the sameness of living runs keys across the doors of cars.

the same type of people on and off the train, the same white people abandoning train at the 96 station, absurd clockwork.

kiyomizu dera

at the temple, two innumerable stones face
each other across a path and, eyes
shut, you walk from one to nearly the other,
through the throng of children, on
uneven pavement where bricks are
tiled haphazard like daily trials,
stretching out to where the eye can see nothing
you walk, but the eye cannot help it--it winces
open, breaks the charm.

in the walk from one stone to the other, your wait sinks
resigned into the spring you did not drink:
the time no-longer-yours is let
go guilty from the marble of love, luck

past superstition, clattering
back down the pebble steps to disperse in
rain mountains, shelves of air--
you follow

The blog's back! I like your strawberry liquor account, and the new alias? I really haven't written anything at all besides yelp reviews; things are going by too fast to document any sort of settling emotion about them. Hennyway, maybe (hopefully) I will have something to post soon! <3

commerce

the vast in the sky, the inside
eggshell curve of my night when
even our lights don't punch through the
cover or make it diffuse, i want to sell them to you.

no, no more jade in my mottled ring.

thought strikes the same place once
only, then gone.

BARF.

And just for fun time's sake.......This has no title yet either.


The color of your walls
has no real name.
When I sit on your couch
before the low oblong table
the dark paint, stagnant,
apathetic as mud,
watches from each wide surface.

I play the game of turning
your apartment upside down:
walking up the verticalness
of color, crawling across
the picture frames. I force my hands
into shelf bottoms, scratch
book spines against palms.

Towards the window, parting the
blind slits sideways, the buildings
spear sideways. The cars drive up,
down, and suddenly we are much
lower than ten floors, much higher
than could be allowed --

Feet first, towards the mirror
that hangs over your dinner table.
Your living room multiplied;
Sickness, an obscure shade.

Can't think of a title, but this is part of an upstairs meditation. It's very undone.


Black, jagged tar pieces
came dropping from the roof
and piled onto the driveway.

A furious pounding above: all day
the heat pressing down on furniture,
breathing through the window screens.

Footsteps of the muscled men,
the giant men, shaking the ceiling,
dragging their boots over our routine:
The blood of an Englishman.

Our cats could smell it from under the beds,
the dust of all our days clogging up
the drains and filling up the rooms,
which have never transformed once --

Not into closets heaped with small radios,
like in some dreams, or into
soundless swimming pools, from which
water disappears, suddenly.

They are as always:
stationary, too old to grow.

No dark attic either for the men to stomp through --
the sun exposing them, browning
their knotted skin with
a harsh, yellow eye.

Immigration, age 6

When I was real
the moon grew fat.
The broad leaves of the tree hid mothers, light.

In six years, one memory of rain, sieved from
hailstones the size of fists. Ice burst to the ground,
then melted.

That country
changes every seven years, a water clock
dredging up buildings, billboards, and, once,
the body in sheets by the side of the road we don't come near—

the away mind

the ciphers of the
monk, from when he counted notes at vespers
and numbered the fingers
remain arcane as grapes, wood.

no roads arrow, no roman rooms
are lit--yet
the little cell knows itself.
remembers a thousand times over, the divide.

on string, beads chase fingers

the inner ear curls inward strict like prayer

(another crappy exercise)

I wait before the hill.
The others have become dark
figures at the top.
Camera swinging about my neck,
I climb, and the heels of my feet
dig into sand. With my toes
I draw the character for tree:
The landscape relents, and wind
covers it with a gust --
Sweat, gone cold with nightfall. A man
in the distance is saddling his horse,
A quiet couple is shouldering their bags.
At the summit, they are looking up at a chrome moon.

Tearing the fronds from a leaf's underside,
he sits slouched where sun hardens three wide cracks -
on the island the ground yields to no depth.
He takes a plastic spoon and digs the first
hole, and polishes his fingernails white.
Sinking into humus, his feet go last.

House

(coauthored exercise)

Once did the tiller a house
Cut out of weeds;
A thinning, yellow shade,
That covered moss and seed.
It slept and slept; a thought
Grew on the sill;
Like darkened fields a tired room holds
Its curtains still.



Wind

- Lizette Woodworth Reese

Now has the wind a sound
Made out of rain;
A misty, broken secretness,
That drenches road and pane.
It drips and drips; a hush
Falls on the town;
Like golden clods an old tree shakes
Its apples down.

