Behind the wall
resides another wall
and behind that wall
I’m not allowed
to look but yesterday
you seemed
to emerge from behind
no wall and I said
Wow, this is really
teaching me a lesson
about walls. You
appeared and we
ate pizza and when
this was done the sun
had hardly started
setting so we walked
through layers of bugs to
the river which,
thank god, was still
full of water holding
the moon’s image
between slim ripples.
Everything had
leaves. We were impatient
to live. Okay, we
said, we’re not afraid
of cast iron falling
on our heads, but behind
these words were a
million other words,
words I have never
heard, words you are
unhappy to hear, words I
sometimes say
when alone rowing with
a telephone.
I’m hungry I said,
let’s move on, I’m tired
of talking about
movies I haven’t seen.
I never wish to
dwell on details, not behind
the wall which holds
back oceans of little walls.
When one comes out
it’s like a wave approaching.
Some try to stand
on top and have a look
around. Some let it break
across the face. I write
a poem called “Dew
drops dew drops dew drops”
then cross the words
out one by one.
Consolation
When the butler
speaks I am happy,
the tenor of his voice
debriefs me.
I am so debriefed I
could wither away,
a happy death, a
perfect disappearance,
but this butler makes
things matter,
formless or formed, they
perk up as if
a bright sun were
sending special
basking beams down to us.
I can at last
stop slithering. The
television is busted,
all the nails fall
from the ceiling
and butler sweeps them
away. I put
my belongings in the
boxes he has made.
I put my hand in
the pocket, the pocket
in the sack, the sack
in car that will drive
into a ditch deemed
heavenly so I put
my faith in the way
things ought to work out.
The floorboards
shine, my hair stands on end.
Spring finally
peeks down as if surveying
the field before
deciding to drop in.
You can never be
careful enough now
that everyone has
mouths and all, plus
our insides like
gnarled blue string
have neither start nor
finish. Some days
begin at
Everything must be
cleared away.
buffer zones
Walkers walk by
eyeing my cold
coffee as if to ask what
do you think
of the lyric
inventions of
the seventeenth
century but I
don’t think about the
seventeenth
century, I am distracted
by the train
whistle and the road
construction
in the distance which
seems further away
because of all the breeze
and leaves
and sunlight piling up
like a giant
trash heap of
sensations. Even if
You could stand on
top of it you wouldn’t
be able to track out
this space.
The limits clash
together. Car doors
are slamming and the
slamming
is like an alarm
clock calling you back
from a dream to which
you were
indifferent. The black
pavement
glistens. I guess it’s wet
though I don’t
remember rain. The sunlight
seems
to create small spots
on my forehead.
When I furrow my
brow, they expand
like ripples crossing
the surface of
a calm lake. I wish
I could step outside
and see them. I wish I
were only ripples.
Like postmen they
move around a lot
and end up going
absolutely nowhere.
Mr. Ghost
I have this gallant
ghost inside my backpack,
his hair is braided,
his jeans are torn,
he keeps me briefed
or baffled, whatever
he thinks I need, and
when he winks
I think I’m
winning. “This is the first day
of etcetera...” We say this mantra
over
and over though I hate
it and cringe
so he spits his ghost
goo at me and night
seems to wash away or
burn or dissolve
into the planet. These
signs could not
be common to all
people. A shame,
a sham, a simple induction—my ghost,
the selfless one
before, beside, behind me.
A
door which swings, opens and closes.
A tunnel, a funnel
to sleep in, to go
through and outline before
morning comes
to keep us occupied and
full of life.
Steam pushes
forward foam. Impossible
vegetation climbs the graft
of air toward
the eye. We reach into
the earth because
it holds a place.
Low-rolling
clouds bring up the end of the line.
LAST
What of the last
dream, that slow blizzard
of ice and wind when
A was talking
to B and B was
thinking of C and D and E
were making it behind
the windows
which lit up as if an
orange bomb had
just gone off? I
faltered, stumbled
on lobotomy victims
all robotized
and pulsating and pale
gray. I leaned
toward the open window, I
wanted
fresh air and the
library of air was closed
but at least this guy
reading tarot cards
suggested I learn Spanish
and stop
bitching about gasoline. Before
long
the weightless and
free sudden wave
of light came down
and pressed our round
shadows into the
statuettes which were
lined along the window
sill like an
indifferent army throwing
bubble gum
to children and
wasting bullets on
the already-dead
mountain. Poor mountain,
I wanted to look up
its name and turned
toward a book but the
turning kept turning
so the seconds seemed
severed from the minute.
Lines of
perspective sought each other out
but I had a hunch they
would not converge.
CHANGE
OF ADDRESS
The learned inform
us that we are mostly
inconsequential chatter but I
don’t
care, I’m waiting for
the clouds to clear,
trying to turn to ice or
evaporate,
whichever comes first.
Motorcycles seem
to be chasing me. Me seems to be
chasing me. This can’t end
happily
but what’s the point
of happy endings
if they don’t involve
explosions, and with
these economic
circumstances who
can afford such
luxuries? Hemlines creep