Sense and Marcescence

Among the last of the last
Leaves to leave — like a Guest
passed out on the Couch —
they scratch along the Sidewalk
where there is no Itch.

And the very last of the last
Leaves — those still clinging —
having clung all Winterlong —
they will walk the Plank beneath the Prod,
the budding Rod of Spring.

Aesthetic Theory

So. Shall we talk about the bodies? Those
lying supine in stubbled fields, their toes
all pointing toward the same decalogue of stars,
forever uninterred in the art
of their brethren with the most vivid memories.

Or, perhaps, the old man crucifixed and steeping
in his own urine, on permanent display,
shivering in the hallway — unchanged, unremembered.

Or, maybe, the Ukrainian runaways baring
their pixelated breasts over the internet,
promising something hotter with an email address.

So. Shall we talk? Or, had we rather not —
speak of the long dead, the dying, the desperate?
Heart to heart. Tête-à-tête. Herod to Herod.

_______________________________________________

Noch das äußerste Bewußtsein vom Verhängnis
droht zum Geschwätz zu entarten.
Even the most extreme consciousness of doom
threatens to degenerate into idle chatter.
~Adorno

Ich starb für Schönheit - aber war Kaum
I died for Beauty - but was Scarce
~Dickinson

Ethik und Ästhetik sind Eins.
Ethics and Aesthetics are one.
~Wittgenstein

...nach Auschwitz ein Gedicht zu schreiben, ist barbarisch...
...to scribble a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric...
~Adorno

A Sonnet: By Heart

I watch too many movies. Seriously. After
awhile they begin to run together like those
finger paintings of that kid — you remember —
who tried to use all the colours and whose roses
always turned to muddle puddles. Dangerous?
Not really. They make no demands — and the death
distraction? That is short-lived, along with
the thrill of bare skin stroked by cameras.

But a poem. Is always dangerous. By heart,
it’s poised complete, the thing itself, with all its parts.
Undiminished. At your fingers. Both comb
& geisha, mirror & vase, fuse & bomb.
And you can rewind them at any time:
to where a kiss got out of hand is still a sigh.

Lullaby: Little Puppy

Now you my little puppy.
Pat your head.
O, that feel good don't it.
Are you my little puppy?
My little puppy in the cave?

We keep warm in the cave.
You keep me.
Me keep you.
We find food I promise.
We find us some food at first light.

Are you my little puppy?
They be food after breakfast.
Just watch out for the cars.
O, rub your belly. You like that.
And your ears.

We got to beat the gulls though.
The gulls can dive bomb.
Don’t be afraid.
You my little puppy.
You will bark at the greedy gulls.

No bark now though.
We go to sleep. We got new candle.
You my little puppy.
My little puppy in the cave.
We go to sleep till morning.

Construction Site: Grey on Grey

The I-beams are grey
because they're painted.
The trees are grey
because they're not.

My hair is turning
more greyly daily.
The sky is grey
until tonight.

So) why am I

surprised at sufferings —
at either yours or mine?

Since) they are my closest teachers toward
the faintest understanding or

the most distant standing
under of

the long shadows of the valley
of the carpenter’s cross.

Variations on a Theme

do the leaves
cling to the trees
or
do the trees
cling to the leaves

and then
there are, of course,
the third and then the fourth
new tunes borne from
this theme:

the clinging leaves
to the wind
and
to the leaves
the clinging wind

Daughters 1

on the last
half mile home
the older
does (meaning
two or at most

three years
old) clump with
their young ones
just above
the gully

waiting for
me to pass
their white tails
torched up with
warning their

young ones
sputtering
half behind
all their lights
now suddenly

flooded with
their borrowing
like the moon
from the sun's
high beams

Magic In Slow Motion

long night's
top hat

winter's
rabbits

grey dawn's
great wand

Emergency Room

once the laser
bracelet goes on

you're in a whole
other world one

where nurses float
in a whirlwind

and every needle
stings just a little

Winter’s End

the perfect corner
of her arm her hair piled up
and spilling over

sleeping soundly as
an unclaimed scarf unraveling
in the lost and found

Genius Asleep on the School Bus

the greening of
the purple of

the nerving of
the rustle of

the reading of
the riding of
and with my wick

at neither end
the drowning of
the burning of

the cheering of
the people of

the curving of
the castle of

Horse from Speeding Car

going too fast
caramel horse

you’re already
past there’s no chance

but even so
you take the shot

hold camera
over shoulder

squeeze and release
the shutter’s eye

you had to try
since the mare was

the colour of
your mother’s fudge

Writing : : Driving

I wrote today
while driving in
my mother tongue
the perfect poem

O no, no stars
nor sickness kiss
no lover’s scars
nor storm and then

I pulled over
and stopped to start
jotting it all
do wndo wndo wndo wn

On the foggy
windows thankful
for and banking
on the paraffin

In my breathing
fingers

Psych Eval

       this much madness
       is just enough
       can't imagine
       my baring more