Flight

In the square of dark window an island
moors places where the hills' slouch ends--
hidden
in an echo of wells, dull spoons.

Glass polished in altitude bears
itself up with fronds of water
curling from cold
and below,
lit pins. The human pins grow
bright

the saskians explore MoMA

interesting new exhibits, as usual. too bad i've got writer's block.


I. hanne darboven

to get out, one follows the
lightness
of air.

the notes have raised their hands.
in the close, white room
plagues of notes

and the woman
sings thrice

off-key.

watching
in place of silence i am eye
and cannot help but crinkle.


II.

all day i have been chasing the clean
line___ the window inked
in black

shadow folds the corners into
a room, directing
sweep of
the white walls, the
whitewash.

at the Met, puero

the body of the youth i could write
pages. bent perfect like a cyclops sunset
or the stones set in spades of threes on
the wall's floor. he
is broken invariably, faceless
the cracked marble exposing.

how holes are hid behind a skin of stones--

[one can almost imagine, as the bent hip insinuates itself inside the eye, his legs attached back at the knee, those arms lost, the head shriven off clean. but i do not wish to see what will disappoint the mind]

bear with me

Still Life with Raj


in the room hides
an unwell mind

laundered clothes fester in piles

the chair is plied
with question
the table
has been drunk

in white cups of tea the bitters seep--
brown fingers cradle
palms together

he bows
where the English have planted their
names like trees

the English have piled into my name,
(the walls stroked in ink)
my tongue,
mine--


if you want some exposition: Raj refers to the British Raj.

? (helpican'twriteanymore)

the carthaginian
queen
defined a shape, but the atom's
edges are uncertain.

the electron comes and goes from node to node.

light lifts and strikes like minute hammers
flung.

the girl washing leaves,
the button scored like a mushroom cap:
the dog pricks its quizzical ears--

between you and
me--distance the length of the train

This was written in late December. Haven't found a title yet. What's new.


I come to the table with questions.
These will be the last, I say,
but on this surface
no voice takes on the task.

Potpourri in gold gift-wrap,
and blocks of imported cheese
uneaten on the black wood.
Next to him her face is animated
and milk-white. He nods in
pantomimed sympathy, his hand
smoothing her nervous leg.

Across the table I am the guest,
watching, my insides bowled over
and body flattened by the reoccurring
mistake. A fever, an infirmity
made pure by sleeping fiction.
I am only sleeping. I know this.

We’ve met here before, with
and without sound, or taste.

I see through his affinity to
varied black.
Each time is real as day, repeating
the same deferred fact,
gesturing the silent answers.

trying to write haiku but...

the poem fills with word:
imitation not finding the
difference of branch and tree.

one blossom-
a particular grief.

I'm back from bumming around. I found this poem, translated from Polish. I love the 6th stanza.


I Would Like to Describe
by Zbigniew Herbert

I would like to describe the simplest emotion
joy or sadness
but not as others do
reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
any star
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage
without dragging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxiety
without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way
I would give all metaphors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
contained within the boundaries
of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say - I love
I run around like mad
picking up handfuls of birds
and my tenderness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face
and anger
different from fire
borrows from it
a loquacious tongue

so is blurred
so is blurred
in me
what white-haired gentlemen
separated once and for all
and said
this is the subject
and this is the object

we fall asleep
with once hand under our head
and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us
and taste the earth
with their tiny roots
which next morning
we tear out painfully

from basho

a cicada shell
it sang itself utterly
away


year after year
on the monkey's face
a monkey's face
_____________________________________________________________________

am reading this great compliation (edited by robert hass!) of 3 major haiku poets. just finished the matsuo basho section.

can't write; i'm going to stuff myself full of poetry over the break.

any reading suggestions?

i haven't been writing lately. this is from november

the table set for one the candle

wicking a dirty line

of smoke i drink the wine i take

the pill while with a breath flame

flattens to tongue

mouth flush in spice remembered

the liquor that does

not taste of figs the melon sweet but

empty o --

what could fill

post post post...
I need to be like this constantly, excited and tortured into mediocre poetry.

so...a poem i was looking for specifically, dated January 8th 2006. for my swimming buddy.

forging through crisp water
hands slice, sculpt with
quiet pattering -
i'm an underwater thing.
i exhale, taking you
beneath surface.
but you are no fish and
sink without ceremony.



