he's not coming
it is good to have wine
with a reseal-able cap
it is good to have wine.
the candles are not wasted, please
do not think they are wasted
but really, maybe you should save them
mother would say,'daughter, candles are for burning,
there are more at the store.'
suddenly the blue moonlight in the snow
reminds you of what is gone
and that he isn't coming
and that is is okay because the fennel is dry
and the wine will still taste good tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
monday august 30th 2010
you asked me how the horses fomenting on ground apples
I said grass-sick gorging on ground apples
she said sleep I said
before the late moon rises
the melodies were too saccharine last night
anemic in the fog rose the voices of lateness
hard binging twang folks riding chiffon fog
harpooning it with fire licks and nails
ricochet. St. peter’s chain mail on display
live on webcam, though it hardly moves
on its days off. What feast can honor the
chains of a saint? murcurial lamb, hard iron wine?
I am alone like the way I think about Cuba
like a rare species of lily pad floating
fomenting, bee-less in a comb of speeches
so thick you need a field guide to Castro’s uniform, thick.
I said grass-sick gorging on ground apples
she said sleep I said
before the late moon rises
the melodies were too saccharine last night
anemic in the fog rose the voices of lateness
hard binging twang folks riding chiffon fog
harpooning it with fire licks and nails
ricochet. St. peter’s chain mail on display
live on webcam, though it hardly moves
on its days off. What feast can honor the
chains of a saint? murcurial lamb, hard iron wine?
I am alone like the way I think about Cuba
like a rare species of lily pad floating
fomenting, bee-less in a comb of speeches
so thick you need a field guide to Castro’s uniform, thick.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Trickle of Missed Honey
I started a fire from posters ripped from telephone poles:
Lost puppy(call him Cerberus), Jesus Saves, small barbaric child for sale,
8X11 sheets rumpling into flame like the final image of Eurydice
sucked and tunneling back down into Hell.
I set mouse traps by the sink, the oven, in the empty cupboards.
What could they possibly want from this empty place?
A trickle of missed honey, a grain of cocoa, one caraway seed.
Yellow beech leaves dance horribly outside in the smokey rain.
Dancing as if to laugh and torture the cedar boughs who stoically
accept them into their long-fingered webs, aromatic and soft.
You didn’t look back for me. I had already made it up the mine shaft.
But maybe that is our tragedy, you knew I would come.
You could feel the electric breath on your spine,
you played the tambourine beat the drum of a happy war.
Cowering, covered in soot, believing in anything bigger than me,
I wrapped a finger around your hungry talisman that bustled
And wagged in the wind that was always in your favor.
All these holes. Even failure fades out,
is eaten by the romance of time, turns to dust,
slips from your hands in strong gales.
The cadence of breath on flames makes a hollow song in the morning.
Some things are making me sick: heat, wood smoke creeping by
an open window, blighted tomatoes, torn bellows,
a pair of cracked leather gloves.
My regret is never having made you something beautiful.
Something to impress the unimpressible.
A grove of engraved trilithons laden with hand-woven silk tapestries
shouldered in by great women who offer rosehips,
cocoa, tobacco, orchids, peacocks, saffron.
My coffee is thick with grit and I remember how
I would wake up to your mouth on my ear.
Wishing now that I could spin that roving
breath into a fine warp, weave us a fine new sheet,
one we’d never get out of,
not even for coffee.
Lost puppy(call him Cerberus), Jesus Saves, small barbaric child for sale,
8X11 sheets rumpling into flame like the final image of Eurydice
sucked and tunneling back down into Hell.
I set mouse traps by the sink, the oven, in the empty cupboards.
What could they possibly want from this empty place?
A trickle of missed honey, a grain of cocoa, one caraway seed.
Yellow beech leaves dance horribly outside in the smokey rain.
Dancing as if to laugh and torture the cedar boughs who stoically
accept them into their long-fingered webs, aromatic and soft.
You didn’t look back for me. I had already made it up the mine shaft.
But maybe that is our tragedy, you knew I would come.
You could feel the electric breath on your spine,
you played the tambourine beat the drum of a happy war.
Cowering, covered in soot, believing in anything bigger than me,
I wrapped a finger around your hungry talisman that bustled
And wagged in the wind that was always in your favor.
All these holes. Even failure fades out,
is eaten by the romance of time, turns to dust,
slips from your hands in strong gales.
The cadence of breath on flames makes a hollow song in the morning.
Some things are making me sick: heat, wood smoke creeping by
an open window, blighted tomatoes, torn bellows,
a pair of cracked leather gloves.
My regret is never having made you something beautiful.
Something to impress the unimpressible.
A grove of engraved trilithons laden with hand-woven silk tapestries
shouldered in by great women who offer rosehips,
cocoa, tobacco, orchids, peacocks, saffron.
My coffee is thick with grit and I remember how
I would wake up to your mouth on my ear.
