untitled (27)

Do not

hold on to

this moment

Be present

Participate

(fully) in

its Passage

Memory 

comes after

Magical Ordinary

How amazing that something so magical

is so ordinary.

How sad that our children grow up

even sadder that we rush them.

Four years spent

taking pictures

trying to hold onto something

that 

by its nature

is forever

beyond grasping.

(parigraha)

Intellectually
artistically

I've known this all along

but

only in the past weeks

have I found the courage

(?)

to feel the

words

that

name this sadness.

How amazing that something

so magical

is 

so ordinary.

good news, bad news, haiku

there are more
of us than them

but

they have

more guns

on Wednesday

Mourning

[sic]

I woke
soul-

sick 

and nauseous

remembering the night before

when I told my three-year old daughter:

tomorrow 

there may be a lady president;

that she might be president someday

if she wanted.

I was overcome by the realization:

her first memories

of the presidency will be of

him

of pussy-grabbing fame
the wall-builder
endorsed by the KKK
the star-spangled banner waning

[sic]

over Mar-a-Lago some years ago
the Muslim banner waxing some years to come.

The bad hombres and

nasty women

have been sharing their

sorrow and fear

and it struck me:

if

things had gone differently
the outpouring would have been
vim and vengeance.

They are all right:

the system is broken

a broken man will lead it.

Poem for Day 1174

It's hard to believe

that

I will ever love you 

more

than I do today

so

I have faith

that

I will. 

#thatworldisgone

I walk past Sublime covers
that are not, feeling closer
to the frightened tourist and
drunken business traveler
than I do to the twenty
something that I once was.

Time has reassured me

that I will never know

the heights that might

have been or the lows

that surely were or the

vast 

middle path

that lies between

the two.

Tonight I will sleep

in a luxury hotel three

blocks from the capital

as a result of no particular

fault or success of my own.

Tomorrow I will wake

with a case of amnesia, one 

thousand miles from home.

Monday night in Austin

More information 

less knowledge

more choice 

less freedom. 

I think of my daughter. 

Her boundless energy

and deceptive wisdom. 

Have you ever heard

the silent psalm?

the bouncing koan

of the cosmos?

She has. 

Without sanctimony 

or drunkenness  

or the ill-conceived 

conceit of poetry - 

Monday night in Austin. 

1st Born Haiku

Although I have done

Many things well in this life 

Nothing else compares 

One Year

1

year 

has never 

felt less like

three hundred

sixty-five days than this

The Vaccine

Two hours awake

two hours sleeping

two days waiting

– the joys of parenthood

do not include

warding off pertussis

or diphtheria.

Every two months

the dreams of Jonas

colonize my own.

The Chair

Two mornings each week
after the diaper and the toys and the dancing
we find ourselves upstairs in the rocking chair
and she sleeps gently in my arms.

Each time she grows imperceptibly older
daily changes invisible 

undeniable. 

We rock, we rock, we rock...

Tears come as I realize that these days are numbered
that already more have passed than are to come.

One day we will watch pridefully
as she matures and grows and becomes
the "herself" she was born to be.

But these napping Monday mornings
have already cast their gossamer over the days ahead
the thin blanket of the past keeping us warm

 as we hurtle hopelessly into the night.

For Patti and Robert

[1]

Mosquito-bitten and starving;
mid-March daydream of spring
unending. Wistful confidence,
neither regretful nor proud:
the apathy it took to get here.

[2]

I started drinking coffee

for the taste but stayed for

the caffeine. Veins pulsing

like the Ganges, I followed

it until it emptied iteself

one day in September.

[3]

I read it all in one day

racing as if to find some

magical revelation but when I

reached the final pages I found myself

skimming the words – ashamed of being a voyeur

disappointed by my envy – I realized no revelation

my life did not take on new meaning. The

book merely ended and I was one

day older. No closer

– or further – 

from the truth

than I had ever been before.

 

on turning 36

On the night I turned 36
I dreamed of a snowy hillside
on a small country road where my
grandmother once lived. I climbed

until I could go no further and
looked  down to see the Auto-
Nomen waiving from the bottom
of the hill. He motioned

to his left and I turned to find a
set of ropes fastened to the icy
rocks, extending into the blue-
white sky above. I continued

onward without asking why or
how someone I knew so little
would do so much to help me
find my way. I woke

at 4:37 and put my hand on
my wife's stomach to feel
our daughter dancing alone
in the unborn night. I prayed

that I might serve as hemp
and fleece and help her on
her journey and protect her
from the cold.

Recovered (17 June 2012)

All memories build. 
All memories build outward on one another.
All memories build outward on one another from this moment,

forever inevitable and irreversible, referring back
this frozen moment:

perpetual comparison, infinite signification. 

A million signifiers.
A million signifiers pointing back to a single referent.

(a moment of clarity and transcendence) 

A million signifiers pointing back to a single referent that appears

constant – a moment of clarity and transcendence –
this shivering perfection:

shackling the moment before to the moments after.

repost: poem recovered from Big Sur - 1 year, 10 weeks and counting...

big

Sur

highway 

One

cassette tape

Nostalgia

sunny day Melancholy

fog bank Bankruptcy:

The priest dances for Rain.

