Left
unwrapped,
the joy we had
yesterday before
your mom called
to say your father's brain
tumor is cancerous
has staled
and must be thrown out
12.10.2009
11.24.2009
11.23.2009
Crumbs
for three-quarters price, marked
down for clearance, making room
for something more relevant
this is my love, bought on a whim:
gifts, cheaply tendered
by the drug store, chocolates
offered sheepishly in the bag
with the coupons that bought them
and this room, when I open the door
first and take lead, dropping clothes
to their piles, takes stock of me;
crumbs buried in the carpet, small
plastic pieces of garbage, soda
tabs dropped, unpopped kernels, bits
flicked and brushed, long strands
settled invisible under foot
for three-quarters price, marked
down for clearance, making room
for something more relevant
this is my love, bought on a whim:
gifts, cheaply tendered
by the drug store, chocolates
offered sheepishly in the bag
with the coupons that bought them
and this room, when I open the door
first and take lead, dropping clothes
to their piles, takes stock of me;
crumbs buried in the carpet, small
plastic pieces of garbage, soda
tabs dropped, unpopped kernels, bits
flicked and brushed, long strands
settled invisible under foot
11.09.2009
11.09.2009
Spitwad
this is your revelry -- Christmas light lit,
all bodies in clothing unmoving and jostled,
cupping the sound like a hand on your ear,
a hand on your heart
but a hard slap, a hot Cuban hand on the head
of the drum will unstick like an arrow, stick like
a spitwad on a chalkboard, stick and peel off
all flat and impressed
this is your revelry -- Christmas light lit,
all bodies in clothing unmoving and jostled,
cupping the sound like a hand on your ear,
a hand on your heart
but a hard slap, a hot Cuban hand on the head
of the drum will unstick like an arrow, stick like
a spitwad on a chalkboard, stick and peel off
all flat and impressed
8.05.2008
7.1.2008
Cork
so this is pilgrimage. a can of coke.
some crisps. cigarette butts. the smell of fried
chicken. the sun behind a cloud. the light
turns red. I cross. a girl my age touches
her face and looks away. an older man
kisses his girlfriend while she's on the phone.
the brick is black. alone. guitar. the sun
blinks down. it's afternoon. a father has
no patience. for a moment there's a man
with coffee contemplating sitting down.
he looks at me. a smile. he walks on.
a language I don't speak. the sun again.
unless I raise my head I won't be seen.
a woman leaves the city council library.
Tourettes. she shakes her head. again. she takes
the corner. ducks into a run. the wind
blows trash and leaves. a car horn blows. I look.
so this is pilgrimage. a can of coke.
some crisps. cigarette butts. the smell of fried
chicken. the sun behind a cloud. the light
turns red. I cross. a girl my age touches
her face and looks away. an older man
kisses his girlfriend while she's on the phone.
the brick is black. alone. guitar. the sun
blinks down. it's afternoon. a father has
no patience. for a moment there's a man
with coffee contemplating sitting down.
he looks at me. a smile. he walks on.
a language I don't speak. the sun again.
unless I raise my head I won't be seen.
a woman leaves the city council library.
Tourettes. she shakes her head. again. she takes
the corner. ducks into a run. the wind
blows trash and leaves. a car horn blows. I look.
6.28.2008
Valleysong; or, The Ascent
the late Mrs. Fitzgibbon would have turned
sixty-eight this year, if I heard right.
your way of life changes, Fitz says, not lightly
but with life, as someone who has heard
the still, sad music of humanity
and greets the day with hale voice – and they
would have been wed forty-four years today.
that song grows soft in age, the melody
is stretched to fill the lonely twilight hours.
the choice presents itself: to brave or cower
from that music, which is itself the choice
to live or not, and Fitz raises his voice
over the howl of mountain wind, back bent,
and breathes deep, ready for the long ascent.
the late Mrs. Fitzgibbon would have turned
sixty-eight this year, if I heard right.
your way of life changes, Fitz says, not lightly
but with life, as someone who has heard
the still, sad music of humanity
and greets the day with hale voice – and they
would have been wed forty-four years today.
that song grows soft in age, the melody
is stretched to fill the lonely twilight hours.
the choice presents itself: to brave or cower
from that music, which is itself the choice
to live or not, and Fitz raises his voice
over the howl of mountain wind, back bent,
and breathes deep, ready for the long ascent.
6.26.2008
Whitby, UK, Low Tide
Fell Asleep Hard
by 215 Woke Up
Harder by 730
Hot Brick Heavy
in the Head I
Pulled It Together
in a Cold Shower
Hit Whitby Sour
and a Bit
Cramped North
Sea Air Sucker
Punched Back
Almost Knocked
Out and I
Descended into
the Village Like
a Fog for Coffee
and Fried Fish as
a Gull I Circled
but I'd Seen It
Already Bored I
Waited For the
Others and
Together We
Ascended to the
Abbey Past
Cheese Stands
and Street
Guitarists Up the
Steps Halfway
Until We Turned
Around and
Whitby Fell
Apart Soft Like
an Onion
Fell Asleep Hard
by 215 Woke Up
Harder by 730
Hot Brick Heavy
in the Head I
Pulled It Together
in a Cold Shower
Hit Whitby Sour
and a Bit
Cramped North
Sea Air Sucker
Punched Back
Almost Knocked
Out and I
Descended into
the Village Like
a Fog for Coffee
and Fried Fish as
a Gull I Circled
but I'd Seen It
Already Bored I
Waited For the
Others and
Together We
Ascended to the
Abbey Past
Cheese Stands
and Street
Guitarists Up the
Steps Halfway
Until We Turned
Around and
Whitby Fell
Apart Soft Like
an Onion
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