drift

you can drift
up a little, and lift to my right
making distant lights twinkle, friend.
a wisp of steam from hospital vents unknown:
i know you.
you are my muse. my
inspiration, religion, aspiration.

tomorrow's years, they scroll
from us, blacktop shimmering
sunlight and heat.
next crest in sight, but
after--who knows? i know only
that i do not, wise Socrates
i do not know.

are you holy, dear
inspiration, religion, aspiration
welling up between shimmers? or
arbitrary, steam-wisp astride? transient,
you yet hold weight in me
for seeing This moment
belonging to me.
i cannot have it
after having it, but
for all time i know This was.

This is not what i tried to do, kind world.
i confess candidly, openly admit:
This is failure, This is mistake.
This is freedom of utter loss.
i and This and blacktop shimmering,
all wisp-drifting manmade cloud,
here a moment, gone the next, but
for all time we know we were.

how does This change us?
brief scars of evaporation illuminate
what turns my soul: not cold academiction
nor factualysis, scholasticia,
but warm Blood! poetry, kind vein-rhythms,
you, my wisp of steam--

until i read these dripping words
aloud. noise is dissipation. translucent
moisture-muse thins to invisible air.

across the street, someone awakes
to click on a light--i saw so
in the rusted yellow window blind,
which lit up for a moment--then
a new moment, and the yellow square
disappears: indistinguishable in
muddled building-shadow. 

you know i can't see the steam
anymore, over those buildings, in the red
dotted lights. but i know i saw it, i know
i felt the gentle Socratic thrill:
knowing i know i don't really know at all.
This has gone, and i will not return to it
but neither will i soon live apart from it.
hope, once found, carries us within,
against unfortunate tangibles--
you drift, you drift,
you drift within.

march '08

october '09

an autumn sunset

october

late at night my neighbor's

kitchen light keeps me awake. i peer

curious across the alley

but the rooms are always empty.

not ours; this one-bed, kitchen,
living room & full bath (with
leaky tub) seems too small.

it's late, quite late i guess. i've slept

for hot hours. now awake, sweaty,

useless. what's there to do at 4:09?

so it was this sweet fall afternoon,

i sat on an empty couch, empty-minded

trying not to sleep. i've already wasted time

more than Napoleon, Newton, Roosevelt.

you'd think eventually apathy would dissolve;

it doesn't. you have to break it apart

molecule by molecule, which is

as much the 1,087th break-apart

as it is the 1st. we all know this.

my late-awake neighbor

stumbles into view, shredding

our beautiful morning with curses.

his woman screams; i cannot see her

commanding him to stop, pleading with

us sleepers for relief.

frail, is beauty; timid, peace. meanwhile

fierce, is apathy; relentless, violence.

i yell from my dark window: "i

hear you! let her go!" and

the kitchen light goes out,

silent. sweet October--

we live in you like nervous children.




October '09