Wednesday, March 20, 2013



If I were a poem you’d be the last line that eluded me
like a rope thrown to a man overboard in a perfect storm
of the picture-music that swept me off the deck
as if from then on I wouldn’t need legs whenever
I tried to walk on water to hear the mermaids
singing like the Supremes to Sam Cooke.

Late spring snow this morning. People drawing
their tendrils in like the blunted horns of morning snails
who were ready to venture out of their shells
like buds and tendrils, but got caught like crocuses
out in the cold, and it’s one more night in their coffins
before winter gives up its ghost. If I were a poem
you’d be the muse of fireflies in total eclipse
that lit up my life like the new moon in the arms of the old
for a while, the last nightbird to give voice
to an old growth forest struck by lightning and chainsaws.

Winter patina of candle smoke and nicotine
almost skin on the windows looking out at the grey skin
as if they had a reflectively depressed, unlucky opal
for a third eye coated in a cataract of milky ice
like a goldfish trapped like a comet in a frozen pond.

I usually identify with everything that’s going on,
empathize with the pigeons someone’s scattered like ashes
from the urns of the chimneys squatting on rooftops,
though I never knew them personally, I heard their word was law,
and there are states of mind, sublime and trivial alike
that can be reactivated by the garbage people
throw away in backalleys and parking lots
like lottery tickets and crushed coke cans,
cigarette butts put to the heel like a third world country
or left to burn out like the field fire of a relationship
that’s vaguely over, the mountain ranges of house keys
with tiny coded teeth lying like the jawbones of fossils
nature doesn’t have any use for anymore. If I were a poem

you’d be the caesura I kept falling through like a crack
in my skull when it opened up like the earth
and swallowed me whole like a dragon swallows the moon,
a cosmic egg in the nest of a red-winged blackbird
returning to the place of its childhood after long absence.

If I were a poem, you’d be the one word, like October
I couldn’t find a recombinant rhyme for, though
I read the dictionary like a parrot listens to a rap song.
Funny how we pearl our irritants into full moons
and the false dawns of sunrises in an oyster shell,
the silver lustre on the lining of abalone pit mines.

If I’ve learned one thing as an alchemist over
the metamorphic course of an hermetical life
is that it’s impossible to make an alloy out of inert gases
however resplendently they shine on their own
like secular stained glass on the Keatsian eve of St. Agnus,
and even when you do find empty chairs at the table
that enable you to bond periodically, the argument begins
as you start to forge a new life together whether
it’s better to be poured into the mold of a sword
pulled from the rock of a metallurgical wizard
or a ploughshare ready to till the moon like a fertility goddess.
Conquer or nourish. Make war on agriculture
or try to civilize nature with genetically modified wheat.

If I were a poem, you’d be the solitude I entered into
like a vow I made to the willows down by the river
that made me weep my heart out like a bloodstream
whenever the last crescent of the moon slashed my wrist
like the tongue of an envelope on a loveletter
I was trying to reread in private like a paper cut.

If I were a poem, more important than me,
you’d be the publisher and the literary award
I didn’t get for it as I sighed for another just as hot
sure to enslave the ripples of the rain at the growing edge
of the expanding tree rings in the wavelengths of my heartwood
and give all my literary root fires dry rot. If I were a poem

it would be difficult to explain to you how
my mythic deflations are a seasonal function
of my oxymoronic quantum entanglements with life
that exalt me as compassionate compensation for
enduring my humbling like a Zen samurai
writing haiku that caw like crows on dead branches in autumn
and drift like apple bloom or the swan of the moon
shedding its feathers on the lyrical theme of a nightstream,
without drawing my sword in ignorance
part way out of the scabbard then resheathing it
in a magnificent eclipse of being effaced by enlightenment
like a deathmask with a smile like a telephone cut from ear to ear.

If I were a poem, I’d be here and you’d be there
like an electron that can be in several places
at the same time and I’d be shadowed by enigmas
that would follow me for the rest of my life
as I walked on home alone without you
past the lunar tarpits where I used to go skinny-dipping
with the mammoths and staple gun Smilodons
as if I were swimming through penumbral oilslicks
on the moon like a snakepit of emotions at high tide.

My Papa was a rolling stone that came down on me
like an avalanche, literally, so I always feel
there’s a meteor shower out there somewhere in the unimaginable abyss
with my chromosomes. The building blocks of life
like Castor and Pollux in Gemini, snake-eyes
on the upside of the dice if I were a poem, you would
well-meaning enough, breathe on for luck, and then
where X marks the spot where we expected to dig up
our buried treasure, I’d be called upon to suck the poison out,
hoping there were no cuts on the lips I kissed you with
for fear of contaminating your wishing wells and aquifers
with local earthquakes caused by fracking
as I researched my panic in a maenadic state of Orphic dismemberment
for everything between you and I I was lacking.




What’s to keep you from dancing if you’ve got nothing to live for?
Dance naked in your tears. Cry through your laughter.
Plunge into a black hole and come out the other side,
renewed, a virgin, no more feathers and tar pits.
No more dead petals in a dry fountain. Absurd, isn’t it?
When you begin to compare skulls with the moon,
not at all what you imagined you would see, not even
the prevailing consensus of delusion that passes for reality,
this neo-primordial soup of logos and memes
we’re all swimming in like fish in radioactive water.
This pre-Cambrian efoliation of multitudinous sentience
re-inventing cuneiform to write it all down in the Burgess Shale
three hundred million years from now, fossil by fossil
and one among myriads, the lucky lottery ticket
of a fish with a spinal cord that will lead eventually
back to the saddest excuses in the world for the likes of us.

