I know nothing to be honest.
To be honest w/ my child, who isn't
mine but for the five hours they,
the agency, the state, authorize
me to be someone for the child.
Someone, this that I embrace
as much as three pages daily,
my bright lights casted
in the background, uncluttered
the sound of cars smashing
into each other, across the
stubbled polymer surfaces.
Hollow most children's objects
are, so that they can fill.
Everyday filling these voids
that most of us have
difficulty acknowledging.
He stands there, not wanting,
nor tired, nor fat as I,
filling the objects that
make up his day
his new world.
---
Christian teaches me rather than
vice versa. I write of him
since he cannot of me.
I reach out, up, for things,
like cranes do.
He brings them together,
throws them apart, like a
dozer. We're a team, he and I,
in the chaos where
we meet thrice a week, we
make things happen.
His mind is furiously quick.
I just get furious quickly.
July 25, 2012
:0
awaken in the noonday never far from a
body of water, or concrete, filled in
permanently if by chance, a person,
especially a child, drowns.
Arms outstretched above my dream head
not for the lack of space here, w/
her all curled, her hair tightens
up by the noonday sun,
cactus twitches unnoticeably from time
to time. Here I open my eyes and
arch my body and rest myself
upon my arms, stiff from holding
back the shared wall of the house,
yawp, a statement to the towering,
sun, which like a deity, cares
none -- still burning and when it
expires, I too won't care for it,
having long expired myself, but
not today, today I wake
and am careful not to disturb
the bundled layers of
blankets that nest
my dear beb.
body of water, or concrete, filled in
permanently if by chance, a person,
especially a child, drowns.
Arms outstretched above my dream head
not for the lack of space here, w/
her all curled, her hair tightens
up by the noonday sun,
cactus twitches unnoticeably from time
to time. Here I open my eyes and
arch my body and rest myself
upon my arms, stiff from holding
back the shared wall of the house,
yawp, a statement to the towering,
sun, which like a deity, cares
none -- still burning and when it
expires, I too won't care for it,
having long expired myself, but
not today, today I wake
and am careful not to disturb
the bundled layers of
blankets that nest
my dear beb.
Never hailed as a lover, ah but to start it once again with the scent of Berryman on his nose, ever oily,
that much he knew of great literature was hard to wash off. It was usually important for him to feel like
he wrote something of interest after a day's work, when he would slow to a rolling stop on
Jackson. Often there was a car in the spot in front of the house due to the hot weather and the public pool
that sat across the street. But, yes, set at seventy degrees, he sat and typed up something amusing now and
again. When asked what he wrote about, a question he thought shouldn't be asked of poets, he responded
with answers he had heard other poets use and proved somewhat effective in getting people to "ah" and nod
and shut up. The city, mostly, the city, the sex, what little there was, of both, in landmass and population
compared to greater cities and greater sex never far off. Of love, or luv, whichever seems more real.
Whichever seems less artificial. Past and present company and companies.
The conversations and the pauses.
The metal ladder he swung off from Amy's, slid, Jackie-style. Made her cry there. That was the first time.
It had brought them closer, he liked to believe. About Christian and the songs they play, "Hear the word of
God, hear the word of God, hear the word of God and obey it." About his crying, which was the second
time. It scared him sometimes to be seen with a crying child. It scared him to have once been that crying
child who was so lucky to get into the school he wanted.
In the middle of class, he looked over.
Three teachers at the
door, with the news.
that much he knew of great literature was hard to wash off. It was usually important for him to feel like
he wrote something of interest after a day's work, when he would slow to a rolling stop on
Jackson. Often there was a car in the spot in front of the house due to the hot weather and the public pool
that sat across the street. But, yes, set at seventy degrees, he sat and typed up something amusing now and
again. When asked what he wrote about, a question he thought shouldn't be asked of poets, he responded
with answers he had heard other poets use and proved somewhat effective in getting people to "ah" and nod
and shut up. The city, mostly, the city, the sex, what little there was, of both, in landmass and population
compared to greater cities and greater sex never far off. Of love, or luv, whichever seems more real.
Whichever seems less artificial. Past and present company and companies.
The conversations and the pauses.
The metal ladder he swung off from Amy's, slid, Jackie-style. Made her cry there. That was the first time.
