untitled

by Ryokan

My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest;

Every year the green ivy grows longer.

No news of the affairs of men,

Only the occasional song of a woodcutter.

The sun shines and I mend my robe.

When the moon comes out, I read Buddhist poems.

I have nothing to report my friends.

If you want to find the meaning, stop chasing after so many things.

laundromat series

live a simple life

put quarters in the machine

watch white suds spin round

stare out the window

unburdened, no student loans

read auto trader

cycle number three

my reflection in round glass

tired and pretty

alone in this place

where did the simple life go?

time makes things too hard

sunday, store's open

sweet ladies in plain tee shirts

measure, fold and weigh

rent an apartment

eat french fries and watch tv

aldi on sunday

fifteen minutes flat

hot spinning quarter eating

box of detergent

comfort in the smell

quiet calm clothes turn circles

clean place of refuge

sailing circles

leaf spattered raft

bobs on neon green mud water

a pink plastic halo

to sail in slow motion

over the murky unknown

to circle over the fearful dark

like the lightest

seashell hued bubbles

that might carry a good witch.

canoe conversations tingle along

cool water over wrists and ankles

'it's deep and good here'

and it finally feels like home,

the ancient water smell is in my bones,

and I fall asleep,

eyes heavy as moons.

two weddings

Learn to love

those white silk shackles

which lash your legs

to the floor.

Then the floor

slides out from under you.

Now you dangle

where nothing is certain

and certainly not guaranteed.

He knows

that half a smile

can't get him as far

as it used to do

or used to did.

Now the dogs are yelping,

your stomach's swimming,

the only food in the house

a solitary chicken nugget.

Suitcases are scattered,

packed, unpacked and repacked again

right there on the Thanksgiving table

right there where you folded his clothes.

So here comes the truth

with its painful shards of light.

Where could you ever find a shield

to ward off this kind of attack?

It stabs into your eyes and hands

and deepest layers.

You take it up

stab yourself with it

over

and over

until your love

has bled out

all around

those shackles soaking

slip out your tired feet

and fall through.

zero circle

"zero circle" by Rumi

Be helpless, dumbfounded,
Unable to say yes or no.
Then a stretcher will come from grace
to gather us up.

We are too dull-eyed to see that beauty.
If we say we can, we’re lying.
If we say No, we don’t see it,
That No will behead us
And shut tight our window onto spirit.

So let us rather not be sure of anything,
Beside ourselves, and only that, so
Miraculous beings come running to help.
Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying finally,
With tremendous eloquence, Lead us.
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,
We shall be a mighty kindness.

Rumi

to run

ride ragged breath, a bucking bronco
until it smooths out, high tide
three and a half miles in
brain floods body
with endorphins to shut off
this incessant thinking,
which is a real blessing.

neural switch flips when
brain stops imagining
body is trying to kill it,
grasping onto that
primal cord of surviving
body becomes a perpetual motion
meat and bone machine.

scalp tingles with electric
pulls tight to skull,
the brain breathing after
the long assault by smoke,
bludgeoned by wine and whiskey
feel it fighting in there?

just like the sensation of speed
without that artificial edge,
that sharp cliff of comedown.
just pound and fly along
motivated by
the shape of a cloud
the smell of the ground
the promise of cool water.

bluebird

"bluebird" by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

a family shape

some people's families are

shaped like shining galaxies

like constellations linked arm in arm

like lush webs dripping dew

some are shaped

like knitted loops of wet wool

like slippery roller coaster tracks

some people's families slowly pulsate

creatures bumping in a tidal pool

but my family is shaped

like bark flaking off an old rotten tree

like leftover bits of stars on a cloudy night

like a raggedy sweater in the back of the drawer

an already tiny family

just dwindling down

to small faint

points

gone

when I think about the dwindling

I panic

I cling

I cry

my heart stops

shoots hot liquid fire

behind my eyes

breath catches in my chest

and I drop down to my knees

and pray

to god, the universe, mother, energy, light, nature

(whichever fucking term you stick on it)

and I beg for something better

to erase the pain and sadness

of our wasting lives

the sudden realization of ten to twelve

years of selfish waste and hurt

a ramming flood, overwhelming

years pressing their immense burden of time

on my mother's head, my father's hands

my heart all shriveled

like a goddamned piece of jerky

or a deflated balloon

or crusted over scab

with nothing left to give

but a pretend family of dogs and cats

it's time to grow a bigger family, brand new

like a starfish regenerating new limbs

it takes a lot of energy

when she's only just come to realize

she's only a lonely stump

stuck to the sandy floor

this gummy stump translates

pain into tissue

breathing underwater, slowly

soaking that old heart

plumping it with patience

trusting that current

how to be a poet

"how to be a poet"
by Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i

Make a place to sit down.

