Acknowledgments

Thanks to the editors of the following publications in which some of the poems in this blogbook first appeared, sometimes in different versions:

Alba : "Spy", "The Scream, 1978"

Cicada : "After Myself", "Night", "Two Friends Hiking . . ."

Free Cuisinart : "Five Songs by Tristan Who?" (reprinted in Not Just Air)

If : "Spiritual", "Chaos Theory"

Lily : "4:45"

Mudfish : "First Love (i)" (reprinted in Not Just Air)

Not Just Air : "First Love (ii-iv)"

Shadowtrain : "Little Devils," "My Angels," "A First Morning," "Both Ends"

Shattered Wig Review : "She Spoke of Arrested Destiny"
 

A Note on the Poems

All of the poems posted here originate from writings done between late 1992 and early 1996. The majority of them are reworkings of lines, ideas, or images initially set down in 1994 or 1995.
 

Little Devils

The little devils of history
come out at night to
jab their tiny pitchforks
into the sleeping eyes
of the world's leaders.
 

My Angels

whip out of cars at high speeds
        and take to the air
with their cigarette-wrapper wings.
 

4:45

Low clouds perforate the sky
while the black-edged
wings of the ring-billed gulls
perforate the clouds.
The half-moon at 4:45
is the chin of anyone but God.
 

Spiritual

When I touch
you I believe
living is more
than the rattling
of a doorknob
with nobody home.
 

Myth

The sun is a dead warrior
who haunts the earth
for making it with the moon.
 

First Love

 
i.
When school lets out
We head to the zoo

Where sometimes we give
The beasts new names

And other times we
Just switch their signs.


ii.

Evening and morning came
And went, and it was good.

We spent the whole weekend
Camping, mostly naked.

Green herb for meat. No need
To stray far from our tent.


iii.

We met a dude named Nash
And followed him to his camp

Where we got smashed like rain.
Who knows who touched whom first

But she was smiling at him,
I think, therefore I drank another drink.


iv.

We couldn't look at each other
But she slapped me and

I shoved her and we forced
Ourselves to. Powerless

I took her on leaves and thorns
And tore ourselves to sleep.
 

Catholicism

Our skin—
all human

skin—is
apple skin.
 

Land

As a bread crust
tossed from kitchen window
lands on the grass,
food for the birds,
his parts land on hers.
 

The Body Electric

Each finger
A stroke of lightning
Across the light brown sky
Of your body.
 

She Spoke of Arrested Destiny

Like a phone
that never rings,
the map still
folded out, now
on the floor
under the dash
of her Sundance
in the junkyard.
 

To Dee From Sleep

A bohemian waxwing poised on the bough
of how your eyes are closed.
 

A Winter Silence

I part my lips to the cold air
and stare across the snow-covered park.
It is a field of hourglasses
set on their dark sides, turning light into shadow,
shadow into light, curve after curve
like a crescendo of kisses,
last kisses that want to be kisses that last.
 

Young Love

Tidal wave sunlight
in the window
while around each
other my girl
on the carpet
and I swirl
like cotton candy
in some cosmic
cotton candy machine.
 

Chaos Theory

Through the spider web
of April trees
crawls
eight-legged sunlight.
 

Treehouse

Summer's stronghold

wooden heart

centered like a target.
 

August

I lift my knees to my chest
and rest my head
on my knees and wait
for sleep to take me
under the wing of a house fly.
 

Sleep

Old Atari joystick,
aquaman underoos,
blue silk veil.
Why these? I wonder
as I unpack my bags
in this skeleton keyhole.
 

Waiting

room darkening
mini blinds
eyes
       lean
              thru
orchid
         rain

Waiting

animal architecture
sweats

          parenthetical
          wind

                  branches
watch
 

Waiting

window

window breath

window breath eye
 

Waiting

ragged
          beads
          of
wet
road
          wet tree
wet
house
          wet sky
 

After Myself

Faucet drips
might as well be thunder—
flip my pillow
again.
 

Night on Earth

. . . a crow squawks
mocking me from
the icicle-riddled
branches above.
 

Two Friends Hiking through a Field at Late Morning near the end of Summer

Empty milk gallon
filled with cheap red wine.
Work boots kicking up dirt.
No birds, no clouds in the sky.
 

Spy

A pair of crows
squint
         pupils

in the maple's
scraggy
            autumn
            hair.
 

Fenced In

Crows barb
the wire
trees—

I had been
thinking
of nymphs.
 

Five Songs by Tristan Who?

1.

It’s raining out. What is?
Beats me, but I am
raining in the blue
veins of the raindrops.


2.

I wonder where’s my love
as I wander the streets
a violin—wine blankets
my shoulders and I shiver.


3.

