4 Poems
Inner Resources
"Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so." - John Berryman
And if we do say so, though it would disappoint
Henry, we must speak it softly, intimate
as landfills. The closeness
of the fog to the clock makes the air taste
dangerous, fruitful, almost
sweet. The ripples of waves that may exist
--I don't know!
--are enough for a smug affair between
two trees who, having rooted through the clouds,
consort without regard for the parallel lines
that murmur blushingly their discontent and
prayers for dead friends.
All their friends died, so they talk to me
between bars, when I am
radioactive and open to suggestions,
we share wine. I find I'm further
from the door than a man in love might like
but the windows shower us with compliments.
Jackson
Overcoming great shyness kills
but the lavender mist of imprecision
winks from across the street
where a candelabra promises to write
before shipping out and failing to return
in time to christen the leaves. The twilight
surge breaks the blankets of
clarity and whispers in the fields
"don't tell anybody anything"
but it's too late for that, and now
death brings with it a sense of
entitlement caught in the teeth of evening.
The pen designs marble eyes that
break when you spit on them or
cough too loud. Trees melt in the
background. Children are scrambling
eggs, or playing with coloring books. They
do not know where the word dinosaur
even comes from (Texas). Three blondes
write letters. The snails are coming in droves.
Numinous women start at the end, or
we are all of us left handed.
Carousing leads to
a premise that sounds like a collage: Kafka Tolstoy Crane.
Orphans dance under the stars like a
librettist mopping the hospital floor.
Transformation should be in there somewhere
at the level of a Pulitzer or a loaf of bread
all in a tone poem! For Arshile Gorky is
going for a jog at the top of his kidney.
I can't figure out how to not get hit by a bus
that's a soliloquy, we don't want those and
we never hear the other patient
relationship or friendship is very like sacrifice,
secondary to the piano in the corner.
That's a good place to work from. It can be proven to be true
under the auspices of an elevator:
People don't cause enough love.
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