Wishing now that I could spin that roving
breath into a fine warp, weave us a fine new sheet,
one we’d never get out of,
not even for coffee.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
INSOMNIA by Bei Dao
you see yourself outside your window
a lifetime's gleam in flux
gone blind out of jealousy
stars sail against the wind
beyond death's metaphor
and unfold ethical landscapes
in what is called a place of wellsprings
night finally catches up to you
that army of insomnia
salutes the flag of solitude
a nightwatchman tossing and turning
lights up that terror-blossom
a cat leaps into endless night
the dream's tail flashing once
a lifetime's gleam in flux
gone blind out of jealousy
stars sail against the wind
beyond death's metaphor
and unfold ethical landscapes
in what is called a place of wellsprings
night finally catches up to you
that army of insomnia
salutes the flag of solitude
a nightwatchman tossing and turning
lights up that terror-blossom
a cat leaps into endless night
the dream's tail flashing once
Making Love to A Wolf
He came quietly, unexpectedly, without a howl.
There was hardly a moon. I offered him coffee.
He said he wouldn’t sleep. I offered him wine.
He licked his long white teeth. He lapped at it
from a small white porcelain dish painted
with Chinese characters.
It wasn’t the swaggering of his long coat, black-tipped and shimmering,
Or its silver tassels that made me swoon.
It was his casual approach, his diamond shaped eyes,
the monologues about the austerity of loneliness, the smell
of three-thousand nights spent nuzzling the hard brown earth.
In the morning he tussled and bayed but refused to get up.
I made eggs. I stared at the Christmas cactus until it bloomed.
I called to him but he was gone. Only a warm iridescence remained
In the sheets like abalone seen through gauze
or emerging from a heavy fog.
The eggs were bland. I drank the remaining wine
from the small porcelain dish,
Choking on the few silver hairs that floated on top.
It began to hail and I noticed all my books lay open on the floor,
some weighted with stones or jars of lemon preserves,
anything to make sure they would remain open.
On each page the word “destroy” highlighted in red.
It has been three weeks. I haven’t moved the books.
I study the pages for meaning.
I sit, stir the fire, rub my eyes, wait for a noise,
a rustling in the leaves outside.
A slow dumb ant stuck to the side of a honey jar.
There was hardly a moon. I offered him coffee.
He said he wouldn’t sleep. I offered him wine.
He licked his long white teeth. He lapped at it
from a small white porcelain dish painted
with Chinese characters.
It wasn’t the swaggering of his long coat, black-tipped and shimmering,
Or its silver tassels that made me swoon.
It was his casual approach, his diamond shaped eyes,
the monologues about the austerity of loneliness, the smell
of three-thousand nights spent nuzzling the hard brown earth.
In the morning he tussled and bayed but refused to get up.
I made eggs. I stared at the Christmas cactus until it bloomed.
I called to him but he was gone. Only a warm iridescence remained
In the sheets like abalone seen through gauze
or emerging from a heavy fog.
The eggs were bland. I drank the remaining wine
from the small porcelain dish,
Choking on the few silver hairs that floated on top.
It began to hail and I noticed all my books lay open on the floor,
some weighted with stones or jars of lemon preserves,
anything to make sure they would remain open.
On each page the word “destroy” highlighted in red.
It has been three weeks. I haven’t moved the books.
I study the pages for meaning.
I sit, stir the fire, rub my eyes, wait for a noise,
a rustling in the leaves outside.
A slow dumb ant stuck to the side of a honey jar.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Room for Daniel
Dusky beams through rows of small medicine bottles
placed neatly on a glass shelf in a window.
A woman constantly rearranges daffodils
in a vase, placing it in the depressed nook of a wall.
I just want to write about a woman and daffodils,
but I don’t want to infer anything by mentioning them together.
You may think she has a reason, an obsession, a compulsion
to arrange them, rearrange them, place them in that nook.
But that is not what I mean.
I just want yellow, frilled horn petals, lush green stems
diffused by cool water and a cheap glass vase.
Maybe I want her to be wearing a small felt hat
and have wavy hair, a curl laying flat on a cheek near the lobe
of a prim ear. But maybe that is really too much.
The smell is not good here no matter how prim an ear may make me feel
or a vase of daffodils. It smells like soft animals who have overslept
And forgotten to breath. It reminds me of nothing.
I want to relate this to you, to how I feel now.
But the air smells like dust and hollow rooms appear,
books, decanters, instruments, plates and lamps you’ve chosen
that remind me of your mother: porcelain, arabesque, breakable.
It is all blown out and amplified echoing off gilt walls
The tin ceiling smeared with the faces of intoxicated cherubim
mawkish and proud, partially lost under plaster and residues.
So pretty, a small hard face, taught skin wrapped, like a greased doll
so pretty in the sun. I wore dresses for you, wanted to be pretty
wanted people to think “how pretty she is,
how lucky he is to have such prettiness by his side.”
I imagine leeches, bruises, razor wire, hot iron, raw meat
(the nightmares of childhood)
right where the beauty shines out the most,
right at the cheekbone.
