certain similarity

the mimetics of the just
is from this to that, that to this, verdiction
yes, it's true
truth is a benediction reaching far
into imagination too

in exclamation o! poetic, your rhapsodaisical whimsy stings me silent

o! the time was measured in interjections
of sorrow sorrow languid
lush

in hush around dejections
akimbo
moments move one sand
grain bimbo slow
this migraine sound rakes glass down
sound up-clomb by lines
by lines each sound lyricised
o light-limned climbs!

the friction of this pains us
varied planes, us countless drawn
through figures, from them dithering
dance
infinite steps

hither o! flick of flame and ache of smoke
of smoke and ache
intaken thus:
o!
o!
o!
there are signals on the air
i cannot read

so to be by you
a release
enchanting as a broken spell
there are some things that cannot
be exclaimed that well

farewell

in saying goodbye
i am singing like a saw
oh that hollow noise like a solar flare folds
dawn into magnetic night

high
high up there
the sky, her hand upon her hip-
o-crites studying this bend and sway
but I will write only to say

farewell, farewell, and
fare thee keen
of kites farewell
farewell the flap of fowl
who know that it is time

ah rush and rise
and leave the grass to rustle
waving down to still and wait

the atomic principle of moments

is each comes
with a head and tail

they twirl like protazoa
they are beautiful, simple and strange

and can be stained
for microscopic scrutiny

complex and irreducible
as they evolve and grow

creatures horrible and lovely
they waited through ancient ages

like water beading across your window
like fingers twined among strands of air

now crystalline as snow in streetlight
cycling seasons for this brief fluoresce

atomic, no before or after this
complete, with hand held out to each of us

there is no halving here
nor holding but in whole.

supermarket, infinity, fresh fruit

sometimes when you walk into a supermarket
you catch a glimpse of a crack

to your right the stacks of peaches
to your left toys from china
it's not that though

it may be your life goes into closed circuit
this doesn't just feel like deja vu but
what's the point when you expect it?
when your life doubles back do you start to reject it?

there are realities and realities
and seams where things got grafted in
sometimes the earth beneath you would like to shudder
it gets to feeling all hemmed in

there are lengths and there is
distance
though the infinite number of points is not measured

in spring new buds laugh and grow right through 'em
the fruits are sweet and here are piled
so neat and even.

Sweet Woodruff

beside the front pine
the ground slopes down

we have planted woodruff
and lily there

where the water runs
the tree roots show
and thick the weeds grow
along the low part of the bank
where the sun slips in

the ground smells of needles
pine and the garnish of may wine
this earth could bite you
it might taste of gin

in the cool dusk mosquito tusks
pierce your skin by din of the neighbor's movie:
someone is dying but has a few more words to speak
incomprehensible coming through their open window

soil clumps crumble from milkweed roots
dusk crumbles into night around the walking of dogs
doppler of cars and the buzz of coasting bikes
stars incomprehensible open their windows

the pungence of our plans, ground cover in the spiny shade
from here pines touch the roof of night
the slope of time runs down from our feet

we believe in this
next spring will smile sweet in woodruff bloom.

evening storm

first the wind in lean strips
like fingers upon the lush
flesh of evening calm

the tress quiver with the intensity
of that longing,
lash wind-striped as tiger tails

from far off the storm
calls to the soil

how suddenly the sky loves
fiercely the earth

clouds lay back their ears
as they are dragged and pushed
gentle creatures should not be rushed
but the wind is wild now
everywhere probing the stillness
it throws dust in the sun's eye

gentle things should not be rushed
the storm comes rampant across the sky
it walks on spidery legs of light
each step is a kiss with the rise of the earth

in the wings
the wind twists
splintered soft the earth is lifted by its touch
the rain is hot
we do not understand
this ferocious love

this is a thing of duck and cover
wait until it passes over

the rain gentles down and settles in for the night
how new the world will look in tomorrow's light.

World Cup Ramble

As I watched the worldcup final, I had a secret. I should say, it was more of a secret after the final was over and I was talking about it with people. I was secretly supporting the Netherlands.

These are two sides that I both know and care almost nothing about, certainly a month ago my head was a nearly complete international footballing tabula rasa. On one level, it is interesting to consider the psychology of why, let's say you find yourself watching a game in the NorthEastern Lacrosse league or something, why you will choose one side or another. Or will you, always? Can you watch this sort of contest impartially, just looking for good play, never hoping for anything from one side or another? I think it might be possible to take the position that you hope that whoever has the ball scores, always, but I'm not totally sure.

So, if, when faced with a dichotomous contest (if you will allow me) we are simultaneously faced with a choice of where to sort ourselves, what is the nature of our choosing? I think that this worldcup case of having no preconceptions is an interesting test case. The first point is, one can choose without having any particular, let's say conscious, reason for making that choice. I shouldn't say I chose to support Netherlands, but perhaps more that my heart, no, my imagination was somehow more piqued by them. Not by their play, let's be clear, just by some combination of the color of the uniform, some snatches of narrative perhaps, the fact that they were, in my opinion, likely to lose, I think the fact that my education was firmly Anglo Protestant and so any former ally of England or harborer of Pilgrims' football side is kind of swept into this twisted historical meta-narrative's embrace (and, please note, you could read right in the British press, and elsewhere, references to the Spanish Armada and all kinds of craziness--yes, this in the sport section--a type of historico-nationalistic-footballizing I complained of but at the same time felt at work in myself in some way).

