quarantined poesy

untitled.

2010-02-04T11:17:00.002-05:00

A word like a door opens
and discovers us still standing
mouths gaping
indecisive and one step away from mourning
although we discover
to our chagrin
we don't know how.

The muscles that buckle and submit
the mind that falls, allowing grief to pour in
is stuck. Is caught on its own,
a field alone.

A puppy, yelping. foot tangled in the fence.
left behind and helpless.

Sometime else the tears will come
they will be plentiful
Stream down the cheeks
and pool at your feet.

Sometimes else there will be guideposts
there will be help.
When you're caught
there will be hands to untangle you.
They may be your own.

And now, we rest.
we shed. we listen.
and soon, the foot -
and soon, the fence
will dissolve. And the
puppy will run - forgetting
it was ever there.

2009-10-13T12:08:00.002-04:00

All those times you forgot
forgot to wipe the sweat from your palms before you offered your hand dripping,
literally dripping.
And then later how a silence fell.
Empty. There are no secrets between us,
but we pretend there are when we meet.
It makes conversation easier.
It allows us to live our lives,
for things to be ordinary, which, in fact, they are.
As ordinary as can be. Here. Amongst the ruins.
Sky shifts.
A moment passes.
A color unrecognizable - and currently unobtainable.
Not so long ago you could see it - taste it, metallic in your mouth.
now it's chalk.

you go up for a refill. Decaf this time.

Nye's. 3:00pm. Snowy Saturday.

2009-01-21T16:46:00.002-05:00

(2059)

Later you'd wake up
They always said you would
wringing your hands
wondering
where did that woman go
that friend
that baby
that body
and on the screen
at the foot of your bed
a nice man with
straight cut hair
reassures you.

Today is Wednesday
these things happened
the sun is shining, or its raining
or whatever
and I do not know where your loved ones are.

and you find the remote
and you change the channel
a movie. From 1983.
It reminds you of something.

you go back to sleep.

remission

2008-10-24T22:28:00.002-04:00

my poetry is in remission.

active is the other part. the part of dialogue and stage directions and structure and building up a thing, a script, a pulsing blueprint. Something.

I miss my poems.

but they are stubborn and not there now.

it's a mystery.

If you see them, or know how to reach them, please contact me.

Or just tell them to come home,

i'll buy groceries and build a fire.

thanks.

gulp

2008-09-05T17:27:00.002-04:00

Really. Time flies. Intention doesn't always combine with action - then again in the pool of this little blog does anyone hear the ripples. Well, for you, out there, we have this...

it's cold here, right on time, September - bang. Cold. Leaves start to glow a bit before the inevitable.

and when there's time suddenly you're faced square with what you avoid. And what I'm avoiding is the writing that got me to this place. Hah! Like - so there talent, you made me move, you got me to a place I can breathe and think and have support and Hah! Now I'm going to avoid you like the plague, take that helpful spirits! and that! and dang it. Fine. Back to the pages pages pages.

And here's a poem of the sort that is fast and quick.

barely letting go
fingers on a slim trigger
cut it close
shave it to the quick
screech from the heart

be careful when you are
running into ditches with the hair dryer on -

a slip a dash an ellipses
a sequence of events strung together with the filigree of memory
and a single strand of spit.

a breath

a broken bone, dangling from your mouth.

Sliver

2008-08-12T09:34:00.002-04:00

We wind ourselves up
curl ourselves up into the ball that serves us so well -
and forget to name our children in ways that will lead them on.
instead - don't take up space
hang low on that totem pole
dream of nothing.
expect little help.
and when they knock on your door,
Hide.
it cannot be a good thing.

expectations differ here.

and then,
there's a sliver peeking out
assuring us that something, somewhere is coming -
or something somewhere brings a deep intention -
or just because you're sleeping
doesn't mean
nothing will happen.

untitled thursday

2008-07-31T10:26:00.002-04:00

for WM

all love.
more sooner.
and listen,
making art is better than killing people and buying shit.
and listen,
u make all the difference.

and you have to start somewhere

2008-07-22T11:51:00.002-04:00

I'm trying again. I feel out of practice. I feel dislocated - I am dislocated. No matter, it shouldn't matter. There's something to be found everywhere. So I'm trying. Bear with me and maybe a stride will be hit by the new moon. ( which is not now for those of you out of synch with the cycles.)

Since you were drunk and insisted on arguing
we had to feign sleep
instead of watching the stars pop
from the head
of the sky.

You though.
You stayed up and and watched.
Watched the eyes watching you
stretched out under the long tongue of night
licking its kitten.

and in the morning you were reborn.
and we reached for our coffee
and another day.

inventory #1

2007-11-13T21:39:00.000-05:00

17 blocks to work.

by car, foot, bike or train.

home.

3 rooms.

couch.

2 cushions.

sky. close to the ground and grey.

my eyes, 2

your eyes, 2

2 hours out of 24 considering an impossible future.

6 hours of sleep.

4 hours of television, avoiding - something

9 hours at work - others other others

2 hours at a computer...dreaming

2 hours with you - blinking, blink, blink

10 fingers, 10 toes.

no assurances.

10% chance.

37% chance that's over-blown.

88% chance tomorrow will be the same.

12% change everything will chance...

away in western massachusetts

2007-07-04T18:59:00.000-04:00

And as three days and more here pass and I am catapulted deep into a novel by Bronte and I cannot take myself from her, nor lose her cadence and concerns which reach into my heart and touch me deeply…and am I just a mocking bird? drinking deeply at the well of literature and swallowing these products whole, churning them through and reallocating the phrases the nuance the heart into my own pages. Pages that I know not what to do with, that fill and fill and while I fret as to why why why, just continue to fill as well as to consider how best to fill them.

Time ticks on. 7pm. A fourth of July. A holiday. But the rain keeps us tightly bound up inside and the solitude it asks makes me wary of venturing out – unless by venturing out I would discover myself judged, bound up in relations, tied up in ways that I am wont to resist. Wont. Jesus Ms. Bronte. Couldn’t you have spread it a bit thinner?

A story.

