yet learning to love the questions
this indie rock prince aggrieved
given to intimate rage
desirous
will always know where to find me
a quickly studied warm brother
given to fond looks
aware of that
guessing that
given his query
a gingerly offered hand
will always know how to find me
desirous
given to intimate rage
this high modern slave aloof
yet learning to love the questions
Schizoid
"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." - Jiddu Krishnamurti
Peripatetic
autocentric use of language notwithstanding
(the suchness of ‘em-dashes’ and such…)
the lines become less clear, age
advancing upon age, a deterioration of habits
an insistence of quasi-novel remedies
(the poetry may yet just kill me)
new signals – more easily found outside –
outside the continuity of a particular convention
living outside today means living outside
: a pre-literate space : haunted by the future :
nothing especially poetic
but another way of getting there
to write a poem just now would mean
suspending the remembrance of all I lack
which is (schizoid personality disorder, or no)
the Way to live in any case
during the long marches between parks
I don’t think much – it’s just a practice…
in lovelier moments on the lawn
I consider with joy all we’ve not yet tried
(the suchness of ‘em-dashes’ and such…)
the lines become less clear, age
advancing upon age, a deterioration of habits
an insistence of quasi-novel remedies
(the poetry may yet just kill me)
new signals – more easily found outside –
outside the continuity of a particular convention
living outside today means living outside
: a pre-literate space : haunted by the future :
nothing especially poetic
but another way of getting there
to write a poem just now would mean
suspending the remembrance of all I lack
which is (schizoid personality disorder, or no)
the Way to live in any case
during the long marches between parks
I don’t think much – it’s just a practice…
in lovelier moments on the lawn
I consider with joy all we’ve not yet tried
Trimming the Beard
Without dope creation shifts
images fundamental as water,
forces fundamental as gravity,
recall'd and re-learnt, respectively.
I examine the razor,
its bits of rust
against basin backdrop recalling
decisions of botch'd abortions
I'll never have had to make.
Not as becoming a Judge,
nor quite an ass,
this jawbone jutting stubborn still,
learns of an efficient sluicing
together with chin catchment...
Sinkward rivulets carry
the detritus of what ev'ry man does,
all through the night, and all the live-long day,
witnessing the karma of new growth.
images fundamental as water,
forces fundamental as gravity,
recall'd and re-learnt, respectively.
I examine the razor,
its bits of rust
against basin backdrop recalling
decisions of botch'd abortions
I'll never have had to make.
Not as becoming a Judge,
nor quite an ass,
this jawbone jutting stubborn still,
learns of an efficient sluicing
together with chin catchment...
Sinkward rivulets carry
the detritus of what ev'ry man does,
all through the night, and all the live-long day,
witnessing the karma of new growth.
Sitting on the No. 10 Bus
A blue-eyed mystery with guitar
cuts a strange figure.
That we two are both past reckless youth
is somewhat comforting
behind these personas constructed,
never quite chosen.
Five Forays into Masochism
i. Of Allegedly Wide-Open Spaces
‘It’s the loneliness that’s the killer.’ Hm.
So says that fellow, calls himself ‘Seal’.
An’ I reckon he’s onto somethin’…
‘Course I’d like to think it’s the killers,
make us so lonely,
but that shit ain’t true.
Take two men, never met, not oncet,
but each one of ‘em knows somethin’
o’ th’ other’s wants:
what he never has had, or been able…
Yessir, you can take that to the bank.
It’s plumb crazy, all that killin’ an’ grief.
And crazy still, that bottomless well
where a man can hide
anything, like a joy or a free breath,
all tamped down ‘til there’s just nothin’.
Maybe they’d meet ‘fore it come to that.
