thanksgiving, from a gypsy

"Be humble, for you are made of earth.
 Be noble, for you are made of stars." - Serbian proverb

"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
  I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night." - Galileo

I am trying to live
like a body in the sun
like an open feeling
that knows of night
but will not dwell

this is what I hope, for the end:
our bodies will scatter,
& we will touch old trees,
skim upon the terrifying sea,
we will be greener than the newest springleaf
wiser than a gray animal king,
happier than a clear cold river.

an invisible flock of bees
will gather us like pollen,
threading us together
which is to say
i will see you again,
blind and singing
we will be together

mid-october

when the sky is flat
and grey, the tree is
a wet umbrella
branches black & angling out,
its leaves, yellow pears
that i hold to my lips
and kiss

formula

subway

1.
IN ANY WAR
BETWEEN THE
CIVILIZED MAN
AND THE SAVAGE,
SUPPORT THE
CIVILIZED MAN.

2.
               WAR
BETWEEN
                    MAN
AND
                
                    MAN

3.



                 SAVAGE
                            .

....

your back is burning,
turned to me.
i kiss it in parts, in wonder
thinking, how can it burn,
how kindle my lips,
then i don't care
how, cold fall days can turn
late afternoon warm,
heating up
as the sky dies down,
and soon i am sleeping,
patch of hot skin
tell me to

green monster

i'd rather know. 
the way doctors prefer 
to die---the old way.
knowing just why
your own throat can
no longer swallow, that
acknowledged deterioration.

when do the fingertips 
lose feeling? at some point,
you don't know anyone. 
the last word
is the vaguest one---i love you
but love is of the body
(especially for communist atheists)
and what does the dying body know
about the living
about living love

in the future, alien archaeologists 
will find our skulls
and each feeling
will be a ring, in the tree trunk bone.
in humble academic circles
maps will be drawn, and exchanged,
our every pain
an aerial view of the sea

every day the old bury the young

burnt & dead
is the skin
where once
i cradled you.

death is a physical anguish -
i dig graves in the frame
of my own bent body

i am selfish.
i want in nights to calm you,
you who are no longer, perhaps never, mine.
but your joy came to me
like cool water on my temples.
there is no salve
for the living

postcard to a motel

we could be kindred spirits;
perhaps if ice cream was still rare.
we'd have ice cream together,
in canadian summer with wildflowers

like the air after dawn
(or is it the light?)
like putting on a clean shirt
(or is it the body?)
 
there is nothing beyond you,
sea-ship, flashing neon
and open, looking outward
and inward,

                    snowglobe curious
we keep watching each other
your 24-hour sign
like an open red eye

a real life news story

there is honey dripping
from the ceiling.
to think our walls
are full of bees,
buzzing while we sleep,
& now we're eating sweeter
cereal, washing
stickier dishes.

the lightbulbs are all broken
full of honey. amber droplets
bubble through the paint, the wiring,
buckets catch most of it.
sometimes i wonder
if we're at the center of the earth
sleeping under rivers of gold.
or it could be some sun shower.
the baby doesn't know,
neither do the neighbors,
who think we're cheap
keeping the lights off.

the evenings are dark
but the bees, they don't bother us.
the honey coming down
beats on our open palms.

----

to be thoughtful is a way of being happy

the way you make popcorn

over the flame you place
a pot with kernels
and a slapdash handful
of oil, shut the lid.

then you listen,
for the gentle flicking open
an expression of heat
contained.
there is always the possibility
the clean yellow corn
overflows
the lid puffing out smoke
like your last most desperate
cigarette,
but either way
it comes out perfect,
we know this
as you pour it
into the large bowl.

you pinch salt, and spread it
turning the popcorn in your hands
like a child
turning clay
in joyful abundance

memorial day

it was getting dark
and you were telling the group
about how the little mermaid
gave up not only her voice
for a chance at love with the prince
but that every new step she'd take
would feel like ten
thousand knives stabbing her
and still she did it
to attend the ball or dance or dinner
and when the prince chose another
the little mermaid threw herself into the sea
and did not become the ocean foam like her mermaid kind
but went up to heaven
in that alien body

you told the story
like dying as the foam of the sea
meant something to you
and i wanted to kiss you
without the others
listening

the last animal [quincunx]

we are
lonely,
never thinking
about the species of beetle
that buries birds
and other small
animals, this is
their sole duty

we are
grieving.
there is a whale
in the great ocean
that speaks
at higher frequencies,
his cries falling silent
on the ears
of his brothers.
he swims
erratic lines
across the waters.

are we alone
in the universe?
is not the question.
some chemistry
is directing
the structure
and frequency
of our language.
we are not in communion,
each night in our individual plots
we are asking
why are
we so alone
on a full and blooming earth?

afterthought

fat, dead pigeon in the dirt,
your head is nestling
into your clean body,
its purple-grey feathers tufting up
in the warm pre-evening wind;
you have never looked
so innocent.

dead bird,
(still, a whole bird
after all),
do you know the sorrow
we are coming to?

backyard

afternoon early spring;

different birds sing different songs

and a kitten chases a bumble bee

around in the new green grass

church bells strike the half hour;

there is relative quiet

there is nature in the suburbs

the sun shines, sky blue

even as planes dip through

& i am peaceful;
just thinking
this kitten
chasing bees
in the grass

....

