About face

Drizzle would work for Keats, I'm sure.

A beautiful thing made more beautiful

by being reflected and put in a mist.

Drizzle, I shivered. So hard there were two

of me. In lanes came virgins in track suits,

headed towards a rose garden where no bike

would dare enter neither would we.

The thought had crossed my mind

already poisoned by the lead infected

water fountain which I drank from,

where I drowned once, twice and before.

Am I talking about the weather?

Invisibility could be our personal forever

Or am I talking about myself and you?

In your knapsack, a book full of vowels

[that's what you sang about yourself].

That is what I have in my sang, the I's

the O's, the E's and U's. Not an A in sight.

But I can't see Scotland from here, no,

nor do we merely feel it for too short are hours.

"Thy lyre shall never have a slackened string"

Crosses the mind of one running virgin

headed towards that rose garden where

Apollo is said to be resting, not you.

I'm loose myself, my spirit flies before me.

But comes back in your gentle squeeze

in your golden hair, in your golden fire.

Thy lyre shall forever invisibly whisper to me.

Drizzle works for Keats, I'm sure. A kind of mirror

and mist in one without making any distinction.

I could deal with that, I could. This beautiful thing

made more beautiful by being reflected and put in

a mist. I am not a virgin [as pointed out over breakfast].

I maybe a belle dame sans merci. No, not really, no.

See, what I'm trying to say here dear Keats is

something about the weather and that rose garden

something about that bike and something about

you and the invisibility of slackened strings and I.

Am I talking about the weather? Maybe the image

in a ditch turned mirror by water [poisoned with lead]

is really more beautiful in reflection and mist.

Or maybe I love you and that's just what it is.

There, I said it, Keats.

Torture

is a few days. the waiting

to be in you for a month

set to vibrate, watches

closely as the screen fades.

Is also sick. At least,

struck silent. Prior to crucifixion

[nothing rhymes with month]

if conducted in secret.

Alive and unmarked

victim. What good is it

the damaging position?

Take it.

here's my confession

inflicted.

The woods

Now that the night begins, there's

Something you're not telling me.

I speak of foolish things

Like lyrical evocations or

the very sense of kitchen at 4 a.m.

Here's my tongue for a word

Skin me. Get rid of the fur.

Watch the juices gush, the body drain

to the center of the flesh eating earth.

Obscure oracles came to me, three.

You know the story by heart, remind me

Double, double, toil and trouble.

Your grey pants too tight and your hip

down in the lake of my favorite question

I am called sleep, hesitation and so on

down your throat as your hands fumble.

Tell me off in your silent speech

a coward covered in hair, whatever

splits or breaks like glass infected pathos

torn between the clock and the bed

between waking and sleep. My clock, your bed.

I bring bad weather

Yours is paler than grass, twig of willow.

The light wasn't helping either

Nor did that night, equilateral heart.

In lambent silver, a delicate knuckle fight

I'll touch yours, you'll touch mine

paler than grass, kindling willow.

Leave me some of your mother's tongue

And allow me in your binding Eos

So we can always undress in the dark.

Wrap me in limbs, igneous willow

Ignore the weeping in our first name

and the ashen breath of our little death pyre.

You're pale again weeping willow,

no wind now, left to squirm in the mire.

And yes, I forgot to mention the rain.

Dear Weldon,

The ground here is wet and the sun is always set.

So, maybe, words sprout like moss, close together in clumps or mats.

Moss is found in areas of dampness and low light.

Words are found in between whites.

This, dear, is a stone cold fact.

You either do this or you choose to do that.

So I try with all my might to choose words over blight.

*

This water...

I'm afraid of it for I can't see into it.

When you weight into it

It's like being dismembered.

No fish dwell in it as far as I remember.

For half of it is the sky.

To a Here and a There

An analysis of space leads us not to a here and a there,

but to an extension such as that which relates here and there.

Or rather crudely - space is not a lot of points close together;

it is a lot of distances interlocked.

These distances, no matter how interlocked they are,

are nonetheless distances. Distance may refer to a physical length,

or an estimation based on other criteria.

In most cases, distance from A to B is interchangeable with

distance between B and A. In most cases.

And there, in the distance, not a promised land, but the in-between,

the waiting that happens in the space between one e-mail and the next,

one trip overseas and the next. Midnight January, February, May...

It can go on for years, the way we move through time and space.