Once there was a child laying her heart out on the pavement. Drawing all sorts of the pretty things she desired in all her simplicity and a well meaning lady, forty-ish, stout came twaddling past and cooed and ooohed over the little ones dear drawings. That in chalk would be immediately washed away by the impending storm. She took pictures of the fleeting figures, and encased them evermore in her little camera and the little girl ran off at the first sight of rain. Later the woman showed them to any and all who would look at this moment of beauty that she has preserved from the rain shower, and the little girl, paying these adults no mind, sat pondering a rainbow that sprung out of the rain soaked sky.

2007-06-21T08:20:00.000-04:00

i dreamt a poem last night
so good
and no pen by the bed
no will to awake
and lose it -
which now seems like
a dire mistake.

All I remember is that it came with quotations and conversations.

And after

2007-05-14T22:21:00.000-04:00

And this didn't stay in one thing but it will stay here. For you. You. Whoever you are. I adore you and I wish I was talking to you right now.

***

You walked into the room and found it was empty –
You tripped on your own shoes. Cursed the walls and sat down,
Plop, in the midst of everything. You could cry – we loved you so –
We wept when you awoke –
We trembled for your steps –
I’m concerned for you, always.
I’m sorry for you, always.
I’m afraid for you, always.

We’ll wait – we’ll wait and we’ll deal with whatever comes
Regardless of our ability or inability to cope.
we corrupted our young – we created our young
Took a page from the notebook of our lives and started editing,
Revising, erasing.

If you ask and keep asking you’ll find something worthwhile.
Something you can clean up and make worthwhile.
Dishes in the sink,
A discarded sweater,
A moment of forgiveness
A moment of joy
A moment of fury
A moment of wonder.
A moment you can rest and forget your tether.
It’s okay. It’s not what’s keeping you together.

in case you need it

2007-04-05T22:18:00.000-04:00

A terrific moment passed
you missed it
there was a gleaming
firefly twinkling
in front of a hot summer moon
all ripe full yellow
busting bursting
with all the sweetness
of the earth
fleeting -
none the less
it's what we get.

cross fingers and heart
cross eyes and hold breath
wish on 11:11
and all train tracks driven over
that you'll stop fighting long enough to see.

that we'll all stop fighting long enough to see.

april 2. grey. mid 40s-50s.

2007-04-02T12:27:00.000-04:00

there are places that lodge in your mind
it's hard to remember exactly but
you have them there.

Acaupo Beach. Marlboro Point.
the blacktop road back to the end of the county.
overhanging trees like a green tunnel
and at the end,
rocks reaching out to the river mouth
dumping into the Potomac
to the Cheasapeake
to the Atlantic
to somewhere else.
an expanse of grey and birds and nothing skies
holding your hand there
a tentative tether

the forays into the wilderness, not so wild then
but hanging onto it's luck
the eddies and crevices
the granite peaking up for air
perches to survey
the mounds that each spring bud little blue flowers
for the unmourned;
your heartbeat
your deadeyed aim.

Mostly the only thing you can do is not think about it.
mostly your only hope is to forget.
stuff it.
pile it over with layers of laundry
to do lists
tasks
plans to eat
practice
goals
schedule it all and you might get by -

we'll be pulling for you at any rate
you're our best bet.

p.s. all you know will not last your lifetime

p.p.s. this will not be here for your children

p.p.p.s. cloistered in the back of the church is a girl failing to see her God.

again. spring.

2007-03-19T19:14:00.000-04:00

step over the old litany
because your catechism
fell like pink petals
off the cherry's black bough,

instead
there are candies,
forget-me-knots
strewing the path.

the work gets hard -
the heart gets clear,
and even now,
while your eyes cross
somebody made you their favorite.

(carve your rules on your bones.
all else will be lost.)

a breath

2007-03-16T08:03:00.000-04:00

you meant to call,
to say it in person,
I know.
instead you sent an email
and forgot

to breathe -

(the WD-40 of
communication,

it'll take a total engine flush
to get the motor going again)

first rule of the road.
maintain your vehicle.

raw nostalgia of spring

2007-03-14T08:01:00.000-04:00

handwriting

when she moved to town.
the new girl
with eyeliner
short skirts
D cup in the 5th grade
information about bras and panties and the relative merits of Victoria Secrets
and i'd listen rapturous, never admitting owning undershirts and briefs from plastic bags.

she had cassette tapes
she had 120 minutes recorded on VHS
we watched Margo Timmons sing 'Sweet Jane' ad infinitum
adoring her langour,
switch to the Exploited and
dream of the punk rock boy down the hill.
we started a band
till she was grounded for months
and couldn't leave the house.
so we stole a car-

she wrote poems.
she wrote me notes
her handwriting astounded - long and thin -
a 'd' like a quarter note
the 'l's reaching across the pale blue lines
'g's low and graceful -
I studied it.
I emulated it.

like years previous I had studied my father's architectural hand
his rounded, even, steady letters
a clarity, a low simplicity
rigid uniformity, still breathing somehow.

and my writing now -
the physical act -
an homage to the letters these two hands would make
and the only way I knew to keep them with me
as they both would -
and before I was ready -
leave.

long-time-gone

2007-03-12T20:27:00.000-04:00

anybody out there? I know. I've been absent from this - but not from that, so sometimes choices are made. but here's a something from the recent that's fragmented into another form elsewhere, but will be here in it's entirety.

(i think i missed you)

***

various chords struck on the organ
A procession from the back to the front and back out again, united.
A location of fusion
a nuclear reaction.
The way you were weeping made me think of something else.
An assembled crowd tosses bird seed out of respect for the wild birds that must have exploded before.
Did people witness these sparrows erupt?
Were they ripped open? or simply stopped mid-flight from their gastric distress?

A joke.
The bride released ten doves after the ceremony. The doves return immediately to eat the rice and subsequently their bodies explode.
dove blood covers the wedding party.

the sight would seem enough to drive anyone away from rice at weddings.
cause and effect usually works to deter
however, you have to see the carnage first -
people forget -
are forgetful.
so then you have to see the blood all over again.
witness the event.
Birds.
People.
Good intentions.

myriad explosions.

