirling print of an elegant finger, a middle finger
opening slowly in the direction of American Beauty.
American Beauty isn't only a movie. Good morning,
you, opening slowly, today's back roads, a kiss
in the direction of American Beauty. On the car windows,
commas, periods, and question marks of water —
no words wet this movie morning. A minute blue
blossomed drive beyond the wide rows of high brown
slivers. You are awake, on the back roads, which lead me away
from American Beauty, from behind my eyes, from the line,
          “Ted Berrigan is alive.”

________
This is a knock-off. For the real deal, one of the most beautiful American poems, see Ted Berrigan's Sonnet XXXVII.

Another Quick Little School Bus Morning Poem

The bus stops and Vaughn
climbs on, finds her seat
beside two other girls.

No wave goodbye this time.
No looking out at
Ayla,* Dash, and me.

The bus moves on, leaving
its exhaust behind. The days
of the week go by

so many times, one loses
track, like Thomas the Train
rushing to make good time.

_________
* Ayla is the Japanese Maple we planted in our front yard last year, named by Vaughn.

Cultural Moment I Completely Missed: The Book Trailer

Evidently there have been trailers for books for a few years now (so sayeth Wikipedia). It's funny that “book trailer” is a trademarked term. (I guess it doesn't take much.) There are only 35,000 views, though, so I'm not sure how well this new marketing method is working out for publishers. Probably that's a great number for literary fiction, even a crossover novel like this one. But it's Penguin. They had to be hoping for more hits in the first month that that. Maybe they're rookies at viral marketing, or maybe 35,000 really does kick ass under the circumstances and I just don't get it.

As counterpoint to the trailer, Louis Menand's New Yorker review.

Hat tip: Elektra Luxx.

One-Line Manifestos

        Just posted these as a comment to a great little article by Robert Archambeau over at the Poetry Foundation.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Don't pay anyone to read your work.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Don't play their game; make your own.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Shut the door so you can leave.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Dress like a pig and hiss like a snake.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Your poems may be food, but not to the homeless.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Seal each of your poems in an envelope and mail them to random names in the phonebook.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

I am a walking manifesto.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Short of breath is an urgent manifesto.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Poetry is a door; there is no outside.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Everything counts: syllables, words, caesuras, feet, none of the above, etc.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

A poetics of place is neat, but the poetics of silence is real.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Poetry is its opposite.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

An apple twice its size.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Nothing is relative, too.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Soldier on: you're not at war (but if you are, I'm sorry).


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Freak.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Touch.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Sing.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Belch in public and be a peach behind the scenes.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Hold hands and be proud, but don't hold them high.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Don't be proud: You're not the name attached to your poems.


ONE-LINE MANIFESTO:

Your poetry is the garden you will enter when you die.
 

GREAT! or Some Blogs of Note

The other day I was searching to see if anyone in the Wide World had posted Ted Berrigan's Sonnet XVII and found Robert Frost's Banjo. I've since been enjoying John Hayes's Banjo very much. It has great bloggy fare like today's Moose Tales, but what hooked me first was the Weekly Poem series, a great selection of poetry by many of favorite poets (Berrigan, Kenneth Patchen, Wallace Stevens, Frank O'Hara, Tom Clark).

Speaking of Tom Clark, he's been posting a lot of great work—poems old, poems new, some original translations—over at his Beyond The Pale blog. If anyone is a master of the lyric, it's him. Here's one of my all-time favorite poems by anybody from anyplace writing at anytime.

Even though I have submitted relatively little work to literary magazines since 1999 (a handful per year at most, excepting 2001 and, I think, 2003 which were a bit heavier than that) and had taken to posting blogbooks of old poems (mostly old, Sappho Does Hay(na)ku had been new[er] work), I hadn't taken the next step of foregoing magazine publication altogether (or virtually altogether, we'll see) and using Nobody here as as a place to post new poems as I write them. Two blogs in particular helped lead me to this leap, both regularly feature great poems by poets who are the real deal, whose works often enough make me envious, you know in a kind of calm resigned way, of their abilities: W.B. Keckler's Joe Brainard's Pyjamas and Todd Colby's Glee Farm.

Last but not least, Sephyrus by Rachel Andrews (it does sound like a sophisticated perfume or designer clothing line doesn't it?) has been a hotbed of words and images, with the same great art that's been there from the start and poetry painted with a minimalist style all her own.

