Saturday’s a dead rabbit in a dandelion
garden and cousins 6th removed named
“Lucky.” Still, hoping for the best,
a water-fed, ten-ton clay box hacks
built-in poverty, preserves the best
word reductions and cucumber radishes.
Much as, sallying forth spews (or dangles)
lavaliers of dead democracies, bombs
and intifadas; we attempt to stay cool.
No water from the taps
but the music goes on
we are on the midi
transmitting sounds, coupons
free stuff; it's tea time
friends like this
the siren servers
pumping it out
more free stuff
more chances to win
eventually whatever you want
just waiting for this endgame
they calls it, making up slogans
for the last hippos, ultra cool
jaguars, torn up teddy bears
spying on snow leopards "so awesome!"
peeps like wrapping paper, used sparkly
pharma for everyone
you name it
It’s damned gorgeous today. Warm as spring,
dry as sandstone. In mid-winter. The goat
is dead. To the laundromat I must go. Clearly
clover will not green the field. That’s
California winter: green. Was, anyway.
G. has raked leaves over her infectious
bloodstains. Where once the blewits grew,
(orange-juicy edible fungus).
The clothes take for fucking ever
to dry. In the meantime, reading
a story about books. Then another
story about books and cats. And
have a coffee. And M. is sick with
a cold. And the chlorophyll will not
rise; the ground props up weed
skeletons and rocks, the towhees
peck for seeds dropped from
the feeder. Sun goes down garishly
the way we like it. Flashing
a phantom green.
Then it’s dark again, and the oaks
throw shadows, make a black
tunnel under which I skittle down
the road to snatch the mail. Yo,
bats, owls, goats: where are yooo. What
do you call home now. Give me
a little scare.
Oh right, it's another year
another poem. The day's shot;
there was work---but actually, not much.
What's a year anyway?
Give me the real work.
Back on the ranch,
we managed to get the hall heater
started; the sweat will start pouring
any minute now
Why not write a poem
An ode to Fridays
the release. The third season
of Farscape. But first
a pizza potluck in the 2nd
floor meeting room
the Fort Ord room
and something gluten-free
Why do we all sit 3 feet
from the table? We're all
perfectly nice people
But. I must comment.
And now, before bed
the odd collection of
noises along the eves; the ghost
of the kennel owner leans
on an exterior wall,
lights up a cigarette
Or it may be
the horned owl
the barn owl's
breathy hissed shriek
four hours of sleep
made it through Thursday
I wrote a poem here. Then I removed it.
I pasted it into a document, and kept it to myself.
X speaks under her breath;
taps on the qwerty
click, clickity click click
"ith bin, i'm be..."
from her cube and
an aisle away
"yahhh, uhh, ul"
"ats as first n try, umm"
untranslated. low laugh
of papers, coughs, suppressed
whisper us through
seven and one-half hrs.
o do let me know
if I'm missing something
on a Monday afternoon
and some blooming bitters
sits here, notebook in hand
o do let me know
if I'm missing
I might be wrong
could be wrong
in the wrong place,
might very well
be redundant too
but that is my job
I await your response
— written on a scrap of paper
Once again I was caring
for my dying mother. She was
small, shrunken as one would
expect, even in a dream.
Someone offered an ideal
place in which to die. Large
bedroom with picture window,
view of a plain, edged by
tall spruce trees. Maybe Wyoming
or Washington state. A hospice
room painted by Hopper.
I returned to find her slid down
towards the edge of the bed,
her body stiffening, but not yet
gone. Arranged her in a comfortable
position, pulled up a blanket
to warm her.
Not the right view. Should've been
tropical. Mango trees, umbrella
ferns, heat, even mosquitos. Surrounded
by the talk and the smell of a large
family, neighbors too. Movement;
cousins, nephews, nieces, family pig
grunting in its earthen den
under the house.
The horse whose name I can't remember
had slid into a depression in the soft
earth under the fence. We pulled
her sweating body back up. She
looked around, eyes still wild. The colt
and the sire, Lobito, looked too;
colt sensing something wrong
in the temperature, the arrangement
of limbs, the sour scent, a general lack
of response, and milk.
From my bookshelf
With all its eyes the creature
sees the open. Our eyes alone are
as if turned back, and placed all around,
like traps, encircling its free escape.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, “The Eighth Elegy,” The Duino Elegies
Hah. Just tried to write a poem but it would
not write. Speeled (!) spelled "write" as "rite"
Right as rain.
Alright. A semi-static, classic pose, watching
the dirty fog drift. Leaning slightly to the right
I notice. As if I cannot--
As if stroked
by a heavy feather Tired Sounds of the Lid
playing out across the rooms
many low and mournful horns
An invitation to which I am
a writer gone to;
in other worlds, gone to visit
a self governed
much better than this