write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during September 2009

build up build up
let it all down

run your fingers through your hair

build up build up
run on down that hill

scratch your nose one last time

build up build up
don’t fall down yet

we have no time to breadth so smile and walk on down that road

And then
I had had
enough

Off of my
bananas I
asked most
polite

But they
didn’t listen
to my many
warnings

So I grabbed
a can of aerosol
waterproofing
and a match

There was a
great heat
and ball of
flame

It was like
a fruit fly
Vietnam
flashback
with
bananas

))){

I dreamt my hands were
Replaced with yellow roses.
Some things were more
Difficult; everything was
More beautiful. I no longer
Want to be useful in this
Life, productive, practical,
Who I have been. I want to
Be who I am, though it
Seems impossible, magical.
To those who would mourn
My divine mutilation, I can
Offer only the glory of
Gold-tipped blooms wiping
Your cheeks as vast unseen
Gardens flow from your tears.

[Six months of poem-a-day writing! I rock!]

Isolation of individual;
Failure of revolution;
Inevitability of war;
Brutality of money;
Turmoil of culture;
Lucidity of guns;
Logic of power

Repetition of eventless day;
Voicelessness;
Vivid mirage of control;
Distance;
Casualties of causality;
Decay;
Trap of responsibility

Until looking up,
seeing the smile,
and changing ideology
(Oh, it is crucial
for you to smile!)

is here

I can’t tell you how many mornings I say, “Damn it! I gotta write a goddamn poem!” It’s the most satisfying creative practice I’ve ever done. Tomorrow, Sept. 30, will mark six months of daily poem writing. Here’s to another six!

_{if anyone mentions a book, I will succumb to exhaustion and weep}

Of all I wanted not to see,
Test results, xrays, tired
Doctors, the line in your
Limp small arm, it is the
Fear in your eyes that
Undoes me. I cannot
Protect you without
Endangerment. I am
Sorry. I understand
Nothing about this,
Have not found the
Divine here. I am
Supposed to make
Things better; this is
My job. You are not
Getting better and if
You must go, take me
With you. I refuse life
Without you alive. Pure
Drama; I will live and
Some day I cannot now
Imagine, will laugh and
Not feel the immediate pinch
Of guilt. This is probably true.
It does not help us now. Crawl
Into my lap, line be damned.
Let us take comfort in the
Warmth of flesh and
Love while we can.

At forty eight,
wife, college kid,
car, house, job,
some religion,
fun traditions,
made over the years,
family trips (just the two of them),
two weekend days,
and slight addiction
to the alarm clock…

Stops the car
on the tracks…
metal screech.

She feels the flutter, delicate
Muscle beating against blue
Grey skin. She needs to eat,
Sleep, calcium for the tick,
Exercise to chase away the
Demons. She needs to do
Anything to exhaustion.
The flutter again, as if she
Were knocking on her own
Eye socket, asking herself
To see what’s wrong. What’s
Wrong is what she sees, how
She is seen. Too dramatic,
Too emotional, always too
Much for a normal life. It
Flutters again, on the left,
Like a bird fighting the net,
The strongest part of a
Weak cry for help.

Each grain of sand however small
Builds the desert, I thought, wanting
To do something impossible
So I chose a bicycle that
Looked fleet-wheeled and coaxed it to go
Beach-riding, the adventure of
Its life. I promised something real,
Rubbing red eyes when the wind kicks
Up, the smell of erosion, boat
Splinters, salt breeze hair, fossils. All
We needed was forward motion,
I explained, as it gleamed chrome at
Me, winked in the sunlight,
Reflecting an infinite sky
Pure as devotion. I saw this
As meaningful, raising my
Foot to pedal dauntless,
Thinking us alchemy of flesh
And metal, not motionless, no
Not that, not even as one wheel
Sank fast followed by the other
Into a glittering stretch of
White forever ahead of us,
Settled if not retrievable.

Ritual garb unobtrusive, I pass for a
Native, running into the time of the
Next me, across beaches, up, down
Hills. I walk slowly, reach for the
Balancing moment, heels braced on
The wall, hair tickling my laced
Hands, lift and pull, resisting the
Cables. The outlook is good.
Change is coming. I settle into my
Bones, feel the flesh lengthen and
Warm, one more minute and I can
Rejoin the women at the watering
Hole, take my bottle, my bag, my
Arched lock and pencil into my
Daybook the next week’s workouts,
Relieved that I passed, one more
Time, for a native.