“latitude and longitude and a relative equator”
…a boat full of vikings with nordic grunts and pale arms pulling the oars
not quite
more than that, than these
a centipede legs surrounding a poisonous center
still…not quite
millipede maybe the jungle type a foot long and red and black more appendages.
Better seems…closer
some where there must be the sound of slow falling water
gravity of any given time working on the muscle
that mirrored rock before the sandbar
breaking the ebb,
mistaken for flow.
Almost…
“casting in a hemlock creek”
dove into the pool chasing the spotted back of the brown trout
german and stern in the silt
gills pink with dissolved oxygen.
hold my breath in second-hand lungs
cannot imitate the animal in any way
cannot catch it with fly with worm or hand
tired with eyes starbursting white spider flashes
fingertips numb so that this important thumb is useless
the fish sees me hear my heart beat
knows the words but it only swims
dances better than any of us would guess
i turn over in myself and swim to the trees
more comfortable in the dappled sun
where I can breathe and eat and think
without fireworks behind my eyelids
only behind my eyes.
“Canopy Theory”
the argument is this
that the earth is six-thousand years old
and because a book written by more than two –hundred hands
left out rainbows before the flood
there was, obviously, a roof of vapor holding enough moisture
for forty days and nights of precipitation
it continues
with the profound thought that life spans seemed to decline after the deluge
this circumlocution is what some call a way to live.
they say the science is sound because they say the science is sound.
when the top falls out of a white pine
or a red oak collapses after a couple centuries
or a ceiba, jacote, kapok, even a malabar chestnut
the saplings and seeds find the new sun invigorating
and growth is noticeable within the week.
observable and sound science worthy of the name.
the gods can have their temples and their robed elite
i would prefer to swing from the trees again and think unfettered
in the topmost branches
where the explainable mountains and rivers are always within view
and understood on their terms
not mine.
”no such thing as passionate economics”
she may be seventy or eighty but her hair has been white
since her mid-forties.
the people who would know this are buried on hills spread
through five states. she sits in a purple over-stuffed chair
in a corporate bookstore on her bus route reading a guide on
tuscany.
her lips are moving with words but her voice faints
just the other side of her mouth. the teeth are all hers.
a steady hand. she drinks her half-cafs free
because the business school barista has dreamed of kissing her green eyes
that burn when she whispers her hellos.
he is handsome and embarrassed by wanting to become rich enough
to send her over the sea through the gate of gibraltar
to drink dark wine on sun-warmed hills.
someday, soon, she will not pick up the guide
and his education will have taught him that there is money to be had
in the dreams of old ladies
that he must be more careful when his own eyes close.
that everyone is vulnerable when they are alone
and everyone is alone.
“between the hills and the sea”
it is lovely here with the sun coming through the eastern windows
off of the olive covered hills spotted with small white villas with red clay roofs.
the patio is of sand-colored brick and the tables are in blues and yellows
with the opposite colored chairs.
it is hot this early in the morning and there is no breeze from the sea
there is salt in the air and the waves can just be heard over the cars
that fill the street and the voices of the busy and burning people
who do not wish to speak.
the professor walks slowly down the hill in the same tweed suit
he has worn for ten years in this land. he does not seem to sweat
but he does smell strongly of it and cigarettes which he does not
smoke here, only at home.
he sits in the same seat every morning with a black coffee and a glass
of water without ice. he reads and marks books that are encased in
ornate leather covers with red beads embroidered into the shapes of
birds and trees. always alone.
the runner is in her thirties. strong and pretty and severe. chestnut
hair pulled into a ponytail. light blue shirt and shorts with expensive
shoes that change slightly every month, become new again. stretches
one leg then the other. drinks an apricot tea.
the runner stares at the hills whether she has company or not. sometimes
a man runs with her. never the same man. the men talk and laugh while
she looks up into the groves. she has smiled only once at the children
who did not notice.
they are in and out, too many to track or remember the names of. they
bring drinks and bread back to their parents or they skip school, hiding
in the cooler shadows within. they are always polite and their voices timid
in the darker corners.
the professor and the runner were there. five children. a happy tourist group
of eleven. a young couple and an old. the barista and the two waiters who were
laughing at some joke when the woman with suffering strapped to her walked in
and sent them all away.
