The sound the drain makes
After it has swallowed its full share
When I spoke his name today
Walking under trees of a street
Enjoying being alone in the rain
There was a slow hiccuping of the darkness
All around me, possibly from the earth
Not that he didn’t have a halo
Of car crashes and beautiful daughters
Whatever could distract him
Begrudge him nothing of that now
Now nothing begrudge him
Nothing he did in the ghost of cups
Even his unflattering death
No more crime to the queer gods
Than wearing an ill-fitting suit
One moment in their sight



I went to a funeral
And a hurly-burly broke out
It was like hockey night in Canada
This strange formula of chairs
Is it the way music is to hold us?

If someone is dead, give them a punch in the arm
If they are in a coffin, they’re in a car
Don’t buttonhole a dead person
Give them a break
Skim the gravy off the top of your grief
They will see you later in your dreams

They will have plenty of time for metamorphosis
That’s pretty much their full-time job now

In fact, you just might be only the Greek Chorus


The dissolution you are seeking      such milk
When the wind is here         its hands everywhere
The cobra has a hood
The owl is a night bellman
The moon sifts a dust onto dragon-tiled roofs
Up and down this street       the televisions blow
The wind is ridiculously strong
It might as well be Mongolia
You cannot walk out the front door
Without waking up       You’ve been here before
Your name is the thing you forget
When you are alive       The dead
Are the ones who say their names
over and over      like a memory problem

Ghost Story

We had come out of the ghetto to sit
in the heaven of a Thai restaurant
           just once
        at the edge of the gunfire
Little canal decorations on the table lit up
The waitress had red tassel earrings like a goddess
It must have been Christmas       or something like
We were young for nearly eighty
We had glass noodles, existentialist soup
Halfway through our meal, a young man came bleeding through the door
and shot us all to death
Now the restaurant is gone these many years
It’s a car dealership that we haunt
You can hear our tongues      wagging romance
sometimes,     still,      nearly eighty years old
in the tongues       of the little tinsel metallic flags
used to sell cars


Let no wind blow
Let no water flow
A head stills now
Let no word go
Lessness, less
Moreso, more
Let grass try here
Let calm
Let stars
Let matter lie
One head stills
Round it all
When grass blades
When wind
Goes a lock of keyhole
A house’s skull
Feel its spies
Let leaves that blow
Let water flows
Know I don’t
Feel a thing
Let rubies
Let heartsease
Be done
Let colder planets
Who orbit done stars
Speak to me
At morn

The Terror of Waking Up

I like the way language always feels like.
It is getting somewhere. It feels
like waking up. Getting lighter. The smack of dawn.
Against your back.

The dream that ends when you wake up.
Is not insignificant. Think.
It is like an airplane
going down. Because you woke up.
All those unreal people you were.
Just dreaming.

They are suddenly on a plane going down
because you have to go to work.

You senseless monster, go back to sleep.

Save them.

Rescue their unreality!

Your boss will understand.