An Economy of River

An Economy of River

I wake too many nights

shivering aways walls

pressed tight to my chest

wake to sheets cold

wet sheets from me

hosing down villages

burning in my dreams

wake to screams and groans

of my own echoing

I think it's grandpa

having dreams again

except he's dead some years

and I wish he was back

this year to wear his shirts

fill old man flannel pockets

with matches and cigarettes

wish he was back to see

the sturgeon and perch

they're nothing but thin

gray and green lines

wavering at the bottom

wish he was back

back to heal sick boats

listen to their hum

and smell of exhaust in clammy air

I wake now to mornings

taste the river for its mood

but my taste is caught

on hooks that barb

the heart in packs of six and twenty

and there is no difference

between waking up to a river

or living next to one

rivers are in the blood

Van Gogh's Ear

Van Gogh's Ear

She kept his ear,

secretly wrapped it in silk,

stashed it between spiderwebs and headboard dust.

For decades she dreamed of silk.

Silk, alchemy of softness,

pressing life into the sticky folds.

Yes, still sticky

with the grit sweat of her hallow palm

and the apple blossom saliva of her mouth.

Her shrunken lips fixed on necessary midnight swills

from an ear long gone deaf,

removed and taken to the New World

in the gray light schism of dream silk and death.

Had she known the girl

who found the ear on a coarse beach

she would hate the girls black eyes and burned thighs.

She would hate the girl's thumbs,

hate the thumb strokes on the petrified ear

depressed and gray like smooth silk love.

Disintegration of Time

Disintegration of Time

When the kindling was gone

the calendars were first to go.

I counted days through the slow stir

of moon phases.

The books I kept to plot my progress

through time stood hard

in the absence of wood,

crackling and hissing only to regret

the fleeting moment.

Watches were no good

when I only tabbed the great peels of paint

falling from the house like dead skin.

I sold the peels to children

who brandished them like feathers

for coffee cans full of pennnies.

And sometime in the night

the clocks retreated of their own accord,

left blank those places between pictures

where I gauged angle and the cast of shadow.

When nothing remained but the mountains

and the ever forward march of me,

I gave myself to the sky

atomic brick by atomic brick.

Window Migrations

My poetry mentor at Hamilton College was the distinguished poet Shahid Agha. I enjoyed learning from him. This was one of the last poems he helped me craft, and I know that he was thrilled with the last two lines. He passed away from brain cancer many years ago, but I hope his poetry won't be forgotten.

Window Migrations

Riding the arc of smooth stone

Bones scatter and disperse

Through window time

Loudly

Migrating from identity

I wade through mirrors

Place them scattered on fallen windows

Where bone chips lay

Limitless

Why is it windows

Stop my melding bones

Lost on migrations

Between worlds

I punch cold glass

Cut my hand

I'm so desperate

With windows

Huff

Huff

I’ve achieved. This place.

Achieved groan. Achieved growl.

This ragged. This age.

That is to say. Huff.

Survived it. All the it.

That was before now.

I don’t know how.  I really feel.

About this now. I mean this.

This here. This now. I think.

I am right. Am at the where is where man.

Forty lives for most. Which is to say alright.

And not caring much about who isn’t which can’t.

Right. Alright right.

If I was a digger but not.

Count holes. That’s right true

Well. Holes are places. Where the nothing is black.

And holes are places mid-light.

Races from towards the too.

If I lived in a hole

It would be in the ocean.

Which is to say I am already

There. And friendless. Well. Really but not exactly.

I am lonely. With my friends. I am a Fred.

And a father. And a man. With woman. That is to say.

Married in mid-weed. The mid-deep. The place.

Fred to comfort. Crackle sun. Gleam mantle.

Poster toast my virility. And then all that.

With this so shabby. Shabby shabby. A rickety Fred.

Lonely in voice. Sod voice. Say something.

Things are to be said. But damned if they could.

 Know what I would if I could.

TV. Click click.

Huff.

Caxton Non-Sequitur

William Caxton invented the first printing press in 1476 in England. To refer to a caxton is to refer to a printing press.

A non-sequitur is a Latin word meaning a statement or premise that doesn't have a logical conclusion.

Being a ridiculous English/wordy type, I've always wanted to put these two into a poem.

In homage to Caxton and the roots of our language I've attempted to capture the sound and feel of Old English without regard to accuracy.

Caxton Non-Sequitur

Sladdlenoz grolerock crunhuff shnybarrch chipplehon

Quizboosh glibbett garfaru troopchipple

Rildspard phi rildaspard nuna wit pollpen

Mibparple snazzlehorehun sammelt goenapple

Wiltnarph grippe schnibnarf hadsweepday

Nasslud crismail beendopup pupplspleen

Oldwag aulspine crockenfree undebme

Maeirtankdubby wisgone flaytar grolerdeen

Krill berrykill frylark quizboosh glibbett

Chipplehon peelgnuck shakeseen congratile

Swaswa heeffenum forgyf gyltas ufrett

Thorn gear sigelsnied pocbiscut telastile

Tew lagotew egun nied quizboosh gewat

Tew gyltas tew gyltas needertwat

GI Joe Doll

All writers steal and borrow. I stole the premise and the form of this poem from the poet Marge Piercy and her great poem "Barbie Doll." The idea came to me after a discussion of her poem in my English 12 class a few years ago.

GI Joe Doll

This manchild was born as usual

and presented games that exploded

and GI Joes and miniature Yamaha quads

and wee capguns the color of blued steel.

Then in the madness of puberty, a classmate said

You have zits and act like a jerk.

He was hearty, acted spirited,

possessed lean abs and a thick chest,

abundant hormones and could kick a soccer ball.

He went to and fro spazzing.

Everyone saw zits and a jerk.

He was advised to grow up,

pressed to act like a man,

workout, test the dangers, never smile

and intimidate.

His spirited nature vaporized

like drops of dew in the late morning sun.

So he drank beer and smoked weed

and shut up.

In the casket displayed on flannel he lay

with the undertaker’s prosthetics glued on,

a putty colored chin and wrist,

dressed in a gray suit and black shoes.

Doesn’t he look peaceful? everyone asked.

Conquest at last.

To every teenage boy a victory.