Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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Jake 1991-2005
today we crossed the line
of stainless steel and needles
you always hated the heat,
so run again with the wolves
as I once ran with you
we both loved the cold
you just crossed before me
rest in peace my beloved friend
I will run alone now.
estimated return
I think we’ve reached the point
where we may reasonably say
our love has now attained
the bureaucratic state,
that only needs its lines and blanks
all neat with proper declarations
and it doesn’t really matter
what is recorded, just that it meets
an accountant’s expectations
that all forms be complete.
in montparnasse they once designed a horse,
and everyone contributed, and they called it an exquisite corpse,
sometimes its hard to go with what you’re given,
and stay the course within the lines
that only ask for the appearance of good intentions
for we’ll wind up where we wind down
and the future’s just a clock faced clown
who’ll regard us without mirth or pity
his mouth both smile and frown
of life from both sides now,
one end turned up, one end turned down.
and when we’ve satisfied thru the years
every institution that demands
we make our proper contribution
the unreported income that we hid
will remain untaxed forever, except perhaps by tears.
and there is no line, no space, no voluntary
that declares in trumpet blasts the heart that’s off the books
for wonder is a formless thing by some strange design ,
we know it when we see it, tho it’s hard to define
and love my dear is not the proper word at the right time
it’s more or less our spirit’s best guess, a candle in a dark city,
that shines alone for all its worth and can’t be produced by a committee.
i’ve known
three women
who could sing
like fickle
tree frogs
in a green spring
waiting for
the dark thunder
of a wet summer
Singing women
sighing frogs
left the wet
spring
looking like fish
stirred
in a thunder storm
nothing like a
mermaid slim
just three green things
covered with wet sea grass
Before Summer Rain
Suddenly, from all the green around you,
something-you don't know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window,
in total silence. From the nearby wood
you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour
will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide
away from us, cautiously, as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.
And reflected on the faded tapestries now;
the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid.
Raner Maria Rilke
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
no fear
and where will autumn
when rain relieves
the hot cadence
that we offered as apologia
for didn't, didn't didn't
let us be the katydids
insistent chorus
that announces
the instant frost
with did, did, did.
A bit brisk for alfresco
It’s a hat collecting wind
rolling its accumulated treasure
into the corners with a gusto
that takes its pleasure
in creating diaspora
it moves dispassionately
the displaced people that it teases
with the promise of relief in the lee,
just long enough to grasp
the cover that once blown
can never be regained,
and there is beer foam
on your mustache,
that breaks around the stubborn
constancy of your mouth tho,
the wind has watered your eyes
hatless at last, I can see you
now trying to light the cigarette
that the wind will draw down for you
should you succeed,
you will have little chance to inhale
for the wind is enthusiastically
lifting the skirts of the table,
revealing how we sit when
we think no one can see,
legs touching in a late intimacy
that belies the battened down
carefulness of our conversation topside
And there lays upon the horizon
a full breasted dark sailed ship
that approaches obscuring the green view
that on any other day but this
would promise to quicken with breezes and rain
our interest into the circle of amusement
which we would share and launch our laughter rolling
out like the wind as we watched other people
chase their hats.
gentrification
Downtown sometimes hot summer saturday
the streets have emptied as commerce has headed
for the burbs, winos and derelicts curb
their enthusiasm till night chills
as some suns keep one world on ice
one on fire, depending upon the accidents
that pulled them from the cosmic dust
you aren’t entirely in charge of whether
you get the apple martini and the cold sweated
glass in the bar wasting the noon waiting
for the real action to begin
or the shadow of the farmer’s market
dumpster that ferments hotly wholly
anticipating trash day. we mostly arrive every one
full of p*ss and vinegar and it’s a helluva circle when
the one way signs don’t allow for changed minds
and every street name has a place
along its route where truth congregates
like every city has its version of the popular table
where everyone’s cool about where to go
and what to do there, but not clear about what comes
flowing around the corners that turn intersections
into refuges whose names make everyone smile
knowingly about what really goes down there.