Now it’s always night.
The white moon is gone.
Stars no longer shine.
Words alone shed light.


4.

In the shop windows that I pass
reflections of my soul:
puddle, sailor, palm tree,
garter belt, golem, swamp.


5.

In the end only images of
Sarcophagus! and Help!
exclamation points every
flicking where! posture! divine!
 

A First Morning

Stepping down the gray
carpeted stairs—eyes
like dust bunnies—
she couldn't guess what
a comforting snow
was falling outside.
 

As In The

Wind through
      the
      open door

flyer
      flaps
      bulletin board

leaf
      crawls
      in

unconsciously
      as
      breath
 

Liminal

The subtle natural
white noise heard
in moments black
as any highway bird.
 

Silence

The truth I thought
I wanted to hear.
 

The Scream, 1978

Brown Pinto abandoned
in the shoulder,
trunk popped
as if to address
the cars that pass.
 

Bubba

On a snow-covered
country road
a pick-up rolled
to its side—
the brown iris
of a bloodshot eye.
 

Of a Piece

The rust leaf
that flakes off
an old machine

like a monarch
flutters
into the confidence of evergreens.
 

Ho-Hum

The July birds
say goodbye
to September—

shadows lost
across rooftops
they fly over.
 

Mood (after Zukofsky)

Your eyes dim and search
for . . .
who—
          . . .
          black puddles
close to ice—
throws
          you.
 

Residue

Fingerprints will remain
where my breath
disappears

until somebody
comes along
with Windex and a song.
 

Sunny Afternoon Haiku

Outside the office
window
             a flurry of
snowflakes?
                   No,
just mosquitos
glittering in the haze.
 

Metaphysics

Leaf fallen on his head,
the professor stops speaking
to brush it off.
 

Evening

From sky
to dirt,
horizon
to eye—

“need
an exact
detail
or two—”

as all
things
even
out.
 

Illumination

A white gull, black with distance, crosses the line between sky and not.
 

Shameful

the horizon curves in
the deer's eyes
blue sky black
and the mountains like a driving rain

but there's only sunlight
silent as a barrel
as I stand inside
the great outdoors

I tie my flannel
around my waist
that I only eat meat
I do not kill
 

Silhouette

A candle
hint
of eclipse.
 

Something in the Brush

whispered like
in the green breeze
an archaic
slash of light
the grass is floating

oh don’t remind me
petals fall
like pine cones
raw as stingers
raw as open beaks

my girlfriend’s hair
sleeps against
the chain
of her heavy peace
necklace
 

New Love

When I hold you
like a candle
my thoughts
flicker.
 

Day That Rises, Day That Hangs

Sitting up in M.'s bed with her
already awake and watching
Good Morning America as
the day rises like a loaf
of bread. My love's in love
and I have the teethmarks
to prove it. Our bread is gold
in Samashki village where the days
only hang, like ghosts forced
to reenact their demise,
and the villagers that remain
love their husbands and wives
so much they risk their own
lives to gather up the blown-
off chunks of flesh and bone
and try to pat them back in
place less gently than I tug
at love's nipple with my teeth.
 

Correction

No, a tear
is more
like an apostrophe
than a comma.
 

Wild Date

Tonight we meet
in the balcony
of dawn and smoke
each other's tongues.
 

Exit Arrow

Less like a flare
than a burning
goodbye
kiss.
 

On Hold

window cold
with wind
and clouds
nobody home

the musical
scale of
yesterday today
and tomorrow

lampshade wheel
casting wall
shadow who
fears amnesia

remembers a
cool breeze
brushing off
mad heat
 

No Respect

          for Rodney Dangerfield

I cracked open a beer
And it shushed me.
 

Phenomenological Ontology

A starling pecking
at fountain water
and my murky
reflection, I imagine.
 

Hunter-Gatherer

Biting the nails
on one hand,
I channel-surf
with the other.
 

Wasted

Sun-crafted cloud—
ugly old shoe.
 

Emptiness

In my room
unclenching
my fist—

what am I
sixteen?
this isn't zen.
 

On the First Girl Slept Next To

I would have touched her
if I could have, but I couldn't
because she was real.
 

Bed and Breakfast

The woman I love stands
    with her right foot
    resting on the edge
    of the clawfoot tub
    as she slides her pink
    razor along her leg
in a yellow apple of light
 

Curser

Another fucking mosquito?
No—
      just the cursor
      in Microsoft Word.
 

Both Ends

My life stands up
and walks away
from the park bench
where I remain
sitting the way
my life once sat.

My life heads past
the oak and pond,
past the playground,
past the diamond;
it whistles a tune
I used to know
when I was five
and mostly whole.

My life keeps on
its invisible path
like some raccoon
oblivious to the fact
I won't sit here long
where nothing sat.