I want to teach myself to fear every hand, every posture,
every movement of a man after my neck with a cane from the curtains.
It is disgusting how I gesticulate on this stage.
Coiffing my hair like I should be staining my lips
And wearing satin negligee.
Like I am a vessel from the place
Where all boys disembark to where they end up.
The woman rearranges daffodils,
brings me a glass of cool water with vinegar
although she knows no one will ever drink it.
It is a matter of habit, of what is expected.
placed neatly on a glass shelf in a window.
A woman constantly rearranges daffodils
in a vase, placing it in the depressed nook of a wall.
I just want to write about a woman and daffodils,
but I don’t want to infer anything by mentioning them together.
You may think she has a reason, an obsession, a compulsion
to arrange them, rearrange them, place them in that nook.
But that is not what I mean.
I just want yellow, frilled horn petals, lush green stems
diffused by cool water and a cheap glass vase.
Maybe I want her to be wearing a small felt hat
and have wavy hair, a curl laying flat on a cheek near the lobe
of a prim ear. But maybe that is really too much.
The smell is not good here no matter how prim an ear may make me feel
or a vase of daffodils. It smells like soft animals who have overslept
And forgotten to breath. It reminds me of nothing.
I want to relate this to you, to how I feel now.
But the air smells like dust and hollow rooms appear,
books, decanters, instruments, plates and lamps you’ve chosen
that remind me of your mother: porcelain, arabesque, breakable.
It is all blown out and amplified echoing off gilt walls
The tin ceiling smeared with the faces of intoxicated cherubim
mawkish and proud, partially lost under plaster and residues.
So pretty, a small hard face, taught skin wrapped, like a greased doll
so pretty in the sun. I wore dresses for you, wanted to be pretty
wanted people to think “how pretty she is,
how lucky he is to have such prettiness by his side.”
I imagine leeches, bruises, razor wire, hot iron, raw meat
(the nightmares of childhood)
right where the beauty shines out the most,
right at the cheekbone.
I want to teach myself to fear every hand, every posture,
every movement of a man after my neck with a cane from the curtains.
It is disgusting how I gesticulate on this stage.
Coiffing my hair like I should be staining my lips
And wearing satin negligee.
Like I am a vessel from the place
Where all boys disembark to where they end up.
The woman rearranges daffodils,
brings me a glass of cool water with vinegar
although she knows no one will ever drink it.
It is a matter of habit, of what is expected.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Letter To My Younger Nipples
It was like this:
two white arms, pudgy and compact, bursting
out of lacy pink puffed chiffon sleeves.
legs crossed at the ankles, pigeon-toed.
I would like to say here something like, widget or gizmo or cheez whiz
But I am too old now.
Shit, I say, little girls really do wear pink bows in their hair.
They wear pink plastic beaded necklaces with jumping goat pendants
at their pulsating center, bounding landscapes of musky peach blossom,
drowsy feathered eyelashes batting with foreshadowing indifference, idiocy.
My nipples, I swear, by the fluted bird song that rings nightly before dusk
(that warbling incandescent dulcimer bird of mystery!)
that they are different.
another color altogether, faintly smelling of celtic sea-salt or dry bones.
They used to smell like wet iron! Fuschia! Electric!
Now it is all flaxen, muted, foreign.
I swear by the river at night.
I can smell them.
Maybe they are out there,
by the waterfall suddenly swollen,
maybe they are out there
pressed up against a pair of cold knees
humming to a copse of stone and poplar
awaiting nothing - imaginary, safe, untouchable
carelessly listening to the coyotes love song.
Cold rubies, a word to you:
No hand is there
No devil but the devil in you
Be not awake to the tiny hearts hung there
Cherried, sparked, igniting reveries in future mouths.
two white arms, pudgy and compact, bursting
out of lacy pink puffed chiffon sleeves.
legs crossed at the ankles, pigeon-toed.
I would like to say here something like, widget or gizmo or cheez whiz
But I am too old now.
Shit, I say, little girls really do wear pink bows in their hair.
They wear pink plastic beaded necklaces with jumping goat pendants
at their pulsating center, bounding landscapes of musky peach blossom,
drowsy feathered eyelashes batting with foreshadowing indifference, idiocy.
My nipples, I swear, by the fluted bird song that rings nightly before dusk
(that warbling incandescent dulcimer bird of mystery!)
that they are different.
another color altogether, faintly smelling of celtic sea-salt or dry bones.
They used to smell like wet iron! Fuschia! Electric!
Now it is all flaxen, muted, foreign.
I swear by the river at night.
I can smell them.
Maybe they are out there,
by the waterfall suddenly swollen,
maybe they are out there
pressed up against a pair of cold knees
humming to a copse of stone and poplar
awaiting nothing - imaginary, safe, untouchable
carelessly listening to the coyotes love song.
Cold rubies, a word to you:
No hand is there
No devil but the devil in you
Be not awake to the tiny hearts hung there
Cherried, sparked, igniting reveries in future mouths.
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