“licking wounds”
do not think of the small names and the stand of pines
do not imagine the blue-jay behind her left knee
never dream
of the grey granite boulder’s broad back
warmed by her birthday sun where sleep came easily
and we awoke as if from a nest
safe, desiring more of one another.
do not see her washing the dishes in her green sweater
or the readjustment of her small hand
within this larger one.
stop praying to anything that will listen
for a knock on this filthy red door.
there are reasons here that will always be unreasonable.
knots too confused to be undone
dizzying if followed too closely.
the end is buried in the middle.
it does not like to be talked about
so it hides in a tight ball
refusing to hear any voice.
do stop trying.
“more cowbell please.”
what is this standing in front of the mirror thing?
never was a nervous man
and now
overthinking has become a job.
too much grey to worry about
just button the shirt.
why go to this?
do not even like this band.
singer is pompous and bad to boot
guitarist tells too many stories between sets.
they are not funny stories.
place is full of smoke
burning eyes false smiles.
there will be beer. saving grace.
conversations will not turn to books
or walking in the Berkshires.
will be slurred.
unfocused discussion of misunderstood topics
and confused anguish
but there will be beer.
when does it come to this kind of effort?
not willing to give up, yet.
shirt just does not look right.
it used to.
“we know no mountains”
antlers
exposed bones
chocolate colored under a dusting of snow.
steam rising from velveteen nostrils
drifting into the ponderosas.
wet smoke.
the sculpted shoulders shifting the ice off.
a controlled avalanche.
black eyes concentrate on the other side of the valley.
soft, cuplike ears seem to be separate animals
they dance back and forth
not out of fear
but need.
“uncouth and a bit undone”
i am sorry about my breath.
when i am like this coffee and garlic
are my staples.
forgot to wash the clothes again
and cannot find any matching socks
clean or otherwise.
i have gone to lectures just to hear voices.
have been watching ghost birds
come to a feeder that is not there
ethereal chickadees and nuthatches
fight over imaginary sunflower seeds.
sleep comes at the strangest times.
i stare into the sun trying to gauge its reality
drinking cups and cups of coffee.
it is not time to talk about whiskey and beer.
maybe it is not time to talk.
someone cut this out of the space
in front of the factories.
the water bleeds from the main channel
into this rushing canal
and in the summer
the orange and green kayaks
run its length for fewer than five minutes.
men stare at young girls in bikinis.
no one looks at the men.
the winter the overpasses provide shelter
to the unseen community
there is evidence.
thirty-three empty old milwaukee cans heaped
against the cyclone fence that separates
the water from the factories.
it is dry under the overpass but windy
with no comfort
nothing gentle.
concrete and steel and rushing water.
what does the man think drinking here?
a creek flowing out of a cedar swamp
bluegills and pumpkinseeds
the size of big hands.
a white five-gallon bucket holds
the day’s limit of three men
caught by a small boy
who has not yet snuck a sip
of his father’s hidden whiskey.
behind the chainsaw in the shed.
thirty-three.
cold concrete feels like moss.
this water may hold fish.
“bicycles”
in amsterdam they are left around the city
for the use of everyone
oranges, greens, blues, and browns.
sometimes they are found in the canals
or high up a tree.
portland is trying to follow this example.
first bicycle was behind the black spruce
and some small gifts of socks
and books. all of the money went
to the banana seated
long handled murray
with a blue body,
yellow stripe, chrome fenders
and a monsterous red bow.
must have weighed seventy pounds.
lasted three years
in the snow and rain
and jumping plywood and cinderblock ramps.
strapped a fishing pole
comfortably to the frame
a stringer off the handles.
it smelled like alfalfa from being kept in the barn.
then a sea green giant
as a gift for my freshman year
of college. twenty-eight gears when I had been used to one.
known as the lexus. more bicycle than was necessary.
dependable and the green looked like crossing
the macinac bridge.
the confluence of huron and michigan
dark emerald with rust colored freighters
floating slowly away.
this was the bicycle of the first loving kiss
the longing for one place over any other
the knowledge of being miles from another soul
with feet in swedetown creek
reading king lear.
later a flat black mongoose
that was wrecked in a drunken stupor
in east lansing and given to a friend for parts.
this was the bicycle of mother’s health decline and confusion
of basketball and communists and too much glenfiddich.
now a blue trek with a mournful chain
that keens when wet. more miles than any other.
more time. it does what needs to be done.
speaks its needs through the oilless links.
spring will be better. fundamental desires fulfilled.
lavender crocuses through the brittle snow
more bicycles on the street
red-winged blackbirds and muddy dogs in the parks.
i will take care of this bicycle when i can.