Sit down. Be quiet.

You must depend upon

affection, reading, knowledge,

skill—more of each

than you have—inspiration,

work, growing older, patience,

for patience joins time

to eternity. Any readers

who like your poems,

doubt their judgment.

ii

Breathe with unconditional breath

the unconditioned air.

Shun electric wire.

Communicate slowly. Live

a three-dimensioned life;

stay away from screens.

Stay away from anything

that obscures the place it is in.

There are no unsacred places;

there are only sacred places

and desecrated places.

iii

Accept what comes from silence.

Make the best you can of it.

Of the little words that come

out of the silence, like prayers

prayed back to the one who prays,

make a poem that does not disturb

the silence from which it came.

accidental poem

The sister cries, big branches press squeaking.

The teacher laughs, animal warmth pervading.

The daughter fumes, little piles in all corners.

The lover wilts, dry corn medicine taste.

The nurse heals, back humping over notebook.

The policeman shivers, soft parts and hard parts of foot.

The aspirant tries, curve of fur breathing, blinking.

The traveler plans, wind or truck over cricket hum.

The runner treads, the days fuzz coating hard.

The yogi breathes, little hair wind twisted dry.

The caretaker relents, salt tears dry rivers.

The drinker abstains, sun and windburnt cheeks.

The poet whispers, long nails over itchy sides.

The being breathes, stormy night drifts in the window.

Bright Eyes- At the Bottom of Everything

We must talk in every telephone
Get eaten off the web
We must rip out all the epilogues in the books that we have read
And in the face of every criminal
Strapped firmly to a chair
We must stare, we must stare, we must stare

We must take all of the medicines too expensive now to sell
Set fire to the preacher who is promising us hell
And in the ear of every anarchist that sleeps but doesn’t dream
We must sing, we must sing, we must sing

It’ll go like this:

While my mother waters plants
My father loads his guns
He says death will give us back to God
Just like this setting sun is returned to this lonesome ocean

And then they splashed into the deep blue sea
It was a wonderful splash

We must blend into the choir
Sing as static with the whole
We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul
And in this endless race for property and privilege to be won
We must run, we must run, we must run

We must hang up in the belfry
Where the bats and moonlight laugh
We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past
And in the caverns of tomorrow
With just our flashlights and our love
We must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge

And then we’ll get down there, way down to the very bottom of everything
And then we’ll see it, oh we’ll see it, we’ll see it, we’ll see it

Oh my morning's coming back
The whole world’s waking up
All the city buses swimming past
I’m happy just because
I found out I am really no one

ebb and flow

sometimes

my heart fills up

like a big dumb balloon

bloated with blood and empathy

for the poor kid in the hall

the redneck in the aisle

my brother in the apartment

waves of filling

swelling against veinous walls

spilling over with threats

of open human love

other times

my heart closes up

criscrossed daggers

and gnarled liquorice roots

guarding, posturing tough

pettiness, which plays so rough

liquid flames fly high up

in the brain stem

primed for the mental manipulation

storing fantasies and plots

closed in grey tissue drawers

sometimes my heart is crushed

sometimes nothing is never enough

housewife

"Housewife" by Anne Sexton

Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.

words on paper

connections crumble

shift and shake

buried under

tectonic forces

of reality

words on paper remain

memory a mystery

life is [but] a dream

sleepytown

my great grandpoppy helped found

this little old sleepytown.

strolled into the tavern

straight from the U.K.

and knocked some injuns

upside the head

with an oak rifle butt

and they gave it to him.

the days when men took

by force, not deceit.

its been through the wringer,

my little sleepy town

soaked by the river

pounded with grime

flooded with trash

then forgotten

ten years ago I swore I'd never come back

but now I sit by the river each night

counting my blessings

small as they are,

even bigger they seem

fireflies glowing up the mud

crickets barking sounds in the trees

ropes dragging dead limbs

unrecognizable, unnameable

hoots and hollers

this old town got a chemical jolt

for awhile

hillbillies on three day benders

scratching, uncomfortable

faces caving on themselves

scrubbing cracks with toothbrushes

entertaining only delusions of grandeur

now the town is saturated

in junk, just as sure a death

though, somehow, things seem

more

elegant

slow

fog descending

morning drooping down

like sleeping powder

a girl in black boots stomps along

bus stop sitters, ever patient.

a strange music poster

in the feed store window.

the boy on the bike

with the skinny bare chest,

crooked hat, smoking, sneaky glances,

peddles circles along the trail

so slowly.

even the red house on the corner

has gone to sleep.

will this town ever die out?

sleep-wearied

riflemen fleeing in the night,

nature twining her viney arms

back around cracked concrete

at her own pace.

