Sunday, May 28th, 2006

Undertow

A bulldog after midnight

In our desert pool,

Makes a strange splash,

Echoes pawing on and on

As he paddles and snorts,

No map of the edge to tell him

That where he went in

Cannot be the way out.

That twenty years ago,

With no wall, no fence

To ward away the innocent.

We formed a plan,

Dressed, went to save him,

Warned each other needlessly

To guard against a bite,

And pulled the coughing canine

From his doom.

What elation we had in ourselves,

And what trust we had

In common sense was wasted,

When halfway back to bed,

We heard that splash again.

And after another weird rescue,

We watched him circle around,

Cold and wet and tired,

To fall back into the pool.

No fence, no wall,

No collar, no tags,

And soon enough

No Samaritans.

Already mourning,

We left the crazy dog

To sort out fate on his own

And called the authorities.

And the sound of him

Swimming soft and constant,

His own small waves

Reflected to crash

On the dog-shaped breaker

Below our window,

Made sleeping easier

Than I would have liked.

No one dreamed

Of this insane stray

On the bottom of the pool

To be retrieved

By animal control

Before the tenants woke.

But when the waves stopped

And the silence welled

To deep to ignore,

I woke to steal a glance:

The perfect square unspoiled

By any sign of a sinking dog.

A short-lived relief

To be sure,

Once he returned

For another dip

A few nights later,

The pool made

That much deeper

With indifference.

Monday, May 29th

Fire and Ice

Red is flame

Until dignity

Enfolds its heat

Upon the cardinal

In winter.

Just as blue is frigid

Until joy

Fills its frame

Upon the jay

In spring.

And I've known both

In the woods

Of my mother's home,

But never together

Seen or heard.

Just as this book

Has captured both

In its paper cage,

Though even here

Chapters divided.

Tuesday, May 30th

To Do

Laundry,

Groceries,

Bills

Are at the top,

The list growing longer

As the day wears on,

As if the list and not the day

Is made of time,

The minutes winding into lines,

Each neat moment introduced

By a bullet or a box

Waiting an impending stroke

Of attention to mark

Its passage to irrelevance.

Though always

There are more boxes than strokes,

More moments waiting in each line

Than I have to work them out

Unless I crack them open:

Sort the laundry,

Wash the jeans,

Dry the colors,

Fold the whites,

Just to hasten the checks.

Match them to each minute:

Walk to the door,

Turn the handle,

Open the door,

March through.

Pair them with each instant:

Lift the left foot,

Lean the body forward,

Shift the knee up,

Push the foot out,

Extend the knee.

Beat the heart three times,

Breath in,

Beat the heart three times,

Exhale.

Process the oxygen,

Burn the sugar,

Sling atoms,

Be. Be. Be.

Become mechanical,

Check the box

To the left of the line,

Shudder along,

Barely in the track

With the list still

Growing longer

Every instant,

Until I'm left

With a book of things

I'll never do,

Infinitely outstripping

All I've even done

Considering somewhere,

In the small print,

Breathing disappears,

As does any mention

Of my heart,

And even "be"

Is left behind.

But until then,

There's the laundry,

The groceries,

And the bills.

But now,

Only after gelato,

Pampering the cat,

And a poem.

Wednesday, May 31st

The following poems were created using a virtual magnetic poetry kit at the Language Is A Virus website.

Undressed

singing shadows

vigorous confessor

tattered angels

invented purity

monster's forgiveness

fabulous thorns

phantom salvation

awakening voyages

condemned magic

dreamed tenderness

Aftermath

Boughs celebrate hell,

Dead worms burning,

Highways, cities, seasons lost,

Flesh as ruined as the heavens,

Breasts as poisoned as memories,

Pockets crying rags,

Tyrants praying

On monstrous altars

While everywhere,

Skeletons grin.

Saturday

The muse-drunk lyre

Shatters torments and tears,

Its rhythms dream

Of eternity, alchemy.

It strings, divine,

Pluck sunlight from the sky,

Wed rhymes of rivers and dawn,

Each lascivious word an opera,

Delicate as autumn wine,

Fair eternity dancing,

Heart torn

And soul delighted.

Thursday, June 1st

Yesterday was a lot of fun, so I continue today with the magnetics, trying to use up the more of the available words.

First Hunger

Trembled confessions

From mad, wicked skin.

Nubile blood marvelous

With vanity, frenzy, and terror.

The absurdity of youth

Suffering truth

Through baptism

By carnival.

Orange

I curse rhyming:

Consonant torment,

Vowel disorder.

A slave's overcoat,

A puppet's horse,

Pan's holy gallows,

Antique literature's

Damned superstition,

And vision's wild chariot.

The Whisper of Wolves

The fantastic languages

Of ghosts and gods

Adore drunkenness,

Impure faith,

And a gypsy heart

Where delirium translates

For wolves and crows,

Road-side satyrs,

Magician's longings,

And flames.

Friday, June 2nd

There are still a lot of words left on the magnetic board, so I thought I'd give it one last squeeze.

Quarter Moon

Night dew

Water-lilies

The lake mirrors

Fantastical trees

Twice Lost

At the countryside tavern

Boasting medicines

Stinking with

Supernatural powers,

A mourning widow,

Made drunk nymph,

Hallucinates

Ghoulish boudoirs,

Erotic gargoyles,

Sowed insanities,

Damnation.

Saturday, June 3rd

38 Stairs

I paid extra

For the narrow window

Between eleven and one,

So that the groceries

Would come to the third floor

By the magic of some muscled brute

Without my seeing a single stair,

And still leave me time for lunch.

At two-thirty

I called the service department

To talk to an apologetic man

Who called the driver

To inquire of the delay

And to be reassured

That it would be just a bit longer.

That was two and a half hours

Before the old man arrived,

Thin, wobbly, and wheezing,

A hand-truck full of the food

I was too lazy to fetch for myself,

The old man grinning

In sour disbelief

At a life of misfortune

And its culmination here--

The same face my father wore

When too tired to scold,

Making me swallow

Any comment of the clock.

A sweaty man, joking of his health,

The 38 steps he'd counted

Just as I had the weeks before,

Hauling up box after box

A dozen times each day.

And wasn't this little deal

Supposed to spare the pain

Now merely shifted:

The soreness of my back

Becoming a soreness of my soul?

Until, thankfully,

He wanders off

To leave me lucky

The store forbids tipping.

No telling how much

A clean conscience

Might have cost,

Or even if he'd had one

On the truck to sell.