finish your phrase: a temporary condition



Friday, May 02, 2003
i owed it all... and tried to pay it back... but never in time...

they wanted more... than this job could pay.. it had nothing

to do with them... but i was angry... i said some things i regret

now that i've had time to remember... how much i owed



everybody's going which way... over there... jumping through the mirror

i thought you shattered yesterday... oh well... i'm standing here with a

brown book... looking for the face you wore last sunday

when god spoke to you... and you told me about the clearly known...

you seemed so young right then... and so old... you must be here somewhere...

because i'm looking... not jumping at any rate... and you're off...

walking toward the sun



next to this pearl gray vase you see... running off the left side of the canvas... a leather whip handle... almost lost on the mahogony surface... in the shadow of these common white peonies... who would think...


Thursday, May 01, 2003
delivered by hand... by hand... made of weathered

stone... told by an old man... under a roof of music...

call it sky... here swings a sweet tale... pretend

you haven't heard it... call all the kids in from the yard...

turn off the television... give it away... what matters

rises up... heartbound... free... perfect enough



along a line... drawn from the back of your neck... to the edge

of that curb... fall slowly... effortlessly... down...

while breath flies out like a swift cloud... and eyes

spin up to sudden blue light... no victorian swoon... this

slow motion postmodern renunciation... pays

the world in single bills... this fall.. and this... and this...

like duchamp's bride... takes each verse in stride



Wednesday, April 30, 2003
and he never finished a thing... born

to be born again... and again... mornings

come naturally to him... like pages to fingers

around this book of suddenly new song...

under the garden darkness stutters

forth his moister possibilities... sun

stung by noon... and a good nap

dreams him in bloom... afoot again



stand on the stage and speak
the words... stand on the stage
and speak the words... like you
mean it... like you was born
for this day... for maybe
you was born for this day...
who's to say... who's to say


Tuesday, April 29, 2003
six hundred thirty-two words slip down

between the bed and the wall...

how many perfect lines before sleep... gone

before morning... so tell me... when the rivers

roar pity and the skies are blind with gulls...

what will we remember from the book

of this good day... that we stepped out...

that our breath came easily as we read and thought

and spoke to... for... about... with...

that something certain yielded to the sun...



who rang that bell down there... had better

think again... we've got sad weary eyes...

to look him at with... run away... find a dog...

some little mutt... to whisper your blue

iniquities you'll need a funnel and bucket...

a bucket and a black book of yearning...

let the old dog shiver at your bloodshot truth



then source it simple for the otters... a thin

fish... a grinning bishop... much applause

when the arrows fall... in stomachs long

fatter than the land... everyone gets a free

day... we've had ours... it was splendid

but now it starts to rot... a bit... frightful

that we have no secrets... so utterly known



Monday, April 28, 2003
"in this church these tracks runnin' one way..."

can this be... don't they roll double... where you got an in

you got an out... an up... a down... redlightgreenlight...

so you up and slam the door... full of all this love

... no preacher ever heard you sing it...

him up there... red as a wound... talking 'bout the river

and the lamb... talking 'bout the narrow gate... you bet



alone inside this piano... he got the unsteady bicycle blues...

consider it a warning... wind may blow and windows shake...

but a boy on his bike gonna fall... sooner or later...

listen to wind blow... listen to the gravel sing... hear it

lonely piano boy... long way from home



Sunday, April 27, 2003
more from a notebook

one has hair piled up like a fountain
one's mouth moves like a marionette
one stays in bed all day
one pretends it has friends everywhere
one knocks over fragile things
one believes in God

one associates with known criminals
one has taken a ride to the west coast
one buries mistakes in the backyard
one organizes workers for a brighter tomorrow
one listens carefully
one stands up too quickly and faints

one gives up
one lets a bird have its say
one talks and talks and talks
one becomes our hero
one forestalls disaster by laughing wildly
one drags its thumb across its chin

one never slows down
one hopes the couch won't be too uncomforatble
one looks like a monk remembering a book
one sings the good old songs in its head
one's teeth chatter in the cold night
one forgets its mother's name

one is tied up in very tight knots
one is lost in comic books
one would rather not think

 




from a notebook...




Saturday, April 26, 2003
every word is a tree...
a calm pool of water attracts certain kinds of bugs...
some exclamations dangle from the sky on twine...
we need to buy something useful...

i cuss in all my writing...
i swear...
i use foul language... dirty words...

i don't got it with me...

and the door opens
something happens... something small
easy to forget... and we do

i want

no one looks at the moon... any more
birds are a nuisance
open land is suspicious

i want that thing in the store
i want it more
than anything... right now
buy it for me

shut up yr gay
shut up he's cheating on you
shut up... the tree shivers




your talk for twenty minutes is... fascinating...

but your paper is empty... empty... vacant

as an aaron spelling production... empty as breath...

as sand... so what will you have when you

open your fist... and a pencil falls damp and silent

like our own empty skin... sloughed... what will you have



the capital of spain is madrid... where oranges were invented...

in a palace of glass... between the strings of an austrian

quartet and a sad oud... oozing foggy pear juice... down to red earth...

today you will travel far for that moment... pay any price...

come back with flowers in your ears... and a thirst



you see we are all here now so you can go off to do what you do and soon you will have two ways to say help me i need you now but we will not come so all of this will stop at last and we will use our time to make a wall by this low bush here at the edge of our land but you may come for us and we will wait for you and your sad need here next to this grey bush that says what we have made and your eyes will see that this is good work at last that we have done


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