1
the foot is unsteady in rain. so I say.
fallen garden
{I love
list of fallen things, wet in the path and the dapple
{I love
of real which the brain in the rain
builds. more to the sides than the up.
more to the sprawl. more.
{I love she who comes deeply in concert with real
an unweeded garden that grows to the wall,
splays and kisses and drops with the old rain.
{love
the foot is the foot of the life gone to rest.
the drag of the grace.
2
I hear myself talking and sometimes the voice
is from elsewhere. I know it
but can’t say.
{certain
sometimes the voice is in place at the edge
of the room or the rose-
stained cheek or the meaning
in early and drifted
{certain
and knowing the fall of the foot is the sound
of the other I come to the place
{the certain
is just outside the gate the old
wood, the long road up
and down.
3
who is it? the slight imbalance says. the tip to the side
of the light and the blocks and chunks and minds
and the falling roller coaster, eight pm
in the vastness. a still small voice in
{graced by fence
gilead, picardy, backyard.
the true real is a slope.
in the dark.
{grace me
now I lay me
down to sleep
and how I limp
this trying dream.
take a little more
off on the right. damn.
take
{again now
down the measure.
4
it isn’t my foot lovely
in the rain light and speckle and slash
of the dripping garden it’s
{cold thump
the foot of the enormous
the tentative foot of the electron the foot
limping slightly and sponging
{gold heart static
in the dream of the movement the bauble
on ankle the columns of trees
at the gate in the dark coming
{bled heart pump
fitting the surface of everything
mapped
{rot beauty garden
to the limping no
fat thought will ever cover
all this jazz.
5
grief is the way of things and the limp is the step
of the waltz. the way of things,
the place and weight and bump and slide
becomes the grief when mind
slips inside. take two minds
and stir. place the eyes
to rise and fall
to music.
halt foot
{rain
and flood of burnished light
is all now. all together now.
a children’s party
comes to grief
too.
{rain lovely
speak to me,
huh?
6
light runs flood
to buttermilk dapple
mole fur jigsaw foot and lightfoot
tread and memory numbered
imaginaries
march to the real music autolite
sparkplugs on parade down
the little fake street.
{get up
my intent is the whole
thing in the one
being.
the trail of the lonesome pine pulling
itself into dawn.
{out of sharpness
all the mountains all the valleys all
the brass beds the pillows
the joinings.
{be gone
7
two three one
and back again. the granular light is
a fiction. how many fictions
to make one real?
maybe gets lost in the scatter of leaves
and of children. but abides. no?
{garden by the sea
every piece of paper rises
in the street.
and the street makes a line for itself.
new moon bounce the paper.
{the zone
last night I woke up and I was huge.
my head taking in the sky and feet
the trails.
and he and she
were real.
{comes and goes
white line cloud in ragged streak
across the deadly steel.
{break
8
progressing on foot as by tongue. the baby
next to me practices sentences as
getting on a train. the little windows,
{tell us your name
the lurches. at the same time he learns
how to get his shoe off . this is the cusp
of human effort. without the shoe
he’ll limp. when he walks, that is.
{coming
the coruscating
effort of poetry
is much the same
which is to say
{fading
an act of most perfect attention in
an absence of words.
9
it is my left foot now
in the buttermilk sky. looks like rain. looks
like look. in the right light
everything looks. when we were
under the oak
{precog
on the big bright hill and the grass was green
and woodpile full of newts I fell
and never came to life again
but touching you.
what
{the pain of the mind is nothing
the hel. the hell. I
dreamed last night and jigsaw light
was everywhere as is. the rain
flares on the windows.
{bruised attention
bruise. bruit. to bruit about, to spread, or
a blowing sound heard over an aneurysm.
hel: Swed. helig ; from hel.
see whole; holi-ly; holi-ness.
9
there is a glitter
knocks your eyes out. spread it is on window soft
it is in rot
of december. the garden.
hear the syntax call the bruisèd
sheep home. bruised drifters, winter soup.