I’ve stood on bridges late at night by myself
watching the waters flow as if my mindstream
were going on without me, and the pain were too much
even for a poet to sublimate his way out of,
and I’ve lived my way to the end of a labyrinth of cul de sacs
and wearied of their chronic recurrence like a water wheel
at an abandoned mill that used to gamble on a river boat
things would stay afloat long enough to make shore
before the ship goes down. The crucial point here
is not to live with regrets as if you had something personally
to do with all of it. There’s no starmap
for the burrs of the sorrows that smoulder
like brown constellations in the slums of an inflammable zodiac.

You diminish your arrogance at the expense of your humility
that’s grown as gigantic as God, when you think
you know enough about the unknowable to fix the blame
as if you’d just come up with a new alibi for you and the world.
Could be a curse. Could be a blessing. Could be
an improbable concourse of unforeseen events
that’s been chain-reacting well before
the infinite beginnings of the multiverse.
You cut your skin with razors as if you were
playing tic tac toe on your thighs, hoping someone
would come along like an antidote and suck the poison out.
But life isn’t sweet when you’ve learned
to weep through your fangs. Go ask the moon.
There’s no holy crusade going on as if the rose
aroused its petals to go to war against the infidelity of its thorns.
Even the predators, in their own way, are the children of their prey.
The longer the fangs. The sharper the talons. The harder the armour.
Ever seen what an owl can do to a snake? Yes,
things can be bad, but not necessarily for your sake.

They can be good, too, but if you think it’s for you,
you’re going to end up telling lies about suffering in your sleep
like a flashflood in a dry creekbed trying to wake the frogs
that have burrowed deep into the starmud for the duration
by singing to themselves in the rain as if they’d just had a revelation
it’s wet on the moon again. I’d could give you any one
of a thousand interpretations of your eyes. I could
turn your sacred snake’s tongue where the rivers part
into a green witching wand twitching over the watersheds
of mystic lightning. I could scry the self-sacrifice of your next breath
like the smoke of a distant fire on an autumn hillside
and try to explain the fireflies as the popular demotic
of the proto-nostratic of the stars and how that relates
to the scars on your leg. Befuddle you into a salvation
that would last at least a couple of decades before
you could ever find your way back by your own lights
to where you were going with the rain before I met you.

You’re not wrong. You’re not right. I could say that and mean it
as easily as a principled astrolabe looks upon a starless night
and doesn’t try to see what isn’t there. It isn’t dark.
It isn’t bright out. It’s clear all the way to the next star
if you don’t bind yourself to a mental atmosphere
where the mind suffers at the hands of its own weather
like a child that thinks it needs to be taught to wake up
from its own nightmare when, in fact, once things
begin to bottom out it’s as over as a bubble rising to the top.

Pop! No more delusion, no more enlightenment.
No more mirages taking charge of the wellsprings
in the desert of stars in ruins around Jericho
as the wind shapes the sands in an hourglass
like a potter or a sculptor into a sea of eyes
that can actually flow like tears of glass in the heat
you can drink from like a dragon on the moon
just before it begins to rain. And the grasslands awaken
of their own accord. And everywhere guitar-shaped gazelles
are getting up on their own four legs like amputees
that haven’t forgotten how to dance to the elegant thunder
of their own leopard skin drums. And the rain
comes back to your drought-stricken eyes again
and runs like rivulets and the unravelled threads of your lifelines
through the starmud gullies of your brain breaking
into waterlilies of insight on the banks of your mindstream
tempering the broken swords of moonlight
that are offered to it in tribute, not surrender,
because there is no war, into alloys of reality and dream,
delusion, enlightenment, imagination and awakening
no one before you has ever fallen upon like a dancer
who was cut to the quick by a life she’s not been out of step with
by not so much as one angstrom of a wavelength of a firefly
for all the billions of lightyears along the way
you’ve been leading a pilgrimage of shadows deeper into the night
like a calendar of shepherd moons
you’ve been slashing like a sundial on your legs
moments away from the shrine of broken promises
you intend to keep like a vow you made to yourself
sleepwalking your way across the corals of your grief in bare feet
as if sooner or later you could tread all that blood into wine.

Put your dancing shoes on. Crystal slippers. Moonboots. Winged heels.
Stop carving your body like a deathmask you can wear in the world
like an alphabet with omega as its only child.
Why lie down on the grave of that morose saint of clowns
you prayed to deliver you from yourself like the spade
you were using to dig your own ditch on the moon
for the mass assassination of the innocent and obscene?
I’m a poet. And to me you’re as beautiful inside and out
as a blank piece of paper after the first snow
has had a taste of moonlight and softly glows in the dark.
Not Joan of Arc singing at the stake of her own serpent-fire
feathering her body in flames, in boas of smoke to cover up
the glyphs of the bird tracks on the secret loveletter
she’s been writing to herself in the flesh to really mean
what she says when she says I want to live, I want to love,
I want to give and receive the way I breathe without
meaning anything by it. I want to see, because I have
brave eyes, deeply into the light, into the dark, the mystery
of a life that keeps on going without knowing where it ends.