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The
coldness of the world
even here
in the desert
comes
with a calm ferocity
challenging
us to exist
in the
face of its hate and spite
not
unlike the calmness
of the
world in the face of
our
indifference our delight
that
the world is our waste
all
that we’ve disowned
in our
descent
all
that we’re reclaiming
in our
long climb
from slime to crime
Without
a little humility
one gets
abundantly nowhere
but
holding on to it
once
one succeeds
where’s
the mercy then
of
merciless me
and
about so much else
I was
wrong the chicken
and the
egg which goes
last
and about what
point are
you speaking
to me early
or late
asking
o my estupido
these satisfied
questions
We
believe that in paradise
the
bird-bath will clean itself
or as it
is for some here on earth
someone
else will do it
which
is almost the same thing
we
believe that in paradise
everyone
will be an artist
working
for everyone else
we
believe that in paradise
we
will not speak for singing
as
song exalteth speech
we
will not sing for praising
as
praise out-praises each
Without
formal invention
attention
is only half
the
equation it’s smaller
than
thinking expected
you’d
be surprised
absent
the idea of closure
the
unreality of absence
the
same text page after page
guest
after guest
a
wedding in every room
after
a long staircase of desire
but
the sea is near
slowly
leafing through
its
farewell album
If you
go
far enough
into
yourself
you
come to me
I’m
the one waiting
on my
phone
on the
corner
in
that painting
remember
but if
you go
far
enough
out of
yourself
even
past death
like
in that final
painting
remember
you’ll
still come
to me you’ll
still
arrive
safely
in my
arms
I go
outside and look around
I see
what I’ve done
is recreate
the garden
of my
childhood but
in the
opposite climate
I
pretended to be a gardener
but kept
my day job
pretending
to be a bestower
of
permission for things
that
have already happened
I saw
that if there is all
this beauty
on the surface
at the
center there must be
a
roaring fire of destruction
which
to respond to
I
could only think of childhood
Let’s
admit it
there has
always been
this
queer aspect
to
poetry and almost
from
the outset
an
equally strong
effort
to masculinize it
there
has always been
a top
and a bottom
a
woman or a man
but isn’t
life more versatile
than
that more hidden
vulnerable
and lost
without
price or cost
In
cloudy light
I
write contrite
that my
harassing
conscience
might
in you
find its
salvation
and despite
but
you were made
for
light and dancing
with
darkness both
while
I was made
for
light and dancing
with
death alone
and won’t
be coming home
Morning
still sweeps
me to
my feet
I can’t
bear
to miss
a thing
I rake
the last
dark leaves
waiting
for
the first
faint
ship of
light
to set out
over
the black deep
let no
one sleep
I
mumble to myself
just to
be alive
one day
more
Sad
after sex
that I
still crave it
that I
must have it
sad
before sex
with
the sheer
beside-myself-
ness
of it
but
during it
I
sense some pure
joy
remains
to be mastered
at
that ancient site
where
life is made
and
death betrayed
Just
behind me
is the
sea
of my
imagination
you
could almost say
the
way I’m sitting
I’m
upstaging the sea
and you’d
be almost
right
and not just
the
sea but the whole
restlessness
behind me
imagination
is that powerful
or
nothing isn’t it the way
it
de-anthropomorphizes us
charming
us to want
the
opposites the hopeless
passion
or the apathetic groan
the
restless or the indifferent heart
I
watched a winter wasp
come carefully
close so
I
could see its face but
what am
I afraid of
with
most people if not
the
dissolution of myself
can
you say more
about
the wasp unfortunately
poetry
wants to know how
poems are
but the paparazzi
of
real stars I mean
didn’t
you too want
to
travel to the center
of
beauty once
A tiny
huge-winged star
hanging
three black chains
attached
to a bowl
of
trailing red geranium
and dark
purple petunias
whose
royal coat of arms
is
this only years later
I
recognize as yours
and
from the bowl
water
dripped
onto
blue iris
when
you watered it
every
day or so
your
picture of bliss
That
old man smell
I’ve