2000-2008

2006-09-21T22:23:00.000-04:00

What will they say?

you stood around wringing your hands while the shit hit the fan.

yes.

yes we did.

we -

I -

didn't feel -

had been shown -

had been -

negated.

in my life I control so much.

in the world I control nothing.

the truth is in between.

and got lost in the crevice of the futon
with the crumbs
and the ACLU petition
and the check for the DNC
and some cat hair
and a list of things to improve next week
and six tears, seven screams
and uncountable, misdirected, erratic outbursts.

he said we're waiting for it to be over.

(but if it's cancer, waiting will not help)

***

(thanks to K.A, who thinks about these things more clearly than I do
and then leaves me thinking too.)

untitled

2006-08-31T18:12:00.000-04:00

pouring red wine down the sink
tasting the metallic tinge
and not remembering on what occasion
this bottle was opened
not remembering how it was acquired
and now spoiled,
an embarassment of wasted riches.

pouring red wine down the sink
three-quarters of the bottle undrunk
wondering if there was an argument that night
spoiling good spirits
or if there was a call and the evening went elsewhere
maybe it was opened in the afternoon
unobserved.

pouring red wind down the sink
and its a small thing
a chore, part of clearing off the counter
it's the sort of thing that grabs my attention
while listening to the evening news
and they rattle off the death tolls,
an embarassment of wasted riches.

Negative Space

2006-08-24T00:18:00.000-04:00

it's not like that's what was meant

other things were supposed to have happened

other things planned at the altar

the podium

the party where photographs captured wide smiles and

great hopes.

where people grasped each other like they would never, never, let go.

in the beginning all things are possible.

all things.

all.

and the narcotic angel flaps her graceless wing
and we forget all
imagining only our own.

laps. lapse. slap.

2006-08-14T20:49:00.000-04:00

momentary lapse of synapses
how/why - imperceptible.
later.
explanations.
limp gestures.
apologies

later
try to see it as presented
comforting.
still later
find out that the dreams are true
awkwarding.

And in the daydream of momentary lapses
of lazy synapses
serious pile of worms rotting there
what?
there!
on the ground?
you see it. I know you do.

Still. Surely you're giving all you can to a momentary lapse
surely you'll space out here shortly.
daydream
corrupt your heartstrings
there is an emptiness there.
just like always.
just like before.

trucking forwards
finalizing daydreams
corrupting and consolidating
young loves into something,
something containable
the daydream of nighttime
the wrongend of happiness
something to look out for.

NYC ~ August 1, 2006

2006-08-01T10:50:00.000-04:00

out and about - a furious banana storm
a place you never thought you'd go
beckons - dark eyed and steaming.

you step
one
another
resist the urge to
turn the tube to on
immerse in the constant constant of the radio
here we are
and i don't think we should be treated harshly
here we are
and accustomed or unaccustomed
the winds dont blow like they used to
the sky isn't that particular shade of
cerulean streaked with pink gold
and the artists who dream of bringing the heavens inside
better get down to work
'cause we're losing our access
to those beautiful skies

And who is the man who dreams of automaton
workers in southeast asia?
pulled from their villages where the young of the village
wandered the rice paddies at night singing singing across the fields
by the light of the moon
and the joy of the world
and now plucked from their roots
whither for pennies and
Mrs. Harrison's need for low low prices
cause she's got six kids to feed
and husband away in the reserves
and nothing gets those kids quiet like
a trip to the store
and you've got to buy them something
you know? after they watch those
cartoons they want to own their new friends.

and hell its only a couple bucks
only a hunk a plastic
only break in a week
only serves to quiet but not silence the ever present need need need

and so we are
quiet as church mice
in air thick and unhealthy
stay inside
and
drink plenty of water
wear light clothing
and
don't breath too deep

while Kim Ly lays down on her cot
so old now and worn
and opens her eyes wide wide wide
and does all she can to
remember and puzzle
why is this world progress
over that?

crapplasticchokinghazardenergydemandcausingheateffectscausingincreasedenergydemad
bullshitforthesilenceboughtfromwhiningneedyconsumerizedtwoyearoldsjustsomequietbe
tweenthestoreandtheTVandtheAC.

or

moon song village

back home and not home

2006-07-17T23:44:00.000-04:00

don't leave anything in the back of the car.

not my ice skates? not this baseball bat my mom gave me because it is mine and she is sick of looking at it but she will not give it away?

no. they will break your window and steal it.

what if i leave my window down?

well that might work.

people have been being stabbed.

people?

people in tacoma park at 3:40 afternoon.

its very nice in brooklyn.

the whores are out at 6am.

who's the business at 6am?

(we sit for a moment in the air conditioning and ponder this, no answer seems hopeful.

'same old miseries. no more splendor.')

a voice of my generation.

2006-06-28T20:45:00.000-04:00

Chuck Klosterman.

and I've just bought 'killing yourself to Live' and read it in the space of 6 hours.

I feel hung-over, cranky, and dissatisfied. but the whole time i was reading it I was loving it.

What should I expect?

I expect to run into him in a bar tonight and have him hit on me and then maybe the 6 hours will be worth it because I will have been warned. yet wouldn't I fall for it anyway? When have warnings been heeded? We know all the things we should do to take care of ourselves and yet...

bringing me to the other book I read today about overcoming writer's block which has only tried to convince me, through doing exercises where I write with my left hand, that all the things I hold sacred - and somehow essential - are just problems with brain-hemisphere communication so I should be drinking green tea, not coffee and getting on with it.

Another claim of the book is to find ways to reward oneself for devoting time to writing. You're supposed to list guilt-free rewards. He suggests listing ten.

um. I'm apparently unable to come up with any.

help.

guilt follows me everywhere - and I'm sortof friends with it - but maybe I'd be able to find a better friend if I stopped spending so much time with it.

back to the source

2006-06-27T16:46:00.000-04:00

Yet again - and
Begin. No.
Hah.

