think of the troubled co-worker
that had to be slightly
snubbed
of the friend who had
to be allowed his
violence
of the loved one hollowed by
both mind and body
how anxiety
(i can't knock it, when it's life)
is inevitable evidence
still caring
for what can't be begged or touched
out of depression except as loss
bringing itself into one person, not two
there are these and others
and the lines sent are
helpful and accurate
but often i feel unsure we're
maybe too neat for
many people's hearts,
(i buy them a beer,
make them laugh,
but my peacefulness
preserves itself, doesn't
rub off, i wonder)
or maybe it's just that
i suspect pointing beyond
oneself is still somewhat
selective, because it's always
the shortcomings we
point away from, which
i have to admit i value
and look at frequently, since
they are what makes me
me mostly in my
brand new shirt and shoes, often
as for honesty, yes
it's not so important
as tact, which i increasingly equate
with soulfulness
but then again anyone can tell
"you're just being tactful,
and i'm lost, you
can't help, that's my job,
but how to start? who am i?"
and that, my friend, is the
feeling, the fully
defined mystery
that the whole, worth all
this adoration, selects
pains we care
about
to be apart from
Monday, June 30, 2008
today I praise
accuracy of caring
as poetry
not
it's ugly cousin
anxiety
the whole
which I adore
confusing into data
that can only hint
friend, I am so far
from creature
that I starve to starve
like strays
stray to stray
or dancers
the troubled work
of actually loving
is another
name for poetry
I adore
to see clearly, to be gentle with illusions
the body, not the brain, convenes
to force fluids
where they are needed
and this is so precise
as to flit past
honesty as category,
honesty as method
loss of the conflictedness
before the devotion to be lost
and free
oh, and all
is what
I simply can't know
or even repair
and because love's glass
ceiling
backs to sky
the weather out there
adds to the weather
in here
and the thin line
is all that holds
us where we need
to be held
that is
in the "this is"
and that trembling
is not intense
it is the word
for the thing
that begs and bends
grace
from its garrulous silence
a duet alive to voice's
rarest
wilderness
when it is good
an opague play of
transparencies
when it is not so
and rhetorical optimism
is the opposite of thinking
"he bit into the lemon,
he bit deep into the lemon's flesh,
he squeezed the lemon
into his mouth,
drop by drop"
you see, the body knows
how to dance
along the mind's
generative magic
and mistletoes collaboration
devoted to convergence
as inherently the opposite
of the ecstasy of realism,
which is also
the sport of both
small-time anxieties
and decorated slowness
but how much of this
is sensation's love of self,
or aestheticism calling itself
mysticism
or proposed soulfulness
or what most call
god
happily
addition of
learned
lost mind
is also a detriment
to imperfect concern
for poem, wife, or husband,
as you say I say
accuracy of caring
as poetry
not
it's ugly cousin
anxiety
the whole
which I adore
confusing into data
that can only hint
friend, I am so far
from creature
that I starve to starve
like strays
stray to stray
or dancers
the troubled work
of actually loving
is another
name for poetry
I adore
to see clearly, to be gentle with illusions
the body, not the brain, convenes
to force fluids
where they are needed
and this is so precise
as to flit past
honesty as category,
honesty as method
loss of the conflictedness
before the devotion to be lost
and free
oh, and all
is what
I simply can't know
or even repair
and because love's glass
ceiling
backs to sky
the weather out there
adds to the weather
in here
and the thin line
is all that holds
us where we need
to be held
that is
in the "this is"
and that trembling
is not intense
it is the word
for the thing
that begs and bends
grace
from its garrulous silence
a duet alive to voice's
rarest
wilderness
when it is good
an opague play of
transparencies
when it is not so
and rhetorical optimism
is the opposite of thinking
"he bit into the lemon,
he bit deep into the lemon's flesh,
he squeezed the lemon
into his mouth,
drop by drop"
you see, the body knows
how to dance
along the mind's
generative magic
and mistletoes collaboration
devoted to convergence
as inherently the opposite
of the ecstasy of realism,
which is also
the sport of both
small-time anxieties
and decorated slowness
but how much of this
is sensation's love of self,
or aestheticism calling itself
mysticism
or proposed soulfulness
or what most call
god
happily
addition of
learned
