ALL RESPONSES |
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Heavy stones hold us to the world,
But winds carry what isn’t bound
To places far above the level plain.
If we would just lift anchor
And take flight, as others have before,
To join the silent squadrons
Held steady by singing strings,
We’d see the distant earth below,
And know that we are made of light.
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Falling down, the stairs
disintegrate into chaos.
How shall I descend? |
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A kind of pilgrim looking for too much
finds it, window flight west, below the dark water
curves an inverse sky, an island glistens, a constellation
of gulls patrol the canal, their shrieking over
fast talk of travelers who watch space bend
in the wind’s fabric, breaking the silence of the great
herons that stand like wise guys in a brown wetland of dusk
that softens the outlines of pastel houses
perched uneasily on rocky hills, vines in dry wind,
light filtered through exhaust makes mountains invisible
where the hidden ones sleep along concrete aqueducts,
each face — nose corners, spider webs,
long cheek channels — part of the mystery and dirt
of tankers, cars, birds, junk in its backlit place, each face.
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You tell me a story
about a story that
has no real ending.
You talk about the baby
you lost in 1962.
These are only words to help
keep the sun in the sky,
your other children asleep;
yet when the car refuses
to start and you begin to cry
there is no other sound
around us save for the tick
tock of the grandfather clock. |
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Sometimes, after great storms, wars or accidents,
you search through the ruins for remnants,
things from the past, a photo, a ring, to remember,
or, not to forget how a day, an hour was, before.
The great Before, kin to Then, grandchild of Once.
Not when your life was perfect, but in tact.
Before you were left with rubble; Then the solid house;
as in Once you were young. Or rich. Or strong.
The hard day, the day of dry eyes comes when you’ve
sifted through every splinter, lifted every joist left.
The failure of small retrievals is viewed as success.
You return from the dead, hands full of the invisible.
Of the great two-story house, you pocket a thimble.
Once we might have rent our clothes lovingly, strewn
ash in our hair so everyone we met would know,
upon seeing us, we were blessed by the only lesson.
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The boxes of my life, receptacles of moments
and memories, eventually just line up at the curb,
the time taken to absorb each memory
too miniscule, so I forget to take the memory,
and instead, the knick knacks rule me.
They make me move around them;
I forget to move through them,
on my way about living.
This is why, on the bus sometimes, or bike,
I suddenly start laughing,
and have stories float into my vision,
and back out again, leaving in their wake
only a smile.
At home, the knickknacks have accumulated,
and are troublesome as the bills.
I walk around them like a wave of small marbles
that will roll at me if I so much as graze them
with my toes.
My lesson is this: to be rid of some of those boxes
that cloud my vision and bore my sight,
stumble me in the middle of the night.
I will leave no such wake as this when I leave,
but a palate full of memories in full bloom,
yet peaceful, for those who come
down the sidewalk after me.
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We come at you wielding.
We come with thrums to
madcapitate you. We come
sidewise. We come to praise
the High Awarder
when his thumb comes up,
we come.
We come to bomb heavy,
to nail you to the ground
with downstrokes of your past.
We come with music that
cuts through frozen ponds.
And we shall flight you
up a cloudstream to the crow's nest.
We shall roll, dive, and we shall
wind an iambic alarm.
On signal, we shall burst onto
the asphalt, lashing our wings across
your windshield. We shall sweep
the specks of your eyeballs
and memories off the desert of ice.
This will happen because it happens.
When we come, even the angels
shall wear black, and fly
with our formation. |
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Seems life itself
has been reduced,
thrown out,
made ready for
the garbageman.
But we shall defy it
and rise
like the Phoenix,
no idle legend he--
we shall be the proof. |
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Is there anything left,
after this?
Sunlight has eaten through
everything that begs disintegration.
The boxes you see here
don’t really exist.
They are figments of a reality
which was, but isn’t.
Sunlight eats through
everything that begs disintegration.
The wreath is a timepiece of years;
the cardboard, imagination of lost trees.
Is there anything left,
after this?
We stand here, at the curb,
not a tear shed, yet we sob
at this ending of the story
with protagonists we know
not.
The wind sifts us all in the end.
Is there anything left after this?
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God grass, God trees,
God water, the Vee
of overhead geese
all the colored fish
below in sound
less incubation:
bluegills, green fins,
gillets and me alike
inside the sleeping
bag holding my body
but not my dreaming
of a simpler chaos:
light distance humming
blankness from stars
producing nothing but
imaginary numbers
like the following morning
having God’s permission
to travel on without me |
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Then the presenter in the drive-thru window
Gives that stunned sideways glance
The one that says: oh, god. I
handed out the wrong order of food.