It had brought them closer, he liked to believe. About Christian and the songs they play, "Hear the word of
God, hear the word of God, hear the word of God and obey it." About his crying, which was the second
time. It scared him sometimes to be seen with a crying child. It scared him to have once been that crying
child who was so lucky to get into the school he wanted.
In the middle of class, he looked over.
Three teachers at the
door, with the news.
July 19, 2012
heiny here and on in front of the type-type machine
outside there, below a story, the jar of death grows thicker
and ever more foul w/ the bodies of flies
crawling over all their scientific parts (Bee, help us out
here, thoraxes, sucrose & egg parts, wings & appendages
out and twitching, five inches deep of cramped death
My father wants to wait until it is full before he empties it
out, it is effective, to say the least.
See, they are attracted by the scent, crawl in, and cannot find their
way out again. Eventually they drown or starve.
Imagine dumping that jar on an extremely beautiful girl!
"She'd probably die."
--
C, all he wants is Thomas, he grabs one of the four books
in the library, puts on his Tide racing cap, settles into a plastic
yellow chair and pretends to read.
I'm pretty good at building the tracks for him
you have to make sure that the entire thing is a system of
intricate (but most importantly, fun) loops
perhaps a turning bridge, a street lamp
lines that converge on each other but must provide an exit
so that two trains won't collide
outside there, below a story, the jar of death grows thicker
and ever more foul w/ the bodies of flies
crawling over all their scientific parts (Bee, help us out
here, thoraxes, sucrose & egg parts, wings & appendages
out and twitching, five inches deep of cramped death
My father wants to wait until it is full before he empties it
out, it is effective, to say the least.
See, they are attracted by the scent, crawl in, and cannot find their
way out again. Eventually they drown or starve.
Imagine dumping that jar on an extremely beautiful girl!
"She'd probably die."
--
C, all he wants is Thomas, he grabs one of the four books
in the library, puts on his Tide racing cap, settles into a plastic
yellow chair and pretends to read.
I'm pretty good at building the tracks for him
you have to make sure that the entire thing is a system of
intricate (but most importantly, fun) loops
perhaps a turning bridge, a street lamp
lines that converge on each other but must provide an exit
so that two trains won't collide
July 17, 2012
four poems
1
Two hours there at 913 Filbert w/ Mr Allen, who gave me all but two
damn minutes. They teach you in driving school never to stop in front
of a hydrant. No stopping, no parking, no nothing,
in front of a hydrant.
I clutched my doctored photos of the 100 block of 11th st.
shocked that my Olympia doesn't have a number one key,
looked down in hesitation at my leather portfolio (two bucks)
as the tape rolled. He stapled papers, I now have 23 days
again, the PPA, you win. Have at it. I took off work for this.
Up another hour past Bryan's farm, w/ the corn stalks really looking
well, to DVCC to meet Donna, for an orange dum dum, to correct my errors.
I've no grand scheme here, nor beautiful thoughts
the gas struggles up the hills, to the left giant walls
of wildflowers (she told me they look clearly man-made
the same white car out by the no passing zone
for sale. Who will buy it, I wonder, on my next trip up?
The XX crossing where I always rev the engine
the only exciting part of the drive.
Amy, now I can't get the text out of my damn head, forever
thinking of you whenever I write, even just thinking of writing
which I do much more often. And not even about you in particular,
just that I have to when I write a poem, that you will always
linger there in the back of my head, nodding over my shoulders
w/ your sleeves in your palms, smoking a cigarette, clutching--
I've not seen Tim in a long while and I do not worry.
The man creates and the man delights in doing so.
2
Found myself in some dwelling w/ the fur of a lamb
found myself, at least, somewhere warm.
Softening glare out here , ouch, find yrself
by the eyeglass lab and read the hrs that aren't yr own
and I'll never get here on time, never on time.
This happened to us naturally.
We pool together in our fields and trains and pools
writing bullshit for the most part, not ever to confess one's
drunkenness, never to shake firmly the hand of a beautiful
girl w/ short hair. I don't LIKE these new people
at all, let us GO. My old people are steady but slow.
I drip here and there wanting more blank spaces to fill in,
delights me neverendingly to fill something.
To type fast
to write greatly, even w/ errors, w/ faults
and never receiving praise but who cares
no wine no flowers, right? no glory in the pot
no hillside home to roll, and that means fat ones, pal.