Startled from a Nap

half asleep with my
fingers laced on my
chest no longer 10
digits but grapefruit
half or starling nest

the hammer voice in
the hall my heart sprays
up like the jumping
puck in the strong man
game ringing my brain

Maestro

My neighbor has one
arm. He balances the large
pepperoni on

his shoulder, grips it
with his chin, unlocks the door,
and lets himself in.

His placid face in
profile — the box his red, white,
and green violin.

Typeface

in those
old books
where you
might find

that quaint
long “s”
which is
an “f”

half crossed
my soul
is ſoul
and modern

fonts can’t
wash it
near clean
enough

-----

Image contains words from George Herbert, John Milton, and William Shakespeare.

Classroom Calendar : : A Birthday Sonnet

My birthday was always tucked in between
Abraham Lincoln’s and Valentine’s Day,
the black top hat and the red and the pink
hearts safe-scissored from construction paper.

The giant stovepipe was always tilted
toward the future, a cannon bombarding
the 14th (unless it fell on Sunday
or Monday) with buxom butterfly hearts,
which were pinned down along their symmetry
creases with palm-punched staples glimmering.

And so sheltered between Abe’s Good Friday
and Sweetheart’s Easter my initials are
penciled. In arbor shade where violets bloom
and children wonder, “What's B.R. stand for?”

The Sleep of Sorrow, or, Forget Me Not

i am asleep
in the garden
not of eden
but of earthly

surging sorrows
waiting over
all banter done
the body gone

the young doctors
struck
dumb
till tomorrow

Line Breaks

Things to Do: at, on, or about my Deathbed, which may or may not be at a Hospital or similar Institution, so some of this may not literally apply. Please extrapolate as needed.

1.
Read the Psalms.
Out loud.
Start at 1 and we'll see how far we get before I'm done.

2.
Play poker.
On my chest, belly, lap, and legs.
Seven-card variants would be best.
Want to feel the cards and the money on my body.
Coins would be best – and heavy slate chips, next best.
No, don't use the lunch tray-table-thingy.
The stupid Romans ran a casino at the foot of the cross,
you'll figure something out. Stop complaining.
If I'm willing to be the table - just play.
And play for really high stakes.
Something worthy of the occasion.

3.
Talk to me.
I can probably hear you.
Just watch the heart monitor. The number
will go up when you say something sweet or
something jarring– it’ll be up to you to know the difference.

4.
Let the kids play.
With the bed controls. What difference does it make at this stage?
And it’s a good skill to learn: you press a button
and something moves.
Or it doesn’t.

5.
Don't stay here all night.
Just play Alexander Scourby reading the Bible.

6.
Sweet tea.
Need I say more? With real sugar.
Maybe use one of those little pink sponges and daub
it on my lips. The rest of you, though, please
drink it from glass glasses - so I can hear the ice ring
against the glass glasses.

7.
Bring in food.
Don’t ask permission. I probably can’t eat it,
but you can. Collards, black-eyed peas, cornbread,
macaroni and cheese. Banana pudding.
You get the idea.

8.
Touch me.
Preferably where there’s not a needle or a bruise
or a broken bone.

9.
Nice perfume.
Ask the nurses to wear some really good perfume/cologne.
Buy them some if you need to. There's some/enough cash stashed
inside my guitar for this very purpose.

10.
Read the Psalms.
Out loud. Up through 24 would be good.

Coda.
When it’s all done, leave expensive parting gifts for the nurses
(by the way, the perfume doesn’t count toward this).
There’s always some body to follow.

Snowflakes and Angels

Me & Millstones

Overnight it snowed
the lightest and the most
finely ground cornmeal

I’ve ever seen in my
dazzlingly wicked
life — a manna-scented

calling card, née
banana peel.

Winter Drive

We’re both weary of winter, with
its incessant thieving of heat,

when auto is warmer than house.
So when in the distance we see

— we seize it to our breasts, like a guest
at a wedding, before it’s tossed —

a bouquet visible for twenty
miles, remnant snow on the foothills.