But,

tell me we'll never get used to it.

And when I say this, it should mean laughter, not poison.

Ariel haunted

They are drawn naked,

some with penises,

tormented by storms,

tied to trees,

and eviscerated.

Redacted Stage Directions

[There is a suitcase sleeping beside that mattress I'll call

my bed, there's also a morning standing at about two hours

away from this scene]. Exit stage, wrong:

- Twice today, I had the impression of being home.

Maybe the weather... Dunno. [Walks around. Still alive].

The exit signs blink for a second. As if the building knew.

From Cowboy Mouth

I mean I can't be the saint people dream of now.

People want a street angel.

They want a saint but with a cowboy mouth.

Somebody to get off on

when they can't get off on themselves.

The Genius of Kander & Ebb

I don't care much, go or stay, I don't care very much

Either way.

Hearts grow hard on a windy street, lips grow cold

with the rent to meet. So if you kiss me, if we touch,

Warning's fair, I don't care very much.

I don't care much, go or stay, I don't care very much

Either way.

Words sound false when your coat's too thin

feet don't waltz when the roof caves in.

So if you kiss me, if we touch, I don't care very much.

I don't care.

In a small town

Numbed by reaction

Stripped of the trust

A young heart is broken

Not aware that it is just

A family tradition.

What's right and what's wrong

Is in the back of a hand

While girls turn into women

And a boy to a man

The things start to surface

But he'll never know

Still they do linger

With nowhere to stand

Um outro verão sueco

Na minha Suécia os nomes da lista
não são de lugares são nomes químicos,
ou de pássaros, nomes delicados como os ossos
do corpo, escritos em letra de forma
a grafia do diabo. Todos os nomes próprios
estão deitados num lugar chamado Náströnd
(o único lugar que parece ter nome)
onde são lentamente envenenados.
O sangue é túrgido e os coágulos, dourados

Mon Jane B.

swimming with shark

dragging dead dear up

a hill licking off wounds

cracking skulls open on

sidewalk near my house

your car âge entre trente

et trente-un or unknown

unimaginable and chestnut

brown high school days

dull (as window pane with mist)

disparue ce matin a cinq heures

moins vingt you sleep on

the wheel (fast car and slender toy)

and I chez mes parents

In the end

Allow me to see what it's all coming to

Crumbs on the table and mud on his shoes

Dreading someone I can see where we've been

Drugs on a trail and nails digging in

Some hands will whop you and some hands will dig

Some say they'll stay 'till my last dying day

But if actions can speak and words cannot do

Ten thousand armies can't even fight through

Who's to say it's all for the best in the end?

[c.g.]

Summer in Sweden

light infuriating the room / distorted guitars and black metal / cold boy with american heart / spat in thousand faces and mine / diavolo and skean dhu / scotching I, and Then / rökning dödar is such sweet serenade / I drown and band did not make it / museet and monotype modern / or handwritten wall text / lumberjacks with axes to grind / masking tape for cracks / a demon in my hand.

On a neck, on a spit

My messenger in disguise

makes up for short goodbyes

You can't come home again

Each time is different

And the yards around your feet

fall away while you're asleep

Each day, spend it with me now,

All my time, spend it with me, but

each day I spend with you now

all my time I spend with you, but

out here no one can hear me.

[g.b.]

Their routine endlessly repeating

mimicking the impression of familiarity

ultimately he requests only that he should

be allowed to "my arms red as i write this" leave

in modern life finding meaningful escape can be hard

Dictum

Art and Action are contradictory elements

which can only converge in death

Beauty and Sadness go together

like beard and vest

Grapefruit

Grapefruit armpit's tart

gain momentum in mouth

over tongue so silent and

whiskers crushed under

cowboy hat in cowboy cot

cuspid bicuspid yellow scimitars

en garde as cold night falls

like the smell of festering leather.

I have slept in hotel rooms before.

Letter to George Lutz when I'm 28

I know everything about Jan. 14

The day you left the house in mourn

same day I came down as axe in mother's

sex and brother's navel and dad's...

Mishima's birth dreamt of seppuku.

He was Shi o Kaku Shônen like me,

"the boy who wrote poetry" and Tabako

Oh, the elegance and brutality of 28 days/years

Lewis Carroll died that same day

gone was also his love of Alice Liddell

the rowing boat in which it dwelt

and Anais Nin becoming June

George, you have no idea why

I write this letter to you. Me neither

We never met and never will except

for the brief hello we exchanged on television

You left the house the day I entered

mine. Your horror is somehow mine.