There is no person on earth who can take these pieces and make them fit.
No one will ever say it like you want.
and isn't that okay?
Doesn't it have to be?
lost my place -
you weren't speaking. It was only the dreamtime
my brain's barely working
smile, smile, nod, nod.

(and what am I supposed to do?)

too much sodium.
still slightly hung-over
and that was long ago.
we've got 17 styles of telling and
only one where anything gets put back together again.
thank you for telling me something.
I only wish somebody would again come out from underneath the stash of newspapers and momentarily make something happen before we forget about it. Lose track of it before you're able to see what happened.

I'm fully on this train now.

You're speaking. You are, aren't you?

details picked up like from a paper cup.
special moments.
Nothing you can hold onto.
it will disappoint.

you know that right?
end of the day?
and yet again,

Begin. No.

Hah.

cryptnosis

2006-06-26T00:07:00.000-04:00

there's this and there's that
there's the way you try
and fail
and try
there's one sleeping
another staying up all night
there's the heart that's beating
and the one that's standing still.
it's nice to think of patterns and
the causes and the effects
the worthiness
and relative deservingness
and really
its just
timing.

brute.

tick tock.

just trying to put it down

2006-06-08T22:29:00.000-04:00

it's thursday night and I've just come home from a work thing.

a work thing.

My work, that I talk about too much, and try not to talk about, but I do cause, cause.

maybe fw will remember this time when we were talking about work in the late sportsbar that's the least sports bar sports bar I've ever known, Eileen's on Capitol Hill. and i was drunk but I remember saying it was like a vocation this teaching thing that I keep doing.

anyways. Now I work in this place and tonight we had a benefit concert in the back room at Liberty Heights Tap Room in Red Hook - which is awesome. if you ever go. you should go there. but. what can I say. Can I make it live for this blog that maybe you'll read - the people who read this, who I know is like 9 of you, but 9 of my favorite people out there.

and, well, I should have been at the first performance of A.'s play. but. it was the end of year event and I went and...

a pretty amazing jazz guitarist opened with his band. and they were tight and five of my students, little ones 5 - 7 are standing transfixed following the guitar then drums then bass solos with their bodies, and all these parents that, If i'm ever a parent I can only hope I can hold in mind as models are having some pizzas and drinking some beers and talking and then...

there's a 11 year old student who takes the stage and in the most heartbreaking alto voice - a shockingly mature voice, starts singing while she's playing piano, strongly, commands the room - and again, my students are standing at the front of the stage open mouthed that the girl they play lost children with, and witch in the castle and veternarian with is making beautiful music.

and I don't think I'm summing up. but I'm trying, because its families and all the teenagers showed up and it was a good time - all these ages represented - and it felt like maybe a wedding or a reunion, but it wasn't it was a school function - but for these kids, they're not looking forward to school being over - to summer without a passle of kids to spend the day with and learn with and play with - and

and i left to discover that my legs which i thought had been tickled under the table had actually been tagged up and down with barbie bandaids. and

well.

I'm glad I do what i do - even though I'm so tired a lot of the time. and even though I'm feeling drained and like I want to lay in the bed for about a week once this first year is over, but, it was worth it tonight .

and I just wanted to try to share the part I don't get to so much cause time is precious and there are so many things I want to talk about when I'm away from work, and they are not work but, maybe I can break my Only Poems rule and put it here and maybe that will start to help me figure out to bring some of it together.

I was going to wrap it up there. but its not done. Cause the reason i fell for theatre was because of people and the whole doing things together and the pitching in and yes. even the nights where there are like 5 people who find themselves in a theatre on the edge of a city picking shattered plexiglass off of the chickenwire that its been hotglue gunned to because, damn it, it doesn't quite look like ice shattering - and well, I'm older now. I can't pick that plastic off with my fingers until 3 am and then get up and go to work in the morning. but I'm still looking for the places that have that sense of endeavor.

so. tonight. Here's to Endeavor.

its nice to feel it sometimes - even if the words aren't painting the picture. Maybe its at least a starting sketch for something.

sunday

2006-05-28T18:16:00.000-04:00

a beautiful thing to wake up on the first sunday of the summer season hung-over and spend the day reading a novel, the kind that has you weeping all the way through, squinting at the words through your tears and from time to time sobbing for all the people you miss and love and don't have any idea how to share everything you want to share with them, and the kind that makes the dead seem closer.

is it books that do that? is it hang-overs? is it what happens when you finally get a good chunk of time alone in your head?

thanks, anyway, for whatever brings these days around.

merci beaucoup.

sparse spring

2006-05-09T07:42:00.000-04:00

you're trying to tell me something
I can tell by the way you move your mouth
and on a better day
in a better me
I would drop everything and help
but this spring
i'm bone and ash
and words are just the breeze that chills me.

Ink don't flow and the words don't come
even my eyes feel dull and numb
last week i stared at the tv all night
and when my baby came home
all i knew was how to fight.

Here's the fear.
Times passing
and what do you have to show?
tired bones
flat mind
but I showered -
even washed my hair?
could that count?
no.

This spring I'd give anything
to bloom like a cherry tree
covering her skeleton
with petal armor
buying time and admiration
while her juicy bits
get a jump on summer.

a matter between the notebook and the clock and me

2006-04-13T08:37:00.000-04:00

and the moon marks us -
reminds us what was in our eyes before the daily
before the sun stabs us awake -
here, it leaves chunks in the corners
blobs of sleep
our crusty dreams,

careful now,
extract it whole
and after faint perusal
place on tip of tongue
and dissolve.