lost mind
is also a detriment
to imperfect concern
for poem, wife, or husband,
as you say I say
Response To June 27th's Post
[Lately the trick has been to learn how to take certain insoluble difficulties
out onto the dancefloor without falling into the usual habits: sour assessments,
rigid approaches to the honest. The best possible dancepartner knows that
ease and grace and lightness are the rarest qualities; and that's what I've been
taking lessons to learn. Meister Eckhart, Iris Murdoch, each has taught me
a little elegance in the face of what I'm dancing for. So when I read your recent
instructions on how to tango, I had to agree. Yes, the deviations, the little bits
of chaos that other people introduce into our own orientations of self, our smooth
and measured moves, should be absolutely welcomed. Inches of differences with
and within ourselves. No dance without a partner. In fact, I'd go so far as to say
that the tone and direction of that poem I wrote, which you responded to, was more
than a little influenced by my prolongued exposure to Beckett and Sebald and Proust
than my genuine response to people I have met and related to. Though, then again,
I think the crux of soulfulness, or at least mindfulness, is a willingness to delay
exuberance for the sake of seeing what emerges in the interim. The details of the
whole person, the full moment. The complexity of the shared, and not just the weird
joy of participation. Objectivity, skepticism, analysis: the older and more initiated I
get into the more difficult aspects of life, the more I feel the temptation to overuse
this kind of necessary equipment. But life, the shared array, isn't rational. It's a
dancefloor. There's music. There are couples bumping into each other. Some collisions
are so rough and dramatic that casualties are inevitable. It's these instances that
occupy my mind the majority of the time. Too often, maybe. That, to continue dancing,
one must step over the bodies of the fallen. This puts serious limits on the uninterrupted
gracefulness of my moves. On this and other things, then, I have written this response, a
poem. Which at times is a bit too focused; so much so it can dip in and out of the beginnings
of hurtfulness, fear, hesitation, skepticism, irony, worry, senselessness, and--and I should
admit this--an uncharacteristic, almost rhetorical, mistrust of my partners, inside
me, out on the floor.]
praise can be a steroid
to ruse strength into
the frankly defenseless
which i adore, the details
confusing into human
but since they are and
so am i, both here and there,
friend, i am a creature
of implication
implicated by their relation
not only to me
but them to themselves
and where they are
in the mind, as it reduces
itself often enough just to
like against the troubled work
of actually loving, itself and others,
to survive
implication has its
responsibilities. to see clearly.
to be gentle with illusions
the brain convenes
to continue to agree
with, itself, rare though
how often it happens
less than honestly
no judgment in this. the
tone i fell into
earlier may have implied it
but what that really was
was conflictedness before
devotion to be lost
to be a free being, for them all
is what i hope for
the direction inside them
i simply can't know, because
i can only ever partially
go there, comfort, repair, care.
and because there is a glass
ceiling to love, necessary
to its containment, which
whispers "this is", i have always felt
something entirely intenseless
and without glamour
a duet alive to voice
the rarest organized
wilderness, reciprocal
an opague play of
transparencies
accuracy of caring is what
presents the worried world
before us, and friend, no measure
of rhetorical optimism
can erase that. worried
because worry is a sign of it
which is limiting generative magic
compromise, what you
indicate calling down the
mistletoe, "collaboration"
what is given as our responsibility
to watch for, though, is
knowing our care invested
as the often pained freedom
of another, that they may not
know themselves or what is vital
often contradictory to what is
actually best for them, to respect the
mess is to always encourage
its path even when anguish
is explicit, devoted to submergence
into problems they want you
to collaborate in by believing
you mention fixity,
the mumbling of strangers
as inherently the opposite
but strangers mumble
always from fixity
and concerned measured navigation
keeping one's head oriented
in their presence, FOR them
to be a still conscious movement
oriented to the overwhelmingly
alive, is not exactly fixity, is it?
