Sunday, June 11th, 2006

Table and Cage

Poetry and poker mix badly this evening--

As if on another night they might have blended better--

Words dealt in the void between hands,

Cards and money folded, but one ear waiting

For the rasp of the shuffle to bring me back.

Though there, I feel the song of a caged bird

Going silent behind the table's felt

While sparrows badger crows behind the walls,

And the shuffle of grasses, long and gold,

Though just in the back of my mind,

Feel more real than the notion

Of taking back a single fist of ragged plastic

To the cashier behind her lovely bars,

Exchanging currency with barely a word

To the snowbirds passing though.

Monday, June 12th

A Pale Truck

It's fifteen minute's if I hustle,

This walk home eerie after midnight,

The anonymity of the day,

Of the city, of minding my own,

A disguise too heavy to heap

On to the weight of the night,

The mass of determined emptiness

Of shop, sidewalk, office and street

An anchor, or a dream of quicksand,

Each doorway, each alley,

A separate path to a police report

If its emptiness should fail.

But the solitude holds and holds

And I fancy myself the last man

On the whole of the Earth

After some immaculate apocalypse,

The four dire angels driving,

Not fearsome steeds,

But street-sweepers and garbage trucks.

And as I admonish my imagination,

I must admit how well we're all doing,

This civilization of ours,

Hauling ourselves to the curb.

Tuesday, June 13th

The Tide

Like the jealous ocean

Longing for the fullest moon,

I follow you around the world

Till I'm abandoned in the noon

To take whatever solace

I can find upon the shore,

Until the darkness beacons me

To dream of you once more.

Wednesday, June 14th

Pedestal

It's familiar,

This meditation on perfection

In the shadow of an angel--

A rough hewn bronze

On his pedestal

Behind the bank,

Now finished watching

Smokers break, tellers shift,

And warily,

Poets passing by.

He reaches in anticipation:

Face, hands, wings strained

For the kiss of the sky,

His faith still blind

In the moment before

The reckoning of his return,

A divine messenger,

Warrior, spy, and judge,

Or collaborator,

Sympathizer,

Martyr, Promethean fool.

How quick the arch of his back,

The curl of his fingers,

The wild opening of his jaw

Could be turned to desperation,

The tenuous anchor of doubt

Securing him to his base

And the envy of man

Welding that to the world.

Or the other way,

To the ecstasy of release,

Quickening ascension,

Glory, and home.

His obsession

And the ache of him

Is as obvious

As the imperfect vision

Of the imperfect hand

That forged him

From a pile of paraffin blocks,

Half melted, half melded,

Soothed on a wire core

Under an imperfect passion

And frozen forever firm

Between his grace

And doom.

He shines there,

Cracked and scoured,

In apogee or awe,

Head thrown back,

Not merely up,

But painfully away

From his shadow,

Which I see is perfect,

Smooth and clean,

And which, should he sag,

Will come forever

Between him

And the world.

And I know his name--

Not familiar but common--

His many billion names,

His billion strained flights

All tethered just the same:

Rough hewn souls

Imperfect and reaching,

Pulling their pedestals

Half aloft, caught frozen,

In any of a billion moments

That could sag or fly,

A billion opportunities

To move the Earth,

Or better yet, just try.

Thursday, June 15th

Green

Blue and yellow,

I once had on authority,

Dipping into one another,

Formed green--

The authority of kindergarten,

Of crayons, of finger-paint,

Where innocence turns to trust

That things done by others

Work as well for me;

That things repeated

Bear the same end;

That if these can be combined

Perhaps so can other things;

And that answers are available

All on my own.

And grown,

Watching the blue horizon

Run yellow with the dipping sun,

Mild and pale washing up

To the purpling blue above,

I wonder why,

Fading from yellow to blue,

They go without a hint of green.

Though long ago I learned

That light adds differently,

Still it should be there.

I juggle R's and G's and B's,

And it all comes up the same:

It should be there.

And so I declare it is:

More pale than innocence,

As tenuous as trust,

Painting the sky with answers

All on my own.

Friday, June 16th

Interruption

A headache tells me

I'm tired of electricity--

Of the glare and boom of it

Pulsed into appliances

The way a lover invades

Or a drug enthralls.

The way both bring

A measure of death

In a quickening surge

So eager to betray,

The fire twisted into braids

And tucked into the walls,

Blazing under the street

Or strung between sneakers

Out of reach just above,

Pent and ready,

A reckless horse

Rampant to race and rage

And sputter and limp

And fall surprisingly cold,

Leaving blind confusion,

A momentary alarm

That the senses have gone

Lurching and dead,

So strong the modern faith.

And even when wadded

Into the pocket of a battery

And saved aside,

It burrows and diminishes

As if it never had been there.

This breach, this slight,

Could hold the day

And what could I do

If it went the week

Or bent to last the year?

How long before

The word came round

That physics had worn out?

With glare and boom a memory?

What headache would that be?

Saturday, June 17th

Against the Calm

Bold and luminous

Dancing between the dark trees

Her fullness is joy

The wisp of shadow

At the pale edge of her face

Is soon all there is

The Sun vaults her by

She steeps his glare in waiting

And wakes as he leaves

Again charging bright

Against the calm of the Earth

This fine midnight Moon