(inside is best.
better than outside for
such things as this.)

if you never then you wouldn't

2006-03-27T21:05:00.000-05:00

And she said, I miss those days
and breathed it back in next breath
the old bad days
the grey sky lows
the baskets of half dried laundry
the socks no one claimed
the drawers painted shut by our own hands
other things,
other things.

but sometimes there was music
and parties that lasted all night
and sometimes later
you'd think of then
and your eyes might
swell up with a flood behind
and there's no sense to it
or clarity to memory
but the watercolor in your head
it trembles
and if eyes could just focus -

like asking Monet for straight lines,
bold colors.

like asking Ashbery for couplets,
simpler similies.

like asking you for anything.

since you asked

2006-03-14T19:56:00.000-05:00

Eat your own shorts
monkey
there, dancing there
I've given you plenty
starting from the slap,
ending with the iron to the head
blue matches blue matching blue
you've got questions
I've got them too

like

why blue for bruises
and what color is your tongue
don't show it
I already know
a swollen bruise
blooming through
puss yellow lips

annual interpretations

2006-02-28T08:04:00.000-05:00

you're not who you thought you were
so much more, less
a tenuous link between what's read and what's dream
between what's said and what's seen-
anyways
wake up anyways
another day, year
think about excercise
examinations
exorcisms
estrangements from
the you that you are,
the you that you are not.

something else - random percolations

2006-02-21T09:41:00.000-05:00

you might say this - you might say anything - still it will fall on the silence of apathy.
the brittle bones of a place that will be forgotten.
this place will be forgotten.
How could it stand?
Insta-box construction?
one good wind and down it goes.

My son was playing at the construction site, he was 11. Took some wood to build a ramp or something, for his skateboard, he took some wood and they saw, through the cameras.
In the night they took him.
By morning he was back in his bed
but he was cahnged.

See, mother, give us a moment of your time because we, we are strong in number and our rolls are every-shifting, we can't afford a spy glass - we'll have to take on - you know - whatever means necessary. Mother, you are with us.
shhhh.
I see. And someday we will need you. will you?
yes, shhh, now go -
Your baby - could he?
My boy is a sargeant now - he was called up yesterday.
I'm sorry.
(and she kisses her)

Underneath the crust of things
we try to see
we try to see
I don't know what tomorrow brings
and today wasn't too much fun.
but underneath the crust of things
I'm sure there's something won -
to be won.

word valentine

2006-02-13T19:26:00.000-05:00

Better to be real
than to be a real genius
read the back of cereal boxes
and sprinkle on the sugar sugar
wonder where my friends have gone
they've vanished in the ether either
city thick with strangers
half the time they're smiling
or
cross your fingers
hope to die
stick a needly needle in your eye
I've been good
and I've been sad
but this year
last year
look what I've had
(sneaky suspicion noone's looking maybe I'll just run a hand down these silky knickers i got for X-mas)
who? who? who is shouting down the boardwalk?
remember the summer you were seventeen
what did that mean
figure-ing fanagling there's no easy
road to follow that one out of
in fact the one you took
is looking kinda shaky
baby-
and still
there's nothing clearer
than the need
the umph at the heart of it
the love and desire
to scrape, scratch
kick at the start of it
and get to
the thing
that's
real
yeah baby yeah
that
sweet
goose.

red hook sunday

2006-02-04T15:40:00.000-05:00

you told me something -
sorry, wasn't listening
head up my ass
tail cocked to the skies
whiffin' the air for some other dream
some other -
something

not that it was there
course it wasn't there.
not like your hand in my pocket
not like the peir dropping into the harbour
or the white caps flashing between the
sky and sea.

where've you been?

2006-02-01T21:52:00.000-05:00

I don't know. sleeping a lot. and snacking on foods. I got sick and laid in the bed and read 'the Stand' by Stephen King and thought it was pretty good. I'm losing touch with something. It wasn't good - yes it was - i don't know. Mostly fantasizing about the end of the world - or the end of civilization more correctly. That's good when you're under the weather.

I can barely write a sentence. The muse left me. the fickle lady. The sneaky gooser of words - whoomph off she went and the poem hand is dry. ah, la, it was a good run, maybe she'll come back.

i will leave a snack by the window.

Till then. February. Its the month I'm born in and that a bunch of my relatives are born in. Its special to me.

A few years ago it was a hard time and since It was the 'magic year' the year where the age you're turning matches the day of your birthday i started a project, where each day I would sit for a minute and think about that year of my life. So like today, i sat and thought about the first year of me and so on until my birthday came. That was it.

Then the next year I'd changed nearly everything in my life. Then I had this assignment from a professor to make some sort of autobiographical peice of art - i forget the exact brief - the class was a very open to interpretation kind of class. Anyway.

I made this book where each page was a year of my life, and I cut up this atlas so that there was a country or part of the world, or a state on each page - and a sentence about the year. For example on a purple page the Black Sea is carefully cut out and glued in the middle of it and the sentence says, "I don't know anything" and on a Blue page Tennessee and the sentences, "i learn to run fast. i can bait my own hook." Then a long with the book was an altoids tin with strips of text on them. This text is all from the journal i kept the month of February up to my Birthday when i thought about each year for a day - though i wasn't trying to write about that everyday. I was just writing everyday then. So the strips have lots of stuff on them - here's some random selections:

I'm not gonna trip on my laces, gonna get me some velcro

i seem to be drinking myself nuts now.

imagined disappearing in the storm - so much easier than these placid days.

resolve: do not leave incomprehensible screaming messages.

There are tons of these strips, neatly printed and cut out on heavy cardstock, and the idea was you would read the book front to back then at random pluck out these strips of text. People did that. And nothing broke. I wasn't shattered from sharing parts of myself - things continued, and people responded. My professor went on about it - which i liked cause i like positive attention - and then I packed it up in a box, and haven't really shared it with anyone.

