Dagger Eyes

Today I clambered to the top of the city
You’re what I like best in San Francis-
Co Dagger Eyes.

The Best of our two worlds
Collide and my mask is only worn to
Suppress your enduring pained expression
Only my pimpled, pearly, blues
Peruse back and forth and
Cloak rhapsodies within
The parodies without

No…

Wonder I awoke on this day
In a good mood…
Westerly edge is pretty alone
The whiskered mother wind awoke
Early to sweep the streets
Dry and hide the crying loon
Joker Hide! Find Disaster!

We all arrived here if by chance
A Chinamen’s romance…
When you get to the western edge
And stare over the bend
But me an mine have arrived
By the wrong side and
Have no where else to turn
But sake straw bale tavern flats
And mystic mood driven rats!

By the same token this
Is impolite cliché’ romantic and immature.

I can almost make out
The bad 70’s bonanza
Projected via heli-
Copter hanging camera
On the city’s easterly edge.

All bleached and naked and used
There’s no way for the smog to decay
Bottlenecked beaten east bay
Or the Hokusai etched mountain Marin
Assaulted sieged then colonized
By winos in the latter stages of uselessness.

I grazed your ear Belvedere
And Tiburon you turn me on
The citation got from Antioch
From the Berkeley Hills I’m swooning still.

But to lose the smog
Is to lose the fog
And hence all I love
From this shaded cove
Where all forces collide
Capsize my…
squinting
dagger
eyes

One Hundred Twenty Miles

One hundred twenty miles–
one hundred twenty miles is a mighty long way
to stretch a lonesome heart.
Yes, mighty long
and weary,
and all that lies between you and I
the poised rise of the Mountain,
the silent span of lakes spreading us apart
have grown barren.

I have awoken on a sliver of wide bed.
I have seen the perfect circle of your iris
pulling thread through buttons.
I have turned your name around in my distracted brain.
I have wished that every word of love
would reach you, honey–
Over bridge and bank and burrow;
all the way back to your vacant hands

One hundred twenty miles.

10-12-10

august 4, 2010

i am free

free if only

for today

awake in the morning

white laden mountains

Schubert and Parra

lifting weight

from the shoulders

of my soul

voices connecting me

to the ancient

caminos trodden

by calloused feet

heights of father sun

whose son am i?

mother earth will embrace me

with with her dusty arms

and release me

from the prison

of this corpse

yet today i am

free

free to live

laugh

love

and linger

in each moment

as if it were my last

to savor the tastes

which drip like honey

upon my tongue

the crisp air

filling my lungs

with sacred songs

sung

by the spirits

searching an audience

amidst the polluted

existence of modernity

echoing from the cavernous steeps

into the overpopulated

valley below

that today

we are free

Laurel Canyon

Smile tapping out rhythms on his typewriter guitar
Through blues laden curtains and gazing very far
The raven winks away upon the shoulder of a dream
And cooks up cardboard puzzles of salamander cream

A well constructed parody
Is ugly at its base
Like scores of swimming atoms
In the construction of a face

I’m deep inside my study
I’m deep inside my heart
Hundreds stand at attention
What stems from the flowering dark

I’m lost inside the mansion
I’m lost inside my part
Of the kumbays rodeo
And a fragment of the art

Atlas walks from solitude
Into the ghastly parade
And a thousand burning horses
Resting in the shade

Mount Shasta wears a mask
Of silver button snow
And a pool of screaming wildcats
Has nowhere else to go

In conclusion I saw writers
I saw victims I saw cheats
I saw spider footed wanderers
Spiraling headlong to the deep

All I could truly contemplate
And hear at the end of days
Is I’m better of enraptured
Because at least I have something to say

Walk on the Shore

Yesterday
you and I skated barefoot
through the sand.
A strip of shoreline lay
traced
with our lazy steps
dipping into new ocean
without hesitation
or fear.
Today
I went down to the water
with a stone in my chest
and a long shadow
stretched out before me.
My shoes were on.

4-20-10

Cognac

Curled
in the cooling depression of a
spring mattress,
there is still the smell of cognac
and you.
Where in the night
we rolled clumsily
one over another
and crashed upon the wall;
the liquor dancing on my lips
and my lips
greedily snatching bits
of your skin.
Laying amidst distressed sheets,
sucking the ecstasy
from the air,
I wished to fill this empty hour
with cognac
and rip-tides.