Labor Day, 2009

Where am I at 9:58 on the morning in question,
unable to concentrate, unable to reach
the words I feel I need, knowing nobody really does.
The air outside is cool, but one thing's for sure:
I'm not out there. I'm inside somewhere
with heavy eyelids and sciatica, back to the kitchen
with its ticking clock. So I'm in the yellow room
with the computer and a bookcase of poetry.
Ted Berrigan is by my side. The sidewalks
of 6th and Bowery have been waiting for him,
but he's here in New Milford. He helped jump start
my car this morning so I could drive to Stop
& Shop and buy some stamps so I could mail
my letter to Tom Clark, and while I was there
I thought What the hell and bought a Powerball
quick pick for the first time in a couple of years
and if I win I have no idea what I'll do but I know
I'll quit my job and maybe become a publisher again
or move to New York, I don't know, maybe I would veg
and be a useless lazy rag on the sofa all day.
What was it I used to say? Why play the lottery?
If I won, I'd lose my edge. And edge is the most
important thing to a poet, more dear than life itself,
or at least that's how it seems. For some it was true,
for others, well, things change when you're handcuffed,
hooded, and have a pistol pressed against your skull,
so who's to say. The clock in the kitchen is really
there, ticking, ticking, ticking, shaking up
my nerves, driving me mad, but I don't want it
to stop. I dive into the pool of words inside me,
a kind of magic, fast and furious and almost free.

Remembering What Happened

          1

I wasn't walking
or even moving
the leaves were
maybe rustling
but certainly not
falling as I saw
one on my lap.


          2

So I guess I was sitting
under the maple
in the back yard
while my son chased
my daughter around
the peeling white garage
and my car on fire.


          3

I could hear them
laughing and pretending
one was a werewolf
and the other a tree
nymph or dryad I guess
while my burning car
was Aslan in his glory.


          4

There was no wind
to speak of still
the leaf on my lap
moved just a bit
when I thought of
the woman I love
who was staring at me.


          5

From up in the tree
her face peering through
her hair like a small
waterfall around her
bare feet on one branch
hands gripping another
and it started to rain.


          6

It rained only from her
hair or maybe her
eyes as my children
continued to run in mock
fear around the garage
and burning car
and I stood up to climb.


          7

There wasn't a branch
low enough for me
to reach I started panting
for air as my love
Rapunzelled her hair
which soon covered
me like rapid water.


          8

And then it was night
with my children inside
and probably asleep
as I reclined on a limb
high up in the tree
with the stars in my hair
my lover's fingertips.


          9

I fell asleep in that tree
in the arms of my love
and when I awoke
I was in the driver's seat
of my car with red
and yellow flames
all shooting around me.


          10

I sat in the burning car
my son chased my daughter
around the white garage
and my wife in the kitchen
was staring out the window
at me plucking a leaf
from the maple in the back.

Proverbial Sonnet (52)

If love ain't the ember in remember
then it's probably hate, or the shadow
of a pain so great it couldn't fade into
the light of day just around the corner
from any time, any place, mano
a mano, chest to chest, just me and you
and the open air, that kind of call to fight
like a rottweiler, to bite the proverbial leg
of the one you love, the one you hate, or the one
you masturbate in the forests of the night
all Tiger, tiger, forgetting the powder keg
of days and our flickering camp-fire brain.
Love, if you love me, think of me when you shower
as your animal soap and pegasus water.

Proverbial Sonnet (51)

Content yourself with rice; reveal yourself
with tea. Be childlike and sandwich bag the seeds
of summer's watermelon compassion.
Souvenir not only any rocks and shells
from the days you staked your ground at the beach
but the paper parking pass as well. Cash in
all but one of your chips from the casino,
or no, shake, rattle, and roll with emptiness,
but emptiness meaning weight divided by
itself, not that ticking, clock-faced zero.
It's not the heat but the resulting sweat.
The pounding sun begets the day's black eye,
not heavy rain or snow, not hurricane winds.
It's the commonplace that exhausts all means and defeats all ends.