See one another comin’ up the road a piece…
I guess it could happen.
ii. Command Performative
by the embers of a slow-burn
(thirty-plus years if you want to know,
if it makes a difference…)
a flickering-up-into night
illuminating the most tentative of all homes
a home that will dissolve into arms
strong as empty nights
strong as we hold our ground
on this sun-burned, California hill
There is no letting go that which was not firstly held.
then a breathing pure as weeping
holding me down or holding me up
closer on not needing to predict the
no longer needing to predict
How should I not have dissolved into those arms?
for the very Earth
tossed in bright, lightless arms
a spaciousness in hearing in the wind
an infinitely taut response
and we handsomely sounding together
founded another collapse
in the event of all possibility
iii. Good Night / Good Morning
Thinking of you
I pray you are safe in the arms of Morpheus
Waking anon
I shall pray you are happily held in Eos' care
That nights and days us keep
Until we have faces
And blessings between
iv. Writ Little
that he knew I did not yet know the words
When his arm slipped under…
He must have known I should think.
Or, is it precisely I should not think?
I don’t think that is what he means.
the voice long tired by disputatious ramblings
But I can point to the suchness: ‘đhă’.
Let us say first it is not force alone,
Let us say next it is an exchange.
Better, a flowing, a fathomless heart.
looking to foster an enthusiasm for devotion
Yes, I know he shouldn’t stay forever.
I know he mustn’t forsake all others.
But when he knows me supported
in the curve of that headspace…
when his arm slips under and he knows and
v. Relativity
Sometimes when I see him
I just stand there with the others
and probably seeming dumb
as on a train unsure
am I passing or being passed?
or is it both? in one window
all would-be points of reference
obscured
yet there are platforms and
somewhere
the adjacent rail-bed lies empty
so many events
Sometimes when I see him
in accelerated motion-toward
this arc of a slower timespace
a visit from my future
in his face
I just stand there unseen
thinking already a fond farewell
‘It’s the loneliness that’s the killer.’ Hm.
So says that fellow, calls himself ‘Seal’.
An’ I reckon he’s onto somethin’…
‘Course I’d like to think it’s the killers,
make us so lonely,
but that shit ain’t true.
Take two men, never met, not oncet,
but each one of ‘em knows somethin’
o’ th’ other’s wants:
what he never has had, or been able…
Yessir, you can take that to the bank.
It’s plumb crazy, all that killin’ an’ grief.
And crazy still, that bottomless well
where a man can hide
anything, like a joy or a free breath,
all tamped down ‘til there’s just nothin’.
Maybe they’d meet ‘fore it come to that.
See one another comin’ up the road a piece…
I guess it could happen.
ii. Command Performative
by the embers of a slow-burn
(thirty-plus years if you want to know,
if it makes a difference…)
a flickering-up-into night
illuminating the most tentative of all homes
a home that will dissolve into arms
strong as empty nights
strong as we hold our ground
on this sun-burned, California hill
There is no letting go that which was not firstly held.
then a breathing pure as weeping
holding me down or holding me up
closer on not needing to predict the
no longer needing to predict
How should I not have dissolved into those arms?
for the very Earth
tossed in bright, lightless arms
a spaciousness in hearing in the wind
an infinitely taut response
and we handsomely sounding together
founded another collapse
in the event of all possibility
iii. Good Night / Good Morning
Thinking of you
I pray you are safe in the arms of Morpheus
Waking anon
I shall pray you are happily held in Eos' care
That nights and days us keep
Until we have faces
And blessings between
iv. Writ Little
that he knew I did not yet know the words
When his arm slipped under…
He must have known I should think.
Or, is it precisely I should not think?
I don’t think that is what he means.
the voice long tired by disputatious ramblings
But I can point to the suchness: ‘đhă’.
Let us say first it is not force alone,
Let us say next it is an exchange.
Better, a flowing, a fathomless heart.
looking to foster an enthusiasm for devotion
Yes, I know he shouldn’t stay forever.
I know he mustn’t forsake all others.
But when he knows me supported
in the curve of that headspace…
when his arm slips under and he knows and
v. Relativity
Sometimes when I see him
I just stand there with the others
and probably seeming dumb
as on a train unsure
am I passing or being passed?
or is it both? in one window
all would-be points of reference
obscured
yet there are platforms and
somewhere
the adjacent rail-bed lies empty
so many events
Sometimes when I see him
in accelerated motion-toward
this arc of a slower timespace
a visit from my future
in his face
I just stand there unseen
thinking already a fond farewell
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