Look for new poems (and more) at the start of each month.
A comment on intimacy.
THE RISK TAKEN
I dive back into intimacy like a human meat-grinder,
flailing and shrieking with absolute glee,
arms and legs spinning as if I could swim the mighty blades.
In a second I am churned to muck,
and I love it, driven to liquify myself
again and again for the sake of evolution.
For the sake of touch. Blending we thrive, and spread, and die,
perhaps not in body but in the limits of skin.
In I sail, flailing and gleeing and out comes something else,
a muck of pain perhaps, of unbound nerves, but also of sense,
of cognizance beyond myself, of rapture, and of power,
a power that could not exists without this,
a speck of knowledge, a glimmer of ken,
a way to become more human.
Not sure what this is, but here it is.
There is one piece of sky and you can have it,
no questions asked.
No purchase necessary.
No grip at all.
You can breathe it, bide it, fly it, shine it, you can
just about anything it except
own it. You can’t own it.
You can’t own it
unless you let it own you,
let it eat you,
let it ride you all the way home.
Yes, I’m still talking about the sky,
that one piece of sky
that’s all there is.
Let it possess you,
let it breathe you,
let it slide into you slowly,
let it through you,
let it disperse you
and drift away,
and then you’ll know a thing or two
You’ll know a thing or two.
A new kinda Zenny poem. Or somethin.
What kind of truth comes out of a frog’s mouth? All of it.
We speak of croaking, but that is really just a way
of croaking ourselves, an excuse for not knowing or not wanting to know,
when in fact the frog is telling all, intimately, its body
bleeding into the world as it sucks upon it. As it breathes.
The sound is nothing separate from the burning of stars,
even that a misnomer, the striving of a machine to think beyond its circuitry.
The frog does think, but thinks in such a way that doesn’t bend itself
from the brute mud of air. It is that mud, waiting to be mud, and mud, and mud.
The fly is so delicious. You are a glass of water. There is no glass.
It is November, my birth-month, so I am required natural law to include the next poem, which was written in 1990.
November is the lilac growing from my grave.
November is the cinnamon of the veins.
November is a tea steeped of dried brain stem.
November is the sockdolager of autumn, the final blow, the sting and fraud of blowing leaves.
November is the leech of winter at the base of the spine.
November is the sleep-droozed giant peering over the hill.
November is the net of remembrance, tangling you in its weave, or cast before you leaping to a new place. You choose.
November is the sperm joining egg in the desperate womb of February.
November is the roadkill trampled rank after rank by the students of high-tech self-satisfaction. And I mean rank.
November is you naked in the downtown streets.
November is the crunch of gravel in the teeth.
November is the rattle of love in the chilled heart.
November is the exoskeleton of grace.
November is the eyelid of indifference.
November cracks the bricks of tradition.
November drowns flies in a freezing well.
November eats the molehills of the mind; shits moles.
November spins the outer shell of the cocoon.
November shrinks the man to mud, swells the mind to myth.
November mothers tapestries, innocently wove, that alter human history.
November fathers broken sticks, axeheads, the worms of survival.
November lashes out at pride with a weathered vengeance of humility.
November spits in the Fascist’s face.
November coins the lash, strips the hide, kills the pig.
November is the whisper of the blade.
November glances at death.
November is the sharp seeing.
November gives what the ungrateful cannot see.
November is the state of alert.
November is the aria of strength.
November is the cruelest month, insofar as cruelty is the greatest gift.
Let us give thanks.
No peace of mind
Tiny ditty that I wrote recently in half-sleep.
Quiescent we lie
in a room full of air
whatever we’re doing
we cannot abide
without reaching, and sifting,
and clattering by
while the town rings our memory
into the sky.