“one hawk for all the rabbits”
every other year four gallons of shellac
on the cracked pine logs.
in the early spring the wind through the screenless windows
cuts through wool sweaters
and moves the chemical smell .
it is applied in the morning with thirty-year old brushes
then we leave with ham sandwiches and pickles
from the garden of the summer before.
walk to the rifle river
a quarter-section west
look for tracks in the mud
of the animals that come for a drink.
whitetail, raccoon, opossum, coyote,
the fat round marks of a runaway beagle,
muskrat, and smaller unknowns.
follow the river for a couple hours south
we flush
the deer and the birds. making note of the thunderbeat
sound of ruffed grouse taking flight.
the possibility of a covey in the young poplars.
cut back into the woods to eat on the white pine stump
on the small hill a mile behind the cabin.
the stump that can seat five big men comfortably.
watch the wind push the tops of the trees
into one another.
look for hawks.
silently wander through twenty acres of red pines
planted in straight lines in the late fifties
where a beautiful girl and I once strolled
naked looking at the new lady slippers.
go to the shed and throw corn on the two-track.
turkeys will be in soon
then the deer
and throughout three kinds of squirrels
grey, fox, and pine.
the logs are sticky but not wet and the fumes are gone.
venison burgers and potatoes seasoned
with cayenne, garlic, and a bit of thyme
a beer
on the porch
watching a very pregnant doe sniff the air.
she knows where I am hurt.
“advice to a ballerina who could not care less”
pay attention
when the horse lays its ears back along its skull
it is time to move
away from both the mouth and the ass.
left foot in the left stirrup then up
anything else and the animal could laugh you to the ground.
the massive Belgians are supremely patient
more so than quarters, morgans, or warmbloods
but when that temper flashes
twenty-five hundred pounds of muscle and bone
will teach an extraordinary lesson.
be gentle with the reins as the lips
are fragile velvet
and a beaten horse is worse than a beaten man.
trust is only a word if the throat is full of blood.
at a certain point in the years ahead
you can sip whiskey
on its broad back
and the horse will get drunk too.
“evolution on a russian timescale”
legs crossed at the ankles
sitting against the white oak
reading turgenev’s hunting stories
coffee and lunch wedged in the roots
the dappled sun protects us from the city’s life
for these few minutes.
well north of here the blackbirds scream
from the cattails
at the animal just on the edge.
“between swans and pigeons”
the writer sits down without knowing what to do
surrounded by gifts from the dead and dying.
a petoskey stone the size and shape of a chicken egg
given by a girl who was hit by a truck when she was eighteen.
an african violet from an aunt’s funeral.
a small pink nailpolished dog
painted by the writer’s lung cancered mother
to bring laughter and comfort.
it does and it does not.
coffee cup turned by a lover’s skill
who loves no more .
the writer stands into a jacket and hat and shoes
turns from the relics and antiquaries.
leaves.
the pontiacs are on blocks
and the dogs are chained to porches
but can reach the street.
an old Victorian is being rejuvenated
in periwinkle and deep-sea green
by a hopeful young couple.
the river is one-half mile east
the downtown skyline one-half mile south
the writer is middling everything away
deciding between swans and pigeons
the sound of moving water
and traffic
life or the imitation thereof.
the writer puts one foot in front of the other.
leaves.
“the mice of chernobyl”
the weather will not move in for an hour
or two
it does not matter
since we have shed the hard skin
for this roof of tar and asphalt pebbles
these walls
of horse hair and newspaper
look out two panes of glass that shift the light
slightly
make everything not quite real.
watch the pixilation of a grey screen
instead of reading the words or horizons
sleep while awake.
this tomato
came from somewhere far away
it will be just bland enough
for us
to chew without thought.
sip black tea
from old colonies that still carry the accent
harvested for the economy that drowns their many
small lives.
the beef has grown monstrous on the enhanced hoof.
i am one foot taller than my parents.
a strange sort of science.
field mice and sparrows have returned
to chernobyl
given birth to a new generation.
the young seem fine.
what does this mean?
“the oracle and the witch”
a chickadee landed on the broadhead while bowhunting one evening and stopped time. an epiphany in the late october sun where the bird showed me a secret that has since been forgotten. it flexed its minuscule talons and looked sideways into my already foolish soul. this was the blackcapped bird of my grandmother’s stories. the bird that knew things about the trees and the blackwater swamp. she would smoke a pall mall and tap fire-engine red nails and talk about the little bird and the bear. it would nest in the thick black fur and the baby chickadees learned to fly when the bear swam the river for the blackberries on the other side. only one did not learn to fly but to swim instead and followed the water into the roots of the hemlocks and cedars and listened. it became something new. not entirely bird or bear or water or tree but a mixture. a piece of everything covered in feathers. it would not grant wishes but it would answer questions if they were asked properly.
i took a breath and it flew away.
the arrow quivered.
i could smell smoke.
i could see red.
the wet black eye knew
that this question was best left unworded.
