there's got to be more below the surface
tell me i am a story you knew
as ubiquitous as the sun
that hangs like Kali’s necklace
across your translucent skin
i am but a remnant of your dream
the splash after the rings vanish
or Muttley’s mocking sniggers
echoes within echoes within echoes
outside the sun blasts the earth
i thought safety was you
once in a lifetime
(April 29, 2024)
It is
present, alive.
The terror rips
through growls and screams
too fast to understand,
then death.
Friends’, prey’s bloods mix
beneath our feet.
Gasping for air,
we sit stunned to silence.
The fear,
tangled in guilt,
lingers nearby,
waiting like god,
palpable and prescient.
We eat
and mourn the dead,
the flesh still warm
with heart’s thick blood;
then pray to be absolved.
Up late
while the rest sleep,
I paint dark walls
to tell the tale,
so others might survive.
But then
who will take time,
somewhere from here
to learn to read
marks scratched upon a wall?
The dust
from the cave wall’s
crude sketches mix
with ash and bone
across the rocky ground.
(April 26, 2024)
“—Hypocrite lecteur,— mon semblable,—mon frère!”
—Charles Baudelaire
O, Baudelaire, My Brother!
Is it easier to drink bourbon
than to get drunk on poetry?
What Dionysian folly must I
indulge to feel your ecstasy
in an old whore’s tit?
You condone each ecstatic
moments’s origin anywhere
in a romantic equivocation
of a syphilitic vision with
ennui on a Sunday afternoon
if Eternity is called to frenzy.
Some days the light ignites
the sycamore’s broad leaves
with an electric green glow.
I am debauched in wonder.
The moment passes without
an augury, other than doubt.
The fleeting vision fades
into the deepening night.
I begin to believe the lie
revealed itself as a dream,
and I am too old to dream
beyond the rumbling hearse.
A prayer exists inside the dance.
The day to day slow rhythms
weave through bees and flowers
to entrance, blinding all
we could know if only open
to what the moment shows.
Is a lifetime enough to fill
my hands in that moment?
My vision blurs if I bend
to the garden too long,
the world’s weight whorls
forcing me to my knees.
(April 19, 2024)
i see so little,
in the time I’ve been given,
if i think too much
the chinquapin waves
shadows about the back yard:
such a bright spring day
actuary charts
predict my death in ten years;
a rose bloomed today
i wish i knew more
about the vicissitudes
of time and of love.
tonight, a new moon rises;
the tower clock chimes the hour
(April 17, 2024)
this is a place
of deception
of seduction
a place where honesty
denies its existence
where people mistrust
themselves
because they can’t trust
the god in their heart
a place where
hell is ubiquitous
as wild flowers in spring
a place where words
are wrung like rags
until all our blood
has drained
into the earth
where we stand
(April 15, 2024)
Minnows nibble on my toes
as I sit in Clark’s Creek
where it deepens to my waist,
and runs slow a few miles
below the bridge into town.
It is spring, and the trees hang
their new leaves over the creek
like a secret green cave
where all answers are contained.
I am nine years old, and happy.
I know nothing beyond myself.
Catfish hide in the tree’s roots
that uncoil into the creek,
as copperheads and moccasins
slide past unnoticed nearby.
(April 12, 2024)
I saw an old man from my window
across the alley sitting alone on his bed.
A table lamp glowed softly nearby.
The room was barren, lifeless, empty
of all but the bed, the lamp, and the old man.
He sat still, staring toward a wall.
I could not see, from where I stood,
what it was that had captured him so.
It was as if I had been absorbed bodily
into an Edward Hopper painting;
he was so alone in his thickening sadness.
It oozed from his window across the alley
like an amoeba blindly frets its way
across a water droplet on a glass slide,
stretching toward its last bit of life.
Instinctively, I backed away quietly
into the growing darkness of my room,
and the silent frailty we all must live.
(April 10, 2023)
“Stand by me, hold me, bind me,
O ye blessed influences!”
—Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Unrelenting and wild,
the wind tosses the trees,
ruffling their nascent leaves
like the undulating waves of the sea.
I know the course I am on:
for years — my way, my guide,
like horses from a burning barn,
my blinders led the way.
Without reason or judgment,
I trust all will be okay — yet
Hope, like Justice, is blind.
I am compelled to believe,
through thousands of soft nudges,
that I know where I must go.
I want to say something,
so I interrupt their conversation.
What I have to say
is not that smart,
nor insightful,
yet I say it,
because I must.
My words are protection
against my insignificance.
People are polite.
They nod their heads,
feigning interest
as if what I say adds
to the topic.
When I pause,
they pick up
where they were
as if I were dust
in a corner
of an empty room.
(March 31 2024)
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
—Oscar Wilde
Late at night, beneath a new moon, after too much cheap vodka and pot, a group of us, friends for most of our lives, gathered out on Tipton Road, a one lane gravel road running between two farms a few miles outside of town. The closest light glowed dimly from a farm house a mile or so in the distance. Infrequently faces were illuminated briefly like angels in old paintings as someone lit a cigarette or another joint only to disappear quickly back into the dark. We talked quietly about impending graduation, going off to college, or jobs, or the military; our parents, our girlfriends, knowing we were all losing touch as we spoke.
As we headed back to the cars, someone said, “Where’s Jackie?” He had wandered off on his own without anyone noticing. We all started calling for him in the dark. No response. We called again, then again: no response. Then faintly from a ditch next to a corn field down the road, we heard him giggle to himself, then shout out, “The stars— Man— look at the stars— look up— the stars are so close.” As one, we all looked up. The stars were brilliant and beatific, as for that moment were we.
We pulled Jackie out of the ditch, staggered to the cars, then finally back into the dark to find our separate ways home.
(March 29, 2024)
I have always been slow, too slow to see
beyond the eddy to the sea, too slow
to piece together the mundane violence.
So many waves to obliviously
watch as they slowly wash away the shore;
my mind turns away from soft increments.
Each new thought is an act of violence
against reality, against stasis,
toward an affirmation of consciousness.
It’s easy to believe in permanence
when the present seems so solidly here,
while yesterday clings like drowning sailors
pulling me beneath the surface of time,
until my words are swallowed like small fish
to feed an oppressive leviathan.
(March 28, 2024)
I read once when I was young, I believe
in the I Ching, that a tall stone tower
on a hill is a great defense in war;
except it draws the enemy’s attack.
One can run, but not hide from an attack;
nor run away while hiding. Paradox.
Yet there is a third option. Wherever
you are is the ground upon which you stand.
You stand openly, steady like a tree,
whose roots have coiled deeply into the earth.
Allow the time’s darkness to surge through you,
yet again, in long slow pulsating waves;
until the latest storm’s violence abates,
and you find yourself right where you have been.
(March 26, 2024)
beyond the fence across the creek
a woman sings— hello, hello
what’s your name—it’s morning
it’s morning—what’s your name
a voice singing, spontaneous
and random, uncalled for nor
conjured, yet present
unannounced and resonant
like a wine glass approaches
high C harmonizes
to such an extent
with the word it shatters
redefining what it means
to be only who you are
(March 23, 2024)
stale whispers and innuendo
along the margins of a wind
have risen again from the dead
hinting a time of judgement
is at hand— a time of resentment
and retribution festers anew
what is the opposite of judgement
acceptance forgiveness mercy
mercy has long fallen away
lost somewhere unnoticed
while despair exhausted clings
without solace to strands of hope
that drift listless and tattered
like cottonwood fluff through the air
(March 20, 2024)
if i move too fast then details
which get lost in the blur
tumble away from me as I fall
grasping desperately at roots
protruding from the rock
or seizing bits of grass
that rim the edge of the whole
yet if I move too slow
then the larger view decays
into each profound curvature
of stone I step upon
until i clinch my teeth
in anticipation of intercepting
the wall with my jaw, then
watch my blood follow in slow arcs
behind my shattered teeth
so i stand still
risking nothing
(March 18, 2024)
after he retired
my dad worked
repairing old furniture
people called antiques
he used his skills
gathered over time
to make some money
to give him purpose
after thirty-four years
of teaching reading and writing
I read and write
poetry without money
but a purpose
nevertheless
(March 16, 2024)
From the back porch,
with a few winter evenings left,
a small flock of starlings,
perhaps three dozen or so,
murmur quickly above the trees,
turn above the park
as in a parting gesture,
and vanish without a trace.