A beauty so perfect

it saddens him to know

it will remain when He is gone.

Il est mort. (eulogy for Chris Marker)

I learned of his passing

one month after it happened -

a Thursday morning otherwise

consumed with insomnia and

thoughts of work and suddenly

my career didn't seem quite

so important, nor my sleeplessness,

nor my knowledge of either. I

wondered, in the way one does 

before sunrise, if his were the last

images I would ever truly love.

I wondered if I would
ever remember again
without thinking of him.

2106 days ago tomorrow

Last year
she asked:

"Have you
written any
poetry lately?"

Well, I remember

(which does not mean:
I remember well)

one I wrote
two thousand
six days ago
tomorrow

[lapse]

She asked:

"Are you an artist?"

I f a lt e re d

What I meant to say:

"I'm living."

(I guess this makes this
an artist's commune)

Life as Picasso:

Longing an O'Keefe:

Words like teeth do chomp:

"The word 'art' interests me very much.
If it comes from the Sanskrit, as I've heard, it signifies 'making.'"
-Marcel Duchamp

And the one I wrote this morning:

her dancing round heart

the accidental haiku

beating safe and sound

Thank you,
I said, for asking.

In Response to Alison Luterman's "Because These Failures Are My Job"

These images are neither the ghosts of the past

nor the promise 

of a future.

They are merely an observation:

everything that can pass

will.

     But let also us remember: these failures –

whether "offering"

or "apology"

or "thank you"

 

 – are miracles nonethless.

Happy belated birthday!

Note: This poem was originally penned in March of 2008 under the influence of boredom, Francis Scott Key, and the patriotism of the previous six and a half years. It is best read while listening to:

"Makes No Difference" by Richard King

I close my eyes and listen...

the vision of a banner

spangled and splattered

smothered and covered

hoisted and dropped

from the rooftop of Waffle House

Stitched together from the scraps of Sicily

and the dregs of Dublin

and the bums of the Balkans

and the crumbs of the Caucuses

and the niggers of the Niger river basin

and the ten thousand bastard Amerasians

from the hundred thousand homeless vets

whose Vietinsemination was such a success.

Can you see that banner?
Can you see that billboard?
The one over the streets of Baghdad:

The one bragging in Bangalore:

The one towering over Tel Aviv:

Can you see?

the dawn’s early light over Bikini Atoll

With sheep lashed to the railings of destroyers,
and GI’s washing their clothes later that day,
eating gyros and laughing at Oppenheimer.

Are you still there?

have I lost you Tet?

What a lovely new year and many more to come,

holidays in the sun

holidays in Cambodia

holidays in Laos.

I have a friend who was there in ‘61:

19 years old

jumping into the jungles

with plenty of advice
and a canteen full of vinegar

for the purpose of douching the wounded.

But who needs all this when we have the Rock?

and the Rock’s red glare

staring down

Stone Cold Steve Austin

Keeping us warm at night,
bringing us in from the cold.

It reminds me of my childhood

and the last icy villain

and his Red Scare.

An actor brought him in from the cold, too:

a real cowboy

But this is a new era,
with a new almond-faced hero

(it’s okay he’s Samoan)

no miscegenation here, boss.

And the planes bursting in mid-air?

not since Lockerby

5 million screaming Scotsmen can’t be wrong.
and 19 dead Arabs can’t be right
and 1 balding municipal servant
who had one good day in September?

He can run for president.

But the flag is still there:

The flag is still there.

The flag is still there.

And what does it say?

Alone at night, naked

and cold.

Shivering from night terrors

and kicking at the covers

holding on with both hands

trying to stretch that blanket a little further

pulling it overhead and trying not to breathe

because Ed Jenner is nowhere around.

And the land?

The land was free;
a manifest destiny quilting bee,
a landscape stitched together

with all those poxy small blankets

three thousand miles
from sea to shining sea.

And our home?

How brave it is, to leave a single tribe in all of Georgia?
No more Apalachee, or Cherokee, or Shawnee.

only a single tribe left in all of Georgia

bought because
it was the cheapest
programming in town.

Who wouldn’t want to own a part of this dream?

titled 526

I woke to the poppy and rose outside the bedroom window:
carnation and fuchsia, dew-covered and bent
slightly, blowing, lightly, the breeze like dandelions.

 . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .  : ..  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .    .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... :  . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...  : .   ... : . . .    .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .    .  .. .  :: ...  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .. . : .  : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .     ... :  .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .. .    .. .  :: ...   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .    : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... :: ...   .     : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... .   .     ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ...   .     ::     .. .  :: ...   .     ::   .  .. .    ::   . : .   ... : . . .   : .  . ..  .  .  .. .  :: ... : . . ...

The gentle sunlight of dawn illuminates each with equal vigor,
magnitude and splendor, weekend slumbers blow careless –
flowers like choices, populate the morning garden.