Burning Autumn

In the autumn, with leaves burning, safety
as children running
embers floating in the air.

And I am burning leaves again.

The tulips i puled from your garden
how you say me hiding,
behind our pine.

Eyes wide.
Knowing that you were one person.
And about to become another.

How. You. Yelled.

And how it tore into me,
a torpedo, dropped bomb,
burrowing.

When I got into trouble again
I went into a house.

The neighbor with the old fan.
Brass cage.
Thick, cracked rubber blades.
Heavy.
Fissured dark,
Rocking back and forth on their axis
in the wind
in the window,

Back and forth.
Wishing they would rock into life,
That your will would gain power.

Still wishing.
It’s a false false,
after the fan
and the pine trees.

The hips thrusting.

Now they’re just hanging there,
fan blades,
setting sun in a window frame.

The house is set back,
in the pines.

 

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When We are brave

When we are brave enough
we are not present
we are simply
in a wrong moment

Between key strokes
and dramatic elipsing
lays
our raging moments,
against the dying of the
light
And

we feed our platform
as it feeds on us,
our bravery
(our sex)
is stroking keys
and raging at random moments

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Heisenberg’s Waiting Room

There are moments when
you are alone in a place
of human geography
peopled with many strangers,
and every one of them –
looking at you in side glances –
knows you
and your heart
And there is no water,

Just this folding weight
that crushes you
into a small point.

And this universe spinning out of your reach.

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Dominion

I held your hand
as you sighed,
chest heaving
caving and rising,
that old cadence, that old chestnut rag.

“God is a bastard, a true SOB,”
I told you, patting at the sweat breaking beads on your brow.
“Your mother won’t tell me about it,
because vows and such.”

But I can see it,
in the way he moves around the yard,
listlessly mowing, not really into it,
always bitching about how
‘David made the whole thing up’, and
something about boning an asshole,
or… whatever.

Outside the window,
there are those damn crows.

He’ll try again.

Maybe a flaming sword,
swung round and round by another drunken angel
outside the garden,
just another ineffectual scarecrow
flapping in the wind.

After all that, despite all that,
he says the afterlife’s kind of a let-down,
that the mowing’s at least more interesting
than the harping.
And that he’d love to help.
but I know he’s a liar – and a drunk.
Did you know he forced his kid to make him _wine_?

True story.

I miss you.
But you figured out a path.

So kick Peter’s ass for me, along the way.
He’s earned it.

And it’s good to know
that love is the dominion of the dead.

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Intelligentsia S&M

“It makes my panties wet,

When you get literary like that”

So I locked eyes with her, 

And slowly mispronounced… “Proust”

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Quick Sand

Wallace Stevens
quickened at 46.
I may yet make order
on some beach
or another.

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spring flingin’

This is just to say
that I am in the back yard
there’s a red breasted robin feeding 5 feet away,
a woodpecker upside down at the same feeder and
a burning red cardinal sitting not far above.
Their songs call back and forth,
as far in the distance a hawk beats wings
towards the ocean
 
a black and yellow butterfly forming circles around
the base of the butterfly bush
I just chopped down low
(spring renewal can look like carnage)
 
the desiccated ornamental grass from last summer
lies bundled and chopped
under the long, chopped legs
of the butterfly bush
 
there’s a rabbit resting his head on my foot
 
there’s a World War II spotter plane
moaning through the sky above my head
 
the Merrimack hits the shores,
and I can hear the waves lapping
when the wind is right
 
this pilsner is lovely
and there is, for a moment, the purest clarity
Posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry, Uncategorized, Writing | 7 Comments