better to call it the
ecstasy of realism. regarding
the sport of both ambitious
and small-time anxieties
from a mentally undecorated slowness.
it seems that, against
the continuous winces
of skepticism, one should
cultivate a kind of
total exuberance
but how much of this
is sensation's love of self
and how much
are actual people dissolving
in their problems, which
in caring about one is
always in danger of
resembling
i would have to question
the proposed soulfulness
of uncorrected
consideration
if you see the original
of what most call god
in their differences, their details
then what do we call
the sad erase of well-being
by way of learned lost mind
in context of details
because i am also
a detail, adoring to my own
detriment, from
often imperfect concern
for myself, to still the
place they struggle
to come from, be it
poem, wife, or husband,
as you say
out onto the dancefloor without falling into the usual habits: sour assessments,
rigid approaches to the honest. The best possible dancepartner knows that
ease and grace and lightness are the rarest qualities; and that's what I've been
taking lessons to learn. Meister Eckhart, Iris Murdoch, each has taught me
a little elegance in the face of what I'm dancing for. So when I read your recent
instructions on how to tango, I had to agree. Yes, the deviations, the little bits
of chaos that other people introduce into our own orientations of self, our smooth
and measured moves, should be absolutely welcomed. Inches of differences with
and within ourselves. No dance without a partner. In fact, I'd go so far as to say
that the tone and direction of that poem I wrote, which you responded to, was more
than a little influenced by my prolongued exposure to Beckett and Sebald and Proust
than my genuine response to people I have met and related to. Though, then again,
I think the crux of soulfulness, or at least mindfulness, is a willingness to delay
exuberance for the sake of seeing what emerges in the interim. The details of the
whole person, the full moment. The complexity of the shared, and not just the weird
joy of participation. Objectivity, skepticism, analysis: the older and more initiated I
get into the more difficult aspects of life, the more I feel the temptation to overuse
this kind of necessary equipment. But life, the shared array, isn't rational. It's a
dancefloor. There's music. There are couples bumping into each other. Some collisions
are so rough and dramatic that casualties are inevitable. It's these instances that
occupy my mind the majority of the time. Too often, maybe. That, to continue dancing,
one must step over the bodies of the fallen. This puts serious limits on the uninterrupted
gracefulness of my moves. On this and other things, then, I have written this response, a
poem. Which at times is a bit too focused; so much so it can dip in and out of the beginnings
of hurtfulness, fear, hesitation, skepticism, irony, worry, senselessness, and--and I should
admit this--an uncharacteristic, almost rhetorical, mistrust of my partners, inside
me, out on the floor.]
praise can be a steroid
to ruse strength into
the frankly defenseless
which i adore, the details
confusing into human
but since they are and
so am i, both here and there,
friend, i am a creature
of implication
implicated by their relation
not only to me
but them to themselves
and where they are
in the mind, as it reduces
itself often enough just to
like against the troubled work
of actually loving, itself and others,
to survive
implication has its
responsibilities. to see clearly.
to be gentle with illusions
the brain convenes
to continue to agree
with, itself, rare though
how often it happens
less than honestly
no judgment in this. the
tone i fell into
earlier may have implied it
but what that really was
was conflictedness before
devotion to be lost
to be a free being, for them all
is what i hope for
the direction inside them
i simply can't know, because
i can only ever partially
go there, comfort, repair, care.