‘I’m lame,’ the woman said and everything
made sense. which is to say
another context
came to be,
as was.
{and not above but all around
musically I call you to
the waltz.
brokenly
I call you to
the glue. dead
I call you out
of name.
{the break of the switch
all around these poems fly
the glit and gleam and glimmer
down
the soft mind fallen footfall in
the garden by the sea.
zone buzzer.
to hiss
like hot iron in water.
{oh what a good boy
10
sometimes I catch the moment it
nestles in my hand between
my fingers see the light
the firefly. the way the light
comes through the fingers. so it is with you, honey.
{go away
the way it is the walk is through
the fade of cells the colors
taking the light to drift. take the light
and drift.
{go away
there’s a map of an odd country and
a blur of sodden and
striated toes and the shifting
of leaves above and slide
below
{numb
everything leans to the left in the garden.
depending.
left to right directional
galaxy. in which.
nova instep falling
down daisy. our first
place has gone
to the single drift
light in
the weather. gray man down.
{come back
11
the problem is
the info is
all about me and I
couldn’t care less. except to the degree. the degree
is latitude, longitude,
and twilight. is there anyone else
out there? is the air so full? do sheep
bleat?
{a place to bed
I could handle now
an hour in a luncheonette maybe, up
on fifth. a clear voice in frost light
comes down the rolling street. tilted to the sky
is big place, big picture
garden with its feet in motion. one line
tow line,
stars in my feet in the wet of
the rot and the buttermilk
sky, old.
{place to walk
what’s his name
is down to what’s
my name?
who fucking cares?
{sorry
12
a broken head rolls down the trees
the street. and branches brush. and winter
blinks in lake, for. gleam again?
where’s this coming from? got feet and a coat
and a broken head.
set of eyes
and tears and long
fucking way to go
if I want to get there tonight
that apple full of universe
and dark, and streaming juices rolling
down the street, too.
{snow and then
wind comes down in broom-stroke
after
glass rail evening sweep and wind
of the first-rate mind.
see it flatten the diagram
and ice the flowing.
cocktail
shaker blues.
{where?
you might think the morning is dark from the clouds,
or you might think the morning’s a come on..
or that maybe the city is buried coming
up through the rolling heads.
you might.
{lost in the starry goose
might might maybe
I limp too, sometimes,
left foot drag
varsity.
{precog
13
out in the dark and the snow this morning I don’t move
slick on the ice I move careful and old
looking, surely, what a
drag, what a memory.
{west end avenue
from the instep where purple-edge galaxy something
jagged jigsaw winter light in dapple
autumn too and sycamore
shaped to the splayed
toes in boot, pussy, barely
living things drifting
in dead, muttering.
{alone in the city
what the intelligence demands
this morning,
is readiness for train
at the station white
smoke. arms of steel.
{the lovely lovely, the throb
14
a numb foot like
a spondee. we all scream. in this light
the walk to distance is lacy
and fitted together
with dowels. ice and snow and dark and black
ocean, dull gray bowling alley
sky. roll the pearl in the huge channels.
how deep is the gouge of the river?
this is a madman’s landscape
{what’s it to you?
and it comes to a flight of stairs. that’s
the palladian version. the arcadian comes
to the opening ramp and the grove where the old
man sits and watches
the ghost horizon.
{all things come
if I’m sorry what does
it matter? all the world requires is
you die successfully. this is what I say
to the shadows
when they take the light and bleed it
toward me. left foot numb, a tri-
spondee. beautiful dreamer
waken to me
{all things feel
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
love poems
love poems
1.
out here in the clear november center
of etching and numeracy, dying sun and
fleshly walking,
I light my own imagined heart
and hold to sky in time and you,
in time and chime and fall
of bell
the wholemark, the
flaming sycamore
shirt from the laundry.
pick it up, huh?
my love my best my lost
bride?
the smoothing of empty
clothes is the nature
of love understood
and talked to the self. located
among the trees we come to leafhood
slowly enough. don’t you think? I myself
have found the poem
in open world and the twist
of the oak. found it in your body thus. found it
on the stairs to the open,
the night.