Dear Troubled Soul,

I don't know what you mean.
You look great in those jeans.
Stop picking your nose.
I have a problem for you
I know you can solve.
What kind of time are you
looking at? Does it feel
more like a flit or a flutter?
I want to believe you are
telling the truth. When you say
you're emotional do you mean
above or below the waist?
Let's see a show of hands.
See, the audience agrees:
It's time to get off the schnide
and be shaped for a purpose.
Be sharp. Know what I mean?
Not a stone, but a stone.
Forget cut and polished: split
that scene. Be a natural shade
at home in any light.

Proverbial Sonnet (50)

Free will is a mountain. If you are moving
forget it. Turn on your radio and
detune it: the big bang can't be changed. Yet.
The crackle you hear is the echo from
a squirrel breaking an acorn open in
the shadow of a tree you can't not see
if you close your eyes and imagine that
furry irritable reaching after fact
with all of the pathos of climatology
or the arctic circle of a harp seal's birth—
let's go pick some elderberries. There is
no wisdom like elderberry wisdom.
Near wet ditches, dense thickets, or along
stream banks, we purple and break off easily.

There's no losing the sky

There's no losing the sky;
it's a list of things that can't
be separated. I just killed
a gnat but wanted to call it
a fly because it rhymes
with sky and I'm traditional
like that. My blog is like
the rain which can't be separated
from the weather. I'm partly
cloudy myself with a chance
for showers tomorrow morning.
No, the sky's my school and
the sun's my principal and
when he calls me to his office,
which is just stepping outside,
I know my ass is pwned
because it can't be separated
from this haphazard soul.

Glean

We don't, knowing something
similar, speak. We glean
the one-eyed space between

us. No musical hand-
made, mouth-made note
is quite the same until

it's recorded. The birds
in thicket, song sparrows
mostly, soundtrack providers,

who don't care exactly
because, I think, they know
our silent position:

to sit and collect, bit
by dusty bit, the psychic
significance of touch.

Die Hard If

Die hard, if you're
right; die soft,
if you're wrong.

If you're wrong and
die hard, to hell
with you. If you're

right and die soft,
thanks anyway:
the world will leave

you fully forgiven.

Gleam

No stopping to unmake you,
I stake what I feel
against what was felt —

arrested, arresting,
the hunch simmering
into faintly curdled guilt.

I would have liked, vice
versa with you, to paint
such obsolete glades

as sun between clouds
or the gleam of light
between arm and ribs,

the blue-green glide
of grass between
your slightly parted thighs.

Dash's Poem / Waiting for the bus to pickup Vaughn

It's sunny and cold outside.
A school bus goes by.
Why's the car wet?
It didn't rain.
I think maybe
we should play catch.

Sorry

Sorry, I didn't mean to.
Sorry, I wasn't thinking.
Sorry as in sorry I
was hoping to tell you.

Sorry as in family.
Sorry, I forgot.
Sorry, it's Tuesday,
it's September, I'm late.

Sorry from surrow,
the same root as
surrender, meaning
“punched in the belly”

but also “knocked
up unintentionally.”
So obviously sorry
is related to surprise.

Sorry, I have to.
Sorry you called.
Sorry, I nailed your
clothes to the wall.

Proverbial Sonnet (49)

In other words, you can lead a horse to water
but the bear, well, he eats you. Where do you go
from there? That's the burro in the valley waiting
for you to chinook your way down the holler
hillside. The deer that narrows across the road
to grok the other side chills, innovating
more intimately than most of us ever
will again. Nothing rocks north like a crow.
Get on that horse and cross-saw through the hate
of flies. Swat away time; anything clever
you cased inside, bandana, pack, and unload:
smoke out the force of comfort to contemplate
that patient valley burro who doesn't care
whether you dustle down or swivel in your chair.

Proverbial Sonnet (48)

So, as a diminutive of sound, a small
something sung or musically spoken,
becoming in time mainly a matter of the noise
it makes, moving south to the north in squalls,
making invisible love corporeal bone
by bone, turn by turn, admitting the sighs,
the blatant woe and reckless considerations
of love's reverence, a makeshift hacksaw
grinding so from sound against the ball
and chain of careful call and rejection,
knowing thoughts without lips sit like arrows
without a bow, aiming for the lightning smile,
angel-grappling, sow-wrangling, slight refrain
all procreant urge and incisive pain.

