Wednesday, November 23, 2022

Cataracts.

My science class memory of the Universe, it always

Begins in the dark. There are pinholes

Of misleading promise


—but that could be my eyes.


Have you ever seen a dead sunflower? The kernels

At the heart look like mummy teeth—the backwards-

Withered petals no longer canary yellow.


Instead, they curl away from the earth, like a vanquished

Coven of witches looking elsewhere.


But the point is 

It—the Universe, I mean, always moves to the light.



Act III

 Once and always to the dawn’s light

Where the water balls up

Like mercury at the bottom of a thermometer.


Where the leftover animals get reacquainted.


The bronze leaves break up because 

They’ve been given no lines.

Monday, October 31, 2022

The riverrun.

 The bean from which we get chocolate is good.

And milk is good. And the rivrrrun of everything

We get from milk is, too.


It’s good. But silence appeases a

Different set of Gods. No age, no

Gender, no celebration of appetite.


This embarrassment of riches is different from

The rich folks you know.


They hang out in truckstops

And undo the eating of their own souls.

Sunday, October 9, 2022

Curtain.

Love, be a movie.

Love, be a neighbor.


Show your familiarity to me.

The muses speak.

 How do we understand what they’re saying

In moments of ecstatic undoing?


Think of it like a volcano erupting:

Some folks will run away,

Other to the source of the explosion

To find the others. But everybody runs

Wednesday, September 21, 2022

Sunday, September 11, 2022

Good luck.

The country must have looked like a person once.

Someone landed and said,

You, you remind me enough of home.


That’s how the globe was formed

And little by little the idea of home learned to travel—

And develop its elusive slang,

Saying to the foot, not where you go.


Saying to the letter, maybe.

Sunday, September 4, 2022

Violet.

 I want to see everything, hear everything,

And share it all— how the walls start to smell moldy,

Violet in the drying light.

And no floor could support a living soul

This may only be the beginning;


So, here I am—I want to feel everything.

The clover filling in the blanks

Between the grass,

And the sky tumbling down the wild, clean hill.







Wednesday, August 3, 2022

On the waves.

 The poetry you lose seems wasted

Because you failed to externalize.

For hours maybe even days you continue to feel that

Lost opportunity, as if reaching off an empty pier


To pull aside the fog— a chance to see

And let them see you. But when you pull it back

Not even the miss you missed is there.

You are wanted,


But you want the miss. 


So, with the curtain in your hand you ignore the future

As your guts shake the bottom of the sea to life.

Sunday, June 26, 2022

Moon wobble.

 One or two trees with roots behind the horizon 

Slouching away—gatekeepers to another life, as the

Dead tried to leave, left.


The sun came—unrest went quiet, and

Orange light held court on the grassy shadows.


The first was the Elder, but the

Closest had one foot on the sunny hill

I saw.

Monday, June 13, 2022

Reverse sign language.

 Human pearls look like toes,

As they sink into the edge of the curly waves.


We know reverse sign langauge,

We spend a lot of time working on our backs

Torsos and tesserae,


Come by and look where my works begins.


Look: it’s disappearing: a reason

Or reason for pearls.

 

Saturday, May 28, 2022

The middle ground.

Keep it.

For a few nights salt lay before the purple sea.


But for the rest of the time

Despite the taste and its 

Buoyancy


The one closest seemed farther,

The impossible nearer to me.

Monday, April 25, 2022

Below the heavens you go.

 Language could learn a lot from you—

Because you meander—


You get lost so easily.


You aren’t good, 

You hook and you have good adversaries.


Speak quietly and especially slow to me

How the rose rises from the exit wound

While the earth and heroism

Sleep.



South

 Are you warm enough, now?


Is the poll incendiary or the

Polder smoldering for some 


Supernatural reason?


Are you hot because life jolted you hot?


Were these feathers left on the floor to remind me

Of you—you, the Angel,

Me, the disoriented  bird?

Sunday, April 24, 2022

Icarus and Daedalus.

 The greater dream must look impoverished 

On the hill,


Beside the cows and rows of corn and

Sheep we count.


Once we fall asleep and the agriculture of sleep

Falls asleep too

There may be a moment—but just one and 

It’ll pass quickly—below—


You will grow from a seed to an aching tree

And the sun will set inside of you.

Thursday, April 14, 2022

The Blue Commandment

We don’t remember everything.


But when we meet it’s awkward, and there’s a

Lot we pretend to quietly understand—


We go home and dip inside ourselves, trying to

Pry it out, like change from the seat of a recliner, 

Or hair from a stopped drain.

There was an eleventh commandment

And it had something to do with the color blue:


Perhaps it was the pailletted aura of the sun and

The possibility that it was 

Point A in the whole sky.


Or, more likely it was how we ought to grieve. How 

The heavens should fill our eyes all the way,

And how our eyes should blink, too,

And thank the heavens.

Wednesday, April 13, 2022

Spring.

This dream is more science fiction

Than the others. 


I meet a camel on the road to Damascus. He falls

Apart instantly, and I’m like why!?

Pretty soon the humps start convulsing and it’s dark

Outside. Blood everywhere.


I throw a saddle over his

Shoulder.

It’s gonna end. I’m gonna wake and he’ll be

Ok.

Wednesday, April 6, 2022

You are born grass-tall.

 I keep thinking about the glory of love

How it has holes in it.


And as higher functioning organisms we’re

Drawn to those holes.


We are and the light from outside is.

You are born grass-tall. 

Saturday, January 15, 2022

Minnaloushe.

 Where did we leave off, and what were you saying?


I was holding my fingers in a damp bundled cloth, and Yeats—


One of us was destined to pass out from the intensity 

Of the afternoon color. 

Friday, January 7, 2022

The string section.

 I keep having the same funny dream—

I’m trying to grab a giant pearl

In the ocean but it’s greased and the waves rock against

My will. And I’m just dreaming, anyway.


It becomes a kite. And I wash my hands.

Down from ten I count to zero,

Each blue ribbon tied to the string,


And each spindrift of sunny daylight

And more strings. Even stuck against solid things.


I am no longer looking ahead or behind.

Wednesday, January 5, 2022

Fragment.

 Chop me up into smaller orange parts, saying,

All will finally be revealed.

Take a look as the sun drops his damp bath towel

On the floor of his private field.