(and ah i make you 

every day

ah you make and unmake 

my very face,

but who would believe us

even if we open all the windows

all the windows of the house)

[from the archives - saturnine]

collect the failures
scattered across my ribcage
like mute, tainted bells.

'a great inverted forest' [from Salinger]

I am tired, said the person.
I am tired, said the forest.

I don't want to speak, said the person.
I don't want to speak, said the forest.

I will rest, said the person.
I will rest, said the forest.

(But am I whole?) asked the person.
(But am I whole?) asked the forest.

Every breath of mine is ragged love,
said the forest.
Every ragged breath
is love.

different light

The dark yellow city light
is on your face,
close to mine,
as the pattering night rain
from a just-open window
drums us to sleep.

In the morning
the sky is bright and checkered
with cumulus clouds---
cumulus, meaning
'heap' or 'pile,' in Latin.
The warm air lifts up
and cools down
gathering
into water droplets,
into white cloud, against blue.

After days of rain,
clean light streams
through the upper shutters
of the window, in stripes.
You are standing:
the light in bars
against your bare
torso, your ribcage

I only mean
to remember
the light
on your closing face
and your standing
open body

hands

sitting outside the pockets of my body
are my hands,
they are young                they are not without words

the still curled fingers
are strips of flint,
the veins cording
the joints are ivy                    why should i speak?

let my mouth retire
on yours,
lush muttering
is in our fingertips
like the pale intent green
of trees
in Spring

faces

I do not know how many faces you have, or why they each appear,
like fish on the surface of the water, fish flitting toward sunlight
on the surface. Your face changes
like glimmering moving scales,
a coin turning in the air,
and falling, finally, on heads or tails,
almost telling me what you wanted.

getting older [day 2 - p. a]

1.
as a child, missing school,
i'd think about my empty classroom desk,
feeling something like guilt or sadness.
instead of being there, i was someone somewhere
else, watching cable at the neighbor's house
so many channels i kept losing
the movie about a girl witch
and eating pasta from a can
in the air conditioning,
even children want to change
their hearts and bodies.

2.
after a long day in the high vent lighting, wording things just so,
looking at people just so, not looking, at anybody,
it's time to go home, the sun is gone, i am no longer curious.
i have to walk myself through the heat of the air
with the nothing duty of a nothing soldier--
i am full of ongoing unspoken promises to keep.
the dishes in my sink, the coffee
I'm going to buy, the papers on a desk,
the food always waiting
at my mother's table. i keep showing up.
i am keeping to a plan i heard nothing about, i'm signing the cross
the father, the son, the holy spirit
as if i went to mass and knew each pause,
i am whispering unintelligible promises.
when i come home and the lights aren't on
and i open the fridge and know what is in there
what i thought and planned to buy, and did,
i take out a can or bottle of beer
and it opens with a soft hiss,
or a bubbling sigh, i know
that i am older, now, and i drink
what no longer tastes bitter to me.

counting steps

one two

three four

five-six, 

seven-eight:

my hair

my heart

is green

and grey

[from the archives - park/pope]

central park. helicopters, loud metal flutter, man sits homeless across from me. he's peaceful, enjoying the day just like me, we both have pretzels, the Pope's motorcade is a few blocks away, I have somewhere to be in a while but the man still sits there, across, and I can't, want to give him something, and the trees are dusty pale green, new green, it is April, the end, not Eliot's, but almost May, and we sit while the copters circle around the Pope me and

this man, alone on different benches, among the birds and the strollers, women and dogs, children and tourists, all around us, pollen thick in the air, it coats our tongues, our nostrils, he leans

to one side, hand on his chin, the other on top of his thigh, he is pensive, or maybe just weary, and I feel something watch me over my shoulder, something knows, maybe he knows, maybe we are sitting in the park, not too far from the epicenter of the Pope, averting eyes and writing poems about each other (he has no paper, but maybe that's not his style) while the Pope in his drape-white, smooth, moves outward, outward

into unknown masses circling, nucleus to the helicopters and the crowds, but this man and I, we only need spring, need bits, flashes of understanding, we are alright, unmoving, with our pretzels and our loneliness, we are like the sea, not the rivers that penetrate it.