2.
there’s more space outside me than in, though the space is the almost
but death. and only when touched as by god as he comes
am I open to sudden and endless. with you
I was given. not god but the sense of the
whole. came to me my melancholy. in you tumbled all the parts
made the one
where broken pieces aren’t,
both hands rising up in sound
of all one flesh.
3.
it isn’t that I don’t know human
petulance and grief and rage
and cheap revenges raised to art. I do. I cringe
in memory. I know I’m just a walker through. I know you’re sick
as hell. I know me too is not too well
and marked up pretty bad. no illusions. but,
ah,
look what the all of it
gave us. to do with as we would. and where
are we now in broken trance,
eyeless in useless as
zoo.
4.
walking out at night across the lights, big ones small ones christmas kids
love them, me too. and
god my feet are big and coat
a swinging furl of manuscript and canvas high
moon looking down
at my feet at the curves and curls and blocks
of built stuff
lit up,
all in stride.
piano comes with me on edge
of polish.
I got
rhythm,
wish it were
you.
5.
love poem love poem. shadow shadow.
the Shadow had Margo at night in the silverware. my language is full
of the sound of the real coming fake. it has to be gone through.
no way down the corner river, no way through the rye.
here’s the sign:
we were happy then and didn’t know it.
what a sign, huh?
it has to be gone through. its own
mangle.
there isn’t a single thing missing but god how it’s jumbled.
love poem. dead in the water with marble and cameras.
all I want for christmas is
the best.
you know how hard I try?
that hard.
6.
my wonderful one
is all I know
a waltz of
course of course.
someone
sings it in my head, this
morning, lost, ecstatic in the spread
of vision, the trees the smoke the
sappy traffic lights my
wonderful one.
one step two step
twirl like a kid in
the world
out of time.
1.
out here in the clear november center
of etching and numeracy, dying sun and
fleshly walking,
I light my own imagined heart
and hold to sky in time and you,
in time and chime and fall
of bell
the wholemark, the
flaming sycamore
shirt from the laundry.
pick it up, huh?
my love my best my lost
bride?
the smoothing of empty
clothes is the nature
of love understood
and talked to the self. located
among the trees we come to leafhood
slowly enough. don’t you think? I myself
have found the poem
in open world and the twist
of the oak. found it in your body thus. found it
on the stairs to the open,
the night.
2.
there’s more space outside me than in, though the space is the almost
but death. and only when touched as by god as he comes
am I open to sudden and endless. with you
I was given. not god but the sense of the
whole. came to me my melancholy. in you tumbled all the parts
made the one
where broken pieces aren’t,
both hands rising up in sound
of all one flesh.
3.
it isn’t that I don’t know human
petulance and grief and rage
and cheap revenges raised to art. I do. I cringe
in memory. I know I’m just a walker through. I know you’re sick
as hell. I know me too is not too well
and marked up pretty bad. no illusions. but,
ah,
look what the all of it
gave us. to do with as we would. and where
are we now in broken trance,
eyeless in useless as
zoo.
4.
walking out at night across the lights, big ones small ones christmas kids
love them, me too. and
god my feet are big and coat
a swinging furl of manuscript and canvas high
moon looking down
at my feet at the curves and curls and blocks
of built stuff
lit up,
all in stride.
piano comes with me on edge
of polish.
I got
rhythm,
wish it were
you.
5.
love poem love poem. shadow shadow.
the Shadow had Margo at night in the silverware. my language is full
of the sound of the real coming fake. it has to be gone through.
no way down the corner river, no way through the rye.
here’s the sign:
we were happy then and didn’t know it.
what a sign, huh?
it has to be gone through. its own
mangle.
there isn’t a single thing missing but god how it’s jumbled.
love poem. dead in the water with marble and cameras.
all I want for christmas is
the best.
you know how hard I try?
that hard.