Ah, but to be great and alone w/ that greatness
take a long piss in Carpenter's wood one night, over and over,
the same night. Enough to drown branches and dead trees and the crick
we dammed up. Me and some friends. I have some and that is pretty
fucking good.
lifting each other's fur.
brushing each other, baa, baa, baaaaaaaaaaaaa.
To use few words greatly
to be natural
to sum me up, this poem, this qt. I drink from
is to be pretty damn great, which is to say; baaaaaa.
3
Count me OUT of it. Te Ching and the spirit of the valley
(not delaware) never dies, delaware? where tien and his goon
live? That ugly and cut
teeth & glasses and long, pointy loafers w/ some money
take yr money,
never again be on Race st. after closing time,
never again sing kokomo too loud as to drown out the harmonies
asking me what I'm doing
people always ask me what I'm doing, what is it w/ this thing I do?
I hear you don't have to pay sales tax over there, you fucking philistine.
I never knew what happened to Samson at the end.
Was Delilah a whore or wasn't she?
Are we ourselves leading up to some horridly regurgitated tale
over centuries so much so to be recognized simply by 'American'
that makes people think of persons such as you. W/ your shit outfit.
Samaritans & Philistines, what awful fates regardless.
Felicity just for the sake of having used it once in a poem of mine.
Done. Sundry, as well. Nicky, yr boots are in the trunk. Get them.
Sean, what are we here for again? Give me one of those easy answers
you always have. I respect anyone who makes it look EASY
but only with inherently difficult tasks.
I'll be gone from all this soon enough and what will the children
(no, wait!! forget them, the adults)
what will they think of us,
"what did he do?
this American?"
he lived and he wrote sparsely
thought of 1-5 different women at a time
went to drink and stayed in to eat
drove much more than anything else
and was great at it
worth study.
4
This kind of output is dangerous, said the technician.
4500 amps or some-sort, said the writer, posing as a technician.
A female doctor inspects his calves w/ gloves, it felt like
meat wrapped around bricks, almost, chuckling, as the writer w/ his
quart of Heineken, routinely checked his facebook in-between stanzas.
Where are the good ones now, with the language so fresh and easily
identifiable. The city poems, the city, remember? The rock that gives
exhausting death yet always treating it lightly,
that's me for the most part
father found three bicycles today
all different sizes and colors
one of them was good enough for me
I was big enough for it
The other, my mother
and the last one, my father.
I cough out a bubble of bacteria
thinking that I shouldn't use my poems as a way
to communicate to her, and that they shouldn't be used by her
as a way to be communicated to, her own magic mirror
into my sordid life. FACTS left me an envelope for $20, somehow
without my knowledge. Well-played, and the children are especially
naughty. The tallest one hits the ball without any issue
I don't really have to teach her too much at all and
like most women, never really know if they're enjoying it or not.
I'm sure as hell enjoying it, wiping down the blades
alone, in the large cafeteria room, exhausted.
this is a thankless poem.
Two hours there at 913 Filbert w/ Mr Allen, who gave me all but two
damn minutes. They teach you in driving school never to stop in front
of a hydrant. No stopping, no parking, no nothing,
in front of a hydrant.
I clutched my doctored photos of the 100 block of 11th st.
shocked that my Olympia doesn't have a number one key,
looked down in hesitation at my leather portfolio (two bucks)
as the tape rolled. He stapled papers, I now have 23 days
again, the PPA, you win. Have at it. I took off work for this.
Up another hour past Bryan's farm, w/ the corn stalks really looking
well, to DVCC to meet Donna, for an orange dum dum, to correct my errors.
I've no grand scheme here, nor beautiful thoughts
the gas struggles up the hills, to the left giant walls
of wildflowers (she told me they look clearly man-made
the same white car out by the no passing zone
for sale. Who will buy it, I wonder, on my next trip up?
The XX crossing where I always rev the engine
the only exciting part of the drive.
Amy, now I can't get the text out of my damn head, forever
thinking of you whenever I write, even just thinking of writing
which I do much more often. And not even about you in particular,
just that I have to when I write a poem, that you will always
linger there in the back of my head, nodding over my shoulders
w/ your sleeves in your palms, smoking a cigarette, clutching--
I've not seen Tim in a long while and I do not worry.