Your 28 days in dutch-colonial are

my axe-like life never fully rendered

I have marked the date on my calendar,

we won't forget for different reasons

(a weird coincidence of it being half of 28)

a weird day to be marked as my birthdate.

Corn

There were these two boys, brothers

known as Gimp and Stripling

One of them was actually crippled

you can guess who and the other

was really not that young and

they lived together in a house

a small house on the corner of Main

and Willow Creek then one night

tired of being mocked by Stripling

Gimp shot him in the head while

Stripling was popping corn so that

the neighbors wouldn't hear a gunshot he thought

the sheriff found Gimp by his brother's body

head blown, pool of blood and all, eating

a big bowl of freshly popped popcorn and 

that was that. Not far from their house

lived another boy, went by the name Capote

I'm guessing not because of the writer and

coincidence or not this boy was a sissy and

somewhat retarded, maladjusted, maladroit

died of pneumonia past winter and the town

folks thought weird of the boy's passing

and dumped his body by a corn field

Sick

A fumaça levanta de cada xícara

em cada mesa, ao mesmo tempo.

Coisas acontecem o tempo todo,

coisas acontecem a todo minuto

coisas que não tem nada a ver conosco

Laocoon warns his fellow Trojans

Do not trust the Horse,

Trojans, whatever it is I fear

the Greeks even bearing gifts

[ ... ]

At the same time

he stretched forth to tear the knots

with his hands, his fillets soaked

with saliva and black venom,

at the same time.

Morning plea

Bird, I choke on you

violent beak like mother

feeding worm to mouth

Subdued, seduced. My head

on your bare chest rests

my flesh for carrion flower.

Yellowthroat and Trachea

deities of air and breath

try and show me your face

strip off your black mask

What hatred, what halter

how naked and crushed

Cater to me, I'm tethered

my travelling paths unaltered

Scene

Cup rests over saucer:

"Our nights are dire", then I mute.

"Swans are waltzing over this dark lake"

Cup rests over saucer.

On a field, looking away from stables:

"Heard a gunshot", then it echoes

"Had a broken leg, couldn't run"

On a field, looking away from stables.

Front porch, clinging to bottle:

"And that was that", then it slips

"Watch out for broken glass"

Front porch.

Se houvesse um livro sobre este corredor

Começaria assim: há uma estrada dentro da casa

com rodapés de pinho nas esquinas

e lâmpadas na parede que conferem ao caminho

uma certa infinitude, a noite

Lembro do dia em que deixei o carteiro esperando no corredor

no meu quarto, desenhei sua "cara de maçã" enquanto esperava

na sombra

Não importa o quão desimportante, é uma cena da história

uma história no livro

Será que os sonhos se passam em corredores porque a perspectiva é estranha?

ou porque são são grandes palcos, sem uso, dentro de casa?

O corredor era o leito seco de um rio, sonhei uma noite

Uma estrada indígena, noutra noite

(e pode mesmo ter sido um dos dois antes da casa estar lá)

E nunca ouvi o carteiro indo embora, mas vi que havia ido

quando saí do quarto para pendurar o desenho na parede

Ventos azedos de lustra-móveis circulam pelo corredor

Antes pinheiros, em lugar das portas

Se Cristo houvesse morrido em um corredor, talvez rezássemos em corredores

Ou usariamos pequenos corredores dourados em volta do pescoço

Como pode continuar tão frio depois de tantas passadas?

Um fora que, de alguma maneira, é dentro.

Fool's gold

Pirate on fire struck against this flinty skin

flickers, coruscates and then glimmers

just like all the rest and what's left

for good, for laughs, in cavities on

the living room widower's mouth is

a moth waltzing the air and this light

skull shaped thorax for mast lacking

the crossbones in your nightly banner

Chi é e non é

... someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure

I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

Invece da spiegare chi é e non é, non voglio svegliare me e ne pensare a te.

