november 7, 2014

“First Words”

~After “after earth as seen from Earth”

~or “back in space once again”

Everything dies ungracefully

The raccoon on the side of the road, hands covering its head which lay between its legs

On the way home from work—

Deer with all four legs together, tongue out, blood splattered yards away—

Cousin suzie sending her daughter out for groceries, then hanging herself in the study—

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Evening came and it grew dark quickly.

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I said “I’m afraid of tomorrow. And the next day.”

Sara said, “look at the light.”

The scarred blinds stirred from a wind though there was none.

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These days I am learning minute by minute

Hour by hour, day by day

How I can feel like I do not need her.

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Mother tripped while carrying the dog after surgery.

The dark black ooze of the stitches dripped

After ripping across the brick steps.

Mother cried for hours.

We thought codie would die then--

Her huddled skeleton shaved bare and

Every ligament and bone testifying against her life

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My best whiskey glass covers a bed bug on the floor.

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In a dream sara asked me to come back over half empty white wine glasses, her whole croation family holding their breath on the couch. And I almost said yes. Until I saw the whole damn script lying in front of me, read my lines there on the page. Then I drunkenly railed. And thank god I did.

And left.

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I don't want another scratched disk.

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the ground is diseased with shadow

in moments, appearing to almost slough off

and in others, sitting up,

ragged, but alive,

reminded of sunlight, as if

just awaking from a dream

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Sudden disconnect.

In the middle of a story of

The first time I saw a gun directed at me--

Suddenly realizing there was no one on the other end of the phone.

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Little sparrow burying its head in a water drop

From the stone cat by the $1000 fish,

Place where gardeners dirtied their hands on my heart,

Place where those who wish to go come to stay.

Like vines growing over a green clay pot

The days fall over and out of the sun.

But survive.

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“are you a pusher or are you a puller?”

standing in front of a bright, clear window

looking over early snow-

bed bugs crawling up the walls

and drawn on several bathroom stalls

a small boy crying, squatting

“just go, just go, go”

when it’s late and it closes in

--it comes out both ends.

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the fall is as good a time as any to begin

putting pieces away.

Wash them out with whiskey.

Hide them beneath bushes on late night walks through dangerous neighborhoods.

It grows cold.

The dead leaves become puzzled pieces of a Pollock pattern

Describing the confusion of sudden emptiness.

A gesture at limbs they just were.

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The speech of the one whose bowels are eaten by the eagle,

Is of the proximity of his predicament to time.

Though he can do nothing,,it is always so close to over.

And yet his memory is washed out by the sun.

Mornings are difficult.

The state of things burning in

With morning light.

Very cold, shivering,

Then too warm.

And trapped amidst the sheets—

The idea that there is no way to change this process.

That I will wake up like this forever.

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The morphlings release tethers to shore

And drift.

They then release water,

Then air.

Then the borders of their very selves.

They may someday return,

Even touch the things they once knew,

But nothing stays. This

The morphlings have always known.

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seven swans beg forgiveness for the harsh reality they confront us with

that sharp god, that precipice

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Some say time is a circle.

And it is. But it comes back around on itself

Not once.

Once something is lost

It is lost, and even finding it,

It is a thing found that was lost.

And what it was before being lost, will always be lost.

And that is the circle.

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The small things come back.

First writing. Then working out.

Sleeping. Meditating.

Little inoculations. Replacements.
How do you learn to replace a part of yourself with yourself once again?

Two years.

The warm feeling of hands on your back,

Rubbing along your pelvis,

Cradling your heart as it struggles.

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Love can convince you you do not exist without it.

And though this may end, we never do.

. project.

. vehicle.

. state.

. contract.

. terrible pain.

. shell.

. addiction.

.escape.

. present.

. purpose.

. support.

. blind.

. assurance.

. challenge.

. scream.

.exception.

. rule.

. tomb.

. source.

Love is a home we are leaving.

And like every time leaving home,

It means we forget to remember where we are

and are destined to remember somewhere else,

Completely changed

yet somehow with ourselves once again.

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night bloom shadow portrait shadow

dizzy rain shadow bloom

grey grey long shadow bloom

shadow blocks houses blocks shadows

bloom in the night over silence

blooming out of the dead space bloom

shadow bloom shadow bloom bloom rebel

shadow of a poem bloom under my windows bloom

time to do something other than drink shadow of the days when she was here bloom

shadows bloom something will bloom if I can just

water them, not kill them, behind the houses bloom yards, light blooms displaced

by bodies blooming houses blooming homes

love is a home bloom shadows behind bloom

but it is night now

all will bloom

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There is something about who we can close our eyes with

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At night the city misses the woods the most.

The concrete misses the gargle and spit of the stream.

The gutters --the duff

The struggling streetlights—the branch interrupted stars.

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