(there's a part 2 to this that's bad and emo.)

please pardon the effusive rambling/beer goggles of this poem

"Off the Map"

He was nowhere to be found,
not even in the [ ] corners
of your head.

He was not he, exactly -
someone else had replaced his absent
stance at the front bar,
closing his face on yours
and mouthing some distraction.

This did not explain
the substitution, you knew it
in the rehearsed moral of the sequence.
He tells you, slowly,
something about unavailability.
He's unavailable for now.
What could that mean?

A message in pieces,
delivered not to you:
how he, the one missing
between episodes of sleep,
found a night to be
alone, couldn't
stand what the world
didn't say to him,
that it couldn't sing.
He leapt from the N train,
the bridge-junction nowhere
close to home.
Gone in metal, or water,
the way he wanted.

Then, you cried.
Then, you wept until it woke you.
The kind of mourning which
stays, bravely, dry.

how hands are important

lifted from a journal:

i never write about that which is close- the old grief of being left now and after-- further away.

i do not have her hands; their long, straight fingers. mine curve like sloths around the branch, like fat fruit. i don't have the nose of her father, passed down to her from some roman.
not the close-set hips or impermissible mouth, her porous way of existing.

the road of our genes is not narrow, not arrow-slim.
i am not like her.

Title is something akin to... "Preparing." The subconscious ritual of preparing for, well, ya know.

When the dream arrives you
are not ready for it -

fitting the blue sashes around
your mother's wrists at the department store

entering the other place distracted,
the white paint chipping as if

there was nothing there
to look at. Entering the place

and the bed, where a slow peel
of shirt told you this was

too real: the skin, no marks, no taste.

p.s.

c'mon hubby, post something! (you know, as a distraction from your thesis)

if i write another greek allusion, i'll go barmy

she sees to the curses of men

i'm finally posting the more solidified versions of "she sees to the curses of men"-- i'm not certain about the format (division into 2 parts, etc...), so suggestions will be immensely helpful. also, the penultimate line is indented, but blogger won't show it, blehh.
_________________________________________________________________

part one

prescient proserpina already knows
every day in the meadow
is a wait. hours wander
but her path is sure. straight
stone, she sinks and
captures his hand
guilty of want
as it pulls her down

(she had been hearing the echoes of
his pacing in the long rooms
for some time)

going crazy hurts the body.

a failure of wills
the failure wills

a thin rust line when
tongue presses tooth

tasting the
merchants of the body as
they seep
neatly snipping the
feeling

the black dog fear

into strips

"Red, I said. Sudden, red."

What does this mean?

I do not mean to say these things.
I do not say these things.

They look at me and try to spoon the answer
out from under my eyelids,
from the gums of my teeth -
finding the kind of red
which does not describe
the curtain, or the bedspread.
A shade, not explained
through poetic calculation.

This logic resists
the logic of falling things.
It climbs into the hidden
orifices of my face,
pressing into darknesses
not found until
their gaze has been shut out.

le revision

so, this time, a little exposition. in japan there exists this idea of Chindōgu (read more here): an invention that really has no practical, everyday purpose. think along the lines of hats designed to help you sleep on the subway--they have suction cups at the back, so you can attach them to the train windows and keep your head straight while you sleep. or, little feather duster socks for your cats, so they can clean the floor as they walk. completely silly, yet oddly functional.

anyway, the mindset is such that inventing or designing these "unuseless" objects is not considered ineffectual; rather, that sort of creativity is encouraged-- and there's something uncanny (and frightening) of hiding behind a sheet painted to look like a vending machine. it sort of brings me back to when i was little: i would enjoy the feeling of being scared, of finding an obvious place to hide (in the shower behind the curtain; in my mother's armoire, past the coats). everyone knew i was there, but it was comforting and scary at once.
_____________________________________________________________________

"fearing street crime, japanese wear the hiding place"

not useless
the transformation from dress
to machine.
her woman's hair a
mushroom cloud aimed at deflecting
the glance of an eye,
both----

the red skirt folds out to
the shine of cheap plastic
she stands still behind--
and they walk by.
if they walk by they do
not see the shake of her
hand, the shoes poking
underneath the painted sheet
with windows flat and shining as
eyes,
but blind.

no title

all the lines begin this way, at-

a street corner, the want called

up to mouth
but lines of lamplight fall, the color
of his hair
where he is holding with a
kiss another smile
another greed
(not mine)

Speaking of old things

An old journal entry I came upon, dated March 3rd, 2007. Cynical, much?

