The Poet at 70

A bundle

of symptoms

under a

thought balloon.

 Mass 

murderers favor

legally purchased guns.

Does

that make

you feel better?

 I do

assent consciously

or not

to ________.

Ascending to

the bottom.

My failings

are legion.

 

I won’t

set them

 

aside. Wanting

to be

 

desired for

example. Not

 

embracing others

enough for

 

example.  I

can’t pretend

 

to transcend

the scansion

 

of these

lines.  I

 

have disappointed

others.  I

 

have disappointed

myself but

 

have tried

to think

 

against the

tenor of

 

the time.

It’s not

 

enough to

dream yet

 

I do.

 

 

 

 

My Aunt Martha

 

1.

 

My Aunt Martha

Went to the farm

And with her

She took

An Aesthetician,

A Biology textbook,

A cadaver dog,

Energy bars,

Frequent flyer points,

Guitar strings,

G-string panties,

German chocolate cake,

Harissa,                                                    

Daddy issues,

Killer instincts,

Licorice,

Mnemonic devices,

Neuroses,

Organizational charts,

Political pamphlets,

Quiz show transcripts,

A lover named Rhonda,

Social anxieties,

Tantric ambitions,

Ukuleles,

Sweater vests,

Work boots,

A xylophone,

A yard of silk,

And zucchini plants.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2.

 

My Aunt Martha

Came back

From the farm

And with her

She brought

A bushel of zucchini,

A younger version of Rhonda named Rhoda,

X-rated schemes,

Wild dreams,

A vision board,

Uncontrollable urges,

Ticket stubs,

Annotated scores for percussion instruments,

Retail therapy agendas,

Quince jelly,

Poems about identity theft,

Burlap sacks filled with onions,

New potatoes,

A slavish manservant,

Lemongrass,

Kettledrums,

Jodhpurs,

Incident reports,

Huckleberries,

Grandiose ideas,

Fever dreams,

Envelopes,

Diaries,

Canola oil,

Blue bowling balls,

And an anvil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Nothing yesterday.

 Something today.

 Another Notebook Fragment

What matters.

Tenebrous

starter categories.

Rouge

gauge.  I'm

here anyway.

Filling in.

Taking

out. Recycling.

Editing.

Getting off

track.

 Trouble the templates.

Unjam the jelly roll.

 Worry the curtains.

 

 

Two Lines From a Dream

                                   For Thomas Fink

 

This isn’t a car.

It’s a poem booth.

 Out of

the instability

of release

the relief

of drift.

 Leaving the Scene

Scarred bare

wall where

our mirror

used to be.

 Notebook Fragment

A body

always talking

smack

between feeling

and thought.

 It has been years since I last posted to this blog.  No reason to think anyone will rediscover this space any time soon, but I feel compelled to resume the practice.  Here's the latest version of a new thing I've been wrestling with:

I Don’t Know

                    Every error

                                         becomes the text.

                                                                 Robert Kelly, The Loom

I don’t

Know who

I am.

 

I’m living

Somewhere else.

 

I arrived

Leaking words.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every word

Itself

 

A body

Inserting itself

 

Into

A body.

 

~

 

Every word

Overfilling

 

A void

 

And itself

Overflowing.

 

~

 

 

 

 

Every word

An other

 

That is

Absolutely other.

 

~

 

What I

Think

 

I know

Is quicksand

 

In this

B-movie.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

Neither words

Nor me

 

Are free

Of quicksand

 

Exigencies.

 

~

 

Shifting sands.

Shifting registers.

 

~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My vocabulary

Doesn’t belong

 

To me.

 

What’s your

Subject position?

 

~