6.
my wonderful one
is all I know
a waltz of
course of course.
someone
sings it in my head, this
morning, lost, ecstatic in the spread
of vision, the trees the smoke the
sappy traffic lights my
wonderful one.
one step two step
twirl like a kid in
the world
out of time.
Friday, December 12, 2008
it never entered my mind
it never entered my mind
so there we were in paradise and in the morning with a slight pick-up head of roses out on the old deck with the red wood and the windows to our lives. of course it entered my mind. my mind is enterable.
a wolf in the twilight half again the size of the pepper tree. an utter exposure to the grease fires of sunset. sometimes it’s so cold I can’t help it. what can I help? I can help with the thorns, and the hugely dismembered.
it’s just the music, love. it’s just another wet november. remember the storms, and the frying pan full of the fireplace embers in bed, and the empty confidence? are you better off? it’s lurid tonight, and things encroach.
the voices come down off the mountain on air. they creep in my son’s dreams. they flap at the windows at three and I pad to the old refrigerator, the place of the alcohol bedspread, dull red blood in cold glass.
the idea of the bed is everywhere here, controlling. would take my son’s dreams for a walk? his three year old terror in the house of the fancy-dan poetics? would breathe in the night of the wave?
how far in to the shale should I go, do you think? no, really, do you think? you and the night and the music, make me so sick I could die. I got the moon and took it down to town and rolled the bones.
the rage is allowed now, I offer it room for the night. not much else. as the crow flies, as the lying bastard lies. as the end of the song is a sadness and traces its name. as the crunch is a cruel hunch.
I’m largely more honest, more gentle, and more reconciled. more bloody dangerous. discard this and discard that and come to the place where the gates to the prison are open as rain. the long slow creak to outer sanctum.
was it raining when we went to sleep? it is now, love, and I’m the bookend, the doorstop, the gathering certainty. we have the bed now spread across the sky, and a coming of rain quite evenly, free-range.
this is how I get from here to there. I have enormous experience with beating back insanity. twice. could do it again? thrice? I lay myself across the appalachians, waiting. I can sleep there, limbs arranged.
when I leave I have no luggage at all. all around the water tank, waiting for a train. I have no guitar but I can sing, at odd times. I sing in the balcony watching the trains jockey in. I pull the white smoke.
yeah your codes escape me. but my attention is perfect. and all the dense inventions scratch at the ground beneath the lilac. beneath the colored toys that eat the heart to advantage. and it’s good.
change shape to advantages. the pale moon is rising, miss spider. I coming back with big sore feet of hollow gourds, and thumping heart in hand. notice how the addressee changes, but remains one.
in the bed were the things of the day and the night. the clouds were involved, and the flatness of moon across the animal ocean. the ratchet and pawl of the barely arms and the hardly magnetism.
there is no place my finger rests that heaven doesn’t know. the far of the wogglebug too, the place where tinfoil roars and each place I touch is both you and your death, me and my you on the morning of presence.
the ball of dust goes gently under couch. and blue and rose are filtered through the shadow. the creep is down the hall to stately closet, the hands of hints of god are poking through the wall.
see the eyes light in the night, my son, see the full measure of conscious. far from the edge of the ocean the spray comes in handfuls. the beast turns in its half-dug hole and the river is rising and pushing.
getting older is this. the time becomes clear as the life edges closer together and shines like an oval mirror. in the tracks in the snow is the heart. I was trying. in the deep confusion of shock of hair.
you have to sing it right. the most perfect keening . hit the note like Coleman Hawkins dying. hit the face in the mirror and bleed resignedly. once you told me, I was mistaken, that I’d awaken.
every day in every way I’m getting better and deader. I always knew the trips to the old garden on 49th were trips to somehow death. Madison Square. the wrong one, but death nevertheless. palace of memories, lattice, and turning lights.