Tonight We're Going To Party Like Prince

Tonight we're going to party like a little red corvette.
Tonight we're going to party like purple rain.
Tonight we're going to party like a raspberry beret.
Tonight we're going to party like when doves cry.
Tonight we're going to party like nothing compares 2 U.
Tonight we're going to party like the holy river.
Tonight we're going to party like America.
Tonight we're going to party like automatic.
Tonight we're going to party like the beautiful ones.
Tonight we're going to party like thunder.
Tonight we're going to party like diamonds and pearls.
Tonight we're going to party like controversy.
Tonight we're going to party like la-la means I love you.
Tonight we're going to party like how come u don't call me anymore.
Tonight we're going to party like i feel for you.
Tonight we're going to party like i hate u.
Tonight we're going to party like mountains
Tonight we're going to party like my name is Prince.
Tonight we're going to party like NYC.
Tonight we're going to party like Alphabet St.
Tonight we're going to party like space.
Tonight we're going to party like pink cashmere.
Tonight we're going to party like thieves in the temple.
Tonight we're going to party like a sign o' the times.
Tonight we're going to party like Mrs. Robinson.
Tonight we're going to party like the future.
Tonight we're going to party like the truth.
Tonight we're going to party like a peach.
Tonight we're going to party like cream.

Proverbial Sonnet (47)

It's comforting to know that life is a
rough draft. Life is not a rough draft. It's more
of an improvisation, which is to say
it's like a rough draft that's final. Record
what happens, scoff and repent and be on our way
leaving behind those things we had in store
to share at least with those we loved if the day
had been uncluttered enough to allow for
those rough works, that sedimentary clay,
to come to light. Too sentimental? Sure,
but walking the picket line with mom when you're eight
will mark your words that way, your musical score
or iTunes playlist, your GarageBand remix. Tonight
we're going to party like when doves cry.

Proverbial Sonnet (46)

When plans B, C, D, and E, all fail,
it helps to take a walk in the rain, maybe
bring an apple, kick a can along the ground.
Don't mind the sewers that remind you hell
sits under us at all times, how daily
we wrestle its static energy, hands tied
behind our backs, like bobbing for apples
in a cauldron of seething excitations.
“Then there is a time in life when you just take
a walk: and you walk in your own landscape”
and snap a few photos with your iPhone
to post on your blog with words like leaves that shake
as a nervous squirrel creeps out along their branch
and peeks at you for some sign of your plan.

Proverbial Sonnet (45)

If this is part of a serial poem, I'm not
supposed to read what came before, what words
I put or fell together late last night.
But what do I care about cautions and theories
regarding the way I should make my poems
these days? I'll sit here and over-read
what I have writ if that's how I want to roll.
What's OK by Herrick is OK by me.
It takes more than two to flock together.
The line is a manner of looking things up.
Wing it, sing it, and bring it. Fling your feather
against the sky. Snip the paper cup
and pick the coated pieces for our new nest.
Theory's restless worm will lead us to it.

Proverbial Sonnet (44)

Who care's about the chicken or the egg?
What matters is more along the lines
of a fine mist: you can't feel it on your tongue
unless you stick it out. What matters is
a bad penny, the work that's never done,
a moss-covered stone louder than words.
After a storm comes, the day begins again.
What matters is the earth that angels fear
to tread; knowledge is up there in the clouds
for most of us to grab. What matters is
a puddle in the mud: there's no walking
around it. The rain is worth a thousand words
fools write down and rush to tell the world
about. What matters is a bird in the mouth.

Proverbial Sonnet (43)

It's like what the kids say: the heart is tangled
syrup wood. Love is a mangled metaphor,
an electric tiger stalking the avenues
searching for someone to play Scrabble with.
You hope it whispers a word or two to fill
in your rhyme scheme, but instead it opens wide,
grabs you around the waist, and wanders off
with your head and limbs dangling from its mouth.
You don't play Scrabble that way do you? With
a twenty-point bonus for making a word
that rhymes? Love does. It's wrenching. It takes the nuts
and bolts of the tangled tiger heart and twists—
lefty loosey, righty tigthy—until
its teeth dig through the engine of your mind.

Field Guide

How far have I come
into this field
and how much farther
can it go on?

I stand, looking out,
with no memory
of how I got started,
why I said Yes.

The tall grass goes on
all green and gold,
reaching what I won't,
what nobody can.

There are others in
this field. I hear
them at times. But I
haven't seen them yet.