1/21/06

2006-01-21T09:47:00.000-05:00

'just make it fair' she would whisper in your ear
and you were staing in forgetfulness
on the drama staged before you.
Two men, a woman, her story a hole
in the plot never tangling into
a satisfactory garment.
'i'll give you my thoughts, but only if you share'
and since you were late and
trying to make sense of what
was shaping up to be a
remedial evening you missed
that part, but did purchase
two drinks that were enjoyed
although the music was too loud
and the clientele escaped you.
'good-night' and she kissed you
twice.
once for each

1.15.06

2006-01-15T20:32:00.000-05:00

nowhere, she thought
nowhere would be as good as here
because here, today feels
as doggone as nowhere
did years ago when words
sometimes failed
overwhelmed by burning ears
and voice dropped out of the
playing field-
and you'd think there'd be
photographs and you'd be
wrong. There's only one
and it's got you balanced
on a 2-by-4 over an abyss
going cross-eyed
from the noise.

about water and thirst

2006-01-09T07:31:00.000-05:00

My heart pounds.
You gave me sandwiches
and yet it was your touch that drew me to you.
Undo your laces, allow some spillage
you're not mine nor hers nor theirs,
you're your own
and for that, at least, be happy?
Its not everyday we can pop one way or the next
we can side-sidle over to another man's
dream-land and figure out some sort of
majestic noise.
Just thinking of you on the corner
conversation so pleasant
hate to say good-bye -
but fifteen minutes later would wrestle with impatience
better to let the water go
drink what you need
you don't need the river.

who dreams in the day and nighttime

2006-01-03T07:58:00.000-05:00

Forgetful in these six hour daylight allotments
to talk to the enviable night owls
staying up with their secrets
pouring through their books of possibilities
waiting for dawn to sleep -
they have become extinct this year
replaced by sheer practicality
the over-burden of
relevant dreams in this zone
blanking out the irrelevant ones
that drip so much more richly
in the dark,
'course they're indiscernible
in the vapor light sky
imperceptible to
the germane equipment
, still, they flutter nervously
wall papered wall flowers waiting to be asked
and once trembling there on the dance floor,
revealed as the fecund ones
ready to bear
the necessary baby.

link to secrets

2006-01-02T19:03:00.000-05:00

i found this and it says it will disappear at the end of the week. but maybe you'll like to look at it too before it does.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Bring on 2006

2006-01-02T10:01:00.000-05:00

what oh what will this year bring. i'm alternately exhilerated and terrified. and apparently able only to continue what i'm doing. I love to continue what i'm doing though so i'm surely blessed. may all readers of this humble blog be graced with all the abundance, peace and love you can handle and poked nicely by whatever pokes you to throw yourself out into the world in whatever ways you see fit.

xo
qp

***

instrumental in the perpetual backslide
is the unique voice whispering the ear
since birth and to this day
capable of planting insidious seed
despite the best efforts of
diligence, discipline, positive outlook
and good hygiene.
Whatever disappointment lay ciphered in the cradle
will not be rocked away by
the steady hand of time.

encious

2005-12-23T07:44:00.000-05:00

I'm looking over notes for revisions of a play, I go over the scribble scratch from the reading and make educated guesses about what I may have meant then type it in as tasks to do. I need tasks. Anyway, apparently i deciphered a note as, "She is encious of this." All definitions are welcome.

Enjoy the trains and the holidays.
xo
qp

***

you spent your last dream -
you wasted this last hope
how did you think it would turn out?
this soaked monkey in a rainfall
dripping stank fur moment
and surely you didn't think
you'd be let in?
the door's closed - maybe get
your comfort from ringing -
maybe you could call on the phone?
and if there's nothing
else to do, one will answer,
be distracted,
and another will
chill invaluable hands over
the cold flames.

12.15.2005

2005-12-15T20:59:00.000-05:00

the burden of living
of waking and working and waking again
and the double burden of knowing
cookies and presents and holidays need making
and triple it with
the words the fictions the dreams
and they keep coming
quadruple it -
money and the $115 the city wants for double parking
and the people failed today
and the time i didn't smile when i could have
and global warming
and gowdawful government
and human rights abuses
and death penalty? really?
debt
deficit
impending transit strike
how i didn't write a check to the ACLU, NOW or NWF
and didn't write letters, sign petitions, sit and scream on the corner

all that's managed is
telling you all I've failed to do today
and counting burdents backwards
into sleep and arms.

quickness of quality

2005-12-06T17:32:00.000-05:00

So, consider this. I posted my last scribbling and really didn't like it, and then thought. I must write something new, fast, to cover that one up. and three days later okay, another, and I'll post it - better or not is not for me to answer according to the requirements of the venture - but it leaves me with this reflection. More people probably read the one that I think is godawful because after a not so inspirationaly outing it takes awhile to get the gears lined up again and fewer people probably read the ones that I really am excited about because they changed so quickly.

unless i guess you read on if you like something. I guess this is why you wait till you're dead and then people talk about or re-discover or bury your words in the ephemera, and that's why they're barely yours at all.

***

my apologies
because your burning face
is none of my concern
but if you'd caught me last
week with your panic
I think we could have arranged
a suitable response.
Now though it has snowed.
Winter's here and all things must end,
pause for the duration.
Couldn't you just join us? Settle yourself?
courageously come forward and eat -

Surely you're not considering
yourself the best of our time
haven't you yet grasped the nature
of our time? There is no best
no worst either - only the acceptance
that it is it - all is all and
no paid mortgage or 20 acres in the woods
no perfect dress or face or hand
no perfection
all is flaw
and that's
the way the pearls come.

does this even count?

2005-12-02T17:49:00.000-05:00

...or is it stretching The Rules. Hah. no answers only doing.

***

you told me nothing, you woke up hammered and
trembled.
what? what? what?
chemicals?
what?
depression?
what?
what?
me?
me?
what is it about me that's not making you happy?
what? I'll change it. I'll change
I'll revamp these insides
I'll scour the imperfections
dig holes into the
soul that is
too shallow for your
deep deep heart
your deep deep need
what?
what?
what? do you need?
can I do?
do you want?

"nothing,"
uttered
1 - 4 - 10 - 50 years too late
and
inaudible.

the arbitrary rules

2005-11-29T20:18:00.000-05:00

okay. The rules for this month have been to sit down and write. Just write and when that feeling kicks in then go with it, until its done, then put it on the blog and make any edits, alterations and additions in the transfer from the page to the screen.

Other rules have been. Do not try to explain. Do not shy away from the too personal or lines that could contain a story or character recognizablee to others. (disclaimer: that rule has been broken). Do not stop. Do accept comments and compliments and continue. Do put it out there, if it's been written with that feeling, put it out there. don't think too much.