Kiss My Brain : : Besar Mi Cerebro

it’s much safer than catching
a train in the big City

so, kiss my brain
but do it slant

by indirection
it’s just less messy

say, like the convict’s wife
through the bullet-proof glass

so, when you kiss my brain
just do it by proxy

use a surrogate or
other gate of your choice

for instance. the eyelids
are a nice place to start

since they’re the lids
to my brain-jar

and then, of course,
an earlobe would do

for a frontal
lobe smooch or two

and, if you’d ask,
I’d tell you that

my favourite gate
for kissing a brain,

mine or yours or
any other,

is the nape, la nuque,
la nuca, der Nacken

but, finally, fully
circle me (dizzy me)

until you reach
a sacred temple

and so, from there,
twirling my hair,

kiss me again
and enter in

that's our train and I'm
too woozy to stand

Two Poems, or One

Animal and man
Beast and beast alike
Creatures of that carpenter’s
Dogged desire

Every day we train
For those inglorious games
Games of letting go

Silken Webs

1.
at the spider hour,
that is, dawn,
when the dew is there
to draw your gaze

when the droplets are
sown as flood-
lights for the finding
of the finest art

2.
while wan detectives
dust for prints
hoping for a hit
against the past

the paper boy is
out and the
bread man is out
but not the milk

The Ocean

The ocean is
a restless queen
a troubled queen
in silver gown
slow pacing in

her frazzled gown
both in and out
and up and down
the pardon done
then blotted out.

_____________________________

The ocean is a restless queen,
a troubled queen in silver gown,
slow pacing in her frazzled gown,
both in and out and up and down,
the pardon done, then blotted out.

Window on Paris

I will never see
Paris since I’m terrified
of both flying and

drowning. But I will
fix your drapes — just so — and pitch
the Eiffel Tower.

Shiloh, April 1862

Dear Mary,
The dead were covered with peach
petals shaken down by the great
guns and I remembered your scarf,
the one you called a clothified
cloud. Tomorrow will be better
everybody says. Next week is Palm
Sunday. Remember me to your Pa.
Paper is scarce. Your loving husband.

Last Man on a Long Hall

Since my voice is
not your voice and your voice is
dialed way down, other

voices they'll just
have to do. After supper,
they line us up down

the hall like two
batteries of siege mortars
faced off against one

another. Our
wheelchairs locked in place, we wait
while they go bleeding

from room to room
turning down our cool covers,
creating perfect

little people-
sized pocket protectors. Then
they start at one end

or the other
(tonight I get to go last),
our dreams in plastic

cups. Some ask, "Had
enough?" meaning the water.
My aide's from Haiti,

almost as frail
as I am. “Ready for bed?”
she whispers. And though

her voice is not
your voice and it's really not
a question, I bow.

You Are Here

O, but everything does
revolve around you.

Both the nothing that was
and the something to come.

And every whispered ounce
of this very noisy now.

And that is the horror —
is it not — not the stillness of

Radio silence, but
the dancing round your door.

The Black Mirror

It’s raining.
Evening. The
parking lot

is slick. The
streetlight makes
a moon. The

raindrops make
their stars. The
last trick is

simply this:
forgetting
where you are.

The Cough II

A great rotunda. Bitter cold.
Then one drop — dangling —
an out-of-place pearl. You don’t want it

to drop. You want it
to drop. You don’t want it
to drop.

But it does.
And when the ripples run
to the edges of the circular pool,

that’s when all the tickling
icicles fall. And shatter.
And stab.

And then.
And then they rise up again —
the hollow pipettes

like the bones
of hummingbird
figurines —

reforming the cage
of icy
chimes.

Bronchitis

                                one.
A cowboy thrown off
and then his ribs (all
of them) run over
by a bucking bronc-
O, at least a small

Affliction and True Repentance

a genuine change of heart
metaphorical
regardless of wringings in
body literal

Fever

Third night of new year —
old snow left over from last
week. Fever and chills.

When at last we fall

When at last we fall
asleep — that nightly Easter
teaser begins to

loop inside our heads.
By dawn, the bedclothes thrown off,
pillows rolled away.

There is a painting

~ A three-layer haiku
for the New Year ~







There is a painting
“Snow Falling on Burning Torch” —
an old man walking

in the background through
the cherry orchard and his
tracks are grey, then black.

He has a red hat.
It hasn’t been painted yet —
but you could do it.