>body feeling 1

>from the cervical curve
hoisted by a hook
toward fresh air

casting through waves
of uncounted sand pits
to catch biological blips

but hopelessness all there
the eyes perceive falling.

>Late, St. Scerb: Oh, You’ve Got My Attention

>so many things ache
at just the right moment

perhaps this is your clue
peer deeper, but crawl

first to the edge of time
swing out your head then

weakly it boils, the mirror
nothing more, pale magic

each churning growl a claw
a shriek, then a bark nearer

play thankful, some distance soon clearer
i cannot push, i will never push forth

but there you are, shot, yards wrestling inches
and then splash like a cough of startled finches.

>xy xx bounce

>you can or cannot
worry about the slate
of your children, rain
underfoot ten-toed trail
a creeping crack run through
with bold weeds
interrupting shape
then bigger, then shod
finally too weak to tamp
the overwhelming green
again, on your knees.

>’Crosshatch (revision 081320101050)’ + post thoughts

>Please. Keep close, the best part’s almost here. ( its anatomy: fearful & round blossoms from, replant redolent dead sordid bunch watches the weather & peels hopeless basketweaver emerge berried handfuls mixed with sweat, though lash branded skin in one motion strips reveals a crosshatched plain of sweet. fearful from the weather of the bundle through which, where, anything might emerge but ) Soon we will swim in the cool cave full of warm water. 

[ed.- a poem should never be boiled down to a phrase for the sake of explaining it. especially by its author. often times, when i really explore a poem thoroughly i feel as though the central notion, the thing the poem’s author hopes to convey, or teach to, or show the reader, can be encapsulated in a phrase or a cliche. (there are subtle or explosive variations of the planted philosophy if the poet is worth his weight in words.) the example that walks up to me and tugs on my boxer shorts is Jorie Graham‘s “The Guardian Angel of the Little Utopia”  from her book Errancy, which is a stunning and swirling lyric that quiets my heart with each read. i feel unnaturally vulnerable so baldly and explicating a poem’s meaning with so little evidence. nonetheless, in a phrase the poem is about how observation of a thing alters its DNA explicitly. there’s an exact phrase for this that i cannot stumble across no matter how much ground i cover. anyway. all poems are ABOUT something, but every poem is also a lover; no lover is ever simply unidimensional. that’s not a lover that’s a whore. (and all art flirts with prostitution. a conversation for a different time.) but, returning to my central point re: “boiling down” a poem, it is essential that the poem have a solid image and a strident, specific language that doesn’t allow too much interpretation. the interpretation comes in its context, not its content. (again, lets leave the content v context / essence v existence conversation for another time.) now i’m thinking of William Carlos Williams‘s “Red Wheelbarrow” a classic example-poem because of its length and mock-simplicity. that poem seems to come pre-boiled, but nothing could be further from the truth. are we addressing plainly the image? are we addressing the biological function of sight? (Williams was a medical doctor.) what are we, as reader, binding or pulling apart when we read this poem? why the unequal couplets with their 2-syllable even lines that split object and descriptor? (which, for me, has always given pause and troubled)   indeed, for such a ‘simple’ little poem we must ask ourselves on multiple readings, “What the fuck?” in its content this poem is the opposite of surreal (hyperrealism). in its context, to me, it’s always been way out there. i visually dive into its imago-characters until the chickens (who refuse to sit still, by the way) burst into word-associations games, historiograms, pure particles. so where i’m going with this is trying to explain what i do in my poetry. in crafting my poetry. you CAN boil it down to a single idea. in the poem above, ‘Crosshatch’, i even suggest how to do it. but i’m being a bit evasive. i’m giving you the right directions in the wrong language. i hope to come back to all the poems i’ve posted on this site at some point, they’re all put onto the blog in a pretty raw format, some of them completely unedited. it’s important to come at them again. this poem i arrived at again this morning because of a sort of fight/argument i was part of with my wife. the poem is in no way about IT or HER but it addresses it AND her. this is the thing no one can ever say but every poem ever written has been about. meaning and suprameaning. not a single one of my poems is perfect, and only a handful (5? 10?) are considered done. as Paul Velary said: “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” anyway, i hope you think about my poems, is all. its not your job to get tangled in them, though it is MY job to trap you, even if just for a moment, and watch you play with your escape.]

>untitled 08052010720

>Sometimes, memory
is calling what is not:
broken series, the
unashamed oak
peppermill, or
syncopation: all
a thing & not-thing.

There we are
at the shore
of ourselves
getting ready
to swim.

>Improv for Sarah, 080420102113

>I’m at the edge of things
all of me, unafraid
and the edge even so the edge
flexes so a brave thing
sail beyond where it betrays laughter
like a heavy weight adds ply
mistakenly sings me, this withering
bloom and another thing to swallow
the rye & pitching sail, free to spite
black ribbon drawn to the spool
beyond pupil, beyond discernible will

I’m at the edge of things
half of me, afraid of what’s come

Hand’s blade a threat, the promise of waves
so flat & calm, salts across
and across again

The brave thing returns
again the rush question
rising and with a beg
in hand pleads a waxy
whip up back behind an ear
the eyes whispers as in sleep
rips, rips a heart into the ribbon

(and) I’m at the edge of things
remembering the edge of things
(and) where I stand.