OH BROTHER

From the vaults:

2007-05-17T10:45:00.000-07:00

first of all and furthermore and to the point at last

what we have learned
so far let's recount
& codify the instances
of recognition
which we recognized
as ultimately our own

instantly one true holding
we have learned to let
go expectations
realize to realize
relate the cat to the cat
not the soul

not the soul no
soul ever wandered out
into the cold
like we do with our skin on
we say we do not either
take your place seriously

& see through that please
teach the cat to the dog
not the soul you are
not your soul you are
a closed fist
opening

i was counting in another way

not long now not long now not long now
until until until
i stand up & i close my eyes
relying on my other eyes

and it could take me
ten thousan lifetimes to take care of all that i am
or can do or it could take all day
or it could have happened already

i haven't opened
my house up for days and i've been saying
i'm doing
just fine

the cat walks up from her silence
and speaks at me
and then we both move on
in a window in a window in a window

in a chair
i sat counting without any real care
for order
sequential or otherwise

salamun in starlight

in this approach belief is secondary & how we strive
to keep the animals full
primary and primary our instinctual desires
to please & to be pleased please please me
we will say to the air & to the trees
& in their manner they will

in this approach we are lost wandering crowded halls
and found wandering the same
once i thought i wanted to be free
now i understand once i thought what i thought
was what mattered now i understand

i was circumferencing that moon-self life starlight
& from such a great distance i would grow
& die one thousand times before reaching even
a lop-sided agreement

but i'm not about to fall off of this sofa yet!

in this approach my good will pulls its wallet out
emptying its dust on the ground
& then tips its hat & then it fades away

i'm beginning to question my perceptions
i'm close to perceiving my questions in this approach we will
choose to make our own mistakes
& we will do what we can do

to stand by them

Philip K Dick and the Pond Sucked Dry

2006-07-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

The pond's been drained down a foot and a half and a city worker
with a weed trimmer is walking the edge from the inside. The ducks are settled on the exposed cement bottom
and more draining's underway, so what. He sat in his car
for an extra twenty minutes and heard the eldest daughter of Philip K. Dick
describe a father as fun, who played softball and April Fool's
and who talked to her at thirteen about the Nag Hammadi. He reclined his driver's seat,
kept his AC on, watched dry leaves fall as the temperature approached
100. The ducks missed most of this. They had other issues to explore.
Where do we go when the pond's finally dry? All the while, the red pumping machine,
with its sucking white snout, kept purring and burping as it drew
the element they know away from the where it is they live, so what. They peck at mud,
lie down in damp leaves. Neither he nor they need to understand.

Pond With Noise, Pond Without

2006-07-25T14:09:00.000-07:00

Today, the mother and at least nine ducks are sleeping in the shade of a rock
not ten feet away and a squirrel on its stomach outstretches its legs and lays flat. It rests
its chin on its forearms. He's never seen this before.
Sitting, supposedly, in thoughtless meditation, he thinks of a therapist keeping office hours
and holding a space for a client who doesn't show by showing anyway
to sit there in her chair. He imagines fifty minutes spent considering the impact
of another's absence on one present person and gasps. All at once,
the ducklings begin preening their nine selves and the squirrel stands up and starts to scratch.
A bug begins to climb his stomach, his shirt, and one duck dips
for a swim. It's a quiet day, hotter than most, but his mind
doesn't ask why. One after the other, the remaining waddlers follow. In the distance,
in unison, children with towels march toward a pool and shout "silence" over and over and,
over them all, another one shouts "these songs are hurting my ears".

By His Image Which is Not Reflected in the Pond

2006-07-21T17:51:00.000-07:00

Today, says the I Ching, a time of darkness draws to a close
and it hasn't, he thinks, even been so dark. On the phone, she says
we have a knack at bad timing and he hears her and he laughs. It's a joke.
Everyday, he thinks, every day is the practice, and the ants climb his arms to his neck.
Everyday, he thinks, every day is the practice, and he exhales, he inhales,
he gets past. Tomorrow's pond and today's pond are the same,
but tomorrow's pond does not exist. Get it? He sits far enough back from the edge
so that he doesn't upon his face reflect. In love with himself,
disillusioned but still, he counts the birds he can't name.
One, two, three. A friend wants to take him fishing, a friend says,
today, he thinks that that sounds pretty great.

