some august poems

cold start, then warm, title added on



some of us are in the business of creation
chip sculpt and hone and on

but not all of us

but me? a flawed piece lit upon by flecks of trash
intones more in its song than strict adherence to a lone scope of beauty
sings more of what happens in hearts and why we like to remember

this wordfull chipped smear is more me
than stagnant water, lit upon by what one later remembers as
golden rays of the sun

but this is not the point here, though indeed
it may be all there is

the point is
instead of making
i'd rather be made
and forget it

i'm thinking of an old chinese poem in a thick book
of many old chinese poems     it closes,
more or less, by letting me know the best thing to do
is to get drunk in the flowers, in so many words, and it's
a pleasing translation     i don't drink much

but i drink in her skin even when she's away, i sip her warmth
either by mouth or mind, and there are those flowers

but maybe the point is
no way
am i flipping
through that book

and damn it
i ended up writing this
all flaky chips and smudges
we lose ourselves in echoes
of our own time, our heartbeats,
the way our fingers trace the same lines

instead of lips and softly the curve of an ear
and suddenly somewhere warm
like i was taken there
like i was made
like in flowers


~


8 2 06






blow up dolly


i blow up your photos
and stare

so that you're all a smile
or an eye sees just me
a curve the world's timeline

stopped


save for memory and desire



~



8 6 06






the tango inside


begins a waltz, formal and restrictive,
very described

but soon she swoons in my arms
still holds her own

like she did in
three quarter time

bodies on a brink
the infancy of passion, clothed

and later, nude in faint moonlight,
a childhood lived

in the music made inside,
the tango, the waltz

losing my senses, a child thinks
this ain't for sissies

our flesh ethereal as memory
dances light and dark

in parlor air, sea air,
people, clouds, we drift, now rest


~


8 8 06







like her


i've never been able to picture you
in fog. any good sense in a broadway musical
shines in your eyes, convinces me.
you are not morocco,
but still.

museums of stars compel and delight.
you're on my arm on the
promenade, throaty and spicy.
look. people are wiping the dust away.

when i engage myself, there's usually
a black eye, or blue balls. not engage as in
weaponry, interrogate maybe. humor as vapor:
it rises and sets in your eyes.

a pile of lace like you, there in the corner.
so many miss the little things
the sprouting hearts and weeded passions
(each so precious)


~


8 14 06






The Writing I Had an Idea About


There were pillowcases and thermals and bras
convulsing with wind in varied grey afternoons.

I got earshot and tried to explain,
omitting words every so often in a regular pattern,
and didn't begin to explain until I randomized

the words then the ideas then the writing.
Would that syntax would sometimes have been
as waterbeads on skin or wind on water

I would no longer wish to write. I could point,
or simply listen and there I would be
in this water, in these winds.


~


8 17 06