The man creates and the man delights in doing so.
2
Found myself in some dwelling w/ the fur of a lamb
found myself, at least, somewhere warm.
Softening glare out here , ouch, find yrself
by the eyeglass lab and read the hrs that aren't yr own
and I'll never get here on time, never on time.
This happened to us naturally.
We pool together in our fields and trains and pools
writing bullshit for the most part, not ever to confess one's
drunkenness, never to shake firmly the hand of a beautiful
girl w/ short hair. I don't LIKE these new people
at all, let us GO. My old people are steady but slow.
I drip here and there wanting more blank spaces to fill in,
delights me neverendingly to fill something.
To type fast
to write greatly, even w/ errors, w/ faults
and never receiving praise but who cares
no wine no flowers, right? no glory in the pot
no hillside home to roll, and that means fat ones, pal.
Ah, but to be great and alone w/ that greatness
take a long piss in Carpenter's wood one night, over and over,
the same night. Enough to drown branches and dead trees and the crick
we dammed up. Me and some friends. I have some and that is pretty
fucking good.
lifting each other's fur.
brushing each other, baa, baa, baaaaaaaaaaaaa.
To use few words greatly
to be natural
to sum me up, this poem, this qt. I drink from
is to be pretty damn great, which is to say; baaaaaa.
3
Count me OUT of it. Te Ching and the spirit of the valley
(not delaware) never dies, delaware? where tien and his goon
live? That ugly and cut
teeth & glasses and long, pointy loafers w/ some money
take yr money,
never again be on Race st. after closing time,
never again sing kokomo too loud as to drown out the harmonies
asking me what I'm doing
people always ask me what I'm doing, what is it w/ this thing I do?
I hear you don't have to pay sales tax over there, you fucking philistine.
I never knew what happened to Samson at the end.
Was Delilah a whore or wasn't she?
Are we ourselves leading up to some horridly regurgitated tale
over centuries so much so to be recognized simply by 'American'
that makes people think of persons such as you. W/ your shit outfit.
Samaritans & Philistines, what awful fates regardless.
Felicity just for the sake of having used it once in a poem of mine.
Done. Sundry, as well. Nicky, yr boots are in the trunk. Get them.
Sean, what are we here for again? Give me one of those easy answers
you always have. I respect anyone who makes it look EASY
but only with inherently difficult tasks.
I'll be gone from all this soon enough and what will the children
(no, wait!! forget them, the adults)
what will they think of us,
"what did he do?
this American?"
he lived and he wrote sparsely
thought of 1-5 different women at a time
went to drink and stayed in to eat
drove much more than anything else
and was great at it
worth study.
4
This kind of output is dangerous, said the technician.
4500 amps or some-sort, said the writer, posing as a technician.
A female doctor inspects his calves w/ gloves, it felt like
meat wrapped around bricks, almost, chuckling, as the writer w/ his
quart of Heineken, routinely checked his facebook in-between stanzas.
Where are the good ones now, with the language so fresh and easily
identifiable. The city poems, the city, remember? The rock that gives
exhausting death yet always treating it lightly,
that's me for the most part
father found three bicycles today
all different sizes and colors
one of them was good enough for me
I was big enough for it
The other, my mother
and the last one, my father.
I cough out a bubble of bacteria
thinking that I shouldn't use my poems as a way
to communicate to her, and that they shouldn't be used by her
as a way to be communicated to, her own magic mirror
into my sordid life. FACTS left me an envelope for $20, somehow
without my knowledge. Well-played, and the children are especially
naughty. The tallest one hits the ball without any issue
I don't really have to teach her too much at all and
like most women, never really know if they're enjoying it or not.
I'm sure as hell enjoying it, wiping down the blades
alone, in the large cafeteria room, exhausted.
this is a thankless poem.
July 13, 2012
This morning of the small sun, which I hadn't seen,
sick and woven myself into a desperate cocoon,
crying for more water and the life-saving pill.
Tell me, where I can find you between the distance, thick
trees leading out to the river where some had died,
most dead had swam, in all their forms,
diminutive & awash
Lone woman gets up and walks off, where
sad girl w/ my capicola, Korean, her mother too, wary of flies
her singing perhaps some song
as she drizzles oil,
seasons it for me,
I prefer Winter,
a surge of short day
Man sketching J Lippincott company building?
house w/ the red shutters
house w/ the blk shutters,
forever alone housing
executives
what did Amy see off the penthouse?