And as I remind myself to be the radical manager and
not yell
The first pissed off customer walks in behind me
With her loaded-pistol stare, her
Crumpled bag of cooled food jammed
Across the counter, 22% into my territory, which says:
Fix it 3 minutes ago.
And I wonder if the hick-mom is going to pull the trigger as I go to it
Or bite her tongue like a leaf of flavorless, room-temp lettuce.
And then I recall the days my father played the Asshole card.
It was not so much a thoughtless, biochemical process
But a game plan. Dad said, “where’s the goddamned manager?” and spit
Flew from his salivating, lunch-hour lips. “This is UN-
Believable. It happens every time I come here!
And thank you, very much, Miss Manager lady, for the extra pies.”
And he’d wink at me—you know…the way dads do—as we left
Bearing the winner’s trophy of hot, processed sandwiches, potatoes,
and pies. I grab a pair of pies and snap open a to-go bag with my left hand.
And I put on this cool smile to de-escalate the hot temper of someone’s
Sweet mother. It works. And that’s when I realize that I reinforced the behavior.
And then I think of Larry the Cable guy who said
“I love garage sales. I actually did all my Christmas shopping at a garage sale.
I got gifts for all my family and friends for 4 dollars and 30 cents! It was awesome.“
And then I think, that’s us, behind the counter,
Watching service times climb while the company plops its dignity
Into the toilette bowl and flushes without considering
This might be the first movement of a new food-borne illness.
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every day i feel
the downward
pull of something
i cannot break
like the bird who
flies too soon
sees sky
then hits glass
i’m afraid
but it’s not clear
if i’m afraid of
living or dying
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It is warm in the fertile pile,
Living among cliché spirits
Dumped once usefulness
Had run its course, with
Plastic, paper, metal --
Reading cardboard words,
Containers that meant something
To someone days ago.
A body can lie here twenty years
Or more, growing slowly
Less inclined towards action,
Or one day become struck
By sunlight after wind
Blows your cover away,
And the trash-picker,
Searching for buried treasure,
Beholds the sleeping child.
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a spatula melted into the shape of Saturday morning pancakes
the cast iron skillet shimmered with rust
one bar-be-que splashed apron, checkered, gifted, crumbled
one feather duster mugged with dirt
brown boots with split soles, one crumbled sock textured to the grain
twenty CDs scratched and deformed, grinning with melodies
memorized and worn
a date book with a broken spine, pages slashed with black,
others rimmed with red
two cracked wine glasses, one beer stein as silvery as drunken apologies
a shirt pocket ripped from the pen that signed the divorce papers
a black shoe polish can, rimmed and empty
at the bottom a silver chain, when he pulled it out, a locket
shaped to the size and condition of his heart, tarnished with sin
false bravado, fake accord, lies and sleepless nights, recriminations
born from guilt, secret tears, messages scattered on smoke
one flattened brown cardboard box left under the stairs, a chaos of cleaning products under the sink, a hornet’s nest by the kitchen
window, a lock without a key, a crushed dream, a dance of fire
in his loins, a kiss left upon his pillow, an urge to bellow,
a walk to the sea and throwing his ring into the deep, a walk to the edge and falling into the wishing well of regret, a drink of forgetfulness, a hang-over of remembering, and then
lifting his face to the rain
and starting all over again
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Well there’s that box
discarded relationship refuse
It still sits there
perhaps in hope of being recycled?
Filled with the distrust of philandering
Folded memories of cardboard lies
Manipulative two-timers bouncing back and forth between
his Red Danish and his Japanese gyoza
Overused sex toys
covered up by guilt
Resentment at lack of attention
fills another bag
Then there’s the rusted hulk of her parental washing machine
Broken by abuse
misuse
Mom once had to borrow
her brother’s friend’s machine
for a few spins
Dad just dealt with the unwashed
Maybe strong solvents
After awhile
Dad took out anger of the failed machine
on her
She finally convinced Ma & Pa
To chuck the whole shebang
There it sits
rusting on her sidewalk
she thinks about it every day
as she passes by
Packs of beauty product junk
Her Guilty weighted container
Over-plucked eyebrows
she repainted daily
Rarely used leg razors
Coverup tubes
lipstick cases
Boxes and boxes
of failed late teenage
and college
Diets
Discarded exercise machines
and regimens
First obsessed over,
later discarded for comfort
after the altar
Replaced recently
by still more obsessions
to distract from the reality of
products of the altar
Still more boxes of family junk
The judgemental oldest sister
wrinkled by too much sun
exposure to social work
Mom’s final career as a parole officer
Wilting trust in gods children
Dad’s bought-and-paid-for marriage annulment
Refusing to decompose in the sun
Smelliest are
recent piles—
decomposing
distilled
doo doo
--from this
once unhealthy
German Shepherd
His vet recently healed him
Luckily, now he is
Barking Proud and strong
Still, susceptible to infection
yet tracking a new neighborhood
that offers little excitement to such a lively Dane
But those piles, she
left them there
awhile back
God, in his plan
would let flies
get rid of those piles
in time…
But she has to keep them contained
Clear ziplocks!