Just-Past-Noon Pond in a High-Speed Workday

2006-07-21T11:30:00.000-07:00

Fire-red dragonfly. Monarch in flight. Ducks in bright green algae, dipping.
Breeze made visible in a pond-reflected treelight. Unseen bugs make rings perfectly
on the surface. There's a lot going on, including joggers and children. And a pre-panic mother
attempting an afternoon rush. He sits counting the minutes he breathes
and tries not to try to relax but to just
relax. And so he does. And across the pond, a stranger is humming
almost in time with his mind. Projection is like this.
The world inside and the world coincide. A stream of ants rushes out,
rushes back. The mother duck lifts her shining wings
but doesn't fly. She dives in, pops out. Dives in and pops out again.
Beautiful. She preens herself alive.

Near-Sunset Pond on a Better-than-Average Day

2006-07-19T16:37:00.000-07:00

With more than half of a moon in the sky-blue sky
and a mother and nine baby ducks asleep nearby and a squirrel with clasped hands
beneath a swooping pair of sparrow
and trees and trees and near-sunset breeze and two socked feet
at the end of two outstretched legs and this hand
and this blue pen and this other hand scratching my sunburnt chest
by this pond reflecting more than half a moon
as the train trains by and two dogs on the move with their two people leashed
and the birds fly a loop and I'm waiting for nothing
and so nothing comes through as I think of my friend who'll be leaving town soon,
I mean I think well of my friend who'll be leaving town soon.

In His Dream

2006-04-20T11:44:00.000-07:00

In his dream, he calls her
out to their yard. It's night and it's mostly dark and he sees
a blue disc of light in the sky,
they watch as the face of the Earth like a full moon slides
across the slight hook of the crescented moon.

They know this is once
in their liftetime and grateful for it.
For each other.

Next, a small group congregates on their lawn. They're talking,
he's feeling separate. Awkward.
His next-door neighbor asks why he doesn't vist more,
why they don't spend time together.

He says to her 'I'm socially awkward,
I struggle a bit with depression'. She says,
'Jesus, You're 34, now.

Get over it.'

Or

2006-04-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

Or perhaps life improves and so he doesn't write for days,
gets into law school, doesn't divorce,
walks the puppy and makes his wife tea when her throat goes sore.

Where's the story there? The sky gets lit up
with natural light and the earth keeps turning like a lonely child
until winter goes away. Almost done

with raining, he wipes his eyes, kicks his meds,
puts his old shoes on and runs a slow race
between two slow towns with his father-in-law and his father-in-law's

slow dog. Happy like a good dream but not even sleeping,
happy that last week he didn't take a drink
or a long step out the perilously open front door. He loves her

when he loves her and he loves her all the time
whether he gets to feel that or not.
Where's the story there? Each new page covers the previous page up

and, as the stack gets thicker, plot-lines get lost. Good.
It's good that they do.

Bodywork

2006-03-22T15:51:00.000-08:00

The body that knows us holds us together,
holds our skulls onto our necks, our shoulders
to our spines and our feet, our tired feet
tie our legs down. We shake our hands
and blink our eyes and think our thoughts
and feed our plans. Our bodies
hold on until we're safe to relax. Breathe fast
while we still can. Shake it out
until it's past. What passed was our brain
curled up under our skulls. Our bodies keep working
until we let them go.

after Bly

2006-03-21T00:02:00.000-08:00

for god's sake if you love a poet
then listen to the poems and then leave him alone
Jeffers said this on his way to the sea
and all the damning seabirds screeched on

they are circles and they spin me around for god's sake
if you love a god then listen to its silence
and then leave it alone my hands are open wide and my fingers
fall apart I have a wagging tongue and I forget that

it's connected to the back of my mouth
and then all the way down through my spine I mean I am
exploding and contracting I am running
and then am crawling I throw myself down

to my palms and my knees and I chase my two dogs
through our home one is a puppy and one old enough for calm
both of them chewing on bones I am bones
and I hurt and I expire I am blood

and I breathe and I reach out listen to the fountains
the bats and the breeze in the moonlight
if you are a poet leave them alone deep in the belly
in my belly I am waiting I am waiting for what?

my god to reach out

Everything Has Impact

2006-02-26T20:25:00.000-08:00

Capturing the moment, then setting it free.
Concerned with a purpose, then moved by it.
And everything has impact. Moved by the wind, the flag

unfurls above the memorial and the retired airman on a bench
feels like crying. The photographer sees this and snaps.
Three months later a grown son opens a magazine

and sees his father cry. He leaves work early
and takes his own son to the park.
The boy does not need to know why.

