The Future and the Fading Present

somewhere after the flash of balloons and bubblegum:

 an ambulance siren, singing loudly to clear

the way.  It becomes

a howl, with longing and bright

teeth that shiver in the wind,

lonely as lake Michigan in the

dead of winter.  the raft had overturned

and the boys held their breath—

the seagulls have abandoned them,

the green shore a distant memory.

Progression is somehow a willow tree,

fingers trailing in the water, which flows and bubbles,

remembering that once it cared to live.

Vacation

The lights strung above the doorway
call you home:
this is not your motel room
in San Juan,
bed unmade and already
slept in.

This is a kind of contingency
where people read magazines
to divine the proper way
to live,

and outside
the garden is overpopulated
by termites.  they steal the trees,
renting out each branch like a

sub-let complex.  An in winter
they burrow deeper.  Try to ignore
them, but you can't.
We all want to be whole.

Mistaking Mortar for Daybreak

Farther out of town
the night sky seems higher
than heaven.  The lampposts
eclipse all celestial things...

We take for granted the stillness
between days, trying desperately
to make it mean.
In such low light, who could
help but to mistake a window
for a mirror?

I once thought i saw a sunrise in a stone
wall lit with floodlights
but the dark trees stood correcting me
in counterpoint.

You Need to Have a Plan

A roadmap of the lungs,

a slight exaltation resulting in

burning clothes, a broken ankle—

the kind of thing you get from

hitchhiking a desert come nightfall.

Delighting in the scrape of a wing

against the sand, smothering a

guttural growl.

The ancients take their dreams

and run with them, and

in the dusty morning find

There are no humans here.

The Last Trip We Took

Falling out of an airplane is sometimes nice,
like going overboard on a ship: cold air hitting
you, like water filling your lungs, like the
frost-bitten pillow cases shoved over our heads.

I’m telling you this because I care.
Red is not the color of malice, but of
diced tomatoes: watery flesh which leaks
onto our countertop;
it’s the color of wine that stains the carpet
and of blood that stains the mind.

The air has a brick’s weight
muscling itself into the corners of this room.
(somehow I expected to go much differently)
Weeping, I do not see.
Sight replaced by smell:
horse muck, rust, and
a boxcar full of kerosene

Elemental

Somewhat ridiculous,
here in the middle of winter, are
shorts.
These summer clothes are themselves
a nuisance: they badger
you about body shape
and what shoes to wear.

Hanging in the back of the closet
they seem to paint a beach
scene, all striped towels and
orange cover-ups.  The sun
evaporates the water and melts
the sand.  Do we have a name
for this synthesis of elements?

It's hard to remember
days lost to heatstroke and
condensation,
weathervanes swinging freely,
but somewhere people are
barefoot, the
sun dripping lazily in a
fading oleander sky.

Resonance (Ashbury poem)

We ride by night

and in the early afternoon

we

break the keys off in our locks…

Fool me once, shame on you

Fool me twice

and then how do we proceed?

O joy of my life

I knew you at once by your shadow.

Others may well try, be they God or man,

striking an anvil

as if everything around it will sing.

Black Ice

Faces reflect in the mirror

moving through the

light, the void—all illusion

an allusion to that thrill

Navy violets and yellow-oranges

bloom on the indulgent floor.

As we move,

rhythm & beats pervasive,

our bodies know this pulsing.

Night courses onward,

cities and stars both glowing

            (phosphorus and nitrogen exploding)

How To

how to write poetry