Names like these rhyme. So do they?
Don’t they? Our horrible geography
suggests there’s no help right up
to the third line. But then. O then.
We all got stupid. And finally knew.
If you make a point of never saying
anything about human sexuality They
will find something anyway and make
a point of it. Architects have eyes.
Having let myself fall
into the cask of Becoming One
I perjured a cat (don’t ask)
I invested in The Absent (ask)
I forgot myself up a small tree.
But back down here
there’s an axle that binds two wheels
to each other and a path.
“It’s the aesthetic truss of language
(as in song, comedy, and cussing)
that will confound and ultimately
relieve some of these aching cultures.”
Who pushes poetry so it hurts rushes back to the trees.
Tests our poetry all along without arguing. Thought art
Could approach the chaotic. Unscripted expansion in light.
Saying things I mean words tries a way through the blank.
Meaning comes like a lie. Course it is. A smile he said.
The truest disconnection. Snuck in by the gods way.
Ordinary day broke open blathers. On a strange stage.
Not awake though. Not yet here. Not a critical cell.
He said. Then drew back to forest edge. Which crows.
Which oaks and sycamores. Which hardy shadow beasts.
Understanding came like a truce. He whiffs a critter.
Comes like an informal invitation. This was lifelike.
In its petals and bracts. Deciduous permutations. As.
The science around it rises to say. This is its name.
No other until you make it. Like a person. An option.
Who I loved really loved looked at me
wanted notes in exchange for the looks.
They noticed my sideways appearances in
Homeric similes like stars so far off you
can only see them on the edges of your eyes
and you have to be in a very bad mood sad
or angry with yourself because you’d broken
all the promises to Them you really loved.
They looked and worried in time to jazz to
classic R&B and defined as second-rate breath-
less tunes I’d just invent and start with
an airhorn blasting them into the dreamy sky.
Who I loved at last loved looked at me from
homilies and circles and confidential asides.
Harping along on the interstate, we understood the phrase “This is a call from God.”
We’re taken overland until the roadkill stops us. Bloody pals.
I imagine my car in the center of my religious life. As an inorganic optimist.
Which road had us puzzled as a dwindling resource. This was mine, then suddenly yours.
Attention to clouds, to thin metal poles, specks of birds. Who as future grant us the past.
And there. We’ve arrived at something. Holding hands and praising ourselves as ‘convinced of the fact.’
They’ll say you should take what is given & be
grateful enough. New floods have emptied the world
of what’s full. Remember when you grabbed a layer
of vexing fact & thought it’d do for a lifetime.
Hungry in the fines. Hungry in the soaring. Saying
inspire inspire and awesome to the most astonishing
degree. And we all fall down blissy cloud-scathed &
free. To extract one onion from the shocking soil.
The impossible appeals
to my homely economy.
A yard of names in rising
follows the long-forgiven
unfortunate comparison: river.
Wind of the stream. Bright scribbled others.
You on the 2nd floor. Them on the fifth.
Coded in cold I remember how cold.
Hewn like an old crayon box. The sun.
The whole world came to its lecture.
I was startled and stammered to recognize myself
in the pressed-out debris of each book’s tongue.
They came at me like fond hordes like damp fire.
The dreams mostly plod
from one mild strangeness
to the next where I fail
to hold up my end. The
others are not awfully
disappointed but I am
deranged and deracinated
peculiarly bald and one
note short a symphony
of shelves. Of glory.
In that there is no one to apologize to
in particular no one but the many in general.
In that now & then you note a configuration
of sirens a block away you never heard before.
In that the sadness of a particular country
tune and lyric might depend on one of your own.
In that your fears are fractions of a world
you took on the whole to be consequential.
It follows that it’s not birdsong but a
squirrel’s grief that bewrays the morning.