30 June 2009

Hey, I Can See Your Patronus From Here!

You disappear into the hawk's eye.
Your drum solo is magnifique.
The end is receding within reach,
within reason, without
appropriate analog.
Hawk eye drum solo moose.
Close, but not quite.
Also, the beginning.
The spruces crash and splay about you
with a consistency similar to water
but water met from
one hundred feet up,
from the bulwark-dotted beachhead,
whales heaving through the spray.
Crash tinkle piano hammer.
Actor hamming it up
for a paycheck staggered with zeroes.
Does anyone notice his hairline?
Short answer: yep.
The senator takes his seat, kind of.
Viscosity, surface tension,
the temperature of a black hole.
The hawk's eye better than the beak.

27 June 2009

Varied Processes of Identification

Say, remember when you were a burning plane?
I sure don't.
The doctors aren't sure if this is a symptom or a syndrome.
I bet you were pretty, though.
Really I'd like to lay my head down for a bit.
After the autopsy?
Second autopsy.
The photographers telling each other stories
they all already know
and blowing into their hands through the night.
The van idles.
Probably forever.
Refueling takes place mid-air.
Lots of coverage,
lots of retroactive assignation
of meaning and identification.
No photographic evidence.
As usual.
There's a fishbone in my neckface.
It looks like a window.
It looks like a winnow.
Cough, little petunia,
you're almost out of range.
After this mountain range:
a mountain range
and the green wheels of the sea.
Hey, remember when you were a werewolf?
We ran through the moonlit scrub and scree.
The wind was always so bitter,
so cold, it was always the least of our worries.

24 June 2009

Severely Abridged Biography of Skagway Bill

Has had strawberry shortcake more times than he can count.
Has flung fine china across the room.
Has inspected the splatter on the white wall.
Has drawn conclusions.
Has made interpretations.
Has drawn horses and vampires.
Has kicked at the garage door.
Has clapped in unison with a large crowd.
Has enjoyed frozen bananas in an inflatable kiddie pool.
Has rammed the cartridge home.
Has used a microscope.
Has dropped another microscope.
Has berated those less well-compensated for perceived slights.
Has enjoyed thunderstorms.
Has hid under blankets.
Has sifted glacier runoff.
Has scratched bug bites.
Has bathed in a sink, once.
Has had a broken heart and has had lied about it.
Has retained stiff-upper-lippage.
Has wandered a sandy island and wondered how he was going to get home.
Has written checks with self-conscious magnanimity.
Has petted many small animals.
Has had his photo taken with small animals.
Has tried snails.
Has read the writing on the wall.
Has had the bandages removed from his eyes and temples.
Has left, returned, left again.
Has had many adventures and is now tired.
Has smiled at a small brown bird.

23 June 2009

Quasi-Sapphic Fragments Re: Alaska and Alaskan Photo Albums

Do not try to navigate by this map
says the map
on my coffee mug.
Okay.
We were practicing our trigger-
happy verve
from scratch.
No other way,
though I do
enjoy those videos
of James Brown
on YouTube,
the ones where
he teaches you
how to dance.
Hardest working man,
indeed.
On another note:
You can't actually
live here.
Here being variable,
subject to weather,
and winds.
Don't eat
that thing over there.
I read how bugs sleep,
how it occurs in trees.
Happiness drops onto you like a spider,
holds on like a bur.
The rain makes
the waterfall even louder.

Diagramming Your Presidential and/or Papal Bearing and Ambitions

Figure 1.1 is of a bird in a large reptile's mouth.
This happens kind of a lot, actually.
Figure 1.2 is of a hammock on fire.
In Figure 1.3 you can almost make out several figures,
one of whom appears to pointing at something
in the distance, which may be
what is represented in Figure 1.4, hard to tell.
Figure 1.4.a: striations pointing
to historicity, which depending
on your mood is either totally
enlivening and interesting or just
underscoring your suspicion
that you know a whole lot less
than you thought you did, an un-
pleasant notion helped not at all by
Figure 1.5, which involves a convoluted backstory
so long that it renders the image
under so many layers of multiplicative
meanings, roads diverging into yellow woods
and such, it's easier to just read
the sidebar and skip the Figure all together.
Moving along more quickly now:
Figure 1.6: gibbet, gibbet, rainbow.
Figure 1.7: your father glaring over the paper.
Figure 1.7a: your brother (not pictured).
Figure 1.8: how could you?
Figure 1.9: ghostly black dog head in misty nimbus:
Figure 2.0: even under the green sea is solid ground.