you understand I understand the only grief is human and. little help there, but at least we’ve got the first step under foot. footfall. the only grief is human. and it lives where the memory lives, in the present.
so wet november triggers me a walk in the park of the dead. through my own rows of fake ratty tombstones. there comes a time I’d never say a thing. but the bus driver wants to know where I’m going.
the sun comes down like marble maze and bumps and clicks november head. I mention LeFanu because he knew the day he’d die was when the hulking building wet with november vertigo would fall on him, in dream.
and right he was, right as rain. did you know that the largest number of children are scared and have nothing to hope for but their parents love? how does the road run? you’d think from glockamorra it would run both ways, no?
fake ratty tombstones. we stand in the dumb of the great bell, and look at our mouths so expressive, so ritzy. Dante, Mozart, Freud and Joan Blondell. I’m sad about Joan Blondell, I truly am.
Greenwood Brooklyn hands come out the ground as trees and catfish swim in hidden knowledge. nonsense nonsense. there is no hidden knowledge there is merely the human inability.
how many poems would profit from the occasional authorial intrusion? hey, that’s bullshit. sorry about that. anything you do to fight the language is a good thing. they went into language with vanity, forks and a meatball. they came out with a receipt.
in the matter of art here’s the deal. we’ll give you September Song or Lost in the Stars, but you’ve got to live it. which bowl of cold soup in andromeda? tough is a quality of leather, processed skin.
in every nook and cranny see the faces, the blocks of the rising towers, the shadows of the soldiers, the rising wave of crushing grace. the path with the one little windmill. the shiny bend of waterpipe.
new embers, old sun, fat chance hold on tight. all I ever wanted was my two front teeth. all I ever got was my own chance to be ugly, stupid and vile. the line forms on the left and snakes to the big stone headful of ugly, stupid and vile.
the triple is preferred by the ballplayer because it’s a hell of a lot harder than the home run which is just an invite to the rubber chicken circuit. hit this sign and win a suit. what’s the big fella say? is this is a suit or what?
sometimes you play fast and loose and you run the risk. sometimes it’s stupid and sometimes it’s look at this fucking world. look at it! use the eightball in a combo. notice it roll its blackness, angrily unique.
but when I break I become more whole. as what there was of outside and inside diminishes. suddenly I’m more. and the tangle of roots feeds on my tangle of roots. and the morning glory rises through to morning.
you want to know who you are? take a point at which you were most at home in the world, loving in a wide bright instant. that’s who you are. and all the rest is slipping ghost of real, tangle of lost and imagined losing.
this is the same morning. I guess I am the street. it isn’t the lost marbles, it’s the son at the end of the white shroud drift. it’s the simple in place of the built out of nowhere. you came to me. from out of nowhere.
every dot and every sparkle held in breath of wet. glue and glass again. the river of glass moves slowly down the swaying planet banks. the banks are made of marble with a guard at every door.
the human universe is only real as consumed. and as the morning goes so goes the heart in the streets of laredo, brooklyn. shine on, harvest moon. you see it rise and nothing has happened. you see it bounce on the rim of hill.
what you were when filled with light and good will, laughter, is what you are. would let it go? is there no grace in hunger of vine and wolf and ocean? mechanical has its hunger too, the twist of the lyric.
see yourself are walking down the street in series. one to the other. wobbly bounce of ghosts in autumn. the light of the soul going a to b. nude pretending a staircase. my children moving light a pile of leaves.
coats of autumn paint in bucket-light. the days grow longer, really. and god is not in the detail the wave or the song. god is the hole and the whole, ghost woman out on the island, the leaves in the gutter, floating
insensible, I come down here to street. and hear my feet. and my feet are the feet of the shudder of being. sometimes. squish sometimes. does it matter? yeah. everything matters, footfall, this grout of thought.