got it bad as hell allows
this
side of the eternal funeral
of
body profligate of soul
I
stink in heaven
as on
earth I shower
and
seem as well as one
qualified
to re-enter
the
world cleansed
and
pure without
guile
or the handcuffs
of
moral certainty
free
to see what
we’ve
been given
means
we better
deserve
it
I
meant to look up
that bird
there is
no
common sparrow
unless
you mean the
field
sparrow which is
common
in abandoned
fields
with or without
roofless
houses saplings
growing
in the parlor
it
looked like a cardinal
with conical
beak and crest
only a
blunt-gray color
the burnt-out
coal of the
slightly
smaller red ones
some songbird
must have
told
him I put out sunflower
seeds
today but as soon
as he
saw me he was gone
Even tamed
indoors
the braided
fig-tree
knows
it’s winter
knows
it’s losing
more
than yellow
from
its hair
but
stiffer limbs
and
not the one
one
would prefer
one
would defer to
sex is
just the opposite
of
love the secret
way it
doubles back
to rip
you up
How a
sneeze heard
round
the world
or at
least this room
reflects
the rejection
of
certain liabilities
in the
air the depiction
of
some undigested
element
exploding
upon
the scene
wobbling
the infrastructure
of the
dreamed space
where
you once lived
how
out of its own self
the
self makes itself
Even
if you love only one tree
you can
still be in intimate
contact
with all trees and with
the mystery
of the individual tree
(or
anything really) that it presumes
to
separate itself from the others
and
resolves to do one new
thing
more each day becomes
for
you a sort of practice
you can
follow the rhythm of
and if
you stumble fall often
naked
trembling with shame
it may
be because you also
long
to return to the sun
In the
days of horses and candles
when good
was neither beautiful
nor
truthful and beauty was
neither
truthful nor good
and
truth was neither good
nor
beautiful in the days
of
camels and magicians
the
one boy was taken faraway
while
the other boy was not yet born
but
later their lives were interwoven
and
from the mingling of the two
a
third emerged
the
one who was beautiful
and truthful
and good
When
you’re lying
you touch
your hair
except
you never lie
but
how often in
a day
do you touch
your
hair do you
run
your hand up
along
the back of
your
neck that part
you
never see
which reddens
when
I picture
kissing it
which
your hand
reaches
up to stop
because
it tickles
A
fullness opens up
in front
of me
while
behind me
an
emptiness disperses
a
fullness that goes on and on
an
emptiness that closes
how
can I explain it to you
it’s
not a tangible thing
the
farthest outside and
the
farthest inside connect
like
after a cold night
warmed
by the morning sun
a cat
composes itself
and
dozes
Some
cat sleeps it off
on my
lawn chair in the shade
I
ghost around the house
picking
dust up and
putting
it down
even
after last year’s disgrace
the
moon still swells
from a
prick to a breast
this
year’s children rush in
standing
at the gates of the months
waiting
to be born
already
the whole feast
long-prepared-for
but
so
casually occurring looms
you’re
invited
should
you care to show
A
vector is both the carrier
and
the passenger of a promise
a
vector is both the victor
and
the victim of a drama
both the
message and
the
messenger of a dream
a
vector by itself proves
nothing
but it exists
it has
to be tallied
it
suggests to you
a more
closely fitting
conscience
might evolve
from a
fuller sense
of
wonder a simpler
every
day sort of love
when
you factor it all in
I
still have to decide
what
to do next
whatever
awful-beautiful
moment
drops by
I
still have to recover
and
decide what
to do
next I still
have
to get up and
move
around thinking
so OK
that’s done
now
what next what
next
thing will I
make
happen let
happen
watch
happening
I still
have
to decide
New
Year’s again – I put
suet out
for the birds
salt
for my imaginary deer
but
what will the gods
put
out for a queer
old
sod like me
I can
only wonder
as I
do how often
through
the cellular nature
of the
past they develop
this
continuous far-reaching project
of the
most intimate planning
and
intricate construction
all
the while laughing
and
throwing us in the air