"Feeling sorry for yourself is never anywhere to start. Upon sitting in a stiff upright chair, wanting a different place. Please, not poetry or talk of men. Slowly to retreat and not to need anything but warmth and air. Talk is something we believe is necessary. There is always ourselves, alone and disappointed in a place not made for us. Geometry surrounds like excess edge.
You begin to think about everything you could be making, every corner inhabiting, every stupid conversation not having. Everywhere there is someone not like me, everywhere things get too twisted and complicated, flaky and infuriating. Everywhere not wanting to hold this sordid banter, figure out the configuration of social nets which should really just burn to cinders. I'll celebrate with the ashes, I'll eat them for better health. There is too much noise among everything, I try not to cringe at such hypocrisy and gilded edges. I'll stop trying. Boredom will make me stop smiling - if the world is inattentive I will be inattentive and present it my droll expression. I want to paint houses and stop talking. Stop writing and waiting for something to overtake my boredom. I'll paint the walls. Or my body. Some kind of transparent color so I'd disappear completely and walk out of these doors raving mad, into the streets, all the way to a place with no cars. Where I don't have to cross streets. I'll drop all my duties as a studious human being and blend in with nothing at some beach. There will be no one, and I'd be quite happy not to deal with the rest of snivelling humanity. Room to breathe, air to eat. Socializing with fish. They have no problems with being fish, no mental frustrations. They aren't freaks like us."

hokay

some more edits. i don't know in which way this thing wants to go. bleeecchhh

after theseus

Do not pity me Catullus.
It was never I--
I who did those things you pity

the sand around me livid,
frozen into shapes like waves
and the black sails hastening
him away,
but no more--
This body was no stranger
and his madness:
born from
too many days kept within.

Immemor
sped across the sea
does not know

But I thank him for the
artifice of sleep
at least

old, mottled things. didn't really have anything new for you. this is from awhile ago, during the cello/house phase. i need to make some sort of collection for those...anyway you should post the immemor one, i really liked it. <3


how could you. she
rises whirling from the
chair. attacking the bed
with eyes,
tired.

the house has stopped
its haunting,
the voluminous pregnancy of the room
has gone.
taking the patterns
of the floor, removing them --
how could you.

a bathtub drains slowly,
the slurp of water and
now the floor is wet,
the floor is
wet.
the chair wishing for a
ghost as guest.

her eyes taking in the
water patterns, the bed --
empty chair,
emptying bathtub.

if she steps the sound
hangs limp in the air
like some kind of testimony.

i've finally done some commenting...please post more!!

i have to stop procrastinating at www.nytimes.com

"fearing street crime, japanese wear the hiding place"

not useless the transformation from
dress to
machine. her woman's hair a
mushroom cloud aimed at deflecting
the slant of an eye,
both----

the red skirt folds out to
the shine of cheap plastic
she stands still enough behind

but they walk by.
if they walk by they do
not see the shake of her
hand, the shoes poking
underneath the painted sheet
with windows flat and shining as
eyes,
but blind.

bargle

poems titled rain

filth falls.

the streets are sodden
with squeaks of
shoes and clumps
of paper
fraying
in defeat.

at the door, the girl
in disgust, hair
clung with clear pearls, with
strident mouth

shakes the memory
OUT

This has been brooding for a week...finally expelled it from my system. Haven't found a title. Gargle.


Impatience laps like a dog.

The poem waits line by
line, crosses the street

and gulps watery coffee.
In the mirror the song

puts finger to strings,
admires its low bodiless
register.

listen to this -
word on skin

Languages you speak spill
onto pavement and
ruin my shoes,
my direction
of sense.

Just wanted to share a Keats poem I really like.

"After dark vapours have oppressed our plains"

After dark vapours have oppressed our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieving from its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,
The eyelids with the passing coolness play,
Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains.
And calmest thoughts come round us - as of leaves
Budding - fruit ripening in stillness - autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves -
Sweet Sappho's cheek - a sleeping infant's breath -
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs --
A woodland rivulet - a Poet's death.

