Hide it! Hide it! Hide it!

I'm Making Some Time

(a found poem)


I'm making some time
from chalk dust
thick with late.
Is that a problem?
Familiar and unrestrained,
sometimes wilder, sometimes swelling twisted
from what I find fascinating, I'm cherry-picking you some style--
old-fashioned self-consciously asymmetrical distain--
distracting God, to put it mildly feminine.
Art, the war-like male,
treacherous and subject to error, is still with us,
ambiguous, loud, nagging a straight line, eating
the fruit invented between signs. Feasts please
me.
But the sentimental wastes time, little and large with vowel.
Warning: Folly uses vocabulary no less loaded, its truth free,
harder and saner than loud complaint. Go now humble,
ungoverned, indifferent,
swirling around the final movement
between tragedies spectacular, self-absorbed, and the problem
we no longer think of repeating.

Goodbye, Paul

I'm not sure what to say,
nor whom to say it to.
It would be better if such news
were the work of a cruel prankster.
I'd rather be angry than mourn.

Yesterday, I was stunned and saddened by the news of the death of Paul Squires of Gingatao. He will be missed by many around the blogsphere, and I will miss finding his comments here.

Paul Squires was a light. The world is darker without him.

In the Middle of the Bible Belt

The clocks were set below the surface.
There is no faith. There is no trust.
Believe nothing, child of God.
Give them stillness.

I find myself listening
when no one is watching,
and I hear the world
praise the devil.
Grave as bourbon clouds,
the ghost of neglect
swirls around us,
desolate as straw.

These crazy drunk days,
our brains explode.
Dangerous stars gaze up,
blinking assassins unmasked.

No Other Truth. No Other Love.

Springing from niches,
the dead pile up
in the neighborhood
like mountains of old tomes--
brutal philosophies,
unpermitted poetry,
odd memoirs.
They guard the horizon.

There is a price to pay
for our faith and our doubt.

I hear them singing. Pulses
of light reveal a corpse in the mud--
a migrating bird--for a moment,
its every move a possibility of escape.
We live on the same earth.
White passages closing the circle,
sections burn themselves
into a steady, winking beat.

It is not too soon
for the melancholy season.

Pleasure powerful, twelve lean dead
towards a beautiful decay
and pity those who can't be miserable.
Saltwater experiments, deep all over,
buy golden anchors and uncommon calm.
Frayed ropes lead from effect
back to cause--better the suffering,
holy upon holy, mind upon mind.

The Great Not

He's the great not.
His parents more than any
failed to notice who came out.
It was too new.

I am before I, he says,
writing the to be true.
It is quite today.
A very everything, he adds,
and frankly sentimental with deep.
He laughs, failing to convince them.

No, it isn't what it isn't.
I wouldn't be the judge.
New, he is today.
I'm a mysteriously immune connection.
What should I do but your desire?

Another clueless American boycotts Arizona

The novelist Tayari Jones has posted a copy of her letter to organizers of a writers conference in Pima announcing her intent to boyott Arizona because of SB 1070. She writes:

That people should be legally required to show proof of citizenship is similar to the antebellum mandate that black people produce "free papers" proving themselves not to be slaves. It recalls the pass system under South Africa's Apartheid. Sadly, visiting Arizona for a conference or a vacation without fear has become an ostentatious display of privilege.

Perhaps she doesn't know that federal immigration law requires non-citizen permanent residents to carry documentation at all times. SB 1070 mirrors federal law. I can't wait to read Tayari's letter to President Obama announcing her intent to boycott DC.

Welcome to the United States.

Not quite almost not maybe yes

That's the story of my life. As a stick woman.

Fractally, my dear

Bucking

that same power,
I like it.
Dangerous--
stealing words on every side,
shaping phrases.
No one can teach you
to move deeply,
to suffer
spontaneous and joyful,
locked away with only
your enthusiasm
and time.

Virtues

Forgetting and losing
until it shows--
flock folk don't deserve
this bleak pleasure.
Tired. It's near enough
flat-out-unbearable,
mistakes you've had
around for ages.
Difficult, but dear. Dear
and intimate as you allow.