Sunday, September 17th, 2006

My Home on My Shoulders

It's a sour admission

To sympathize with a snail,

So surrounded

By my home and all its fare.

These books, this bedding,

Desks and their detritus,

Are all damning the dream

That some near day

It will all make way

To its proper place.

Oh, it might be possible

If every piece, every page,

Every cord and cloth

Was just what it was,

Not wrapped in maybes,

Soaked in somedays,

And pulsing with possibilities,

These accumulated occupations

And all their accoutrements

Aching to be applied.

As if I am planning

To program or paint,

Visit Italy or

The sewing machine,

Raise a house or a pup,

Snorkel, skate, or run

For racquetball or office

Outside of a dream.

These damned ideas

Are far too durable:

A glue of goals,

A slime of schemes,

Insidious but sadly

Not invisible,

So that even a good

Spring cleaning begs,

How long now

Can I carry what I am

And not all I wish to be?

How long can I stay clean

In this shell of vanity?

Monday, September 18th

Notes on the Contributors

The back fifth of the book

Isn't poetry at all

(At least not at first),

But names of poets

Whose brief taste

On a previous page

Leads here if you're hungry

For less poetic particulars:

The browsing of books and accolades,

Squinting at their mundane vocations,

Unremarkable educations,

And occasionally familiar locations.

But not me.

I opened the book at random

Hoping for an easier poem:

Something to inspire

A far less envious eye

Than working out where

My own name should be.

Tuesday, September 19th

The Day the World Changed

Each continent,

Each country,

Each culture has one

That captures a moment

Their corner changed,

Capsized, careened,

Or charged over hill

Unlike ever before.

When angels fell,

Or rockets flew;

When fire flowed

From the Earth

And a bare few

Lived to tell of their fear,

Their flight,

Or their freedom.

Now no one anywhere,

No matter how naïve,

Escapes the noose

Of the distant news--

A nagging sensation

That leaves us longing

For a most needed change:

A day of nothing new.

Wednesday, September 20th

Gathering Ghosts

When I'm alone, I don't care

To shoo the ghosts away.

Let them stay,

Careening room to room,

Fleeing a glimpse of something

Less than half remembered

From their living days.

Let them moan and mourn

For themselves and the world

They didn't quite abandon,

But merely put on hold

In that double-exposure way

A ghost does anything.

Let them keep me company

Even when they're being bad

And badger mad

That ancient part of the mind

That races the blood

And makes the hair stand tall.

I kind of like it:

This rollercoaster,

Bucking horse,

Final countdown feeling

From my own armchair.

They're only as naughty as I allow,

Though tonight I allow a lot.

Let them ride the shadows

Of headlights all across the walls,

Argue in muffled rounds

From the neighbors' flat,

Knock down photographs

From wherever the cat has fled,

Tap on light bulbs,

Tickle my ankle,

And blow a chill

Down the back of my knee.

Let them play and dance

And be as real

As they would care to be.

Let them forget their solitude.

Let them come forget that

Right here with me.

Thursday, September 21st

Flicker

From down here,

Under the saving breeze

Of the ceiling fan,

Existence is tenuous,

Troublesome,

And pursed with paradox:

The afternoon heat,

Magically mitigated by

Driving down

The warm, buoyed air

Capping the room;

The riling tension

Pulsing from the television

Answered by only

The continual flick

Of my thumb--

Next channel,

Next channel--

And still somehow

Sweaty from the act;

But most ingenious,

In peeling back

The solidity

Of this experience,

The persistent passage

Of light and shadow

Rounding the room

From above,

The blades of the fan

Eclipsing the kitchen bulb

And casting dim flashes

To rub out the world

At the corners of perception--

A fa-fa-fa-flicker,

Fa-fa-fa-flicker

That only gets worse

When I rest my eyes.

Friday, September 22nd

What's On?

I don't say much about music

And not only because

It might rather speak for itself,

But that it feels too much

Like dropping names:

Dropping them live and twitching

Into a boiling vat,

And hoping to gorge

On their delicate fame,

Because otherwise

All I'd have on my own

Is a lot of hot water

And a starving audience.

Saturday, September 23rd

Back She Turns

We say of time

That she flows,

That she ebbs,

And that she rolls.

But also that she runs,

Races, flees, and flies,

A wild thing,

Singular for being free:

A skittish horse,

A timid doe,

A wary bird

Shaken from her den

By that feeble, mortal notion

That by being wanted

She should be obliged to stay,

But sadly one that knows

Just how badly mired

We humans are.

Our impermanence

A stalking cat,

That manages to keep

Forever out of reach,

Until we have forgotten

Her grand and gracious jaws.