Poem with your name in it

Dangling dangerously under clouds

Aftermath of bitter somber

Never thought of sleeping over

In this bed of gangly owner

Ears were warned I hear

Leap again in nest so near

Not considering consequences

Over time you'll lose your senses

Great adventure I would say

Under spells of empathy

Earnest talk and mild at play

In conducted entropy

Random thoughts that cross the brain

Ambitions grew and made me vain

Burning under silver suns

Until dark night overcomes

Dimming days that once were clear

Numbing hours, filled with mire

Yours, and never truly minding fire

I have no idea on how to be confessional

That's as far as my misunderstanding goes

and it often leads me to corridors

that are not especially large or long

like the ones in a house these corridors

lead to rooms behind doors and that's

where the action in this poem is set

But I will not talk about these rooms

for I have no idea on how to be confessional

Gauge

Swung my fiery sword

vent my spleen at the Lord

so abstract, so bored

too much milk

too much honey

and phone calls

corrupting mornings

[thank you, S. M.]

Late afternoon, April 8...

...

Then he turns in to the harbor,

where at once it grows calmer.

Takes off his hat and waves it

like mad - like an old-time cowboy!

Something he won't ever forget.

You betcha.

Me neither.

[R. Carver]

Axiom of the nightly idiom

Like a truism laid to sleep.

Distant thunder

Two pines against lit background

midsummer light and the grass

my dog dreams of bone

He is also a horse

Worn out shirt or "the dregs"

as I once referred to as

Unable to be donned

retired later to cedar floors

Silverfish devours all Latin

and Greek and [hole]

a cemetery wall now

uneven death in your tongue

So distant a night, a winter

a dull thump of the clouds

my dog, my shirt, your Latin

wallow in wanting still, here

Gush

Calling the bluffs,

talking so tough

Angel of Corpus Christi

You're so misty,

tell me what I wanna hear

I'm looking for a tired face

in case you want to go.

Sunday.

Subtle fire

Our feelings slip like

subtle fire onto my skin.

"Nonchalant with Southern Crux suite" 

Vicarious Motherhood

You were born, like comma

in my tongue, hesitant

to my eyes thalidomide

at my age, incomplete

between the clock and the bed. 

My Fruit Fails Me

My fruit fails me

relinquishes

seasons, time.

My fruit, no more than I

bides in dead tree

Unfortunate lady-in-waiting

never fully ripe

Where have you hidden

yourself, beloved,

leaving me moaning?

Like a stag you fled

after wounding me;

I sailed forth, after you,

calling out, but again

you were gone. My house

being calm now.

My hair was wet

My breath was blue

I died that night

and so did I

House on the corner

with its two dorms

for each of two dogs.

Front porch swing

with its two seats

for each of us kids.

Living room window

with its double leaves

for only one to see.

The inside of the house

with its outside

for none to set fire.

Você se lembra quando dormimos

no chão do banheiro

nem eram bonitos

os azulejos brancos

Frios como o som

da casa de seu pai

Acordar abandonado

e fumar lá fora

Enterrando os ruídos

no porão da casa de seu pai,

calado como um gesto

meu sonho é seguido de nevasca

Anywhere i lay my head.

startling

starting

staring

string

sting

sing

sin

in

i

Film Stills [W.T.]

Exit Music [go home now, stranger]

To be looped continuously.

Words are Auden's. Sound is mine.

To West Texas

headlights will fade, deadly houses

whitewash will fade, run down sawmill

lime trees will die, sad gardener

typhus germ just might, snake charmer

Do you remember

that night at context

making up shit

like we were animals

we made no sense

no sense

we had no sex

Can you see

the moon is so hollow

what's the use

when i can see right through you

[Chan Marshall] 

When all within is violent

You have travelled miles

for the northern light

and I've waited south, mother's eye

closer, never apart

Moving in, more obscure

our solstice was mainly 

doubt. And me, I'm a house.

Half of everything.

In reviewing my notebook, I have travelled for too long, now.

Various small fires and milk

a mound of dust

or rites for bad luck.

embankment of dusk

setting us apart

lieber maler, male mir!

____________________

Alguns pequenos fogos e leite

Um punhado de terra

ou rituais de má sorte.

Diques de anoitecer

nos separando

querido pintor, pinte a mim!

A poem.

A poem so great

that it actually seems

like torture itself

torture to know

so much sweetness

can be given

and can be taken away.

Derelict

In snowy, muddy shores

Like a shipwreck of my own invention

Coming of age, a boy

Tosses the letter towards the debris

concocting the life-to-be

of what was once his good intentions

From "Death under glass"

Going down,

He tore at the long weeds

as one might tear a gown.

