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April 2004
 04.30.2004 |
My skin would rather not touch anything but yours
We haven't solved the body problem, but it's fun to try
| 04.29.2004 |
The beauty of an individual word is its selflessness
Form is not abstract and varies from one truth to the next
Normal's an odd word, she said, it scares me
The deer looked spooked in the driveway at high noon
| 04.28.2004 |
Sit with the dilemma, pretend someone knows how deal with it
Warning, uprising, attack, flash across the miles chaos travels
All the lost time tucked into noon's brilliance
Shadows lengthen, diagonals get the upper hand—forget joy
| 04.27.2004 |
We watched TV in the multipurpose room as Kennedy was inaugurated
In those days no one knew how the world would turn out
Art took the blinders off, and gave us new ones
Parts of us go extinct, only memory remains
Though we push on daily, is it clear what really constitutes a life?
No amount of work reconciles or rectifies the problem
She lives a just and graceful life in the dealt-out sorrow and grit
We've walked in on something, it appears to be one of the final acts
Closing time, all the elders scramble to justify initial intentions
Father tied our ties, scrambled eggs; the sermons were too long
In all heaven's pantheons, no God of fairness
The philosophers were goofing on the roof, staring at the stars
The questions may obfuscate instead of reveal
This, not the dreams that wake you, is what they mean by fear
Best to find a project no one but you can accomplish
All the God questions, why don't I feel religious?
Those are not essential questions; besides, we want human answers
Who gives out the patent to "create knowledge"?
Another bug has landed in my book; it's hot, take a breather
Heat intrudes, the clock intrudes, garbage always has its day
| 04.26.2004 |
We kept it open until it was no longer safe
The loose rattle, the small spot, the persistent regret
Morning brings another chance, along with absent colors
I insist on knowing why, knowing that's impossible
| 04.25.2004 |
Each sentence a new inventory of old objects
Eventually, the world you study will descend and claim you
04.24.2004
They did not make stories, only slogans—that was the story
All the middle ground is out of focus; each example's blank
| 04.23.2004 |
Love without sentences, without propositions, that love
In the photo time is made available as a simple object
Her absence suctions happiness from so many events
You must look forward, live forward, know backward, child
Try to sleep it off, please try and sleep
Maybe it would be better if they came now, fuck negotiations
Who asked you? Who cares what you think?
This is bad, I don't even know what to hope for you
In the pale light in St. Patrick's he lit a candle for his mother
Hushed bustle around the little altars in the alcoves
| 04.22.2004 |
It's foolish, I know, but at least I know that
So, when the green harmonies get old, what do you turn to?
Who, or what, made you think your time was yours?
It's a one way street, Pal, what are you thinking?
None of us owns time, but we do set the clocks
The bliss of memory will never redeem you
| 04.21.2004 |
He never found the time to know how things work out
Nothing's going anywhere; I'm going to the mall, the office, the lost coast
| 04.20.2004 |
Let me tell you how I saw looking at leavings
No amount of crowd noise hinders his focus
| 04.19.2004 |
More haunted by what you've imagined, or by events in time?
If the natural world puts forth no failure, what are we?
You said don't talk about it; later you lied again
The dangerous mindsets we get used to!
| 04.17.2004 |
Conversation whittles history down
Today we have pain-killers, but no more forever
04.16.2004
The arc of plot flies coast to coast
Not an actual day, with entanglements, but an elegant cruising day
04.15.2004
In spite of everything, this is just a building
"My body's the world I know," he persistently insisted
A monument immortalizes transient flesh
In the body we suffer blurred joys
The want between our legs that owns us
The song between our ears that sends us
04.14.2004
We are, each one, a part of the universe we comprehend but strangely
Among all possible universes, in ours birds sing and listen
04.13.2004
They walked past old bricks (sad bricks) in Brooklyn
Row houses never see deer come out at dusk
A working class needs imagined space and an imagined frame
A cloudless sky has a phrase portion among its windy collections
04.12.2004
These birds ignore traffic, skyscrapers, crowds, and library lions
Something flew over dangling fur and a tail from its talons
04.11.2004
The forsythia have rejected winter
But the family never fully falls apart
Forsythia go it alone, before the full clamor
Cold rain full tilt; winter's strange occupation's ending
04.10.2004
Let me read a little and fabricate the frame
The tons of products I've consumed are part of this gray light
| 04.09.2004 |
I said I like liked it! And he's like liked what? And I'm like, her, dude!
Not all desires are fictions, sometimes life reads you, others it reigns
| 04.08.2004 |
To read, or to write, is the question as I wait in the atrium
The I goes where in the hour of dying, that is the question
| 04.07.2004 |
A series of signs inciting to riot
A portrait presented to force you to act
A person can hardly change fast enough anymore
You watch on TV the tragedy in the place you flew out of yesterday
| 04.06.2004 |
A time came when words replaced the feelings they were said to express
It was dangerous when so much depended only on the words
And so he reached that time of life when youth is something old
How did he use up time? It used him too! Who understands the overlap?
It takes a lot of luck, and then some, to be happy
Blue flowers like paint daubs (Joan Mitchell's?) happily pepper the hills
Are the gods happy being gods, or do they crave?
Cat dreams, muscles twitch—what hunt crescendos in that brain?
Apple exists to be apple; to be a cat, the cat; rubies, rubies; grass, grass
You and I labor to make ourselves something else, something new
At first the new is only subjective, eventually it changes the world
This world's not my home, I'm passing through to beyond the blue
In what way does the cat I call by name know herself?
No work will ever have worth unless it helps you know yourself
| 04.05.2004 |
It has no say about anything, this blue iris in the vase
Flowers cut & table set with food—more choice, more joy, more death
"Before the flowers of friendship faded, friendship faded"—G. Stein
Looping thru color, heaven at noon; in mindless eye and mind, it buzzes
| 04.04.2004 |
Fathering, I watch his soul announce itself—to both of us
The soul is a song with many notes, a mother with many children
Character determines how long it takes to render life beautiful
Fate provides the grist, and gist, of any finished picture
| 04.03.2004 |
1957 motel lounge (tangerine & beige naugahyde upholstery) cigarettey
She lights up (so round, firm & fully packed says Mad Ave) and looks at us
Erotic short: they did to each other what bees do to flowers
Existential short: I came out of the post-office and no one had a face
| 04.02.2004 |
When did you stop believing in paradise? What else stopped then?
Cut the iris from the yard and took it over to the grave
Blessed are the 100 proof spirits, they shall conduct us into the earth
Allow the little pills to come unto me, for my blood runs cold 04.01.2004
After sitting a while, realized I'd been listening to the apple tree grow
Love the mockingbird, but what here makes its own song?
Even in midnight silence, sometimes, the mockingbird sings
For all Earth's sorrow, every day a million small truces
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