A hawk's nest in the museum boardroom.
I wanted to really sit in those chairs.
I wanted someone, for--
the breeze suddenly
a squirrel writing his own
chubby and unafraid.
sick and woven myself into a desperate cocoon,
crying for more water and the life-saving pill.
Tell me, where I can find you between the distance, thick
trees leading out to the river where some had died,
most dead had swam, in all their forms,
diminutive & awash
Lone woman gets up and walks off, where
sad girl w/ my capicola, Korean, her mother too, wary of flies
her singing perhaps some song
as she drizzles oil,
seasons it for me,
I prefer Winter,
a surge of short day
Man sketching J Lippincott company building?
house w/ the red shutters
house w/ the blk shutters,
forever alone housing
executives
what did Amy see off the penthouse?
A hawk's nest in the museum boardroom.
I wanted to really sit in those chairs.
I wanted someone, for--
the breeze suddenly
a squirrel writing his own
chubby and unafraid.
July 12, 2012
last confession to her, so many I lost count
it was a set of excuses, I ate two tums & pounded my chest
(I dumped the rhythm of the songs, they sounded a wreck
to clear whatever was lodged,
had never been to Dodge, nor got the hell out,
what was truly wrong w/ my insides
I wrote Bee and left a small gift between the folds,
was unsatisfied with how I wrote the header,
tore it out and put it in a new envelope, and found
the gift on the floor later, after I'd sealed the letter
& the Olympia away
& the Olympia away
sat for hours, then
to get fully a grasp on the predicament that lay ahead
I am to turn the page on another year
revel in my minor works, type to beb,
apply myself, for jubs, to Bee,
thought of Amy and wrote, as she would've wanted
thought of L, staring back at me
through & through
through & through
the icon, always ahead due to the curvature of the Earth
knowing there is no going back to this
(I grab myself and shake it all around
What in this July hum that sang no words
terrifies Quinn & bores him dead
hardly holds his own
I wait for a firm answer from nobody.
What in this July hum that sang no words
terrifies Quinn & bores him dead
hardly holds his own
I wait for a firm answer from nobody.
July 11, 2012
for chloe
If Philadelphia was an island
I'd put all them punks on it
wouldn't be near the damned thing
there'd be little to miss but a few Injun creeks
where you dip your feet
I'd put all them punks on it
wouldn't be near the damned thing
there'd be little to miss but a few Injun creeks
where you dip your feet
July 10, 2012
postcard
Incredible how the most of us are spent, now
(hanging out front of the steps
I shot him there, laid him out on the grass with his arms spread
making what was and forever will be the greatest thing that year put out,
in the hall she brought me fish and other sweets,
that stair, I looked up and just had to climb it
He told me to come to New York but no one ever has my back there --
L is submerged, Bee on a cliff on a camp on a trail
writes to me on the back of Désir by Munch, a lithograph, 1898,
from Maine, Headquarters Rd, Moosehorn NWR, it's called;
"Babysnake,
Camp is miserable.
Can I come home early?
At least I still love dawn in treetops.
I recently visited an old nuclear facility turned meadow.
I got some pretty wild pictures to show you.
The bunkers where the bombs were kept now look like hobbit homes."
Polis is only its people
she took much away
from that sick city
and its ephemeral beauty
leaving me that night to go for one last survey
(hanging out front of the steps
I shot him there, laid him out on the grass with his arms spread
making what was and forever will be the greatest thing that year put out,
in the hall she brought me fish and other sweets,
that stair, I looked up and just had to climb it
He told me to come to New York but no one ever has my back there --
L is submerged, Bee on a cliff on a camp on a trail
writes to me on the back of Désir by Munch, a lithograph, 1898,
from Maine, Headquarters Rd, Moosehorn NWR, it's called;
"Babysnake,
Camp is miserable.
Can I come home early?
At least I still love dawn in treetops.
I recently visited an old nuclear facility turned meadow.
I got some pretty wild pictures to show you.
The bunkers where the bombs were kept now look like hobbit homes."
Polis is only its people
she took much away
from that sick city
and its ephemeral beauty
leaving me that night to go for one last survey
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