Suffering comes to people as war comes to countries

And issues are clarified. Others are completely lost.

Let me know

Waiting for time to tell

growing back body hair

These feathers from Denmark

sleeping under your spell

FUCK

KNIFE

ENTER

SHOT

THAMES

SILVER

GALLOP

PLUM

MASK

KNIT

Small Prayer

Change, move, dead clock, that this fresh day

May break with dazzling light to these sick eyes.

Burn, glare, old sun, so long unseen,

That time may find its sound again, and cleanse

What ever it is that a wound remembers

After the healing ends.

[Weldon Kees]

Subtitling subtleties

Minha vida violenta.

Jolly Roger e Candy Apples.

Morte lenta em Nova Scotia.

Carinho rosa.

Code-switching [don't mind, don't care].

Cavalo baixo [drop crotch].

Minha frase favorita, minha vida violenta.

...loosen my dress

tie me up just like all the rest...

The Scene

Thank you for the compliment. I will assume

it is partly sincere. And soon, when I compliment

your work, I will try hard to be sincere.

Thus our relations will be cordial - thus we may be grateful

for the social scene that prompts from us these compliments.

But what I want - 

ten or eleven years from now

you stand at a window, early on a winter morning;

it is a week or a month after the death of

someone you knew well; you gaze out upon the chill stiff scene

of trees and stone walls, gray and black and gray...

admire my work then. Love it then.

[Mark Halliday]

Whispers

'Tis not alone the warbling woods,

The starred abysses of the sky,

The silent hills, the stormy floods,

The green that fills the eye - 

These only do not move the breast;

Like some wise artist, Nature gives,

Through all her works, to each that lives

A hint of somewhat unexprest.

Whate'er I see, where'er I move,

These whispers rise, and fall away,

Something of pain - of bliss - of Love,

But what, were hard to say .

I could not tell it: if I could

Yet every form of mind is made

To vary in some light or shade

So were my tale misunderstood.

[A. Tennyson]

Wood-paneled room omen

Then the rooms called upon us

constantly in the dark [they're cemeteries] 

and they'll devour the palaces of Jerusalem

with their parting words of consolation

carousing their way to other dwellings

Hobby horse

I've come to learn

how very common it was

for russians to walk into

frozen lakes in winter

they'd walk in 

and disappear in winter

only to resurface

and reappear by summer

Fakebook

There was only her heart

like a rabbit and this terrible hurt

Through the room there was

a quiet murmur of agreement

The words swelled in him

the rain continued gray

and bitter and cold

in rigid silence

All loosely bound in bundles

Shortly after I died

My sister discovered poems

It sounded as if the streets were running

As sense was breaking through

Decades of arrogance between

A night ago or two

In houses unperceived

Not audible as ours to us

To counteract a knock 

we must keep apart, You there, I here

In this brief tragedy of flesh

While sunrise grows so near

The coffin's lacquer black

But the lining's silk silver

[J'ai deux amours]

On the back of his head

He had another face

Was it a woman's face

or a young girl?

They said to remove it would kill him

So poor Edward was doomed

The face could laugh and cry

It was his devil twin

And at night she spoke to him

of things heard only in hell

They were impossible to separate,

chained together for life.

Finally the bell tolled his doom:

He took a suite of rooms

And hung himself and her

From the balcony irons.

Some still believe he was freed from her...

But I knew her too well.

I'd say she drove him to suicide

and took poor edward to hell.

[T. Waits / K. Brennan]

Homesick Silhouette

Finally I don't mind

Worthless tries at finding something else

Best not talk too loud

You're not as smart as you require of them

Your body breaks

Your needs consume you forever

and with these lies the need to be here together

Funny thing with blood

You try to stand but neither leg's awake

Just this side of love

Is where you'll find the confidence not to continue

Your body breaks

your needs consume you forever

And with these lies the need to be here together.

[Doug Martsch]

O "Show dos Ursos" era lindo.

Herzegovino, attorney, escena d'estim, escena de mort.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,

My garments all were dank;

Sure I had drunken in my dreams,

And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs:

I was so light - almost

I thought that I had died in sleep,

And was a blessed ghost

And soon I heard a roaring wind:

It did not come anear;

But with its sound it shook the sails,

That were so thin and sere.

* [from "The rime of the ancient Mariner]

Though I could've written those words

If only I had taken the time.