27

XXVII by Emily Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us- don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog.
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Reminders, Saturday Night Cincinnati

taking it so seriously

swaying drunkenly

arms across shoulders

a pantomime of fun

like an early nineties

teen angst drama

everyone waiting

for Jordan Catalano

singing the words of a song

written by a junk man

everyone waiting

for this guy to die

so they can touch a bit

of the local papers

that will soon be tossed away

stacking up shards of identity

song lyrics

clothing scraps

carefully scripted photographs

building up a toppling tower

of digital nothing

some of us still get up

and go to work in the morning

scrape thick frost

off the windshield

and trudge along

while they still sneak

into mama's purse

steal a twenty

old enough to know better

the last love interest

was an empty hole

filled with pills

pizza

pop

smoke

sugar

and sometimes booze

covered with a thick layer of jokes

like jungle leaves over a trap

I was an empty hole

sucking in whatever was around

but then realized

there is no end to this sucking

and stopped cold

now I try to fill

the dark space with light

and warmth

and sound

so far it's working

even in the dead of winter

we wear the mask

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

We Wear the Mask

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

mother of pearl

I am bringing in the lizard screen.

I am trying not to pray.

I swivel, recline, exhale.

I am the cool side of the pillow

on a steamy June night.

I am round and full like the moon.

I am loved by some, not all.

I am retraining my neural pathways.

I am early spring green.

I am an aching vessel.

I am a soft whimper.

A silty deep river

Searching for something.

I am mother of pearl.

I used to have a song written just for me.

I am a frayed bit of rope.

I am a starfish with a regenerating arm.

second chance summer

last night of giddiness

a day at the pool

between ocean and sky

a jet line strikes the air

memories of ninth grade

showing my pale young body

in cold water

kissing under a humid towel

amid the old people

scuffing dead skin from our heels

in front of the t.v.

brother and I

chasing e.s.p. thoughts

to the Whistle Stop

fried green tomatoes

meat

banana pudding

at the gas station the clerk

is pacing like a caged tiger

flipping long Indian locks

impact wrench hiccup

laughing to the brink

of no breath

laughing spreads like wind

they finally notice the family photo,

Conan's face pasted over Andy's

we laugh

and giggle

and squeal

one more pot of coffee

a punctuation mark

to end the holiday

night falls

Night falls

so I take speed and go to the gym.

The room is a mess

a static equilibrium.

Gold hairs jaunt across my forehead

nobody around to see it;

white teeth a shocking shade of clean,

no one around to taste them.

Back in this room

there are white walls

not four, but too many to count

and all this time

I’ve been like the autumn-fat squirrel

preparing for mock-death

saving for nothing.

And this room too small

to hold me this winter.

Finally on the verge of escape

but where to? how do I get there?

First thought-

a dead myth, knight in shining armor,

only keeps girls waiting

locked in salty honey traps.

Second thought-

to drink it off my mind

but that never worked

it only made it worse.

And it’s been such a comfortable life;

my nest has been feathered

my bottom has been patted

robed in luxurious civilization.

Just put in eight hours

with laughing faces

then come back to

wall-to-wall carpet

organic coffee and

fresh vegetables.

But it’s strangely unsatisfying, this life.

Suddenly the “I want” takes over

like a bee sting in the brain.

I want to scale mountains

I want to live in the desert

under a dry infinite sky

I want to stop eating

I want to drive to South America

covered with monster dragonflies

like Jack.

I want to shed this skin.

It’s all so contradictory,

every step unsure

a bear trap lies

just around all corners.