I would not organize to make me happy. or you. I’d point to our centers where god is and say, be what you are. in a life in the blur comes the fine edge of number of leaves, dead and dying.
what there is to cherish, that which is always, and comes again, dying, in mind, too. but not really. in my pocket are papers and lint and change and two hands. I take them out and hold them up to fade. see?
oh my son, see how beautiful, you.
and thank you, God.
so there we were in paradise and in the morning with a slight pick-up head of roses out on the old deck with the red wood and the windows to our lives. of course it entered my mind. my mind is enterable.
a wolf in the twilight half again the size of the pepper tree. an utter exposure to the grease fires of sunset. sometimes it’s so cold I can’t help it. what can I help? I can help with the thorns, and the hugely dismembered.
it’s just the music, love. it’s just another wet november. remember the storms, and the frying pan full of the fireplace embers in bed, and the empty confidence? are you better off? it’s lurid tonight, and things encroach.
the voices come down off the mountain on air. they creep in my son’s dreams. they flap at the windows at three and I pad to the old refrigerator, the place of the alcohol bedspread, dull red blood in cold glass.
the idea of the bed is everywhere here, controlling. would take my son’s dreams for a walk? his three year old terror in the house of the fancy-dan poetics? would breathe in the night of the wave?
how far in to the shale should I go, do you think? no, really, do you think? you and the night and the music, make me so sick I could die. I got the moon and took it down to town and rolled the bones.
the rage is allowed now, I offer it room for the night. not much else. as the crow flies, as the lying bastard lies. as the end of the song is a sadness and traces its name. as the crunch is a cruel hunch.
I’m largely more honest, more gentle, and more reconciled. more bloody dangerous. discard this and discard that and come to the place where the gates to the prison are open as rain. the long slow creak to outer sanctum.
was it raining when we went to sleep? it is now, love, and I’m the bookend, the doorstop, the gathering certainty. we have the bed now spread across the sky, and a coming of rain quite evenly, free-range.
this is how I get from here to there. I have enormous experience with beating back insanity. twice. could do it again? thrice? I lay myself across the appalachians, waiting. I can sleep there, limbs arranged.
when I leave I have no luggage at all. all around the water tank, waiting for a train. I have no guitar but I can sing, at odd times. I sing in the balcony watching the trains jockey in. I pull the white smoke.
yeah your codes escape me. but my attention is perfect. and all the dense inventions scratch at the ground beneath the lilac. beneath the colored toys that eat the heart to advantage. and it’s good.
change shape to advantages. the pale moon is rising, miss spider. I coming back with big sore feet of hollow gourds, and thumping heart in hand. notice how the addressee changes, but remains one.
in the bed were the things of the day and the night. the clouds were involved, and the flatness of moon across the animal ocean. the ratchet and pawl of the barely arms and the hardly magnetism.
there is no place my finger rests that heaven doesn’t know. the far of the wogglebug too, the place where tinfoil roars and each place I touch is both you and your death, me and my you on the morning of presence.
the ball of dust goes gently under couch. and blue and rose are filtered through the shadow. the creep is down the hall to stately closet, the hands of hints of god are poking through the wall.
see the eyes light in the night, my son, see the full measure of conscious. far from the edge of the ocean the spray comes in handfuls. the beast turns in its half-dug hole and the river is rising and pushing.
getting older is this. the time becomes clear as the life edges closer together and shines like an oval mirror. in the tracks in the snow is the heart. I was trying. in the deep confusion of shock of hair.
you have to sing it right. the most perfect keening . hit the note like Coleman Hawkins dying. hit the face in the mirror and bleed resignedly. once you told me, I was mistaken, that I’d awaken.
every day in every way I’m getting better and deader. I always knew the trips to the old garden on 49th were trips to somehow death. Madison Square. the wrong one, but death nevertheless. palace of memories, lattice, and turning lights.
you understand I understand the only grief is human and. little help there, but at least we’ve got the first step under foot. footfall. the only grief is human. and it lives where the memory lives, in the present.
so wet november triggers me a walk in the park of the dead. through my own rows of fake ratty tombstones. there comes a time I’d never say a thing. but the bus driver wants to know where I’m going.
