Wednesday, March 2, 2016

A Tree in Four Parts

Part 1

I am a tree.  I was born in some South American city starting with the letter 'N' that I cannot pronounce.  I was born some time ago, but not having a brain, it is a year that is not right now.  Whoever decides trees knows the kind of tree I am.  

Quercus L., oak
Prunus serrulata, Japanese cherry blossom (despite geographical probability)
Cupressus sempervirens, cypress (oh, to be!)

I am fat in blossom.  I am sweaty and churned from cold, heat, and spring.  I am hard and barked.  

What I know is what I see.  I see like the stretching of a Hand.  I can feel Them walking from miles away, picnicking for a day.  I feel times back They have never been; my breath, an ocean.  These washes are east of me.

The wind, the wind.  She is my neglect sent rummaging for roots.  I have never lost.  I will never lose.  She is that guest I am always most awesomely in fear of seeing.  She knocks and loots.  Branches fall--embarrassment.  Because I do not know my time, I do not know who accuses me, who whispers solemn breath.  But, loud and wide, such clarity in Sky. 

Oh! Solemnity! Welcome to being a tree!  We do not shop, we do not sport, we do not bake, we do not style.  I drop my branches low for seasonal ebb and flow and smile.

Part 2

The Blooms

What kind of overgrown earth tells even one of us to green?  Which massive silly fern knows the kind of blooming we're in? Who knows the noon when leaves start falling?  Speak up and rustle.  You shake like an idiot, and the wind is still climbing. You must have caught all the hawks and the owls in their howling.  Surely, you log, like mossed rocks, you feel iron; surely, the mining; surely, the jawing, the inching deep into your linings.  You fall like an idiot, and the smell of burnt lumber is rising. The toothy metal disc mixes sooth, oil, and writhing; releases noxious toasty charring.  Your innards have no sound and your rings are all but charming.  But do, tell us, "Bloom! Grow your pine, you've no time to be inspired!" Shut up, distant thief. You cannot have the blooms we are finding.  Older leaves are falling.  The wind is gracious in its rising.  

Part 3

hickory, burger
oak, burn
cypress, hill
cherry blossom, tattoo
dogwood, meadow
weeping willow, frog
pecan, home
pine, forest
evergreen, snow
fur, christmas
aspen, needles
maple, guitar
birch, simon
mahogany, money 
cherry, truth
basswood, architect 
walnut, walrus

Part 4

tree tree tree tree tree tree grey tree tree 
tree tree tree tree tree tree tree tree tree
tree tree tree tree tree tree tree tree tree

Dripping

sludgy gunk,
    gear

bagel
    flat     

black-toasted 
video 

     crescent man,
sorry or splaying:

"listen, I don't have the right answers"


staring at the wood room,
spooked by airy headroom

           roll pursed lips roll


secret oil
       enunciate freely

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Pickles

hey maddening hand, 
love could be a quotation,
love in this derision, 

pickles in this sandwich,
pickles' greenness,
cut out the spice

thrill-high, uni-dart
cutthroat     
mister, my

miss impresario 
          shattered 
half a glass

of fucky reunion,
of tangled retrace
of spoiled tomatoes 

of my most 
rotten 
hesitance

Daffodil

all I can't do is think about you, dear
bird linings, 

my shores mis-nix 
a hurdle, and I am done

with you 
forever with you. 

my shoes and pants 
in step, un-lining,

lie and soft, 
a game 

'round the rose, 
this mega-mirepoix

fail upon
the daffodil 

back with fruit 
and bitter stamen

Monday, February 29, 2016

This Sphere of a Thing

this sphere of a thing.  the sphere 
doesn't move.  the parts that are
its edges, the wane, the waxing,
inconclusive, the dog on some patio
then gone, then a jaw 
   pain, reimbursement, all sorted
measures
   measures
       measures
this sphere of a thing.  

this sphere of a thing.  time that comes rushing 
as a bee.  to raspberry.  
this sphere of a thing. 

this sphere of a thing.  I'm all
but collapsing.  it's a worm-like foggy
interlude who banks, near nude,
this sphere of a thing.

this sphere of a thing.  a black line
pasted, because it was cut, onto.
that's what I see but shouldn't.  
me on one  
      side of the meadow,
me and langue 
      remote. 
I'm teen.  rosy 
immaturity, rosy shake.  
      rosy imbalance
rosy mistake 
slow 

this sphere of a thing.  above mine,
if I close my eyes. 
ha!  a cat wilder.  
ha!  one eye.  Creeley 
for reals, those squirrels, those dives,

languid, sordid, inadequate rhymes 
      ferocity  
up cheer, excellence, 
      bye,

holler exceptional, holler crime, sun-lick face, 
new york times, unfamiliar passages, unfamiliar 
      lines

              fire on wall
              fire on wall 
                unfamiliar fire, 
              fire this tall

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

projective verse

)for those who (poet, architect, film, paint)
i think you'll really enjoy this

-from charles olson

Monday, February 6, 2012

pretty sure john ashbery does
no wrong.  pretty sure frank
o'hara salts for an ocean.  i
think creeley, olson, berrigan
are in my beer.