“canis”
there is a difference in the sound.
the coyote’s bark has a liquid quality
not so much disturbing as out of place
in the rigid shadows of tree and rock
it rounds the edges.
the wolf touches the center of us.
that howl will open dead eyes
it sharpens the darkness and forces a brighter moon.
it is this way with battles.
some are soft and float like cold mist
bothersome but not important.
others
cannot be ignored or the knife will find its way
into the gentle and sensitive flesh.
the wolf fight awakens the bad dreams at best
the blood spills on the dust in the worst scenario.
the difficulty is that coyotes sometimes become wolves
for reasons that we are not evolved enough to understand.
“the expansive history of the weekend”
two smallish crows pick at the dead cat.
it is still a warm orange and would seem asleep
if not for its lack of eyes.
the crows take fur for their nests
and will feed after the body bursts.
a friend is in Jakarta for one month .
she says
“people stop what they are doing to stare at me.”
she is pale and blond and kind
the people are intrigued by these three rarities.
there are three dressers in her small room
so she can spread her belongings about
thinly.
we all danced at a club after we had closed another bar.
i have found that jack and coke serves me well
if the effort of movement is involved.
she danced perfectly.
this was not a surprise but to my cloudy and shaded mind
it was unexpectedly harsh
as if i thought she may stumble in my presence
show some inkling of fragility.
I thought of walking home
but that would have been as strange as my already being there.
i tried to hide my eyes
in the whiskey and cola and ice
but when she has danced i have never looked away.
this is the secret of the dervish.
there was a light rain that speckled the pages.
i continued to read
as two little girls threw a tennis ball for their dog
wiping the mud and slobber on their play clothes
laughing away the supposed indecency of the act.
in the midst of this
an orange cat died
first giving its life
then its body
and eventually
a story.
“adapting to myth”
it feels as if there are two tongues in my mouth
one to speak with and the other to test
the words as they form.
like some hellish and damned kiss they are dopplegangers
that can never meet or touch or become one.
if seen i fear they may seem forked rather than separate entities
with individual agendas.
these teeth hurt with the pressure of holding it all in.
choking on thoughts that want to grow but are lashed down
like slaves in the belly of a ship
floating through a tempest that exists only in the sky
while the sea is still
like a black mirror
nothing is accomplished
no new territories explored.
the swallowed servants are too scared
to scream
there is not even this.
these tongues are in the way.
maybe, the thing to do is to cut them out
and live mute for a while
until they grow back
like a lizard’s tail. like a new story. Once upon a time this man was good and…
“within these halls small words are spoken”
the little lives that people live
seem to shrink with time
like how the old one’s bodies bend in on themselves
until they are nearly perfect circles.
once set on a single track
they are easily confused
by any
switch
in direction
perceived or real.
often they make up histories inside their troubled skulls
to keep their suffering company.
a kitten with a string is sincere
in its play.
these people hang the kitten
by its toy just to see
something happen.
“the question of domestication”
this herd of deer is the answer. the flicking ears and slim legs and hair that is the brown of a childhood sandbox. the alfalfa blooms they eat taste like sugar and their long pink tongues nervously touch their black lips as if the sweetness were essential to their existence. the does sniff the wind and watch the hills. the bucks watch the edges where all of the danger of this world hides. the fawns run and jump or sleep in the sun. it is simple.
the letter in the mail today
said she would lose this house.
her son’s bad lungs were acting up.
his cough a rattle in a tiny chest.
she never knew her father.
her son would never know his.
she watched her child sleep fitfully on the old yellow couch
and licked her cracked lips
imagining a gentle life she had once seen.
“regional photographs”
Man, mid-fifties to sixties, straw cowboy hat down low
Over eyes without humor
Staring at hand as if there were answers beneath the skin.
White-tipped mountains beyond flatlands behind him.
Eight-thousand foot peaks far enough away that his hat
Brushes the snow.
Color but looks black and white.
Little girl on rock touches the water with her big toe
Squeals at the cold or just the wet.
Looking up at something unseen in an unclouded sky.
Her yellow t-shirt says “i love louisiana”
In indigo letters.
Small black mutt on her left
looks at her foot
Like it could be a meal.
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