new poems sent to you

Monday, 27 March 2017

night hangover

Well the whipping rush of pretend is gone,
Flown like it was flung
Sung by the bard, the bear, and the barrier
Breaking boards with fists seeking
Favor through whistles and grabs,
Dodging jabs and playfully dancing through the world.

Now is the hood wearer,
Bearer of bad news, old druid
Seeking communion with innocence,
Rickety fingers splaying to find the chords
Of hallelujah whenever he smells petrichor.

Damn this dust, this grime,
The time spent not knowing where or how
And seeking those things, trapped in the cycle of
Desire, expiring moments each wholly good or at least holy

I am no preacher, though
Every man may be in word or deed.
My gables are painted in the evening,
Serve drinks to uncles and daughters alike.
I celebrate the victory of symbol over symbol
Or even symbol over reality with the smashing of a glass.
I am borrowing ritual from everywhere trying to keep us
In the running. Across the churning waters is the sun
And beyond that the moon and beyond that a fox in the stars and beyond that
We are there again reaching out to each other, impenetrable distance disappearing
If only untraveled. And everything in this world lies down to rest and everything opens itself to me in these moments, dark or light so that it is all I can do to breathe
Breathe and remember this is not just a breaking or an ending or some god thing to be touched and remembered but to know ive got a girl
With lips like early spring and I’ve hunkered down in the rocks in the night and felt their cool rumbling in my bones and I’m singing a tune I never had to be taught
And though every week or more I might strut or play the part along another’s stage,
Beneath those boards lie the foundations I know so well

That I can touch and feel like the tide.

Sunday, 19 March 2017

visit

When the winter sun comes
Through slotted windows by the bar,
And the storm melts off your roof
Like all the other roofs for miles,
When the dawn is clean and blue
And the one who needs sleep does not wake--

When the sparrows flit between browned
Mounds of street snow, and the anger of the restaurant bubbles—

When the future tense draws blood
Though you muscle into it with eyes unaverted
At questions of “Philadelphia? Organizing?
A life of spirit?”—

When your soul cub draws the bus card
And slingshots down the interstate,
Curbside bard in a Canadian tux shrugging off
A winter of war, of debt into tight rolled
Belly laughs shivering through two skins goosebumped against touch—

Destiny isn’t something
Apart from all the rest.
This is the moment on which it all hangs

In balance. I feel it when the contacts
Last too long and blur the world,
or when they bail on meetings.
Everything is held when we are afraid,
When we hold each other with tears,
When the campaign flounders
And when the magnolia trees whisper of spring.

This cold light is breaking through to something hard and deep.
What to do with a day?
As green sleeps beneath, my heart
Retreats into its known homes.
But that is not for us, my wind.
That is not for us.
We blow through sun and rain,
We cherish the seasons.
Though at times we seem still,
Always is when, always is when,

We are moving. Ours cannot be buried.

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

pie

It dried into the wool today before
I had even realized, there was a reopening.
Solid snow kicked freezing bleeding pouting skin
Butting through shoulder pads of rubber soled
Glistening boots out into the cold first cut, first
Glance, price of youth, price of love bubbling through veins,
Percolating perfection perforating the thin bin of the everyday.

My body is trying to open itself up.
Solid form storming through, born a reckoner,
Seconding blended misties, thrifty and trendy, bending
Altered morals, wending ways along byways and highways
To a piece of sleep, the peace of the everyday.

But in the narrow streets filled with snow
I come across it, splayed across the world
Like the blooming carcass of god.

The bedroom has cancer, stance against the night
So upright and practiced, airtight seal to feeling right.
When I am alone I cannot go there, I am not strong enough.

And lately, bikes have been pitching me sideways,
Small glitches in well-versed arguments
Disrupting the intoned pitches of the shadow self
Mirroring the abrupt end of the body with its
Soft edges and fuzzy margins, hollowing out
The fear of death, the fear of rebirth, the fear of just one life,
The fear of importance.

Here I am again: burnt hole in the world
Through which the thread is pulled.
Self-conscious windowpane.
Eye in the fireplace.
Dust of the vents.
Salt in the darkness of the empty kitchen.

I am fighting to stay alive.
We all are. In small ways.
Not for life. But to be alive to it.
Fighting the absurd thoughts and ways that keep me from BEING
Suddenly in the exploding night air,
Cosmos folding out above my craned neck,
The beauty of it turning me river, turning me song,

Turning me sunset.

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

the First

If the world were to begin,
It would be here
The dark opening through blue eyes
Swallowing everything,
hungry legs tender pulling,
Guiding light into the world
Bright light without beginning.

In the beginning there were words
And then light
And only afterwards a source.
Here, now, the fount, the mother lives
Gasping under me, I see it now,
The source of all, every meaning hidden deep
In the way your buttocks quivers,
The way your pelvis reaches out to kiss me,
The way as you rise up,
lips reach over themselves
Crawling up my neck, drinking dew,
Raining manna, sucking up and silent.

There is no beginning to understanding
The beautiful poems your fingers trace
Stretching and cracking, singing
With the breath which comes as you come,
And goes only like feet stepping down on the path up the mountain.

But I am beginning to see you
For what you are
You unfolding
You crazy arc
You hoarse whisper
You screamer and pounder and slapper
You rider
You human being animal being.

Beginnings are hardest, for the card and concept never align.
The spine of the moment is never clean
Never carrying its own weight.
There were moments where hardness was hardest
And the only respite for my lost, faceless soul
Was the home you opened up for me.
And so it goes with the first poem,
Already over itself, shapeless assertion at its voice and master.
Your eyes open, spilling darkness from the primordial something
And your legs are slick as a tongue and just so never still
Like the ocean rising up to greet me
And then falling with me, taking me down.

This is something beyond beginning,
Though I never leave it behind,
Though I never reach home*:
Inside, filling you and full of you
And no more than a child
With weeping, with trembling,
With no image, nor shield, nor image upon the shield for protection
With No sense of what I is
This feels like a reason to write songs, of which let this be the first,
This feels like the stuff of the earth, the source,

The reason we are here.

2nd fall

I fall off my bike every Tuesday
Skin shuddering, mouse
Escaping, the red splotch of dirty
Blood perforating the aether.

She is on my thoughts, dead dark
Bark growing soft lapping layer catching
Ivy into cranny fetching,
Batch latching snatch grabbing,
Super warm the chest unfolding,
Level headed head unknowing,
I am hurtling into the city.
I am machinery unworking.
Desire un-origami-ing into lack of tension
Grabbing tension from the folds,
Scolding comfort in its deepest recesses even as,
We are building a house that stands up to the cold,
Even in spring, 60, 70, 20, nothing can penetrate deeper
Than this babe, that
Shelter is needed for life
To keep the skin from skinning off
We’re faling down to earth from above,
We need shelter, we need shelter--

And we’ve got it here.