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Poems

poet

You go back to your work.
When you do this, you called yourself—either out loud or in your head—a writer, and if you were actually doing it, then you changed your life.
Socialization ended.
Consumption of much entertainment ended.
Assumption ended.
Companionship ended.
Normal work and normal money ended.
Much went away so you could give this imperfect offering,
and you loved it.
And then the moment you were coming to it
was a moment of great terror, a moment sometimes of almost
weariness and irritation or despair,
dread that you couldn’t do this,
and why the fuck must you do this thing which took so much time,
which took so much time even to prepare for?
Two cigarettes to prepare for, cleaning the stopped up sink with
Drano to prepare for, a flip through the Internet to look at
pictures under the heading of “human sacrifice” because—why not?—
to prepare for.
Even your children and your lovers are only preparation.



icicle

In his twenties, broken men were his distraction
from his broken life,
from doing what needed to be done.
Now he can see the lover of his grown up years is
only wounded,
is never broken,
and he can work and tend a wound at the same time
just fine.
Outside, the icicle which had been opaque with cold now
glistened as it melted, then fell,
like the strike of a bell to the ground
with a shatter and shimmer of water.
Everything changes.



visitation

Last night you came to me
In grace and with no judgment you came to me
In our middle age,
past dreams of success you came to me in the dark and
we undressed and you sucked and sucked
me like I was candy
and your lust was candy to me,
my bucking hips, fucking the new creation of
your mouth,
our bodies could not cling tight enough,
our skins could not be hot enough and you
were the size of sears tower in my mouth,
and the saltiness of your desire stuck to my tongue,
and then,
before I had wrung all passion from you,
you wrung it from me,
thighs as strong as nutcrackers around me,
body true and large as the earth enfolding me,
cock against cock gliding with me until hands clenched
and unclenched in
“be it done to me according to they word”
oh God!
“Amen.”
 
elieson

and why should i be surprised?
Why should I be surprised that the synagogue cantor came here, all nervous wanting anonymous sex, but couldn’t find me anonymous enough, and that he snorts poppers better than he blows the shofar, and why should you be surprised to see him in an alley blowing the blonde busker beside his guitar?
And I have lived far too long to be surprised by the priest with his bondage chamber, and the buttoned down man who sticks his finger down and says sign your name here, at the desk smiling cheerfully, being fucked fearfully in a quiet room, eyes tearful from shame
The name of lust unspoken, it has broken everything as you squat on your knees being fucked in a pallet in the park, the twenty four year old meth head assures you that it’s safe because its dark

You were made of fire
And you needed release
I drained your balls of all desire
And
at last
you knew peace

And the angel with a voice like a saxophone sings you must be easy on yourself
And even though you feel alone he says, you must have mercy on yourself
Even as you bone and are boned have mercy on yourself, and the angel’s trumpet is his voice and you are fears and longings, torn up and singing songings, have some mercy on yourself

ruins

He was far too obnoxious at far too old an age
—we live in the myth of change.
You think that people learn their lessons,
they won’t
you think that fools can change.
They don’t.

In the back of my head to describe myself I wonder
what you will call me,
what you will ask of me.
We have to come to the place where we have no answers.
It is so hard to get to the land where I am not anything,
where all the words we bring to put bounds and rings
about ourselves mean nothing.
I keep on grasping, trying to hold onto names, and
the names
will not remain, only one stays,
and it is whispered in the secret of the breath beyond
the brain.

There never was a me and the mirror that was you,
that mirror did not matter,
spare us from all unkindness,
you bundled fear and anger and disgust of your own body
and you gave them to me,
so insidiously I did not even know they had effect.

Now I’ve returned to the kingdom I once lost with
just a glance and thoughtless word and all of it is rubble,
the fields of the castle are stubble and smoke is in the air
and a voice over there says,
This is your inheritance,
there is a value in these ashes,
old spell books of lines and dashes
you will make these ruins home
 
Thanks. Since these aren't exactly new, I need to sit my ass down and write some more. For a while I thought, what's the point? You've written enough, and the view from my window was the same. But it seems like all of that is about to change.
 
vesper

You cannot get away from it
You simply have to go into it
You cannot grow on someone else’s field
This place of dust and ashes yields everything
you ever needed
You don’t have to look for water,
see this shoot,
things have already been watered with your tears
Your dear care is all this place needs
Sit on the soil,
Close your mouth
Open yourself
Abide

claws and climb up

We will only write a little…

We will only write a little here, a little here…..
dear, we are creating the new world in five and six lines at a time

He said, why is it, why is it…. Is this the way things have to be?
And you said, because the people are not free,
They never were and the open sky over their head makes them afraid.

There are days to go down to the river, and then there are days to write about going down to the river, to write of water as blue as dolphins rippling over shallow stones, bone of the earth and the waters’ gallstones, the wide track of highway for fish and mussels in their endless sucking movements, the freeway of the swan

This is the morning to write of the green grass, soft as moss and wet like being born again, and then, to remember the flowers,
orange as the sun on the first day of creation

The beginning of poems is the living of life. Their end is the remembering.