17 June 2009

My Mind's Made Up!

The mountain was big and it was looking good,
like it couldn't care less about
grammar or punctuation
and was totally cool with being used as a writing prompt
and being the same old grist fed into the mill.
It was totally cool with all the googly-eyed climbers.
Ditto the water, which was dark, then very dark.
There were way too many trees
to even be thinking about money
though that was in evidence, too,
if you felt like looking.
We threw our DVDs into the trees
and the ravens took them away.
Ravens are too smart
to watch the special features,
which always seem to wind up boring,
which is weird since it often seems so hard
to make a thing dull. For instance:
this cup of yogurt: weird!
This monkey dressed like a human
that's dressed like a clown on roller skates?
Who knew how awesome monkeys are at skating!
Who knew it was possible to do all this
and still wish for an ice cream cone
to wedge into your already loaded-down arms?
That the future is coming and this is what it looks like?

14 June 2009

Anyone's Guess

They were baking the Alaska
and the baked Alaska looked good.

There's a lesson there,
the attraction of a scorched thing.

Waiters reverent as penitents.
Diners occluded in fog.

The dog looks into the fire for hours,
seeing itself in there.

From several counties over,
or what would be thought of

as counties if we had them here,
was the sound of a mountain settling,

which turns out is so loud
it doesn't sound like anything at all.

Elsewhere, a sneeze lurks
in the vacuum's complex tubing

like a spider, a fiery dog
running up a green mountain.

10 June 2009

RIP, Shaman Drum


Sad. This place meant a lot to me when I lived in Ann Arbor. Read about it here.

08 June 2009

Poem In Which Father Engages in Fragmentary Reminiscences Away From His Brood

There are a number of feelings that can be traced to specific locales.
Flaming gondola careening through the canal,
horse tied to a tree forever. Forever lasts
until the thing is gone, in this case, the thing
is a horse, and plus the people who thought
about forever in terms of the disappearing horse.
They were never around much anyway,
disappearing as people tend to do.
One, there is acute pain here, and here.
Two, the Statue of Liberty blows up.
There is also a vague and frustratingly imprecise feeling
of dread or slightly more palatable unease though this
is also common when we are not asleep.
Quickly, quickly now. No time etc.
Abstractions tethered to the concrete,
fleeing across the horizon like burning horses.
Small spaces frighten us, e.g., crawlspace, fuselage.
There is something off about this room, this lamp.
The dictionary and the thesaurus have been missing
for weeks and the toll is becoming apparent.
Outside there is a family walking, pointing at something,
speaking almost secretly to one another.
We know we are awake because we are reading
and counting and disliking what is on the radio.
There is a slight trace of static in the transmission
that sounds for all the world like thorns.
The horse fills up with red ants.
People below are crushed by flaming debris.
When I said goodbye to my hometown I said it forever.
We do not samba and it is on the radio and we are reading
a magazine about current events which fill us with unease.
Glossy texture but thin paper, cheap, almost greasy.
I was reading (re-reading) Das Kapital
when there was a knock at my door which made me think
of a famous poem I haven't read in a long time, years,
which made me think of how I am old. There is still
a person standing outside knocking in the rain.
The Golden Gate bridge blows up, fifth time this week.
I was scoring my composition which is a kind of extension
or sequel to the Rite of Spring called the Rite of Spring
when I should've been in the garden conjuring peas from mulch.
My hometown fills up with red ants.
There is a black telephone no one's allowed to use though
it is mine and in my home in which strange people are living,
recipients of my unfailingly polite demeanor.