Last thought-

erase the “I want”

soothe the sting

of a million unfilled desires

to recognize the thought,

let it drift away-

a balloon, a train, a bird in flight.

long journey

in a dream I leave this world behind

leave behind my oral fixation

leave behind my sugar addiction

the sense of the mundane

hop on a train to a secret world

where humans are animals again

hair grows long as squid tentacles

everyone wears white

and lights lanterns at dusk

to keep the beasts at bay

I find you at the midway point

in a dim hotel hovel apartment

Illinois or Iowa or Indiana

some forsaken wind swept snow plain

an empty pool, cramped, transitory

we get on the subway without knowing the destination

hair like fishing pole rods held up in the rack

a deer is hit along the way and her mate lags with her

she drags her mangled back legs along

my heart spikes and shoots tears like fire

with a pearl memory from the other world

we make it

to the rough wooden ladders

hidden lanterns and candles stocked for survival

I think I'm pregnant but it doesn't matter

a small ceremony held high up on a ladder

then I put my head on your chest

your heart thumps in my ear

this is the right world

far away from the others

far away from chores bills gym parties work

nobody uses language; we can speak

but it holds no meaning

makes no sense

there's a grocery with pine nuts and oranges

but where did they come from?

nobody knows

nobody cares

and if we want we can take the train back

try to hold the secret like lantern's white flame

but its a long journey

it's okay

the moon glowers down
from her perch in space
on a cold cold night, 2008
the total lunar eclipse

a cosmic event outlines
our tiny spot in the universe
just a speck among specks
yet as broad as
this star-poked blanket
yet constructed from these
ancient materials:
stardust
moonrock
icecap

old moon face is nosing down
to check on us here
in 2008
just like she checked on Columbus
in 1492
just like she'll check in the future
when all this stuff
is long gone

my friends are connected by her concern
drawing circles in the sand
counting blessings
making plans
scheming on the Russian steppes

life is okay
miss moon reminds us
to be just a speck
bumping into other specks
then floating off
when it's time to float
like rain
like snowmelt
like starlight
like earth's shadow passing
between worlds

hong kong airport smokers lounge

Airport smokers lounge

the last gasp of humanity

a cloudy glass fishbowl.

Dregs of the lonely,

we’ve all been snookered.

Smoldering grey walls

no children allowed

Here

In the bowels of hell.

Death’s fast track,

not laughing in the face

of fate

But slowly drowning

suffocating

image

an addiction

A filthy stupidity

Last one ever.

patron saint of the pathetic

Pressing my lips together

I wait.

Count the minutes down

but they never turn to hours

they stand still.

If patience is a virtue

then I must be the holiest woman around,

patron saint of the pathetic,

our lady of the long hours.

I call on the only God I know-

circumstance, happenstance, chance.

He only listens to

certain prayers and doles out

fickle blessings.

the saddest kids

J counted the numbers

Behind everything she ate.

She checked her hipbones

To see if they poked past her tummy.

If they did, she won.

H stuck a pushpin

Deep in her leg.

Just to look at the blood

To see that she was alive.

D sat in the basement

In front of a screen

In the dark.

The characters moved around

Winning pretend battles.

P sat in the back of the room

The farthest corner.

He picked at the loose skin

On his pink fleshy thumb,

Downcast eyes

Silent tongue.

S lay in bed at night, wanting

Needing to sink down in the bed

To disappear.

Every time she heard a noise

in the hall, just beyond the door

She prayed he’d leave her alone.

N set a fire in the yard

Behind the shed.

Just so somebody would notice.

Then she’d pretend

She didn’t do it.

T snuck some vodka

In his orange juice bottle

On the bus

In the morning.

He didn’t brag about it

Like some kids.

the female mind

Back to television,

A fleeting impression.

The talking head says

“Buying cough syrup

may be more difficult”

The lonely man screams

“The female mind is

a bee’s hive.”

Her hair is

a bird’s nest, her words

the sting of the asp.

Honey drips from her tongue.

Lightning darts from her

Splintered eyes.

A world revolves around her,

Life flows within her.

bite mark

saw a girl with a bite mark on her cheek today;

thought,

That could be me [the yellow sticky red pus eye shoulder sore]

heard a girl think she was falling in love with a stranger today;

thought,

That could be me [the lost screams of a concrete mental ward,

over counters in and out of hospitals]

sensed a girl today old and out to pasture, desperate for attention;

thought,

That could be me [work, sedated by a chunk a span in front of the

ominous ominbox, work, sedated by a potato]

colorado grass

the summer unfolded like a shell around a pearl

life so easy it just unwinds mystery, rolling

I thought you were asleep, I set the alarm

but you roll over and press your face into mine

sweet kisses scrunched up into the pillow

long days into long nights

unrestrained and wild and so easy

so easy

breathing in breathing out, chanting

flying over oceans, in beds not alone

laughing uncontrolled like hiccups

barely thinking

so happy