Sighs of the times
Somnambulant summer
seeks something
in smoky rivers seemingly
stilled to the notion
that autumns cool
kiss promises to wake lovers
too hot to slip on their own
the fever dreams that seem
more lucid than the relief of rain.
Snakes slither s’s
into the sienna silt
suspended like gold dust
in the current-less stream
while we stretch sinuously
as salt sweat licks our eyes and seeks
to insinuate its taste of stinging
song upon our tongues
like silk unwinds for better things
I have signed my name in sunscreen
on your arse, a salute sealed in
your hard won tan, soon faded, like me
yet something persists past the noon
of summer storms
and the strain of sorrowful
gusts that segue into
suspirations ceasing at last
as we sigh beneath the
sunset ‘s somewhat sufficient hues
we seem not quite strong enough
to suspend our suspicions
of the rainbow’s short lived shock ,
its surprise sending us the promise
that something so difficult to sustain
would still be so hard to stop.
squeeze
Just wait, you said
the light that changes
invites us to challenge
timing and delay,
you see, you said, the gutters have
accumulated the diamond bright
particles of each collision
shining in the sunlight
windshields, headlights, taillights
and the odd screw or two
that has escaped the energetic
applications of the sullen clean up crew
so foolishly I tried to run against the light
and beat the turn on your right side
tho you had posted warning signs
on the backside of your trailer
about wide turns and what would become
of me if you couldn’t see me in the rear view.
still I don’t repent the moment when the
the airbag deployed, saving me from a deconstruct
cause I’m pretty sure I was visible
I just think you didn’t look.
pronounced
attention deficit has disordered
my disinterest and your spare words
have rendered me submissive
to the judgment of your laconic text
for I am the lacuna of lost paragraphs
that contain all the mitigating circumstances
that would appeal to the mercy of your court
tho the truth is not its own reward
except perhaps as judged by history,
like laocoön being right
which wasn’t necessarily a good thing
when the gods have chosen sides
and one isn’t advised of the punishment
in which case its always wise
to speak in one’s own defense
but briefly, for I know from experience
interest is captive
to the distilled argument
where the fewest words
make the longest sentence.
Machinist
He once had black curls
like the ones he drills
out of the tool steel, that fall
like Samson’s glory shining on the floor
he cuts thru the flat stock
watching the pattern emerge ordained
by software that contains all he needs
to know of the design of his days,
he’s a water-cooled, diamond blade
obeying the directions while dreaming
of precise shape of the escape
he delayed till he could make a few bucks
then go on the road and play his soul
But there are bills to pay, and he is covered
in steel dust, iron filings under his nails,
and his fist is full of dust,
that he thinks might make a diamond
if he just squeezed hard enough.
The lions sleep tonite
My calico hisses
her jealous displeasure
at the high white tabby
interloper that reclines
on the other side of the great divide
that is my body, at least for tonight
the shadow of my hips lifts and separates
the enemies that lie down warily
announcing firm borders that are
the foundation of peace in our time
allowing for the cleavage of love
bouquet
your un-paragraphed narratives become
without rhyme or reason poetry,
like flowers that have been tossed
at random into the sink awaiting the shears
that clip them to a manageable stalk
that relates to the colour altitude and shape
of their fellow travelers plucked at the same
accidental time, tho no one thought to ask
if they really wanted to share
that singular experience.
Lucy says
Good grief,
Charley brown,
is simple.
hw we contend
intent
to show
more might
on a night
of mourning
soft change
alters little
but the eye
she dreamed
in son et lumière
of a mime
costumed in black
and white
whose lines were
unforgettable
boat people
some cities slump shoulders,
slip civil obedience
strip joints and lift left
treasures, creep on slicks
dip, tick take shake make
easy find mine,
kill ya for it pal,
opportunity knocks
up investments down
trades made under the gun
barrel economies bet on stocks.
the way things work.
the calico has been stalking
the bluebird of happiness
I hope she never
gets it.
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