impossibly hard

"come now, let us reason together,"
written honestly for liars
who don't care: gold unpolished isn't gold
they say, although in Jerusalem
it always sells the same
between friends.

"i love you: farewell,"
the books explained from boxes by the pond;
i think he meant to drown himself with literature.
tomorrow, i'll ask him why,
knowing no answer exists; he'll only say
he needed leaving left alone.

"awake, why sleepest thou, oh Lord?"
Petersborough's grave chronicler
silently mourns divine silence. we agree, but don't
admit to it: priests toss at night
praying prayers aren't empty thoughts.
our petty minds mumble such Celestial formalities.

"I wept,"
he admitted to the biographer, but why
he never could explain.
and never rude enough to ask,
Lazarus leapt to his second death wondering why
he'd been let fall slowly to the first.

"i am on your side,"
but: 2+2 must equal 5, we must condemn Julia
and O'Brien must have control, control, control:
even of the sand bead on your journal.
your side must be his, Winston, then will
his be yours.

"ask, seek, knock, and it shall be given to you,"
it was so honestly said so long ago,
but who ever undestood it?
men will always gorge themselves on greedy prayers:
that's not what he intended, is it?
but where, o where was all that holy fine print?




november '08
april '09

virginity

all told, i think i wrote better poetry when i was a virgin. take that how you will.

the lawyer: a story

 























let me tell you a story i heard. it goes like this:
we are just dust, to dust returning. and between--
a story, poorly told. he had leukemia
and he loved men, so when he died it was
the secretary, from the office: she was the one
arguing with his sister about the homosexual body.
the judge decided it ought to be cremated
according to his will, which he wrote for nobody;
i never heard who got the jar. i wonder about that.
months later, i sat outside and burned in the sun;
then, picking off my baked skin, i thought:
we peel like onions, then decay into dust. in a few years
we'll be but shimmers in our grandchildren's sunlight.
that is, if anyone's there at death
except the office secretary. well,
that's a sad story; i should have never told it, except
there was no one else to tell. neither life nor grave:
he's just dust, to dust returned. so between, i put--a story,
poorly told.




april '09

around and within them

they were then very mortal; every day more so
but always and around them
and within them breathed
the ceaseless memoirs of immortality.




april '09

drips.

Civilizations drip from history's faucet: mildly appearing, we slowly swell, and pause in the balance--then fall, fall into fathomless dark below. And another appears behind.



april '09

hold her close

if you have a pretty girl
hold her close, hold her close
for she won't stay long, no
she won't stay long with you.
when you hold your pretty girl
kiss her lips, kiss her lips, oh
for she won't stay long
she won't stay long with you.

if you have a pretty child
hold her close, hold her close
for she won't stay long, no
she won't stay long a youth.
and when you hold your pretty child
kiss her lips, kiss her lips, oh
for she won't stay long
she won't stay long a youth.

and oh! there was life in my lungs, oh
love! there was so much we had to hold, oh!
we stood on the edge of it all,
but we had to let go-

but oh! there are so many years to come,
love! so much we have yet to hold, oh!
we stand on the edge of it all,
we but have to let go-




april '09

Electricity

These black lines,
they carry civilization
under rubber coats.

Yellow droplets in a dark hill
(porch lights on suburban avenues)
and the blinking red or white beacons
on our dark horizons:
they all drip from these
black stretched lines,
which hang from frowning iron maidens
and a forest of pole-stripped trees.

The black lines sway,
carrying our pictures and songs
and so many conversations
--silently quieting violent instinct,
the blanket of black lines bleeds
a pool of light keeping us safe from us
and from the man in the gutter
with the shadowy lips--
and a storm is swirling
in a cloud's mind.

Huge wind runs through
and around my eyes
looking up at the black lines
now snapping, whipping,
pulling at their raised anchors:
Nature struggling against
the lilliputian strings that tie
her children to the earth
in pretty hats and scarves;
her barbarian worshipers
now wear cologne and combovers.

She knows who is to blame,
for long before this net of black lines
descended, her sons were free:
angrily she pulls at these
protecting, enslaving cords.

A black line breaks! and
the patchwork hill darkens,
distant yellow droplets dry up and
the beacons, no more red or white strobes,
become ghost-grey hilltop towers;
new barbarians let grow their wild beards,
look skyward from blackened porches
to reclaim their forgotten matriarch.

The street lights are silent on Fifth and Main:
I peer into night skies long passed.




may '06
may '09

The Four Horsemen

Every time I leave one of the main buildings in my life--apartment, work, school--I check to make sure I have possession of my wallet, keys, phone, and glasses. To myself, I've taken to calling these the four horsemen. So that takes care of the title; now you don't have to finish the book.

...
[all textbooks should be written in this fashion, and i should write every one.]




april '09