The month is nearly ended. I'm starting to wonder, what have i learned, what's been gained, what does poetry matter - or writing. And here's one thing. I teach at an unusual school where I have the good fortune to work with people who are 5 up to 17 in an unstructured setting. Sometimes i get the notion to invite a student to write a poem. and suddenly this month I've been able to say, 'would you like to write a poem?' and kids have said, 'yes' and sat down and written thoughtful poems and sometimes have struggled with the pen, the spelling, the idea, the blank page and the quiet place to sit, and saw it through. I don't know how to explain exactly, but it feels like something a little bit magic.

and here's today's effort, according to the rules.

***

and what have you got to say?
you with your tangerine smiles
and marmalade dreams
you with your certain age
and navel-gazing pondering
of this our world
selfishness uglifies
and while its terrible
to lump in one basket and condemn
there's a particular weariness
with this booming generation
taking u s downriver
in a raft with no oars
just go with the flow baby
and baby that flow?
what? waterfall?
what? ocean?
or just spreading spreading spreading
its own solipsistic sea
of togetherness
where all can live
in tangled up
an arm and a leg confusion
while sharks
tear chemicaled flesh from
bones
and expire
from the poisons
within.

sort of orpheus d.

2005-11-28T20:42:00.000-05:00

The lady asked us
so you see yourself as a reformer?
'oh yes'
and then in my best southern
'a christ-bitten reformer'
and on with the monologue...

(don't we love you Carol Cantrell
don't we love you in the sportcar
sidling so - damn- lascivious up to
Brando. And Brando)

interrupted,
and the acting coach - 61, brit, crumbs of scone on neck beard -
showed my how to act it right -
more southern here, like this, and
more sexy please -

more sexy. how can i be more sexy?
i've got barely a pucker in my sweater
barely a flick to my hip
barely a swish in my flutter
barely enough heat to muster a
slow soft kiss back in winter time
and
when they ask you what you are
tell them what they want to hear
A Reformer! oh, yes!
a more sexy one!

road trip

2005-11-23T11:43:00.000-05:00

the road turns to paper
each mile a page
burned off in ink and gasoline
and lost times passed
at 80 mph
look like nothing remembered.
This country
you'd have to dig
to see something from then.

And this is nothing I want to share
curious 'cause
this morning I thought
today i will wake up a genius
I will emerge from sleep saved
instead I 'm just caffinated
just another strung out
over-worked American.
She said no holiday,
just the weekend.
and sometimes I wonder
could I be so separate from here?
should I be -
my family would miss me
but really -
couldn't we all just pack up for Venezuela? Maybe?
or Canada?
maybe dip our toes in a socialist future?
would they like my scribbles there?
but imagine trying to explain every reference.

in the end
the local girl
will try to
make good
at home.
however strange its grown.

11/20/05

2005-11-20T18:57:00.000-05:00

all i want to do is complain, bitch and feel put-upon. instead, a poem.

***

despite what you think
dreams don't die
they retreat
they knit sweaters
they do push-ups
they review the manuals

they return.
ninja-style
and seeking vengence.

autumn in warming/warning

2005-11-16T19:53:00.000-05:00

All bets are off. There's no chance to adjust now.
the leaves knocked me out
and I can't quite make sense of the colors.
they orange and yellow up
they red and maroon it up
they paint it on thick
and these are promises
to be kept -
these are moments we can adjust to.
later there's supposed to be a split second event
a hurricane
a total brush down/blow out
a get out of town moment
foot by foot - step by step - dream by dream -
trying not to slip

as you spill your heart all over the place
and this time in particular
it is charming.
better than last time
the drooling and the temper tantrums-
you've certainly come a long way.
Next time though, if you don't mind,
be sensitive to those around you
the ones still covered in phlegm
with small tedious scars
scattering the forearms.

we're happy for you,
of course we are
but we struggle to harness your
delightful perspective on the situation.
the one where tolls can be taken
and questions asked.
the one where quarters collected
will be shipped off for a very good cause
and if you could make a claim for them
we'd certainly entertain the notion
of bussing them your way.
they are heavy though -
with the burden of charity
and once you've gotten what you wanted,
you may feel the guilt of the glutton -
over stuffed and rancid.

maybe next time,
just take a moment
consider the red on that leaf
the one doused in blood
and let it be enough for you.

midnight oil

2005-11-15T20:27:00.000-05:00

they are on the radio right now - the song - 'we don't serve your country /don't serve your king/ do do do do do dodo' it's better than i remember. lots i think falls in that category. Better than I remember, what comes of being an obstinately disaffected kid in the 80s/early 90s. or just what comes... i'm giving up interpretations. they are always limiting. Better to remember you just can't explain anything. Like why that bald aussie singer can get away with his heartfelt vocal noodlings and a pretty lame musical accompaniment. but he does. I only hope I do as well.

***

how you start looking and it's endless, there's
nothing going to stop you falling -
burning
smoldering heavy
on the way down
I'm fighting shoving irritable -
from all arms and legs - confusions.
we go into the work and
come out again in
a couple of years -
you wore me out -
words left me
and they returned labored -
and all lies.

this is monday

2005-11-14T07:58:00.000-05:00

busy. full-on drop down busy. and now home to be still busy. a college is doing my play in a huge theatre, they are making wigs and constructing a set, complete with beds and a porch swing. it's set in 1968 and they will be using some Bright Eyes music to cover transistions. they are working so hard. i love theatre again.

***

continuing conversations and the difference between
a network and family is that
family will hunt you down if you stop showing up
and, yes, the implication being they will eat you.
gobble you up. swallow - chew ravenously.
dribble you down their neck.
they love you.
wonder how we'll ever get by
with all this communication
and still no calls.
soon i'll put on my hunting boots
go out in to the world and set traps.
i will have a gun.
you have been warned.
spare yourself.
call me.
please.

c'mon - didn't you see Orlando?

2005-11-10T19:33:00.000-05:00

Tilda Swinton could you come visit?
it would be a pleasure to meet you.
maybe have a drink
if you drink
do you drink?