Aching from yard work,
no matter how small,
I sit on the back patio
and slowly dissolve into the sky,
where the moon follows the sun
into the west trailed by Venus.
(March 13, 2024)
I let the dogs out to play
as someone knocks on the door.
The dogs run to protect me.
Our grown children have arrived,
unannounced with warm pastries
stacked neatly in a white box.
They came over just to talk,
and hang out. I make coffee;
they say they have some concerns.
The children tell me what’s wrong
with my life. They have a fresh
vision with a narrow view.
What can I do? They know more
than they did, but not enough
of the daily rituals
which have coalesced overtime;
the compromises, and fears
one negotiates for love.
I’ve been there. My mom was old.
I had a grasp on my life,
I thought. I wanted to help.
My tired hubris, like theirs, waits
for the cold ironic turn,
when we’ll both know it’s too late.
For now, it’s much too early.
I pour a cup of coffee,
and watch the dogs play outside.
They yip and nip through the weeds,
tumbling in the back yard,
obliviously happy.
(March 12, 2024)
I see what I am
no need for a glass-smooth pond
to listen for my own adulations
I am the circle’s center
existence I know
is only what I feel
these eyes this nose this tongue these ears are all
that will ever be for me
we all die alone
at the edge of a black hole
everything is crushed to us
(March 11, 2024)
“Don’t dream me into someone else”
—Fernando Pessoa
perhaps outside
the speaker’s range
the assumptive you
at least by custom
we follow from reasons
no one still knows
old maps decayed
so we listen to voices
turn right soon turn left
we are lost now
together as before
in some one’s dream
I trust this other
as I trust you
in the dark to hold hands
(March 10, 2024)
Even in late Spring as light grows larger
the shadows deepen and stretch from beneath
the twisting Live Oaks. Hope’s a tricky thing:
We cling to it like dust motes in sunlight,
ever afraid it won’t be enough.
Later, the inevitability,
so obvious, stuns us into silence:
All the signs were there waiting to be seen.
Yet, we did see them slithering beneath
the lightest shadows, only pretending
what was there was not truly there at all.
And there lies the rub, our willful blindness
allows us to believe our world is safe,
and Spring brings endless fields of daffodils.
(March 9, 2024)
I translate myself
so I may breathe
without choking on air.
I wish my inner voice
would stop scripting
about me like a spider
softly weaving its own
sarcophagus. I think
too much; which is to say,
I don’t think enough.
The sun rises and then
it sets. The light trembles
on the sea; the wind is
just the wind where
mountains are mountains.
I am here. I see what I am:
I am not a reflection;
I am only reflection.
(March 6, 2024)
Scooping stars into piles
of constellations, I flatten
the sky to better disguise
the slavering fear nearby.
I place a convenient pattern
like a map upon my wall
where it becomes a window
through which to see my world.
These visions I inscribe
past the depth of my skin,
until my haggard bones
echo the story within.
(March 4, 2024)
“to think is essentially to err”
—Fernando Pessoa
The pattern changes as the weather:
flights directly overhead, if clear;
or off to the right banking in low,
if the clouds hang close to the ground.
Each afternoon from the northwest,
private jets slide diagonally across
my circle’s diameter heading home.
While I am alone with nowhere to go.
I should know better, but I don’t.
Each day, the hours become obstacles,
and the waiting becomes what is left.
The days are filled with possibility,
only to be poured out like mop water
emptying into an infinite night.