Light this cigarette and give yourself to God.
You pictured the pure and perfect morning where the sun blessed every thought and everything was done, but what you were given was reality, in all her complications.
Blessing and pity for you, everything that ever was real is constructed of doors and times and walls—rather than wishing they would fall,
Take out your claws and climb up them
 
lust

and if you do not have the knowledge or the courage to…. If you do not have the sense to know that I am singing to you, if you do not know that as you read these words my mouth is on your cock and I am sucking you, I cannot explain it more, the hand that shall pass, from your back to your ass, that is holding you even now, cupping you now, that is my gift

Last night I woke up from dreams of lusting for you, dreams of full thighs, dreams where you kept murmuring, I think, think, I think I am your cousin, and after you’d said it a dozen times with one lazy hand I took down your pants and took you in my mouth. We did such things in that half asleep world till I woke up hard as a rock and thrust my cock in butter, fucked the mattress till I knew no more

Lust is often like this

I write him, I tell him, my old friend, I remember your cock as stiff and firm as a bar, how you fucked me like a piston and I felt you three days, a stretch and an ache I have not forgotten., such rotten luck that your would-be lover watched in the corner and sulked and said he wanted to go home. Where is he now? I pray he is gone. I pray the worst for him, since he took the best from me
 
this is the song for you

who feel like weariness
at this late hour
remember what you have never known
my hands, grown tired of not knowing your body,
kneading your sides, tasting your nipples
traveling down to hold your hips,
unbutton those jeans
lean my head forward to fill my mouth
with your uncircumcized cock
the whole lot of your seed shooting in me
it should have always been this,
the weight of your balls
drained of it all
your salt in my mouth
and all of your nut like a geyser
unstopped before me


midnight

And even now, late at night, the only wish i have is to be
under the shadow of your wings,
run a finger down the valley of your spine,
take in every line of you,
your best years were not wasted,
i have not tasted you till now,
thirty years young, i am undone,
by the round white hills of your ass,
your thighs
and
at last,
arms lips and hair,
i dare to thrust my tongue where only you
will hear me speaking
 
we you me

You talk of going out and going here and going there as if the world is not burning, as if the earth was not taken by its four corners and shaken out
We sleep strange hours, make our own nights and divide them up, dicing them like onions,
every time is a time of weeping.
The sorrow of a beheaded school teacher seeps into your dreams, and you heard about a woman in Russia who set herself on fire
Retire from the dream of normalcy,
now is the irregular season.

you worry about the shape of tomorrow and then remember we’ve even lost the art of spelling that old word
Haven’t you heard, the old devil-men called for chaos,
and look what the evangelical jesus brought? Here it is.

I had to throw a blanket full of bedbugs away.
I leant near to their coriander smelling bodies and asked what they had to say. I crushed them under my fingers and a strange sentence lingered smeared in my blood and the black shit
speckled from their rounded bodies.

I prayed for you on a rosary made of stones like frozen water. I light a blue candle to the bluest Lady, I tried to stay awake but couldn’t make it past my time, up too long in the day and under the moon, the kingdom of dreams couldn’t find me waiting



these are the loose lines

its fine the grey day is fine, its fine to sleep past nine and get up
at ten, and then sleep and get up all over again, its fine to light this cigarette at eleven thirty and say, “what will we do with this day?” and make your way slowly to the river, and to slow turning waves deliver all your devotion

these are the loose lines, the half put together assembly,
these are the thoughts that come and fall and need to be put down before they are forgotten again, thoughts of how you sleep right now believing it’s time to get on with your life and all our conversations take place at five a.m. and then we sleep like vampires through the night to have them again,

and all the times we meet make up for so much, because the first and only time we stood flesh to flesh, was in a dark room, and I only gave so much time for our bodies, you wanted to switch the light on, you always do, and I, I would not have it.
I always remember a five a.m. spare room, you, me and the boy who did not remain,
the magic of deeds performed at six a.m.
You passed into my world and out again, and here you are and here are we.

I was going to get things done, but then this cigarette needed to be smoked
I was going to do the useful and the heady, but the eggs were ready and,
well, they had to be eaten, life had to be lived.
They say you get what you give, but you get what you get,
and to get, you must enjoy
 
poem

Look soul, you said:
there is as much to learn from pleasure as
there is from pain.
Remain at the drinking house though all
the world has gone sober.
Turn over the leaves of the rotten world
and remember the promise of
new beginnings.



all souls

I cannot write about all souls the way I want to.
Having lived a thing I have lost the time
that will describe it.

Hello, I said, goodbye I said you said
there is an end of words
and a return to being.
I got tired of seeing whey faced people,
full faced people, and turned to look at
the leaves in their
red and orangy dying
not even trying to hang on they go
out of the weary world,
the trees with girly hands
wave them away.
They know the leaves return and return
as dawn goes into day.


The night

I don’t feel like talking to you right now
And I can’t be bothered with hearing.
I’m a little worried about all this not doing,
is there enough of being? My hands pick up the clay,
those hands have little to say as do my lips.
Sometimes this is enough.
We have taken on the fullness of the morning which
became the fullness of the day
and now the deep dark golden evening comes slowly
on her way,
the next lines are all bad rhyme and sleep has more
to say than carefully crafted words.
 
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