Her choice
bag them,
focus on them!
Through lenses of
friends’ failures
heartbreaks
divorces
disappointments!
Allowing her
distraction:
Excitement of
New Breeds
New Dogs
They are waiting
on the next street!!
Barking mating calls to the Red Dane
Will they smell the refuse?
Will they also ignore the signs left behind
Or just stir it up
into a greater mess??
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It seeped
Aged
Brooding
Its soul
Deep in the angles of the wood
The hard edges
Where a body can rub
The cupboard
The bathroom rugs
The blankets
The carpet in the computer room
The floor tiles
You cannot place where it comes from
Closed up in the house
It is everywhere
A warning, a portent
You take it inside you
The truth of its story
Folds inward, lodges
You open the windows for fresh air
Containing wet blossoms, greenness
Still the odor rises over the breeze
Remnants of old dreams
A mind of memories
The scent of his dying remains
Flooding your whole world
Like the God of Noah
You must seek to eradicate
Start over the whole shebang
Wash the blankets and rugs
Douse all else with 409
Wood soap
Carpet cleaner
And a little of God’s grace
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The next time you see me
the rain will beat & break
birds will fall silent,
streets will glisten.
I will see in your eyes
the clear sky, know clouds
linger, but not today
not in you.
The next time you see me
I will tell you that loneliness hangs
low in the sky, rivers like rain
clings to the undersides of leaves
Tomorrow is as distant
as last year's promises
and just as easy to forget.
Today I want only blossoms
circling trees, want only a glimpse
of you as evening blankets
everything I know in the hush
only love buried knows.
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Manus the old junkman and his fierce son Gordon
Drove their blind horse, Daisy, through the streets,
Crying, "Cash for old things, cash, cash, cash."
Once, I remember, they got a great chain section
From a freighter, each link head-size, welded and terrible,
Not really junk; somewhere a captain was looking
For his anchor, but here they were, those two,
Rejoicing in the junkyard, with their cargo.
Eventually the horse was sold for its meager fat
And the junkmen, by any other name, descended
To their reward, where I suppose they are sitting now
Sharing tobacco, speaking in that strange harsh language
In which they could tell stories about the old days,
Never revealing any name or circumstance.
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Restless like these dirty floors
Paper dolls pasted to cramped mattresses
Bugs tick around under damp sheets
Their echoes drip on oily skin
Naked bodies roll around, but have to pee
So down from ladders, leave these sweaty lofts
We’ll shake off booze with a rush for coffee
Hold up the show to rummage through ashtrays
To find a few crumpled, stale stubs
then out to skulk up these car streets
hating these lines of liquor stores
sucking cash like a smiling sex assault
my apartment stuckto the edges of
C-lar-ITY jar/r/ring frag
ments splitting - - hairs
live dirty, breath dirty, dirty clouded thoughts
I stop to sit on the front steps of a quiet church,
empty - a cigarette and a lighter's spark of flint
exhale puffs - soften - then dull, Tao pastel
“oh, i’ve got a winner here” rolls around
in my mouth and mind, but smoke fills my eyes
smudges the words and I realize “no, i’ve got a winter here” |
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The Great Pacific Gyre
For each pound of algae
Six pounds of plastic, floating
Just beyond the mesosphere
A few hundred visitors
a few million bits of detritus, orbiting
One year in America
One hundred billion plastic bags
each used
once
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As novelty thinned
and interest ebbed
Celeste found herself
consigned to the parade
of curbside castoffs
first despairing this interim fate
as no man’s treasure.
Then, catching the lift of the wind
she glided smoothly into solo flight.
Not knowing
whether to deride or envy her wings
the others reckoned her choice far
too fearsome to willingly embrace
so pressed themselves close
to their own mates, and plied them
for some small hint of reassurance.
