Thursday, November 29, 2012

Consonance V

the question of the matter of
what we prevent ourselves from

            the matter of from
the rusted iron gate of from

what history welds with corrosion

                        the stuck thing inside
                        deliberately made
                        encouraged to disease

lean and answer the question god dammit

show me the limits of the city
where inside and outside draw
their invisible threshold

                                    tell me
did the gate open out or swing

where is the child with the bronze key
sewn into his breast pocket
                                                under what
lake is he standing with eyes bulging
            his fish hand at his side           reaching
prepared to give to you
if you ask

not question or answer                                                it


Sunday, November 18, 2012


to the road return breathe
over the bloody footprint and return
to the black ribbon edge
northeast home

often movement          this way

you the traveler become the bloody print
that you were here and left a living sign

what made the wolf paw bleed though

is what brought you here to the mystery
and what calls you away          the ricochet

the ocean singing in the bare trees
singing the losses that register as human
and what comes after                          becomes


the moment that made the paw print
and the moment it imprinted in you
tying off the moments in between

                                    now becomes then
in the wet stillness of your breathing
kneeling over   and under        the stain



breathe                                    return

face the child standing in the snow staring
at the child in you staring back.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Consonance IV

                                                I the


Modoc say:      I
                        the song
                        I walk here

            a prayer sung for
            the body of the

I                       the song                       I walk here                  in the body

I                       the body                      walk in song                 within

the body is the song
place sings the body

I soon will travel
for the sake of
transport         to make

and to sing
else  where                  not

I will drive three
days back to
familiar skies                                       singing home and not the body no

Black Ribbon Edge

how the hole inside grows                   and the road

                                                the road unspools fills

feeds inertia to inertia
as a river feeds water
into lake

            how a sunset
in Arkansas sits four hours
in your blurred mirrors                                               dying
                                                            over Texas
                                                            I think to myself

reflect later that the evening sky
is a lady
painting herself for a night out

but the image is a dead end                all
but a few
                                                            dead ends
in the stellar vacuum
of intentional speech

                        the song I am become

sings to turn on you now glittering assumptions of flesh
as soil

            and all that the sky makes of our eyes.

Friday, November 9, 2012


            the finger

of a candle

you point up
            slight number

                        point to
the awareness

of the heart

not to a con-
ceptual god

but to the mystery

slight number

with no flower

            remind me
of the work
I have here

remind me
of the dead
here also.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Consonance III

not now            but wasn’t there then
a store at that end of town where one
could find scottish thread and egyptian

where one could shout             hooray for love
as if balloons bright primary colors
might float up inside the swelling self

            the savage mystery of it all
                        that many make religion
                                    out of

or worse

            that sadness makes its music of

the alone                     the alone that live in memory
for no sake but survival’s churning muddy sake
                        the tears and anger that incinerate
us from the inside out

as the oyster must be
                                    as the single shattering drop
of rain must be

                        there               there at the edge
                                    of sadness        of a town
that forgets where it once ended at the edges
of cornfields and quarries                   this town
that swallows itself daily as Saturn did his sons
as the mantis does her inseminator who is never
privileged as mate or lover

listen to the music of these clustered ruins    hear
valves slam shut in the dying human machine

Consonance II

                        is a matter of
                        what we prevent
                        ourselves from

a legend is a made thing                      a thing
made out of circumstance
that a story cannot carry

            in its making
            it is made
            & to say what
                        it is

which is to say that the making of a legend
                                    the making is retained
                                    by the made thing
that the legend tells the story of its creation
                                    how it came to be
                                    what it came to

that this man
            an oak tree of a man with an infinite mind
spilled into violence so to be seen as not short tempered
as virtuous      instead
and by extension
                                    unedited          ineradicable

and so towers the legend over his poems        the thinking
swaying and unquestionable
                                                every move every physical
every intellectual & musical move like a bear emerged
and drunk from her cave returned to creation creation