Friday, September 25, 2009

Incident on the #24

Repeatedly, she lets a stream
of mucous drop from her mouth
then sucks it back.
It is the sucking it back that makes it bad.

The easterly bus is crowded when I head home
but I get a less than comfortable seat.
There is something wrong with the woman in front.
The vision that taints her haunts me.

Repeatedly, she lets a stream
of mucous drop from her mouth then sucks it in.
It is the sucking it in
that makes it like a crime.

I wonder if this woman
was a regular person or
one of those workshop attendees who take this bus.
Regular people don't commit such crimes.

I don't want to be near her.
She sits in the front next to a red-beared man
who runs his hand over her arm and caresses her face.
There is something wrong with him.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Basement Bedroom Man

I'm forever making nightmares
out of the grit
in the deepest basement
bedroom of my heart.

Even when I want
to make fun,
the fun that I create
makes nightmares.

Monday, September 21, 2009

What the Unauthentic Man Answers

As I emerge,
I impose on friends
paintings with cheap paint
and pencil that nobody counts,
turn out thin vanity volumes.

Surrounded by sanctioned
art and real books
as I emerge and
come to the end
of my alloted days,

I hear the Writer's Guild's
official voice saying,
"we stand on guard
to shield the eyes of God."
"We all cry," is what I answer.

"We are all crying."

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Head and Shoulders Knees and Toes

It doesn't hurt
until he recalls,
tries to recapture
what should have been
future and present,
but now will only be past.

He tries
with clear resignation in his face
as hints of what he knew
come back.

His faint motions are funny
and sting through my eyes.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Ride to the North East Corner

Looking at the lists of names
I see being passed around
and spoken like music
I ask where
are my names.

My own name
is rarely spoken
not like music.
Being alone a day
and then a night,

toying ignorantly with the roads
without armor, slowly,
everyone who passes
has knowlege, names, steel.
No one has my names.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Progress Report

Ankle still not right
the discomfort comes and goes
it was careless of me
but such complaints are silent
until they reach outrage
and then they have to be
blamed on somebody.

I still get out
into the world of
torpid speech,
complaints adequately
reserved. I describe
who I think I am
and what the world looks like,
casting the words away.

Saturday, September 05, 2009

The Can't Eat Lullaby

She says she wants
potato chips
when I take her down
for pudding.
It's like a child
crying for a toy
and her parents
stubborn in refusing.

I remember when
we boycotted grapes
at a time when our kids
cried for them and we refused.
It's the crying that lasted.

Life came back,
in a moment of innocent wanting.
She also wanted cola
out of the pleasant past.
I told her I would try
to make some cola flavored pudding,
and some potato pudding that
would remove the memories.

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

It's possible for a poem to sound like truth but not be, or sound like it isn't truth when it is.

Social Research

In other language, if you look at it a different way, the trap is called commitment. Someone says I have made vows, I am committed, we have a commitment. You enter happily feeling your life is set and feeling that something about you has made another human being bond to you. While you float along happily, the bottom falls out. It's because commitment is too heavy and your partner can't carry it. You sink in the trap. If you protest and wriggle, the commitment gets heavier and you sink further.

Don's Second Social Law

The world of speech and smiles
is mined and laced with traps

Corollary A.

You will eventually
find yourself in a trap.

Corollary B.

If you find yourself in a trap
don't move, argue, complain
don't breathe. If you are still
the trap may go away
but if you move,
you will vanish.