Sunday, September 24th, 2006

De Troit

I lower my voice

Every time I answer

Where I'm from.

Pontiac. Where's that?

Just outside of Detroit.

Maybe they can tell

By the way I say it

More than anything

They may have heard,

But however they get there,

I can tell they understand

By the chill in their return,

The wrinkling of their nose.

Detroit. De Troit.

Of the straights

Between Erie and the St. Clair.

A lovely French name,

More at home across the river

In Windsor where

The streets were clean and safe,

And where looking back

At the Renaissance towers

Shining in shells of independence

Every Fourth of July,

We never felt more free.

Monday, September 25th

The Seed of Substance

The root of the problem

Dives and divides

Under the foundation stone,

Where even if we could

Take most of it out,

Damp and caked

With soil that smells

The best kind of black,

Something vital remains,

As if the original seed

In a secret nook

Was always waking,

The wick of the loam

Feeding its mischief full,

And our poor stone slab,

A mere cap on the dirt,

Keeps it merely hushed

As it sifts from below

The fingers of the rain,

And finally tips its cap

Despite our pruning,

To dreams of surging green.

Tuesday, September 26th

Squashed

It was once impossible,

A thing meant for others,

Sitting here with you,

Touching

Not in that awkward hunger

Of necking or tangling

Naked and panting

With sweat and need

And a blindness to regret,

But leaning one to another

And the other back,

Your shoulder and back

On my shoulder and chest.

As simple as that.

It was impossible

Because I was taught it was wrong

That two people care

For anything more

Than about their own needs

If they should happen

To be the same,

Seeing in each other

The same thing as themselves

And loving that--

That reflection--

And serving that love,

An abomination.

It was impossible

Because I believed--

Because until there was you,

It was true.

True enough.

And maybe you see

Where this is going--

So maybe we can agree

It's already there--

That this was always less impossible

To have than deny,

And that I couldn't feel

Better, lighter, and freer,

My breath pressed flat

Under your impossible salvation

Than ever theirs.

Wednesday, September 27th

Silver

Pictures of babies

Are necessary--

Mandatory--

Not merely in spite of,

But because

They bear nothing

But the least resemblance,

Say nothing about,

The son, the daughter,

The nephew, the niece,

Already shoving their youth

Behind them,

The haste of being

Something,

More,

Actual and tangible,

A voice capable,

A body reliable,

Sooner

Than anyone should.

They are so bright,

These pristine paper souls

Cradled in the wings

Of an album,

Or covered with a silk scarf

In a candy box,

All blank slate expressions,

Achingly empty of

What we become

When we forget

How to speak to angels

And animals,

And when our ravaging need

Of mother,

Of the surge of her heart,

Welcome thunder,

Ear to breast,

Leaves us ever lost

And bruised.

A trick of the light--

Essential--

They are kept,

Kept for us,

Long and longer still

These pieces of ourselves

We would have forgotten,

Gladly abandoned,

Saved for us,

From us

And our eagerness

To throw ourselves ahead

Without knowing

That what lies there,

Is merely to be

The ones who save

Our daughters, our sons

Our nieces, our nephews

From the inevitable loss,

Joyous and terrible,

Of becoming themselves.

Thursday, September 28th

How Poetry Thinks

In the shower,

I think of poetry.

It flows like water,

Hot and cold,

And because there is

No ear for a bucket,

No pen for a cup,

It follows the water

Down the drain.

At the table,

I think of poetry.

Sculpting my cereal,

Wayward flakes

Spin in a white sea

And disappear,

The spoon ever diligent

For soggy stragglers

On this ocean.

Words sink quietly.

In the closet,

At the sink,

On the stairs,

In the car,

I think of more.

Poetry stands in line

At the grocery store,

Waits patiently

At the bank,

Tumbles from TV

And makes its way

Here from nowhere.

At my desk,

I think of the drain,

The last of milk,

And the dour men

In front of me

In every line,

Every car,

And every screen.

And poetry, as usual,

Thinks of everything else.

Friday, September 29th

Just One More

I would rather sleep,

Heed the transformation

Of bones to bubblegum,

Organs to anchors,

And breath to a stream

Leading around the bend

Of a river I can't remember;

Pour into a glass-bottomed dream

And sail my pillow

Right out into the night,

Clinging to the rail

Of my blanket,

Each new pose a wave,

A squall of perception;

Forget sense and silence,

Drift like a bubble

Removed from myself

And watch belief unfold

From the shore of myth.

Yes, I would rather sleep,

But you, it seems,

Require another poem.

Saturday, September 30th

Vestibule

In the waiting room,

Which goes on for miles,

Someone has cut the faces

From all the magazines,

The water cooler is empty,

And occasionally

Someone bursts into flame.

We are knee deep in ash.

Newcomers take the dusty seats,

But no one explains to them

The terms of the vacancy.

It's enough to watch

Their faces twist

When a neighbor explodes:

The way they stare

At the soot on their hands.

And by the way we grin,

I think it's easy to see

Why we're here.