(February 29, 2024)
the daily maintenance is neglected
until it is forgotten and the hinge
rusts upon the gate no one uses
the yard’s overgrown with winter grass
and must be mowed for the wild flowers
to grow into their spring explosions
the future’s distance vanishes
quickly replaced with another
like tangled weeds in a garden
while close by yesterdays cling tightly
like ill-fitting clothes and what is forgotten
is never enough for forgiveness
(February 27, 2024)
A quaver like an old man’s stammer,
I descend like motes of dust for decades
into my final voice; until now, as
I stumble down the hall into the night.
Like my father the year before he died,
I grope my way through the thickening dark.
I do not believe in an inscribed fate;
yet, I am still here now, nowhere else.
A result of fractal mathematics—
one tangential thought into another?
Misdirection became the direction
reaching out like feathers testing the wind
lifting the hawk along a dry thermal
which rises above a desolated plain.
(February 26, 2024)
the moments
I knew what I was saying
were lies
but spoke none the less
the moments
I should have spoken
but said nothing—
a coward’s act of self-surrender
these embarrassments
I carry with me
like sacks of dead cats
tracking blood down a hall
I regret what I have done
not what I have not
(February 22, 2024)
Perhaps, happiness is an aggregate;
moments of bliss embedded in moments
like bits of chocolate in fresh baked cookies,
and all we lack is a cold glass of milk.
Perhaps, the promise religion provides
is but venal desire disguised as hope;
the apple is always just out of reach,
it’s dewy flesh untouched by morning light.
Our jumbled happenstance is rewoven
each day into a more palatable
tale, where the hero becomes a fool
to the children gathered around him
on the days he works in the garden
pruning bits of his life as if roses.
(February 16, 2024)
“There are times all the time the same”
—Robert Creeley
for who is left to pick up
the conversation from the night
before in the park over chess
or years perhaps decades ago
that Sunday spring afternoon
over a beer and a whisky shot
when does the laughter stop
and the slow shambling walk
back to the children’s table begin
where the great nephews seen
only at holidays fear the silent
creature I have left to live within
what do I know of fear
this low-intensity anxiety
which even now gnaws at me
when I have nothing to fear
except a long life with its slow
descent into a lonely trifle
(February 11, 2024)
When lost it’s best
to stop and ask
where you are—
but no one knows
beyond our places,
our beliefs.
Even so, we arrive;
our mouths filled
with fresh-turned earth.
Mostly people
we know attend,
chatting quietly.
Then a few more leave,
while others do not.
(February 8, 2024)
I am not a mirror,
a reflection formed
in images I walk within.
I am lost in the projections
along my surfaces, vague
and inchoate like smoke.
I am not a window
where a stranger
in the street may watch
the pedestrian drama
of my life’s denouement.
I am a sack-cloth bag
stuffed with cliches.
I slip my hand in
to find tattered masks
which fall to dust
as I drape them solemnly
across my skin.
(February 2, 2024)
Outside in a bare tree,
the wind chime rings softly
in the cool northern breeze.
The old mantle clock chimes
the approximate hour
slowing a tad each day
if left to its own wiles.
I forget what day it is
and must remind myself
in order to keep up—
since friends and family
grow concerned when I fall
out of sync with their world.
The new puppy runs wild
across the back yard
patrolling the fence line
for oblivious squirrels
while the older dog basks
in the afternoon sun.
(January 31, 2024)
I live within walls,
neither inside nor out.
I place my hand as on skin,
softly pushing in.
The resistance is mine,
pliant and divisive:
less a protection
than a prison.
There is no key,
nor knife to slice
the callused flesh,
the polished walls–
only silence to absorb
the incessant whispers.
(January 29, 2024)
bare branches lace the grey sky to the ground
as the rain continues into the day
again I wait in a doctor’s office
an event more often than not these days
but what can I say I’m no longer young
outside people drive to work through the rain
I still rise long before the sun rises
as I did for the last thirty-four years
I take naps now instead of commuting
I like that I have nothing much to do
that must be done on someone else’s time
my day’s filled with dogs and poetry
both of which provide a steady rhythm
more suited to the beating of my heart
(January 26, 2024)
As we arrived,
The blue and and red lights
Flashed across the outside
Of Mamie’s house
Like color wheels
On flocked Christmas trees.
