Wednesday, July 27, 2005

A Time of Confidences

Harvey
.
. . . and I remember
. . that summer
. when Harvey took me
down those old crumbling
. . . . gray stairs
. . . . to where the honeysuckle blossoms
. . . . . were ripening.
. . . . . He picked a golden blossom
. . . . . . . . off a dangling green vine,
. . . . . . . . and orangello pollen
fell about and dusted Harvey's fingertips.
When he plucked out the middle of
. . . . the blossom
. . . . . and touched it
. . . . to my tongue
. . . . . . . I tasted
. . . . . . . . . Yellow!

A time of Innocence . . .

Wheels Of Time
.
Crystal hale
. . slicks down the streets
and ices over
. . a small red tri-cycle
. . fallen on its side
in the clean white snow.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

What a time, it was . . .

Alimental Ode Full
of Sexual Lonliness
.
If it was not tranquil, it would be gloomy;
If it was not a prodigious quiet, it would be a
parsimonious silence; If it wasn't a family tree, it would be
a bend sinister; If it was not a siphoning off, it would be
only viscous pitch; If it was not beating its wings
everywhere, it would be an abandoned dog, on Galapagos,
waiting to feed its progeny with eonic recumbence,
and, looking forward to finding the next right sized meal.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Time it was, and . . .

The Train Cars

Two empty train cars
pose
on once silver rails
linked together
at the hip
like docile old women
sitting
arm in arm
in the park
feeding pigeons at noon

Thursday, July 07, 2005

The past is just a goodbye

When She Would
-
These are my children:
footprints in sand,
oils, traces of fingers, lips, discarded
on the marked surface of a drinking glass,
-
breaths breathed swallowed by wind,
waste washed down a pipe, rust,
flecks of skin in light,
dancing detritus,
desiccations,
dust
-
wrappers dropped behind.
-
These, the ghosts
that lived with me,
hints-of-things embraced.
-
You should have known their mother.
Deeply,
I craved her,
deeply, the way a man misses life
when he thinks of her,
the way a string yearns for vibration,
music plucked from sense like
a ripe pomegranate
a flash of light
that's how she came to me
when she would.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Teach your children well

Close As I Can Come
-
This is one
of my children,
your children,
their children's
children,
bequeathal
preceding me from out of the numerical
constructions of the Arabs.
-
At work I float in my chair,
hovering ephemera
barely seated there,
anywhere,
but especially there.
-
I am always crowded.
I'd like to rest.
I'd like to be solid,
just for a day, or even
an hour,
but I am passing even as
I am being
born.
Can Euclid tell me what that means?
It feels like something.
Something I am not.
I think I should be that,
not this,
concentric rings of if-onlies.
The scriptures are the same to me
even if I read
in Latin or in Greek,
in Aramaic, Sanskrit, or
In-Between-Gray-Lines.
That's as close as I can come.