29 September 2022

Postcard 196

September, Thursday of the Year

At a certain low angle of the sun
the day's genesis of water-striders
glitter with inscrutable drive to eat
to fuck to die. The crawdads too decide
to leave their keeps with shallow scurry blooms

Batteries of clouds charge the horizon
Ancient, how many dragonflies have been?
Shooting over the valley's high anvils
bullrush, thrush, collapse, clap, thunder drives us in

After the funeral, I danced dirty
with with widow of the father who died
in the house-fire. All God's children orphaned
desolate, bereft, clipped and beating

Of all this we make music

22 September 2022

Postcard 195


 

The time
is finally here
time to leave

The birds
are casting off
their moorings

The trees
are casting off
their leaves

wind
feet
rake plow


I curse the day
I threw a handful of poems
like dragon's teeth into the sea

Even there
you reap as you sow
every word its own demise

I skip
as the stones I throw
And do I wobble

I dont fly
What are these black wings seeking?
to flutter? to beat again?

Word to the wise:
when the waves retreat
don't go looking for the sea

15 September 2022

Postcard 194

 

The Moon is weary of all this.
The perpetual motion and perpetual monotony.
The moon feels forever held in tension between the pull of two mighty bodies.
Though if the Moon sits in ts darkness it senses a third, bodyless pull
                                                      -- a pull to void.

The Moon certainly entertains this pull,
but it is just suggestion. The Moon finds itself in a situation
it cannot escape without plunging fully
and catastrophically into one of its two seducers or
                                                       ripping itself apart.

And what of the two beguiling forces?
Are they as subtle as they feel,
or is the precarious balance between them
the source of the feathery elliptical tugging?

The one is distant but so impossibly radiant.
It makes the Moon feel seen, but is the Moon being seen?
Or is it just reflection? If only the Moon could know it was
its own voluptuous curves, its own time earned scars being illuminated,
                                                          rather than just the other's brilliance...

And the other... upon this one the Moon teased effect,
had tickled blue -- with its own small force -- to brown and green.
But what was given back? The close embrace seemed more a projection
of desire. Now? The Moon hangs so tautly
                                                        -- madness

08 September 2022

Postcard 193

Father Song
1 January 1988 Pasadena, CA

On new years day
the cold split of ages
my father walked me out
you'll thank me, he said
on a morning, a nascent day, a dawn
to shake the Champ's shaking hand

to hold
to be held
to behold
to be beheld
to be beholden to

You are your mother's
son you were is this
I am split in your river
I see I in you, rift of mothers name
Child, you see you gone

to hold
to be held
to behold
to be beheld
to be beholden to

The Greatest bereft
of fallen roses the bite
of time the sting a flower
float away, will I even
can I have I ever tried

to hold
to be held
to behold
to be beheld
to be beholden to

Like the daughter of the father
who follows him into the ring
I wonder if I echo
the wrong thing


25 August 2022

Postcard 192

This being walking barefoot on asphalt to spare river-logged shoes, to feel
crime rise up heat. That much closer to annihilate, devastate, words that chop 

Earth marked soles that coil a simple stretched plane to rolls
to body warmth to dim light to must to just beyond sight

Possession: to own is fuel to anger from which hate is to heat. You know
this being with cracked blackened feet. And

This being, this other one, lies with short toes spread then curled
grabs - kicks down the clean sheet. Where is truth?