And later maybe you could reveal
the secret to your unmistakable presence
or is it just genetics?
if you'd like to come over
I guess I could fix a stew
i'm handy in the kitchen
and can make banana bread,
if you like that?
but maybe you just like poems and arts
and I cannot afford the MOMA - or even PS 1 -
unless my friend lets us in for free.

dammit. forget it. i guess it's just too much trouble.
i'll call my friend next door. maybe she'll be home
and would like to go to Schnack -
drink cheap beer
and talk about the leaves.

bear with me

2005-11-09T17:44:00.000-05:00

Tori amos and that sweet fall dreariness. mmmmm. November plods with her heavy feet and i'm trying. I'm trying to stay on top of the melancholy she demands. (I'm also studiously procrastinating a deadline)

***

it's not what we would have chosen
I'd of rather learned about it another way
still, if we must hear about your terrific dream
I guess this way's best
where we can just sit with a smile plastered on our face
and wait until you're done
then promptly forget about it,
daydreaming on our own
maybe about pizza parlors with red-checked table cloths
and strained negotiations to prevent the negation
of previously un-navigated together dreams.
a coke with ice in red plastic cups.
backroads.
a week that was infinite and inexplicable
were there simply not enough synapses
or was it actually that confusing?
and how was it that
you called me by some other name
and i still responded.

While I'm talking, just smile, please,
and dream about your own misplaced memories.

thank you blog spirits

2005-11-08T11:44:00.000-05:00

its hard to take, praise or any sort of appreciation or recognition. in fact i thought it might mean that i would never write again. i don't know why. growing up though i'd have to say i was sheltered from praise by two deeply pragmatic parents who felt the danger of raising an obnoxiously precocious child who might then move far from home and maintain a loving, though daily distant relationship. hm. funny how our fears come to pass.

and here, thank you for the kind words and thoughts. the blogosphere is such a kind world, i'm glad to be here.

and through my fears. the next november poem.

***

and just because the moon slapped you once
doesn't mean she'll make you her bitch again.
pain in pleasure and pleasure in pain
are you really going to live out there, in the rain?
with no umbrella?

wish you'd come in, really.
but don't drip on the new carpet -
on second thought,
wait.
out here, on the doorstep.
think your own thoughts for awhile
and come in when you're dry.

and they should say what they mean

2005-11-07T07:35:00.000-05:00

i just really want to see a play i like. one that doesn't lie and say its 'intensely theatrical' when what's intensely theatrical about a revolving set, some choreographed stagehands, and a few time shifts? huh? bub? please explain.

here's another one.

***

and of course we miss you. who wouldn't?
you've got the best stories of anyone
and you're always demonstrating the most complicated way
to get from point A to point B.
There's so much to miss about you, really.
Yet when the phone actually stopped ringing
and your voice took on the familiarity of
a 70s matinee actor
it was relief that came, not longing
and in the practice of responding with accuracy
to the reactions of the heart
well, we took a hot shower and celebrated -
i'd rather soap up my own calves
than watch yours walk away again
rather tweak my own banana
than watch you mangle your own.
Kitten, it's barely true - but it is true
enough you'll see -
and we'll still be happy to host you at your next party.
Dispicability does not, nor never has
trumped hospitality in my world
nor in the world of most nomadic tribes.
and anyway
it would discount how very much
we miss you
and your wandering criss-crossed eyes

cowboys

2005-11-06T17:01:00.000-05:00

and i didn't mean to make it everyday, but i like to fill in the blanks and something must change in your heart if you do, if you write one everyday and put it out there. Out where? shure you could ask that, but probably better not to - probably better just to go ahead with it.

***

and the sunlight on the patchwork is enough to make you cry
on a day when John Wayne's got the matinee and Jimmy Stewart tells the undertaker -
'get the man his boots. a man should be buried in his boots'
and my dad was buried in his boots
and there's only a few things that make me cry
and that is one.
that and Jimmy Stewart,
the outlaw josie wales,
most photographs
and all cowboys.

also

the color of the leaves these days
the fragile air spinning by my ears
as i pedal across the Gowanus, sun-blind and reckless.
the promise of snow and spring
and all the ways one can leave this earth.

may we all go with our boots
whatever our boots may be.

much less than everything

2005-11-05T12:48:00.000-05:00

i'm trying to decide about doing an MFA. i ask everyone i talk to and no one can tell me. I usually talk myself out of it. on the basis that I like NYC and things are going okay for me here and some people like my work. but if I could go to an MFA program and they could guarantee that after it I would never be told, 'the characters and themes of the play are compelling, but you need a plot to move it along.' then i would pay the money and spend the time. I'd do all the work. Just teach me how to write with plot.

here's a line from a piece of mine - 'i've lost the thread so many times i'm weaving my own hairshirt.'

on second read that's not actually clarifying at all.

here's a poem, since i'm trying to prove to myself that actually people will not hate me if i put words out there. please, don't hate me. Or if you do, hate me for something that i do to you.

***

its easier than last year.
the way the moon falls backwards
and you're not in my orbit anymore.
she gave a push to the kitten and
it came back a cat,
(even though the french toast was obviously delicious,
we're beginning to suspect its ingredients -
tearing off the edges of the napkin,
trembling for lack of love.)
she's the girl we're missing
the one with spikes for teeth
and a pipe dream smile --

Couldn't you invite her in?

to Ashbery

2005-11-04T18:25:00.000-05:00

i'm starting a blog. obviously. the new yorker article on John Ashbery kicked me in the head. Ouch. and I'm tired of my writer's block and I'm tired of worrying about how everything is going to turn out or be received or what its worth. and so I'm starting a blog. To remember the people can read or not read however they'd like to and I can write cause that's pretty much all i really love to do.

and in that spirit. here's what i wrote this afternoon after reading the article perched on the edge of the bathtub because it was too danm hot to get into.

***

And with these long evenings that we've already lost
tumbling out the window like new found dresses
we throw up our hands and wish for that night when
describing the compulsion seemed enough to amuse everyone.

(these days the people are never amused)

or the evening on the ottoman
explaining the lack of articles
and having lips found fascinating
and its fine to imagine it was the words
within them that enthralled.

However, since then
you scratched holes in the floor
you bathed your cats in litter
you pulled the weave from carpet
and thinking of you now is very different than thinking of you then.