the sun comes down like marble maze and bumps and clicks november head. I mention LeFanu because he knew the day he’d die was when the hulking building wet with november vertigo would fall on him, in dream.
and right he was, right as rain. did you know that the largest number of children are scared and have nothing to hope for but their parents love? how does the road run? you’d think from glockamorra it would run both ways, no?
fake ratty tombstones. we stand in the dumb of the great bell, and look at our mouths so expressive, so ritzy. Dante, Mozart, Freud and Joan Blondell. I’m sad about Joan Blondell, I truly am.
Greenwood Brooklyn hands come out the ground as trees and catfish swim in hidden knowledge. nonsense nonsense. there is no hidden knowledge there is merely the human inability.
how many poems would profit from the occasional authorial intrusion? hey, that’s bullshit. sorry about that. anything you do to fight the language is a good thing. they went into language with vanity, forks and a meatball. they came out with a receipt.
in the matter of art here’s the deal. we’ll give you September Song or Lost in the Stars, but you’ve got to live it. which bowl of cold soup in andromeda? tough is a quality of leather, processed skin.
in every nook and cranny see the faces, the blocks of the rising towers, the shadows of the soldiers, the rising wave of crushing grace. the path with the one little windmill. the shiny bend of waterpipe.
new embers, old sun, fat chance hold on tight. all I ever wanted was my two front teeth. all I ever got was my own chance to be ugly, stupid and vile. the line forms on the left and snakes to the big stone headful of ugly, stupid and vile.
the triple is preferred by the ballplayer because it’s a hell of a lot harder than the home run which is just an invite to the rubber chicken circuit. hit this sign and win a suit. what’s the big fella say? is this is a suit or what?
sometimes you play fast and loose and you run the risk. sometimes it’s stupid and sometimes it’s look at this fucking world. look at it! use the eightball in a combo. notice it roll its blackness, angrily unique.
but when I break I become more whole. as what there was of outside and inside diminishes. suddenly I’m more. and the tangle of roots feeds on my tangle of roots. and the morning glory rises through to morning.
you want to know who you are? take a point at which you were most at home in the world, loving in a wide bright instant. that’s who you are. and all the rest is slipping ghost of real, tangle of lost and imagined losing.
this is the same morning. I guess I am the street. it isn’t the lost marbles, it’s the son at the end of the white shroud drift. it’s the simple in place of the built out of nowhere. you came to me. from out of nowhere.
every dot and every sparkle held in breath of wet. glue and glass again. the river of glass moves slowly down the swaying planet banks. the banks are made of marble with a guard at every door.
the human universe is only real as consumed. and as the morning goes so goes the heart in the streets of laredo, brooklyn. shine on, harvest moon. you see it rise and nothing has happened. you see it bounce on the rim of hill.
what you were when filled with light and good will, laughter, is what you are. would let it go? is there no grace in hunger of vine and wolf and ocean? mechanical has its hunger too, the twist of the lyric.
see yourself are walking down the street in series. one to the other. wobbly bounce of ghosts in autumn. the light of the soul going a to b. nude pretending a staircase. my children moving light a pile of leaves.
coats of autumn paint in bucket-light. the days grow longer, really. and god is not in the detail the wave or the song. god is the hole and the whole, ghost woman out on the island, the leaves in the gutter, floating
insensible, I come down here to street. and hear my feet. and my feet are the feet of the shudder of being. sometimes. squish sometimes. does it matter? yeah. everything matters, footfall, this grout of thought.
I would not organize to make me happy. or you. I’d point to our centers where god is and say, be what you are. in a life in the blur comes the fine edge of number of leaves, dead and dying.
what there is to cherish, that which is always, and comes again, dying, in mind, too. but not really. in my pocket are papers and lint and change and two hands. I take them out and hold them up to fade. see?
oh my son, see how beautiful, you.
and thank you, God.
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