The old pipes in this house
scream in the middle of the night.
Not as lovers scream
in motel or wedding bed.
Not as ghosts scream,
as oracle or agony of injustice.
They scream only as old, rusted
when they have been buried
within walls too many
Still, you taste
the weird tang,
and will spend it
like a quarter
on a winter street.
tasting mold in bread
in the river
wet red leaf
glued to hospital window
There is a foam around facts that is mind. It is even like this standing in Starbucks, stumbling on the phenomenal world. That too is called mind. The stare looks for the mind in stumbling through Venti, Trenta facts. And you want to be a Rolodex of poems! But this looking is just headlights of cars in the mountains at night. It is only the thrill of a solitary deer standing there in a field. Eyes, radium. Sometimes you are like Madame Curie and sometimes not. Fiddling with the radio in the car. A stare looks for the mind in facts, in folds of facts. The stare seeks some thing staring back. Bold and bared. Not an eye for not an eye. But it is mist translation. The mountain at morning is grateful you are gone.
The term implies there is a genuine article
and we are it. The paragon must be five
paltry senses that only vaguely understand each other,
wired together into a sort of bickering council.
Because our say-so reality closes us in,
closes us under itself like a bell jar
so clear we can no longer even see it,
because we die in that protectorate of the senses,
we believe past any rational leap that nothing,
no one will ever get past us. Evolution broke the mold.
It is the most artificial intelligence anyone could imagine.
A door draws my mind into the idea
of an ideal room behind. It becomes heedless,
totally blind, to the real knob in its palm.
But reality is bland, my hand thinks, jejune.
Now, who the hell on earth listens to a hand?
We try to hold the nature of thought
in a thought that, somehow, isn’t
only another one. Thought doesn’t seem
so concerned with holding itself. It will
go anywhere we tell it, and pretend to be interested.
It is given back eventually, if you are lucky,
if you live long enough. The world becomes less
“blood-hot and personal.” Oh, but the recipe
is horrible. People must die. They must give up
on you forever. You must be written off. There must be a nothingness,
an abeyance, where your existence does not matter
to anyone but yourself. If that. And then, if you are lucky,
it may come to you again. It’s with the fingerlings
of light that come through the faded curtains at dawn.
It brings this awakening. You recalibrate your sense of event.
You recalibrate your sense of gratitude, the prosperousness
and the greenness of it all. It’s the grass everyone walks on
but nobody thanks.