[desire]

What is the warm sun
on your eyelids? Is it free?
Can I trust you? Does it matter--
mostly I just want to watch you.
Things are falling
apart, the Old and the New
World. I want
to know your real
name, the name before
your name. At night,
in the turbulent unknown
hour, have a drink
with me. But what is this heat
on your eyelids?
Our blood keeps going
somewhere mysterious.
It comes back, a migration,
a beehive pattern, a sublimated
bit of water. Is desire so circular?
The particles
are rioting, I am watching it
on television.
I am listening.
Rubbing your eyes,
disembodied hearts
float and flower

Lo siento

En tus ojos la luz Sé que es oscuro
historias que nunca te dicen
Y todo lo que quería
fue al salir de esa oscuridad sin tocar
para ser un poco de ron en los labios
escucha
hacia el gran mar en tus ojos
las olas inquietas

evening

Walking under the green-dark trees

over to find you, no, not doing 

anything special. To come in.

The evening is so long.

We have nothing to do.

Empty sprawling summer,

the sun stretches, taking its time,

barely setting.

Like a broken mood ring, 

the sky stays purple or blue, and 

your face is softening. 

We don't have to talk.

The air has metal in it,

the old windows.

And outside, the rain hisses

like a radiator in winter.

We never asked for anything.

If the sun is rising now
it is somewhere else.
The seconds tick and pass

and we forget everything 

we were trying to become.

[blind rambling, or what came out]

i don't really know how i thought it would turn out. i still i guess don't really know how it will actually end up being. something dead, perhaps, suddenly, violently. but couldn't we say that about any of our lives. about any of the lives of the ones that we love. something horrible could happen to any one of us, anyone that we remotely care about. the people we make while making love. the people we meet on the street. the people we meet in schools, as we learn, as we learn, as we learn. there is a vulnerability there that eases friendship. and yet when we choose something that seems so much weaker, so much more dependent, it seems more reckless to love them. almost like marrying someone. you both become so weak and helpless, like kittens, like babies. you even call each other baby. like mothers, like lovers, like babies. and so to see something hurt or die that is so inescapably weak. and so to fear their pain like nothing else, not even like fearing your own pain. to be able to do nothing for them. to stand and watch as god or evil or biology takes over. something Else. something terrible. ineffably. but really, our days are much simpler than our fears. or at least, we could hope that they are. for our fears stretch immeasurably out.

bells

what is the body but a drawn-out vibration
something beating for a little while,
first a gong, then a ripple
widening out, tempering---
another wave in a sea

and even more than your warm body
i want the bells in my ears
in the blue air
i want the clear song calling me
telling me, how wildflowers grow
so perilously

stray thought

the train rushes past us
shivering fast metal,
a wall of bright sound
that drops, like a heavy curtain,
gone.  now
the terrible open space,
wind whips like a calling
on the dark tracks

endangered

i remember learning about animals
their bright colors and habitats,
the categories
of their appetites,
and the different climates,
places where nothing else
could survive, adaptations
of the smallest kind.
such order.
and the animals,
endangered,
so simple
that we should care for their
unique and breathing bodies,
that we should keep them here,
that all that life
should continue
a hundred million years from now
or close enough to forever
to not quite matter.

and i was so young i barely knew
the heart that beat in my own chest,
the body that was mine, and was
not mine, i was very much
a small animal
learning other animals,
and on the sheet
was a photograph
of a nameless beast
and the children said the numbers
like prayers, writing the reports
in a hazy blue-green love
with clear, timid, love, calling
they must be saved

portrait

'do you draw?' 'yes.'

a minnesotan quickly draws my portrait on a post-it, in dallas, texas.

[something true]

once i saw the big texas sky,
the clouds roiling west, north,
all of them. when the wind and
clouds blow in, nothing
can stop them, the sea
is too far away, now.
so the land and sky banner out,
untempered parallels, flung into
the distance, the bright stars
the tumbling air
keeping us company

in order

let it get raw, let this forgetting

begin. the pursed lips

of a downward glance can't commit

to this second, to words, even.

and battering ourselves aspark, we circle
without pattern, the meaning coming

and losing, and coming, again. why
the black and white birds flock in order
we don't know, but a wonder, like knowing
what you wanted, however brief

perihelion

you are closer now
than you have been, all year.
but the angle seems to matter
and i am tilting away from you
and in the january air i think:
we could get colder,
couldn't we? if you left,
what if there was never any
equal and opposite reaction?

think of all the fields, the highways
all the cars, the old garbage in the backseats,
all the rough stone fountains and castles
the rusted bicycles, and the styrofoam cups
our grandparents drank coffee from at family parties,
all the bodies of grandparents, full of all the cancers
all the sands in all the deserts
and skyscrapers, and maps nobody ever used
all the stadiums and all the waters that could turn into
barreling walls
all the mountains, even sea mountains
all the shelves of sea life, dirt life, concrete life
a thousand times over

these things a thousand times over

tomato

the most sensual thing
I've done in months:
to take you out
of the plastic, wash you
in the cold water, cut
you into careful, even cubes.
how strong and tender and red
you still were
even as you broke apart
in my hands