Sunday, September 10th, 2006

The Art of Numbers

Three thousand.

Thirty thousand.

Someone counts them

Somehow,

And would have come

To the same conclusion

Had I not arrived.

Would have curled up

With the same round number

Clotting the street,

Swarming the artists' fare

And keeping their own

Clumsy count of the artists.

Three hundred. Thirty.

Or maybe just three:

Those special few

Peering out from

Some distant and different deep

And delivering

A vague description

Of the frantic realm beyond.

Glimpses that may just fit

The long blank wall

Behind the bed,

Match the color of the couch,

Of hide an awkward crack

In the tall slab of plaster

Over by the stairs,

Or would if they were

Not so original

In price as in prize.

And just as well

The artists count

More than just their hours

Fading in the sun,

Notching into mental mist

Compliments and fingerprints,

And those who carried

Some cool square

Off into the wild,

And those ill-mannered

And ill-few who could

Do just as well themselves

But who never, ever do.

Everyone is counting

Some kind of score

To measure against the day,

The health of the world

Served up in numbers

So those who were never there

Might believe us

That there should have made

One more.

Monday, September 11th

Dinner Belles

In flight

From the heather

Her daughters come,

Trains bright

Over their shadowed green,

Scattering waves

Of white and colored wing

In answer to

A mother's call.

What soft games

Left upon the hill,

She trusts

In remembrance

From her own stock

Of the passing sky,

The same long days

In the broken breeze

Fostered between

Ash and pine

A world away

From adult care

But not concern.

Where a wooden doll

Met with every honor

She could dream,

And every malady

Was cured by council

With fireflies,

And all the wonder

Of the wild realms

Beyond the fence

Lost their grip

To the stern promise

Of a second call.

Tuesday, September 12th

The Backward Man

The brisk pace

My reflection keeps

Repeats to me,

Between occlusions,

The split nature

Of this rough perception:

That I look as if

I belong there;

That I look like

Any other,

Despite feeling,

With no small intent,

Differently;

That dodging them--

Their oncoming

Pedestrian stream--

I could duck

Their essence,

Their fate,

Blur them into

An onrushing wind

And give myself

A gale to lift into,

A tide to tack against,

And set myself

To some better shore

Where I might slow

Enough to feel

Like the man

In that reflection.

Wednesday, September 13th

Gray Dreams

In his sleep,

He whispers something dark,

And it flows from his dreams into mine,

And how can I not take to heart

Such a warning breath,

When I felt it coming

In a darkness of my own?

Dreams of ink,

And from them a face

That stokes my fear:

Grainy, grey, and alien.

Wary of my alarm,

It backs away to shadow

Far less completely

That I would wish.

And though now

I can feel my body,

Its tight corded frame

Curled against the sheets,

The presence stands

Between me and the world,

Wrong and strong enough

That I believe it when it says,

"It's best you stay asleep for this."

It's lying, but I do.

Thursday, September 14th

Catering to the Muse

The jar rings under the butter knife:

A demented dinner bell,

The tone dry and tasteless,

The blade angry and clean,

The last few atoms of mustard

Plowed aside to leave

The thinnest furrows of transparency

Behind the label on the glass.

But there is no new jar

Anywhere a pantsless man

Can roam at this hour,

So I ring the jar

And scrape the jar

And damn the jar

And refuse to draw any analogy

To my poetry or my life.

It's just a sandwich, folks.

Whatever mustard shares with muse

Is pure coincidence.

I'll eat my turkey dry.

But I will slide the jar,

Empty as sin,

Back into the fridge.

A poet knows,

You have to be careful

About these things.

Friday, September 15th

Epiphany

I'm not dressed

For the cool evening air:

Khaki shorts, plain white T

And ancient tongueless shoes.

But a few steps out

And that's forgotten:

I am standing in Utopia,

Trash bags swinging

From my arms,

Every wall of every building

As sharp and clean

As it needs to be,

Shadows rich and firmly anchored,

Clouds few and suitably small,

And everywhere a quiet

That shows the world is listening

To whatever strange alignment

Grips the stars

In hopes that this time

It might stay for more

Than a moment as brief

As a poem.

Saturday, September 16th

Passing Between

This isn't about today.

It's about anything but.

Not that events today

Are in any way secret,

Nor are they trivial.

It's merely that

Today is mine:

A place in memory

Held in reserve,

Wrapped in silence

As a still gift

That is free to be

Forgotten until

It happens once again,

Or something close,

Or not so close

But similar

In some small way

More felt in passing.

Then, it will be about

That day

And this one both,

On the surface,

While actually

It will be about

That cord that connects:

That soft tremor

Felt without knowing

That dances unfurled

Between memories

And sees them all

Long before

They are ever made.