She lay unattended
In the ambulance bay
The back doors swinging wide
As they gathered their gear.
Cool fluorescent light leaked
Into the warm autumn night.
Next to a piece of toast,
In her bright kitchen,
A fried egg grew cold
On a small porcelain plate.
Nearby, the wall phone receiver
Lay askew on the speckled tile floor.
(January 23, 2024)
Do you see the hope, the longing
that waits always unfulfilled
like despair upon a bridge
unwilling to stand balanced
upon the rail, to watch the flow
of the white river through the rocks;
unwilling to decide
which ecstasy to embrace:
the ecstasy of hope—
to fly unimpeded into the sky
as the wax our father shaped
into wings softens with the setting sun;
or the ecstasy of fate—
to accept the freedom the plunge offers
in the froth and blood far below?
(January 20, 2024)
it’s when you believe
you are someone
that the mistake begins
you are not the nail
the crown fell later
far from your loss
what I wanted
never mattered
more than now
and now is too late
to be any more
than a thin fume
a last twirl of smoke
after the ember’s gone
(January 17, 2024)
Outside in the yard,
spring’s green garden grows dormant;
ice holds to the ground.
Petals fall like snow.
As I walk through the garden,
the cold kills the rose.
My son wants something:
I can only be myself.
Winter’s wind is cold.
Ice covers the grass;
Even inside, I am cold.
All my friends have gone.
The low grey clouds hang like shrouds;
the cold grows into the night.
(January 15, 2024)
“words as residue”
—Gustaf Sobin
Sheared close
to the skin,
we sit waiting
for something
to be said.
What remains
after we speak
are bludgeons
of memory,
a residual gist:
if only words
could be solid
and crystalline.
Instead, dust motes
slip silently
through morning
sunlight.
(January 9, 2024)
the darkness waits
without waiting
as easy as the sun
over lake travis
or whiskey over ice
slowly over decades
roses unfold
then fall upon the floor
the darkness shadows
the light from the window
patience is what is left
a sheen of mist
slicks the lily’s leaf
as light absorbs the dark
back into itself
(January 4, 2024)
another day ends
the night swallows the last light
a new year begins
the old clock rings out
ten minutes behind the time
the night knows no time
fireworks break the light
across the darkest of skies
rain falls to the sea
the morning is cold
leaves have fallen from the trees
for now the wind waits
ring out bells ring in ring out
ring in bells ring out ring in
(January 1, 2024)
Each morning,
or late at night,
when difference
thins, I find bits
of cracked mirror
to reflect within:
a book, a memory,
a word, a look.
I cannot believe
this is a mistake,
yet purpose,
like the hope
of redemption,
eludes me.
I am no one;
even before I was
broken, I failed
to cohere. A soft
fear pulses like veins
near the thin surface
of my wrist. I watch
its blue throb into
my ravaged palms
like flash floods
through desert ravines:
the life line, heart line,
love line—as if the blood
can read a divination
past decades and decades
of dust and slow decay;
as if I could discover
a razor sharp enough
to cut the membrane
between night and day.
(December 31, 2023)
All day the rain fell
Soaking the cold winter ground
The year ends tonight
(December 31, 2020)
New Year’s Eve
It’s all too simple—
to watch the clock strike midnight:
Dust settles to earth.
we laugh, and sing, then we don’t.
(December 31, 2021)
I, always the me now, never the we,
ask again: Where does the anger come from?
The resentment? The manufactured past?
Mine, hers: what we remember: the slights
and wounds still bleeding. No concurrent flow
of telling, not even a parallel,
contrapuntal at best; more dissonant
tales to contradict, and exacerbate
the scream, the disconnect of skewed tangents,
no parallax to broaden perspective
Just the sharp shimmer of indecision
decimating any remnants of love
like hundreds of fragments of broken glass
tumbling out of a multitude of skies.
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