and because there is a glass
ceiling to love, necessary
to its containment, which
whispers "this is", i have always felt
something entirely intenseless
and without glamour
a duet alive to voice
the rarest organized
wilderness, reciprocal
an opague play of
transparencies
accuracy of caring is what
presents the worried world
before us, and friend, no measure
of rhetorical optimism
can erase that. worried
because worry is a sign of it
which is limiting generative magic
compromise, what you
indicate calling down the
mistletoe, "collaboration"
what is given as our responsibility
to watch for, though, is
knowing our care invested
as the often pained freedom
of another, that they may not
know themselves or what is vital
often contradictory to what is
actually best for them, to respect the
mess is to always encourage
its path even when anguish
is explicit, devoted to submergence
into problems they want you
to collaborate in by believing
you mention fixity,
the mumbling of strangers
as inherently the opposite
but strangers mumble
always from fixity
and concerned measured navigation
keeping one's head oriented
in their presence, FOR them
to be a still conscious movement
oriented to the overwhelmingly
alive, is not exactly fixity, is it?
better to call it the
ecstasy of realism. regarding
the sport of both ambitious
and small-time anxieties
from a mentally undecorated slowness.
it seems that, against
the continuous winces
of skepticism, one should
cultivate a kind of
total exuberance
but how much of this
is sensation's love of self
and how much
are actual people dissolving
in their problems, which
in caring about one is
always in danger of
resembling
i would have to question
the proposed soulfulness
of uncorrected
consideration
if you see the original
of what most call god
in their differences, their details
then what do we call
the sad erase of well-being
by way of learned lost mind
in context of details
because i am also
a detail, adoring to my own
detriment, from
often imperfect concern
for myself, to still the
place they struggle
to come from, be it
poem, wife, or husband,
as you say
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
where else
should intensity reside
if not in the head
than what of the ride
brides to be
acknowledge weddings
and that is it
a flared out purpose
fulfilled
and as for strangers
doubling
I'll take their mumbling
any day
over my own fixity
it's called compromise
and collaboration
the point at which
another's inch
is added
and the _________ (poem,
marriage, life)
differs
what matters, then,
is what you name the difference
not yours
is fine
bad
is perhaps not fine
ours is maybe the best thing
that the solitary, the artist, ah
US!
cannot enjoy
should intensity reside
if not in the head
than what of the ride
brides to be
acknowledge weddings
and that is it
a flared out purpose
fulfilled
and as for strangers
doubling
I'll take their mumbling
any day
over my own fixity
it's called compromise
and collaboration
the point at which
another's inch
is added
and the _________ (poem,
marriage, life)
differs
what matters, then,
is what you name the difference
not yours
is fine
bad
is perhaps not fine
ours is maybe the best thing
that the solitary, the artist, ah
US!
cannot enjoy
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
h. calls the hudson
the ocean
we throw rocks in it, and yesterday
to our left: a tapdancer swinging her
arms, throwing her elbows,
shaking flames
from her golden hair
to our right: a supermodel posing among the rocks
photographed by her coterie
and asians
passing behind: a man with tourettes
screaming on the down-
beats
a song I keep hearing asks
"what have you done for your soul lately"
and for once
(yeah, you saw this coming)
I can answer clearly:
this, this, this
we throw rocks in it, and yesterday
to our left: a tapdancer swinging her
arms, throwing her elbows,
shaking flames
from her golden hair
to our right: a supermodel posing among the rocks
photographed by her coterie
and asians
passing behind: a man with tourettes
screaming on the down-
beats
a song I keep hearing asks
"what have you done for your soul lately"
and for once
(yeah, you saw this coming)
I can answer clearly:
this, this, this
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Name of Stringband Duo In Photo Below
1. The Happy Go Lucky Siamese Mandolin Band
2. The Mountain Twins
3. The Where For Art Thou Hallelujah and Ark-Without-Water Glory Band
2. The Mountain Twins
3. The Where For Art Thou Hallelujah and Ark-Without-Water Glory Band
Monday, June 23, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Yesterday, a chicken stuffed with lemon and garlic. Today, a ham sandwich. Having to explain this leads to all kinds of complications, innuendo, embarrassment. If you won't mention the eating, I won't mention the breathing, how hard it all is, how labored. Simple promises and permissions keep things moving. If you won't bark like a dog, I won't lick myself like a kitten. Can we reach a resolution? Can we agree on that, at least?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
we are moving ever sidelong / toward wisdom
if you don't know where the hawthorn bush comes from, ask an itch
>
if you drop your glasses, run! a cyclops may be upon you
>
will yourself into occasional smelliness, it will make your ugliness shine better
>
respect has ideas, evil it.