I could have stayed
on the road. I could
have said No. I
could have headed home.

The Irreplaceable Senator

Ron Silliman has posted a nice anecdote about the late Edward Kennedy. Though Senator Kennedy was not without his flaws, there's no denying that America has lost one of its great champions of justice . Given the current state of affairs, the antagonism in this country to anything remotely progressive, which is typically drummed up behind the scenes by well-heeled corporate lobbyists and PR officers, it's sadly safe to say that Senator Kennedy is irreplaceable.

Tappan Zee Bridge

It's just language.

Names for Rachel

Rachel Tomorrow
Rachel Today
Rachel Tomorrow Today

Rachel Radio
Rachel Waves
Rachel Radio Waves

Rachel Rimbaud
Rachel Tzara
Rachel Rimbaud Tzara

Rachel Rainbow
Rachel Green
Rachel Rainbow Green

Rachel Candle
Rachel Light
Rachel Candelabra Night

Rachel Ephemera
Rachel Etcetera
Rachel Ephemera Etcetera

Rachel Why
Rachel Now
Rachel Why-Not Now

Rachel West
Rachel Wind
Rachel Zephyr
Rachel Ode

Rachel Magnum
Rachel Opus
Rachel Magnum Opus

Rachel Bandana
Rachel Hart
Rachel Bandana Heart

Rachel Lambent
Rachel Serendipity
Rachel Lambent Serendipity

Rachel Garbanzo
Rachel Prelapsarian
Rachel Eden Jelly Bean

Rachel Festoon
Rachel Per Se
Rachel Festoon Per Se

Rachel Move
Rachel Oeuvre
Rachel Omnium-Gatherum

Rachel Ampersand
Rachel Raconteur
Rachel Ampersand Raconteur

Rachel Halcyon
Rachel Tomorrow
Rachel Halcyon Tomorrow

Remembered Poem (cont'd)

2

The telephone rings.
Where’s my hat?


3

My hat, I’m on my way.
I’m typing the poem of the future
directly into the computer.
It’s ’92 and I am with you
in spirit if not in
forget it, I’m on my way.
Bed on the floor, later today.


4

My hat, what time is it?
The poem of the future
drives with narcolepsy
because I really want to
I’m on my way. Bring
bring, I’m onto you. Please.


5

Time on the way. My hat
I almost forgot. What I’m
is it? My Own Private
kiss you on the lips and
drink you on the floor—
your father’s at the door.


6

My hat is black and snappy.
I fall asleep in it
until
you grab me I’m awake.
In the bedroom on the floor
I sing you my new song
based on a tune by Faith
No More. “We stroll
to the edge of the world”
and you wrap the sky
blue bandana
around my head. We smoke
each other’s Marlboro
lips.
And then we fall apart.


7

I brought my hat, take off
my hat. You brought
your shirt and tell me that
it’s my Nirvana shirt actually
you bought for me I can
have it back while you put on
the Marlboro shirt
I drove to you I brought to you
on my back. Call me later.


8

The hat on my head is
twelve o’clock but on
your head it’s six
so cute. You hand me
and we have some beer
and you put in My Own
Private Idaho. All of
our yesterdays, “smoke ’em
if you got ’em” (that means
I nodded off).
You grab me awake
and take me to your room
which is really your father’s
because nobody loves us
like we love each other,
the way he asked you if we
lick each other’s assholes
and how I wish you had said
From head to head to toe.


9

The telephone rings.
I grab my hat.
I want to be ready.


10

I am a poet who was writing
a poem. My hat
rings. What time are you?
I didn’t drive an hour and change
to see My Own Private
Idaho. My hat is on the floor
next to the rumpled
Nirvana Sliver
you gave to me and I gave to you.


11

I want to tell the world about
the telephone rings
my Bone Daddy hat is laughing
at my singing while I drive
but you have iron in your eyes
when I sing to you from the bad
on the floor in your father’s room.
You know what I mean.


12

The telephone rings, my hat
I write my words with
or without you. You write better
than me and I refuse
to let you forget it. I sleep
through My Own Private
I don’t know, thanks for the beer,
an hour and change
to get here. My hat is on
your head when you grab me
awake. I kiss you and
it falls to your bed is
on the floor with our T shirts
and our jeans. Shoulders,
assholes, knees, we crawl
Nirvana over each other
to the edge of the No More world.