But speaking of their play, and this is the "lesson," I think, this unconscious decision that was made for me, that anteceded any rational thought on the matter, from this decision flowed more decisions--the decision not to be bothered by De Jong's foul, to overlook how annoying I found Robben. Of course, as I said, I secretly supported the Netherlands, almost feeling guilty for wanting the side with inferior play to rob the better team; secretly, in that I had no problem discussing the game in a rational and neutral way, even to express that it was good the better side won, etc.

The question, then, is how many decisions are *actually* made in the same way as the decision to support a certain brutish side for no particular reason? And how often are we aware of the fact that the decision has already been made for us by some other part of our being as we rationalize in a fair and neutral way? This gets worrisome to me when I factor in the response to the fouls, and then add this idea: I didn't really *want* to support the Oranje, and in a way I almost resisted the urge; what about situations in which a)the decision is made unconsciously, b)it is covered over by a skin of rational neutrality, particularly when it is convenient in conversation (I mean covered over to one's own perception as well), c)from this decision comes unethical but natural responses of passing over inconvenient incidents, and d)the unconscious decision actually corresponds with what I wish? How can all of that ever be overcome?

night poem no.5

cosmic withers
are measured in the hands of god

the sky hangs like a promise
the first stars wild as pistol shots
bird flocks rise from the west maples

last rivulets of light are trickling
down the drain of evening sun
showing the path of rise and run

each blade of grass etched in shadow
like a herd of cattle rising from texas
to oklahoma, to kansas city
how idly they will stare bovine
they ask us
nothing at all

o the twilit way you walk divine
your funny smile and last
look back lasso, flicking casual as the moon
wanders the night
why should I keep my two feet down?
the earth has kept this to herself
god's lone hands measure
at the withers withers withers
silence is the spur between our words
slap shouldered and saddle shined
silver, whistle, hi-ho, ride!

picard

shoulders up
in her one-piece red
my bald baby looks like jean-luc picard

as i accompany her
to the diaper bay she says
with a look you have the bridge
number two

that's my son
who commences to tell the DVD player
to hail bob the builder
he doesn't know yet
that the ship is equipped with photon torpedoes
good thing

officer's log stardate something something something
it appears that picard's diaper has been inflitrated
by an unknown lifeform
scent-sentient, it travels through the air and attempts to disable
other lifeforms within range. it seems to have already established a base
in the diaper pail.
it appears to pose a threat to our survival aboard this ship.
i fear that my nose has already been compromised.

Vaguely about very little...

This thesis is more and more convincing: the mesh of poetry a net around us like unseen strings of moon threading through water. More convincing--I notice it this way: first, you realize when you stopped the car you sat for a moment and just sort of hefted the moment and guaged it's weight in an empty sort of way. Well, that was me, maybe you don't like to sit around like a fool, but tell me there doesn't come a time when you realize that some tide is creeping up your bank of sand. I'm not saying you live on that shore--that would be mad. But you've found yourself there maybe.

Ok, that's part one, just being there and knowing it, like some half-way sort of longing, like edging up to something empty that has the feel of full, or maybe the other way around. Now, part two is you read a bunch of mediocre--I'm saying decent, I don't want you to waste your time, but it can't be Yeats or Shakespeare or Wright or something--poetry. If you do this for like a week, you kind of get all juiced up with this stuff. Now, next time you come around to this sort of moment I'm describing, it should click--if it doesn't, then you need to hit the books again, I think.

And it clicks: all this poetic diction and sentiment like a skimming skin coming in on that tide. It might be all brilliant and foamy, or it might be green and smell of fish, but it should be there. And you realize what it is you're reaching out for--some kind of narrative, but not really a story, just a way to sort of grab hold of that empty thing and make it do something, blow it full of air like a brown paper lunch bag in a middle school lunchroom, or just to say, here, if I weren't just me right here in my driveway, but if instead some cosmic thing were happening, this is what it might be. See, that's why you can't be reading brilliant stuff beforehand--I mean, we all know that isn't our story.

But there is some story, some song of ourselves, yes, that we hear piping along now and then? I think this might be bad for us, actually. The poetry-of-doing-nothing-useful not the poetry that knows that words are made for action and action for interaction and story can come chasing like wave after crest. Self-reflection like silver fish should be scooped away in that lively mesh, and the sea can dance and sway in it's sweet and portly way without us. Like it has since before there was anything at all to say.

night poem no.4

sometimes you may look out into a night
just to wonder what else is broken

the edges of silver silence spurs rake
the flanks of each syllable we've spoken

the lines of letters rude gestures
flung from the window of a quarter ton
truck

it's paint is shiny in the night
atomic blue

the edges of silent spurs starlight burrs
flay moonflank

orion's shanks thunk like boot heels
a showdown in heaven

all this blackness blowing around high noon

the night horizon drowns him like a sea

the stars blink wild as pistolshots

the earth turns her back on you

night poem no.3

words and not words
the space and sound of what is said
shaking as it leaves your lips
though fading as it storms my head

beneath the night soundless of birds
the lesser sounds are magnified
the morning takes us by surprise
muffled in sleep's other side

it seems a dream's cool to the touch
as the deep side of your eyes and yet
though fading as it left my lips
this kiss eclipsed space while seconds shake

looking straight on it still i ask
what are these things of which life is made?
what are the things our life will make?