Having not written them words

I come here and make Coleridge's mine.

Random rant

I remember school days were lasting

I remember cocaine having me in a murk

I remember felling like plastic

And being misunderstood for my quirks

I remember seeing gold rings

The night of my second wedding

I remember you standing next

to my deathbed as you whispered

to my ear of your remembrances

And how they were all strangely

related to me

A tailor-made coffin

Your eyes begin to tire.

Your head sits on this greasy pillow

[Your hair is weeping, little]

Should I have fought?

Room service knocks

[interrupts the tacit thoughts]

There was so much happiness

Behind the doors of that mini-bar

How do things get this far

To a point where to sleep is to lie

And to lay is to die.

Only years will mar

Your weeping hair

And your complexion

[apart from the fact that you're dead]

Never that fair

Mike Mills [fireworks]

when i'm done

i'll cock my gun

and blood will run

like ribbons on my hair...

Oh, if Brecht was Italian...

Estes cortes cegos e outros afiados

Meine herren, mit siebzehn jahren

Kam ich auf den liebesmarkt

Und ich habe viel erfahren

Böses gab es viel

Doch das war das spiel

Aber manches hab ich doch verargt

[Schlieblich bin ich ja auch ein mensch]

Freilich geht man mit den jahren

Leichter auf den liebesmarkt

Und umarmt sie dort in scharen

Aber das gefühl

Wird erstaunlich kühl

Wenn man damit allzuwenig kargt

[Schlieblich geht ja jeder vorrat zu ende]

Und auch wenn man gut das handeln

Lernte auf des liebermess

Lust ein kleingeld zu verwandeln

Ist doch niemals leicht

Nun es wird erreicht

Doch man wird auch älter unterdes

[Schlieblich bleibt man ja nicht immer siebzehn]

Gott sei dank geht alles schnell vorüber

Auch die liebe und der kummer sogar

Wo sind die tränen von gestern abend?

Wo ist der schnee vom vergangenen jahr?

*

Caros, eu tinha dezessete

quando entrei no mercado do amor

Passei por muitas coisas

Muitas delas bem escrotas

Era tudo parte do jogo

Ainda que essas coisas possam depor contra mim

[Afinal eu também sou humano]

Claro que com o passar dos anos

É mais fácil estar no mercado do amor

E recebê-los em rebanhos

Mas seus sentimentos

Esfriam de modo estranho

Quando não são racionados

[Afinal, qualquer reserva acaba, eventualmente]

Mesmo quando se aprende bem o ofício

Na feira do amor

Não é fácil fazer troco do prazer

Bem, o sucesso é possível

No entanto você envelhece

[Afinal, não se tem dezessete pra sempre]

Graças a Deus tudo acaba rápido

Tanto o amor quanto o sofrimento

Aonde estão as lágrimas de ontem?

E a neve do ano passado?

[B. Brecht - e Weill transformou em canção para Lenya no natal de 39, em Nova Iorque.]

The lopsided truth of observations

In an argument being moderated

By David and Goliath

The audience was mainly made of Cyclops

While the panel of judges was stuck in a rut.

Were they rutting stags?

I was not sure.

Neither was I.

Wie Odysseus auf den mast des schiffes [ein wintermärchen]

The ocean presented itself

as a great black distance

separating me from

where I am.

Auf jener meer - or so I thought

I find myself not knowing

the silky way back home

and came to realize

how many porn I needed

to behave as the blade

right past the tip of your tongue.

How Jonah of me...

to live under your palate

and to think that safe i'd be...

And in my russian way

empty, shipped away

my cold corpse committed

to this frozen, glassy lake

Em. D.

Of Glory not a beam is left

But her Eternal House -

The Asterisk is for the Dead,

The Living, for the Stars -

*

God is indeed a jealous God - 

He cannot bear to see

That we had rather not with Him

But with each other play

*

The words the happy say

Are paltry melody

But those the silent feel

Are beautiful - 

Under sentences

If we are to do it properly

we better leave out some of our

punctuation in New York.

If we are to

having already done

question marks and commas

and full stops around Roma

always reticent and in a trope

making up our names in terza rima

"nell mezzo del cammin di nostra vita"

The southern bell

There are times I can remember the sound

of shovels, rattles and snow

riding the air with contempt

like the sound of a thousand hellos.