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This is a representation
of my brain
**#c//o//d//e//!?<*>
for not quite
something something I forget
at times (squared)
TimeShare in CrazyTown
a lovely line
which I thought to use
as title for my next book
which would be poems about
all the ways this world makes
me feel crazy
but almost seven years ago
I stopped watching the news
so no longer possess the ability
to track pop culture (a good thing)
or keep up on
current events (a needful thing)
and I have not
written that book (an ok thing)
I sleep without nightmares
the closest I get is a rant
on how pissed I am
OMG (I haven't been in a cave)
at how the media
uses collage as shorthand
for crazy . . . think
"A Beautiful Mind"
lame I know
but it's all I have
to work with
so
a sidewinder tumbled
melange of front lawn trash
is as good as anything
to get this off my mind
and on the page
where it may not belong
or much matter
but that Dear Reader
I leave in your keeping
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Second floor, women’s bathroom, behind the curtained stall.
Head titled backward, mouth open in ‘Ah,’ the relief of hot piss
displacing itself from her smallish bladder into a larger container.
Wondering what the next drink will be like, she laughs,
overheard by those waiting in line, those fucking one another
on the sinks. The paper towel dispenser is loaded with one rag
stitched into a circular form. Are you crazy? No one would be so stupid
as to wipe their hands on that thing, even drunk, but cold water
slapped onto the face of an anonymous tonight-only lover? now that
is hot. In that bathroom stall, she could glide away into forever and never
come back from ‘Ah,’ but the bitches in line are bitching about her
taking too long a moment in personal ecstasy. Her head rolls into place.
Her eyes roll down and her breasts take form in her bleary brain.
Then hands led by some invisible singing string of club-thumping music
grasp for her panties and the thigh-strings tighten and her ass is up
off of the toilette, hips jutting left, right, head still rolling about.
For 1/60th of a second she has the look of St. Theresa in ecstasy, then
her fingers are slapping the circular lock, trying to find a way out.
And her head has fallen down and her ass has squeezed together and forward
to be sure her zipper isn’t down on her jean skirt…it’s a red dress. The door opens.
Her right foot slides forward, knocking the door open. Then her left
pushes her out into the open where she right, left, rights her way
toward the exit, floating as if on strings pulled by someone bigger and she
is baffled by the constantly changing perspective of the hall as her head
rolls left, rolls backward until she sees the ceiling, suicidally leaps
to the floor, then springs toward the hall, toward the bar, toward
“Hey, baby,” with the rum’n coke.
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I have felt like this before.
My heart open like an old cardboard box,
left near the street, useless because empty.
The purpose was to hold something,
something that isn't there anymore,
like a TV set or a stereo, a bag of cereals or a toy...
My heart was there to hold feelings.
There was a purpose, and that purpose was to love,
to feel strong by just holding that energy within.
The boulevard my heart is laying on is metaphorical,
but it is there.
The way I got to this place,
how long I have been here are unclear facts
but may be measured by the lines on my face,
by the number of white hair on my head.
I used to be!
I had a purpose I held love...
Where has it all gone and why do I find myself here,
is the question.
My theory is that Chaos
is the feeling we experience
while looking at pieces of something that,
because related to one another,
are supposed to make sense, like a puzzle,
but in my case they don't.
My problems may all be related to one subject,
but what I am looking at
is a pile of chunks, pieces and shreds
I can barely make sense of,
like this pile of unwanted, un-useful stuff,
that like my heart,
was dumped on a boulevard,
discarded by who had no more use for it.
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She knows the empty fireplace could never
damper her desire for him, but wonders
about windows that stare at wood fences
wonders about stale air and a ring
on the dresser from yesterday’s drink, the stain
a perfect circle that makes her think of
smoke rings her uncle blew for her
of oval stones she watched sink
how water takes the shape
of everything that touches it
and she knows she does too.
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Refuse hem, border,
Creature of terrain.
Expel, discard board, box, way.
A throw backs word, wields edge
To split stars, the penitent tenants
Of night, of drifting day
Finite in circles witnessed
Evicting conviction,
We transient prisoners of possession in residence. |
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My world turns into silence
and this watching of it into shadow
this is the watery childhood of my dreams
If you have come to be a cloud
fading, i will wait
If you have come to be a stone
turning, i will wait
There is no parting, even in shore waves
There is no death, even in westerly winds
If i listen, i hear your voice
If i look, i see you singing
this is the watery childhood of my dreams
and walking along its banks,
i am so small |
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He dreams of pine forests--
loves the smell of hot sap,
their brittle rust needles, imagines
sewing the forest floor with them
until he has to clear one.
Then he dreams of other soft
wood; birch, cedar, fir, hemlock, spruce.
Longs for limbs that leave his blade clean,
yielding piles of sawdust, smooth
bark in his hands.
Longs for kindling that burns like him--
once spent, turns silver and light.
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