This beings with feets too wrapped in bunches folds to see what then?
when these two beings meet, congress, seek truth, stain the sheets

Postcard 191


We sat and
then we stand
footfall footfall
climb hand over hand
legs strong as sheep
hot sun south side
shale slide stone sharp
shear face ever steep

skidee skidee
 
whistle songs
wind scream short
breath blister knee
there goes and there
goes and another fall free
 
precipice precipice
 
stone fall stone fall
all is gravity gravid pull is all
leg up leg up foot down foot
down knees buckle
like ice crack-weak
as water melt snow pack
collapse ice in schist
lithic split
 
carapice carapice
 
snow crash avalanche
stress and split buckle
break through mountain feet
chasm canyon stream unend
valley carve valley make
valley carve valley make
 
the ache the ache
 
too high breath
too high the ache

16 September 2020

Postcard 190

 

She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels -- bent spoke and flat

rubber tires cracked. She spins How she is upright is mystery

 

She stays upright in mysterious power. Gears and wires press

into her legs, here and there trailing red welts and stripped skin

 

Punctured as a tire and tube

 Her legs -- soft and strong -- press

 

into those things extruded & stamped

dead ends of kinetic life


She is a still but singing ring -- the gyre alight

What can be held by broken welds on rusted pipe?

 

And does whatever orbits like degrade? Only

as her tremendous weight pulls in embrace

 

And does whatever orbits escape -- annihilate

and free? Only in her light release

 

Orange pedal reflectors -- a scatter of photons

in the asphault shattered weeds. Her feet

 

sit solid as Atlas and share his dancing joy

She sits upon a pile of old bicycle wheels

                                                -- spins

Postcard 189

 

envelope me

you fold like fine paper my

two fingers in creamy eternity

i was convinced i was the well -- oily and deep

i am gutted by that poison drink

envelope me 

ivory bright sheet clean me tonguing

desperate words along your supple crease -- aspiring

to the mighty pen. tattoo my name

in penetrating ink

envelope me

your spool recieved but on edge

im bleeding through seeking tear

-- smudge unto me

as i smear unto you

envelope me

with clear

drive me from you

r fibers -- rub yourself alone

and free -- erase me 

envelope me

my words foreign to you

muddy untrue -- wrap them up

precisely send them off far 

off into discarding world

envelope me unworth you

13 September 2020

Postcard 188

 
 
Oh Faith
 
Once again, I have taken mad religion too seriously
Which is it -- gods or over the counter manuals?
I'm trying to convince with show dont tell
Jesus Christ! "Thankfully my lover-priest, my sacrifice, aother
found succor in these cruel witches I know of," for instance
 
Like the old Doctor had firm capability -- like me but not muddy. Clean
Sterile. professional. What you desire but pristine. I'm tired
of trying to convince how desperate life can be. Get it
while you can. How tender can we see ourselves
in awesome relief? I drink you like the sea
What can you doubt? Feel my hands, my scars. I am here
 
Thank god I found relief. You leave me
a bag of teeth & two commerce manifestos -- Gottman PHd
his bland apocalypse in a dustjacket. Are you the whore
of Babylon or daughter of Danville CA Cheryl and Steve
 
Magic. Witches. Gods. Moons. I drank dangerously
I worshipped, bled, went nightswimming 
in your bottomless sea. For this? Lifetime
movie eight essential dates betrayal. You 
betrayed me. Better watch what standards you seek
I take all this magic talk serious after all.
 
I'm taking a sabbatical

17 February 2020

Postcard 187


The full world has been conquered

When he hears the sound
a horrible sound
the scream of a horse
you see his eyes
He hears it and knows

with that shot
his horse had died
a percussion rending time
And his eyes, they change
in that moment
He dies with his horse

Like a child he named
'self' 'horse' 'bullet' 'time'
Fence and saddle become
the only named things
between him and horse
As a dying man, a man
dying with a horse
all that slips away:
Man - away on padded feet
Horse - away as sand
Time and Bullet - fold up like water
Brittle self relaxes
passes as breath

Oh serpent underfoot
this is what you meant:
an unconquered world
Two fanged explosion
What now separates
asp from bullet?
man from horse?
woman from rib?
Likely stories, serpent
replies, fencemending

The full world must be unconquered
and I wonder, will I ever
join a horizon line upon a horse?
Will my equine breath
mingle with steaming tulle?
When will my horse age be and
when will death do its undividing?