Autumn drops its leaves and clouds up its skies.
Breezes make their impacts, then subside. In the midst of it all,
the young boy spins like a spider hangs

from its thread and the young man who started him
surrenders what he understands.

everything has impact

2006-02-19T13:50:00.000-08:00

Comes to it, winter, slow lines along the streetside
and meaning settles back into itself, lifts its arms
across the back of an old wooden bench. Hoorah for everything!
Spines full of light and shoes that carry meaning.
Winter, as the end, becomes the start again tomorrow.

Capturing the moment, then setting it free.
Concerned with a purpose, then moved by it. A man becomes a man
When he lets his life be its mission. And everything
has impact. Moved by the wind, the flag unfurls above the memorial
rocks and the retired airman on a bench feels

like crying. The photographer sees this and snaps. Three months later
a son opens a magazine and sees his lonely father cry.
He leaves work early and takes his own son to the park. The boy
does not need to know why. Step forth into the light.
Come to it. Decides to try. Autumn drops its leaves and clouds

up its skies. Breezes make their impacts, then subside.
In the midst of it all, the young boy spins like a spider hangs
from its thread and the young man who started him
surrenders what he understands. The past was the present but the world
moved on. Everything comes to it not alone.

After Sweating

2006-02-19T13:47:00.000-08:00

Cold, maybe, but worth the sitting still.
The past is all the way behind.
Leave the load whatsoever can be left.
The waves are dying to become the lagoon below.

And wind lifts birds. And the moon waxes toward full.
There's smoke still rising from the firepit.
And rocks still letting off heat. And heat still fills
whosoever's bones. A rock skips

across the surface before dropping.
Then drops below the surface and out of sound.
Amazed by moonrise, the birds come screeching.
The past is behind but all around.

Something like nothing

2006-01-30T15:38:00.000-08:00

The mist lifts even as the pen writes the mist
and wet shoes on dewy grass press
the wet grass into wet ground. The mind makes living
out of it all and the people start getting
in the way. Of all things, nothing makes something

out of nothing and to nothing all things return and changed.
There, a bird slips through the arms of a tree
and, here, a tree takes emptiness away. Behind the poem,
the poem sighs and, behind the sigh, something dies.
Lean forward. Lean into. Lean away. The minds a living

out of the day. Then the mind makes something arise.

Spring

2005-11-25T15:55:00.000-08:00

In the absence of a repressive regime
the spirited new birds
spring from the tree as growth rises like a breath
beneath them. Suddenly, greenery
appears along the way as a child lifts his eyes
and begins calling. Reaching
beyond the dusty world of a crib wall, a rattle shakes
staggering in its simplicity. Prayers and answers
as aspirants shine,
climbing each old step with new feet.
Everything matters and nothing
floats away.

Oh oh oh

2005-10-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

Levi

(1992-2005)

But beautiful, the old dog
Lets his head down and the tiled floor and the blanket
Receive him. And the woman who loves him
Since she was a young girl holds his foot in her hand

And releases. Exhaling, the ocean
Just short miles away retreats then returns
Then retreats again. A bird silhouette sprays
Salt drops across the sunset and the good dog,

The good dog stops reaching. What light remains
In the clouds of the day turns red,
Turns purple, turns ancient. She holds his eyes
In the hearts of her hands. They remember,

He remembers, they remember. Who holds the moment
Lets it go and it goes. He passes
Like the light into the air. Another wave falls, another
Dog runs into the water. A stick flies,

A ball, an idea. The best idea loves
The best dog in the world. Good night, good dog.

Good dog,
Good bye.

Something for the Little Ones

2005-10-28T22:56:00.000-07:00

Something for the Little Ones

Once there was light and, once, water --
Here it comes again,
A wash of sorrow, then the moaning, a bird's foot on the grass --

Then the shadows of noon,
And then the dropped nest --

St. Francis of my grandfather's roadside statuary
Bows to the sparrow
In his arms. Out of nothing we emerge with great jokes to tell

And an interest
In the interests of others -- Is that

So? my grandfather would say and shake his head, fishing
Hat at the ground

-- Circles in back of your memory,

In the end, become your memory --
Once more, sack of rock for the river bottom --

Once more, instead of water, there will be light and, in the light, no
Promise: promise

Is unworthy of what he found:

Something like rest... sand mixed with water...
Rock... and then
Ashes on his parents' graves. Silence --

That? -- And then the light again. Something

For the birds. Something
For the little ones.