What is her name?
When I last saw her
it vanished beneath the ground
where we stood.

Filing past crates
of fruit and potato,
the Thursday crowd follows
sidewalk lines,
moves content towards
no center.

A boy follows her.
Her face is pale and smiling,
floats before the apple
barrels.

Linda -- mid-sentence, mid-laugh.
Even the last name
comes, and draws for me
the portrait of
a word.

i really should be working

but, because i really should be working, i was looking at craigslist for some reason. the site has this feature called "missed connections", which is oddly captivating. people mostly empty their hearts out to strangers (or air) about someone who caught their eye that day. some of the posts are actually quite touching (y'know: along the lines of "i wanted to say hello, but i was so shy and you were so pretty"; that sort of thing)... anyway, i cobbled this together from the titles of the posts.

urban love story

i.

me in a taxi; you with friend.
you freezer-burned my heart.
you slapped me at the Met.

ii.

it doesn't matter what you remember

hey
our eyes met for a brief instant
(my treasure Vincent)
our eyes met and we smiled,
photographer girl who likes wind

hymn undone- revision

a figure from clay he made.
he fashioned a figure from clay.

hard to see
until i take
the lathe--

on the wheel, earth under
hand tears into skin like
steel wool un strung

(its hungry grit
'brades the skin. it does not
settle silt)

from this
lump
unconvinced of lines
or grace--

from this
clay

he made
the shape
he made the make,
he smoothed the shape
and figured clay

with hands like mine

for seven
days

October, Brooklyn

Walking past the brownstones,
no leaves yet on the ground.
Night as if it would be
forever night, inching
into the fabric of my coat,
prying the last hour
of conversation which is
still warm beneath.

The station is closed:
I follow the curve of street
where two bikers return
from a dark, silent ride.
Luminous green ahead,
the government buildings loom
with lit facades,
empty lawns.

Underground, construction workers
hunch exhausted on benches,
plastered in tunnel dirt.
I stand with others who also wait
for the slow rumble of steel -

Tonight, I can wait
through unhurried night.
Somewhere the train glides, as
in sleep, through its
long corridors.

from the nyt article: autumn in eight european cities

in rome,
cold over takes the old
city and the old
men set up
their stands--

cones of chestnuts that
have burst
their skins--

hymn undone

a figure from clay he made.
he fashioned a figure from clay.

(hard to see
until i
take
myself the wheel--
how earth under
hand tears into skin like steel
wool un strung

how hungry grit
'brades skin and dreams of
smoothness-not)

from this

lump
unconvinced of.....lines
or grace--

from this

clay

he made
the shape
he made the make,

he smoothed the shape
and figured clay

with hands like mine

for seven
days

The missing limbs in sleep -
a search for gauze to stifle
the wound.

On the ground floor, the first floor?
Moving down flights of old stairs
at hallway ends -

Open windows like giant frames
of white light, mouths of towers
and I think (in my sleep):
I will write a poem beginnning:

I envy those plants
hanging there, which inhabit
the stair. Which do not
have to remember this place
as a gray mirage.

You, there the whole time,
who I followed between floors.
While you watched, it all ended
the same way I was sleeping. Hand
pressed on cheek, legs bare

and scissored, and what I was saying,
asleep within that dream:
déjame, déjame:
leave me be,
leave me.

the quantum mechanical particle

the cat
is only partly
dead, Schroedinger
said as
is
every one around
this
place a
solution to
possibility,

probably

i don't know why i wrote this

sometimes, i feel so very frustrated and get the urge to howl like a child, yet leave people unsurprised. days that i hate everything, like walking down a street and being seen or looked at...resenting the fact that the laws of physics dictate even how an eye can define the boundary of me.

anyway, this is strange. too many "un-" words? distracting rhymes or repetitions? please advise (especially the ante penultimate set of lines)
-------------

rest easy in the face of a
dog i have inherited, the
lips and curves unfine,
ill defined.

stalking up hills and
narrowing the corners of my
eyes at strangers--

the photon that has done me wrong,
the indecorous eye that will
continue to look
must turn elsewhere

at them i am shaking my
arms, rattling ineffectual
air

past the sullen quiet, the glare
of solid quiet
is a state of un-care
where i am
unconcerned.

shaking arms, knives