>
when searching for French people, look for swimming holes
>
refrain from writing about understanding, it may reveal too much about the marks upon your lover's body
>
if you drop your glasses, run! a cyclops may be upon you
>
will yourself into occasional smelliness, it will make your ugliness shine better
>
respect has ideas, evil it.
>
when searching for French people, look for swimming holes
>
refrain from writing about understanding, it may reveal too much about the marks upon your lover's body
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Free As A Bird On A Wing
if you don't know where the itch comes from, ask a hawthorn bush.
if being chased by a cyclops, don't stop if you drop your glasses.
will yourself into occasional ugliness. it will make your breath smell better.
free food is for coloring.
evil has ideas. respect it.
be bold, like a banana.
watch where you put that thing, tho.
when searching for swimming holes, look for french people.
refrain from writing about the marks upon your lover's body early in a relationship. they may understand too much.
if being chased by a cyclops, don't stop if you drop your glasses.
will yourself into occasional ugliness. it will make your breath smell better.
free food is for coloring.
evil has ideas. respect it.
be bold, like a banana.
watch where you put that thing, tho.
when searching for swimming holes, look for french people.
refrain from writing about the marks upon your lover's body early in a relationship. they may understand too much.
Miss Paghetti & Yogacephalus Meld In Light To Travel at that Speed To Manhattan
do you still feel good
about that, is it
yellow and melodic simultaneously
easy to not
quite touch
but hover and feel the heat near skin
vashti bunyan
on such a big little boat
so good to sea
guitar from me
songs live inside it
and this line
i'm just now reading
aloud to myself
to the french doors
closed
on the road
bardstown
between moments and in teh middle
woops, 'the'
but wait, isn't it truer
with 'e' in the middle
beauty in the breakdown and in the
up up up
and then one feather
down, in a line
beginning by
one patricia
monaghan:
'The smallest gesture is the
same as the
end
about that, is it
yellow and melodic simultaneously
easy to not
quite touch
but hover and feel the heat near skin
vashti bunyan
on such a big little boat
so good to sea
guitar from me
songs live inside it
and this line
i'm just now reading
aloud to myself
to the french doors
closed
on the road
bardstown
between moments and in teh middle
woops, 'the'
but wait, isn't it truer
with 'e' in the middle
beauty in the breakdown and in the
up up up
and then one feather
down, in a line
beginning by
one patricia
monaghan:
'The smallest gesture is the
same as the
end
living with this heart
is like living in someone's month
is like quieting Blake
in corporate content
with a lasso
is like corking something
you don't want to drink
but it is not like corking something
that you wouldn't warrant
someone's else to meet
so tonight I made the mark again
smothered in dread stage and fished
with a tweeze of clemons
pardon what parted
far asway, an only noun
is like living in someone's month
is like quieting Blake
in corporate content
with a lasso
is like corking something
you don't want to drink
but it is not like corking something
that you wouldn't warrant
someone's else to meet
so tonight I made the mark again
smothered in dread stage and fished
with a tweeze of clemons
pardon what parted
far asway, an only noun
living with this heat
is like living in someone's mouth
is like quoting Blake
in a corporate context
which I also did
is like cooking something
you don't want to eat
but it is not like cooking something
that you wouldn't want
someone else to eat
so tonight I made the pork again
smothered in dried sage and finished
with a squeeze of lemon
pardon what started
far away and only now
is like living in someone's mouth
is like quoting Blake
in a corporate context
which I also did
is like cooking something
you don't want to eat
but it is not like cooking something
that you wouldn't want
someone else to eat
so tonight I made the pork again
smothered in dried sage and finished
with a squeeze of lemon
pardon what started
far away and only now
Monday, June 9, 2008
employment is only
for the fearful
fear only grows
in families
and the cowslinger, Rodrigo
Dolson
ancient double-agent
of most all this
packaged as hate
