Two Poems (Issue 30.)
Two Poems (Issue 14.)
Five Poems (Issue 2.)
Two Poems (August 20, 2011. Issue 30.)
In My Dreams Rebecca Hall
Comes out of the jungle,
barefoot, as my
dream is barefoot, unsure
of its next step,
just as easily slipping into
warm sapropel
as treading on an asp.
Rebecca Hall comforts me
with her warm klezmer voice,
her rich lips, her eyes like
the light off gems.
She does this because I am
the last man.
Everyone else perished from
excess civilization, a little
gin, a little Portland cement.
In my dream Rebecca Hall
is there at the wind-up, a light
like a new entry, like a threshold.
Way Fairer
"My life was going to be, and already was,
a shore set adrift."
--Rafael Alberti
I set out. The setting out
was as important
as the far-flung intention.
I took provisions.
I had apples that could
cause men to cough up blood.
I had spices which women
use to make snakes of mud.
And, in the part of the boat,
where no sun shone,
I kept my shadow in a box
made of myrrh and
mane. I set out with the in-
tention of sewing that
shadow to a soul,
one that would carry me a-
way from myself,
from this need to wander,
and this need to make
of the world an informal atlas.
Two Poems (February 20, 2009. Issue 14.)
Again Lita
She was my first kiss.
It was in a game
at an 8th grade party.
On my death bed
I plan on asking her
to bring me full circle.
In between I have
had many lovers, two
wives, two children.
My life has been complete.
At times I think it
has been complete.
I wrote a book of poems
about her, about the
one intimate moment we
shared in front of the
entire 8th grade class.
She answered my phone
call with the voice
that over the years
has come to seem like
paradise to me. “Hello,
sap,” she said. I wrote
it down. That’s why it,
like you, is part of this.
Iconolatry
You placed your ankles
on my shoulders
as I entered you.
It was quite a trick.
You were an athlete, a killer
softball shortstop.
Your legs were strong as
the mainstay of the
laboring bark.
I was younger then, still
entirely flummoxed by your
incandescent beauty.
You left me, of course, and
before you did you
undermined my confidence
with your diffident, dying
love. That’s the
way the story is written. That’s
its power, as story, as dream.
Still, I have that image,
your legs so open I thought I
would be welcome forever, forever.
Table of Contents Inside Again
I'm locked inside with myself again.
I cover the mirrors with paintings.
I open the drapes because the doctor
told me to. I open the door but only
wide enough for djinns to enter.
I open my mouth and begin to sing.
I sing the song you taught me, the
one that begins, O terrible human heart!Simply Again Simply
I will try to tell you the simple thing. I will not reach for the thesaurus (a reference book of words that mean the same thing). I will slide the note under your door while you are away. When you find it its simplicity will appeal to you in simple ways. I will pretend that this is how love starts, and poetry (the art of rhythmical composition).
The Dog's Song
I want to sing the way our dog sings, notes that pay attention, notes that hang in the air like incense. I want to know her song and why she waited until she was old to begin it. I want to sing the song. that she knows, the one of approaching quietus.
See Under Seduction
I wanted to seduce you without metaphor. I wanted to watch real-world clothing flutter away to the hard wood floor. I wanted to take fasteners in my teeth and spit them out. I wanted all this as if I had never written a poem or hidden behind a pilcrow. Instead I compared you to a simmering day, one where I could not write but only writhe in simple human craving.
Chekhov
And so I read Chekhov, putting in the hours, following his lead through the labyrinths of the human heart. And so I read Chekhov and then rested. I was late coming to him; he hit me like a swarm. Something echoed, and again echoed. I set the book aside to rest. The book sat by me and hummed like a small engine. Quietly, with dark clarity, it said my name. Table of Contents