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

in the fall

why fire's hot, fall's cold
science knows, but nobody's thinking about it
just happens that way. so
i'm Nobody, ok, and i think about it,
wish these either weren't either, or
were in balance: candles, crisp leaves,
blue-grey wind.

on the avenue's a man, looking
lost; dis-oriented; on the 'phone he says
"there's gravel, a blue sign, cars,"
historic novelties. but they're everywhere. "come
get me?"

words are grand friends, who leave
fall's cold if hot fire's to be had.
so it is with us mud-dwellers:
in life's cold fall i leave my friends
for fire's heat. grand or human, they do the same
to me.

"what's the blue sign say?" says
his 'phone; he squints yellow eyes to hear
our grand friends glitt'ring white meaning-full--!
but no! they're gone, incomprehensible!
mere pixel-ated hieroglyphs! "i can't," he admits;
"then neither can i," replies his 'phone
in a hang-up.

i'd visitors on Thursday. fall's cold
drove all my words away; they found fire's heat
elsewhere, perhaps. i offered my remaining
guests silent drinks and better seats in place
of conversation. "ah, my grandest friends
have left," i apologized. these couldn't
understand.

"i've nothing now," declared the gristle'd
man, illiterate and blind under
my blue street-sign. nearby's his 'phone
ringing: he imagines impotent help-offers
coming through tinny, cheap, and not
coming through.

why's this man alone? i stand and cross the stairs,
push the door open looking out; it clicks behind me.
nobody's about. his 'phone's ringing and i
scuttle down toward him with no words at all
feeling fall's chill press my grand friends back;
"come up, i have fire's heat, upstairs," i say
thinking to offer a drink, a better seat. so
i'm Nobody, ok, and i think about it
but he'll be outside for some time and i
never stood up to leave.

my view of him scales back
including late dusk clouds,
that square red brick apartment house,
plastic window-frame,
crisp-colored leaves,
a thrusting wind.
such as we are, mud-dwellers;
we leave fall's cold for fire's heat.



September '09

Moderna

i love you, City. but i fear for you
and what your citizens shall do to us
in years to come. your concrete chimney flue
cancer won't be the worst of it; they'll fuss

at your fall-colored history, and shy
from bitter sweat and oppressive Rust ache.
sterile tales will these tell--no sons of thy
muddy womb, no more such cruel river strength

we knew before. it rains in my City;
shy citizens peer out for salvation,
river rain washing clean our gutter grease.
oh bide our sins, Urbana: years shall come


to shake the bitter dust of 








September '09