2005-10-25T18:28:00.000-07:00

Thirteen Elegies for the Twentieth Century

Must be a Wo –
A loss or so –
To bend the eye
Best Beauty’s way –

- Emily Dickinson

1

Of a mouse -- What’s left --
Wings of an owl
To the ear -- Dropped watch in a field of grass
And streetlight –-
In a dog’s house, leash or bone -- Not the wind,

But the lights below -- And the snuffalump stumbling
Through the weeds –-
And something green we can’t get to sleep –-

No matter how hard we try –-

2

What’s left where there are books
-- And there are books --

And there are birds -- Something in me wrote

the foggy temples and their prayer flags –-

Not an hour later, the spirits came
Bearing gifts -- Not the wind

But light from below

3

-- And just when we know that we’re done for

-- The white moth -- In the shadow –
Paddles -- Down

To the garden –-
Where the hose drops its mouth
By the fence –-
And across the fence

The man with the broomstick and two garbage bags
Walks away from the dumpster
Muttering –-

4

Kids in new clothes walk to school
In threes –-

A crowd of pigeons on the line –-

And between the light from the sun
And the light from their eyes --
In a world where time sneaks closer every step
-- Delmore Schwartz
Takes a cab to John Berryman
And paces
Three minutes off the greeting room rug –-

Doesn’t say a word and takes
The same cab home –-

5

Our lives
Have become a kind
Of money

6

There are flags and there are fences –-

We are eight thousand pages and boxes full
Of sawdust –-

Hum of the carpenter bee’s wings

From a hole in our porch
Post to the black
-- Back of our creeping
Cat -- And the dirt at the root

In the spearmint’s clay pot
Is a caterpillar –-
Watch for the green ones,

The little fat ones –-

7

And not a week later that poor fucker
Delmore Schwartz dies

Abandoned –-

O Genius
Poetry -- Face down in the gutter –-
Quite

Literally –-

The tower leans into the alley,
The cat jumps over the moon –-

Eight million pages or a wide-eyed starlet –-

Our messenger birds
Have never stood

A chance –-

8

In the mulch pile foot long worms squirm & draw –-

Another kind of light
Entirely –-

9

O! O! But that light
From below! O! O! But here we still
Go! -- When I die

I wanna die like Allen Ginsberg

& sit up straight
In my bed! –-

When I die, I wanna die

Like Allen Ginsberg
& sit up straight

When I’m Dead!

10

But over in Pristina in the black-edged leaves
-- They back their black tanks
Like black carpenter bees

Back --
Into a house any one of us could’ve been born in
& Children appear & then they
Disappear –- It’s only been five minutes

-- After the door knock?

Black masks on neighborhood dogs
Broken feet
& Mountains of bodies -- Fire in every window

And women marched off
-- Like soldiers in their bathrobes--

Cows & horses everywhere -- Dead & mostly
Burnt -- And there are children
Who carry machine-guns

11

-- Every night
Becomes a late night –-

Sleep like a retired security guard at his desk –-

Who chased the dumpster
Divers

Away -- The universe is a blizzard

In a forest of storms
And each of us was a god there –-

By God –-

There –-

12

-- A week after he dies,

The willow my grandfather wanted to pull out
And off the backyard water-line
Falls -- A month and grandma’s lilac bush
What never in seven years
Bloomed before

Blooms –-

That’s ok –-
My mother will say –-

Across eighty billion miles of telephone wire

-- That makes
Perfectly good sense --

13

-- This inflatable world

In a backyard baby pool
On a second birthday in July -- With death all around
But not here

-- Like now-two-year-old Tynan Shifflet’s
Giant plastic-earth-ball with its wide-blue-mountains
And green-deep-oceans
-- You can jump on it --- You can

Bounce it off the floor -- But not here
-- Go ahead -- You can
Bounce it
Off the rafters

But not here -- Everything always touching on something else
Somewhere
-- We are people of small crowds and we

Move each other around