careens from everyone
I once saw slide
off his dice
saddle in mind
to survey the outside
of what the culture
in general agrees with
spat, drew a
spittoon from
mid-nowhere
with such velocity
and hawkeyed
depth of dead
glamor
in pony breath eyes
said
(this I honor
and swear
will never answer)
the West is an
abstraction anyway
though it's my
bread and budder
for the fearful
fear only grows
in families
and the cowslinger, Rodrigo
Dolson
ancient double-agent
of most all this
packaged as hate
careens from everyone
I once saw slide
off his dice
saddle in mind
to survey the outside
of what the culture
in general agrees with
spat, drew a
spittoon from
mid-nowhere
with such velocity
and hawkeyed
depth of dead
glamor
in pony breath eyes
said
(this I honor
and swear
will never answer)
the West is an
abstraction anyway
though it's my
bread and budder
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
a miller high life
at jennica's with
three other poets and
two fiction writers
which the art hop
crowd swimming
outside in positively
thick heat
this kentucky summer
ether in full
dream extension
of what bodies
do naturally when
moves are made
and I'm arguing
that the true love
poem is a
conquering of
failure inherent
in the page
the blank
plain and breathing
faking white
which is a color
best defined as
an absence of
and boldly equal
to two people
doubled to relax
in bed after
not love but
making it
and the life saver's
pillow which she
uses to smash her
head as she usually
spoons her son
every night and the
comic picking of her
front teeth unconsciously
ridiculously absolving
humane fears
crisscrossing mother
problems the cute
hint the simple is
its own dream
catching up with you
at jennica's with
three other poets and
two fiction writers
which the art hop
crowd swimming
outside in positively
thick heat
this kentucky summer
ether in full
dream extension
of what bodies
do naturally when
moves are made
and I'm arguing
that the true love
poem is a
conquering of
failure inherent
in the page
the blank
plain and breathing
faking white
which is a color
best defined as
an absence of
and boldly equal
to two people
doubled to relax
in bed after
not love but
making it
and the life saver's
pillow which she
uses to smash her
head as she usually
spoons her son
every night and the
comic picking of her
front teeth unconsciously
ridiculously absolving
humane fears
crisscrossing mother
problems the cute
hint the simple is
its own dream
catching up with you
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
june 4 begins
with a man at a stop sign
car running
he's eating a sandwich
I guess that overcame him
and then 12 hours
later a very
deathly
serious woman
tries to explain
she is not goofy
after I called her that
and then
I called her goofy
again--another
woman at the table
said I'm zen
I said that's an insult
oh the light the names
I said no
you can call me
tired
but not buddhist
or maybe
I'm just a little absurd
sometimes
pass the salt
she said
do you mean eccentric
I said
no
absurd and eccentric
are quite different
but now I know
what kind of eyes
you have
(I didn't really
I just called her)
goofy again
I took a quick shot
at telling the story
about the man
with the sandwich
but I quickly
retracted
leaving a little gap
in the talking
with a man at a stop sign
car running
he's eating a sandwich
I guess that overcame him
and then 12 hours
later a very
deathly
serious woman
tries to explain
she is not goofy
after I called her that
and then
I called her goofy
again--another
woman at the table
said I'm zen
I said that's an insult
oh the light the names
I said no
you can call me
tired
but not buddhist
or maybe
I'm just a little absurd
sometimes
pass the salt
she said
do you mean eccentric
I said
no
absurd and eccentric
are quite different
but now I know
what kind of eyes
you have
(I didn't really
I just called her)
goofy again
I took a quick shot
at telling the story
about the man
with the sandwich
but I quickly
retracted
leaving a little gap
in the talking
Monday, June 2, 2008
Unhauntings begin again driving the car around Hoboken after midnight, the streets are so quiet, then back though the tunnel. A friend's movie makes the entire room silent for a few seconds and then the viewers clap like you would at a funeral, but you wouldn't. The permission to feel wholly good, wholly free, wholly anything . . . to be continued.
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