Ours

Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves

 

Elysium

I used to be afraid
of my own rusted screens
the brown palms
of my hands on their overtime
like the hills
you swept them under

I cannot price
the molehill
of the language we use now
there is a bitterness
there is an equality
it is very much of these flowers

at least

the problem of the personality has been solved

It was solved not for x or y

but this golden field

this nubile cloud above it

A Sport

Life says be a sport about it.
It says this while revealing no rules
that might give the play some boundaries,
some sense of a definitive score.
People claim to be winners, but who knows.
Certainly, there’s no convincing umpire
or referee on the field. Not even the divine ones
with those shrill whistles hung around
their oversized necks. Their rules are crazy
and only there to soothe them. Life says be a sport,
and then does crazy things that no way make sense.
You start to realize the game is really much more
like art than anything else. You make it up
as you go along and just try to convince others
it’s a believable form. If you hang yours on a wall,
will people nod “Uh huh.”

Dot

You want to be a bringer
You want to bring something
You want to bring it to the people
No, you change your solemn mind
You want to bring it to the animals

This is a wise, a tactical swerve

Nothing may be brought to the brightness of people
That is the miracle of death
You can bring things to the animal
And you can bring things to the animal inside the people
They can eat and absorb things

If they are interested, they will chew

But the person itself
It is an impermeable membrane

It’s a different kind of will

It’s like a mouth of rust eating and talking at the same time

Jogging Through a Cemetery

Do you recognize the turn of the  morning
I don’t
It’s like the translucent grey handle
At the top of the poem
I just now noticed

I can see through it
Push down on it to write
An image of the window’s sky
Will appear to be sponsored
As this moment

Appears to be sponsored

As you appear to be ashes

By your name

That strange tethered animal

“Meaner than a junkyard dog”

 

 

Pebble

This pebble does not even wake at morning
There is no need for it to even know
When the arc of the heavens comes up over it
When dawn rides up with her rosy hood
There is a sweeping sense of existence
For those who rise and look out windows
The pebble that rests on the street
It is as real as you or I or any president
But it cannot care that it is real
Is it more or less true than us?
Granted, it always was exactly what it was
It didn’t vacillate the way we do
Oh, there were tiny erosions
But we wouldn’t know

So we mock it and say “unreal”

Because it never changes so much

So violently

Nobody could ever even know to endear

The way we fall in love with the inconstancies