My life as a bookkeeper

Just now i've noticed

standing side by side on a shelf 

a copy of "The worst years of your life"

right next to "My life as a man"

and to my left "L'age d'homme"

Life's little jokes...

Mille neuf cent quatre-vingt-dix-sept

At twenty-seven

New York still smells like London

Whisky kills all bacteria and

"Love is a trip to Chinatown"?

What was West End

Is now Lower East

and ninety-seven is

two thousand eight

When I was twenty-five

New York smelled like London

and whisky killed all bacteria

And she arrived like autumn or a rainstorm.

Jealous Dog

Once I turned the TV on

I saw the green grass on the lawn

I don't know why it struck me as odd

that life seemed perfect as a catalogue

I guess I'm just a jealous dog...

I walked into a house of prayer

I didn't feel so welcome there

I was looking for the hand of God

And when it struck me hard 

I was hit by a fraud

Oh the mean mean mouth of a jealous dog...

I had a friend with some handsome traits

When he's done with his dinner he'd lick his plate

It's a way of living that I applaud

Like the message in this monologue

To never be a jealous dog...

Never be a jealous dog...

[k.d. lang]

To your far west

At the porch I can still hear you

and the not too loud noise of a rocking chair

reminding me of this joke we had

about those rednecks and their dreams

of staying there the whole day just to see

if the plain would change, and how I almost got emotional

when, alone, I realized it did

I can retrace the path there once was

now erased by grass as it used to

every summer but by wheat

I can walk down that stream and finish our dam

because only I knew that every night

I went down there to take out a few stones

so that our engineering wouldn't end

Those maybe the clues that held us

together for so long

As in "Life as your favorite pastime"

or "Being your own Sherlock Holmes".

You could never fix your father's pipe

and smoking didn't fit you

as well as it does me

Poor Job

For I would not be like this

... toys

But it may happen to me

... all

And my tongue will not concoct

... evil

Je te veux

-Your music lacks form!

[E. hands in music sheets]

-What are these?

-Trois morceaux en forme de poire!

... Another country, in Europe

-Schumann?

-Sure man!

In a graveyard

A boat beneath a sunny sky

Lingering onward dreamily

In an evening of July -

Children three that nestle near,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Pleased a simple tale to hear -

Long has paled that sunny sky:

Echoes fade and memories die:

Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me phantomwise,

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summer die:

Ever drifting down the stream -

Lingering in the golden gleam - 

Life, what is it but a dream?

[L.C.]

A la Coconut School

[Kenneth Koch]

That would be me reading from Koch's "Straits".

Sweet jan. 2007

New York was our favourite season, if it would only come... [or Do the Astaire!]

My tap dancing shoes, my cigarette fumes

Waltz and dissolve just for you... 

How Life Began

Still missing, in New York.

January in July

It's been long since we last picnicked over the country flag.

The plates were left untouched, and the rest of us were playing outside.

Mice were still asleep in their trap beds covered in high-pressure blankets.

I felt sad, but got no response from over-the-counter medication.

Little did I know... I have now come to realize all the men were dead.

And the rest of us were playing outside with cocking guns.

Out west was our backyard but our compasses pointed north.

From Kinderszenen

With much a do

a stately assassin comes

hidden in a cloak of white

turning stories into hackfleisch

Your carcass a day old

them lilies sitting still

try and ravish the stench

in our limp abattoir

Herzegovino

If i try to leave the house

I've never lived in

there are walls, will fall apart

floorboards will crack, and the rain

drain through as in lanky riverbeds

where the furniture will drown

if it does not refuse to sink.

All of the other things

sank.

Coupe d'état

My coterie thinks they're nonchalant

about everything. Nevertheless, charmant.

But they do cause upheaval

hearing some birds sing 

a schmaltzy tune that says

You're evil and nasty, or should I say pastiche?

To them mockingbirds I reply

"Birdies, luck has turned our way

everyone deserves it's niche"

Em D.

You shoreline tell me

Are those sails at sea

only shadowed by nights

or my usual mourn-to-be?

Come back, come back

waves that break

my ocean's flat.

When i talk about the lives we've never had

Just sit quiet

over the kitchen sink

the cat's asleep

you just can't dream

The milk is bitter

the bread plain mold

Our fridge is full

your body is cold

Clean up the house

while i plan the painting

trying to trap the mouse

I hear you humming

Their barn is not far away

I run to find us a place

and wait for you

to warm up the hay.