5-9-10

punta del este

buildings protrude from your navel

clothing your naked sand

with thorns and asphalt streets

sleepy

on a winter morning

of fog and humid air

sticky with salt

i can smell the ocean

in your hair

taste tears

on your tongue

the song of sirens

remains in your throat

hundreds of sailor's voices

lost in the history

of your jagged rocks

the past is a bird

gliding over waves

and forgotten shores

immortalized in statues of stone

the corpse of a tortoise

rotting in its shell

the putrid stench of death

decaying

on the steps of your temple

golden breasts of Europa

carried away by bestial heat

(incarnation of gods)

to the plundering city

of kings

across the Atlantic

Begin to build the palace of God in your heart
That you your liver may not burn
As the ivory cow to sacrifice

That the locust may not fly
And till your brain with crimes
That the sweetness of your heart
cling to the ladder of your spine

The rushing ALL
Fill the chasm of your head
With thousand layers of silence
from tween clenched teeth
Music arise like turquoise tide

My sextant…dead for three days
the barren wood…my listless loss
The woods been petrified
The ram froze mid leap

I had my lunch by the gallows
I had grilled cheese and figs
The slaved and hated were dragged past on a sleigh
I wrote profound words upon seeing a little boys face in the ground
On a ceiling shingle then cast it into the lake

The geese are hibernating beneath the lake
And then moon came out
And then suns moon and Jupiter with all her moons
And then arms of two were severed
And then arms of two were shackled
And then shoes of the babes were sorted
And then minds of the old distorted

I smell all the things of age
Like wax and earth and shed hairs
Is that time so long ago?
Motion back only a second past

Equal and Opposite

Why must we be pulled together? The first words you breathed into my hair reverberating through pools of pale sunrise. My fingers traced a spiral on your chest. Perhaps it is the nature of all things equal and opposite to unite like magnets. And so it is that your charge turns positive through my negative space; and the mere tug of a drawstring will make the universe come undone. 1-21-10

shall i burn what i've written

all the minutes spent

cramping hand

furrowed brow

pensive

engulfed in flame

ashes blown

winds of time

why hold on to moments

past

all is passing

us

them

my creations

you

transient

is there worth in words

and even if

would i that you read them

rather release them

from their prison pages

into oblivion

non-existence

of yesterday

In making we can miss and see it clearly.

Yet nothing stays of aiming once we miss.

That is, unless the thing clicks into crystal, all the force

it took to try remains obscured. And making gone

is marked by ash that can’t resemble

how a flicker of invention burned in gold

when it began. Also that each failure differs

from the one before so as we scoop them into palms

to turn each lesson over singly

we become not indestructible nor prepared.

I brought this worry to a teacher just tonight

and she—who typically speaks loudly—

softened in the low-lit office saying

include ALL that works and loosen

what destroys you. In that light I loved her

for her gentleness and basking in it

vaguely saw a generosity emerge

inside the pocket where invention waits. In childhood

there was another teacher I remember

by recalling some particulars: a sound—

keys that jangled at his hip, the way his face

changed when his lunch was interrupted,

that it seemed sometimes he could not look

you in the eye and others lit you chosen, smiling.

Perhaps the marks remain not from a singular

magic, but because I was a girl. Still, intertwined

and captive in the writing I trace circles

toward the truth, knowing the task

to be impossible, that writing history alone

can never capture any edge. And yet

into my body it is written whole, in gratitude

that rises forth before the gentle, transparent woman.

Growing calm and separate

I think how lovely the rift—

wide and clear between us.

Fenrir and the Star

I dreamt that you swallowed the sky; snapped those cold chains a second time and ruminated a fragile freedom. I dropped from the empty black like a loosed diamond-- tumbled into strange country, into your untame hands. Who can alter fate's design? You, there with a sword in your throat, and I, lost among equivalent millions. Or will we trust that windblown we too may take root and flourish? The scale will tip, Lone Grey: For who would destroy the world when there is so much love to make? 1-8-10

flabbergasted

Does this book serve any purpose
the whistling ash of this memory or that
the slender cartilage cathedral of the imagination
the long nailed goddess of this or that dream

5 years prior my house caught fire
after I rescued my baby brothers
their were items of sentimental significance
the ball, the spyglass, the oyster shell, the sundial

let them last a little longer
even as the glacier melt
pours onto our laps
and our kisses resound like
eggshells in the basement of elusive consciousness

I am yours you are me
I am around you I am between
on the mountain
I am under your heels as you walk
In the heavans
as you drink the sky

You are incarnating mirror
images faster then I
can reach out and caress
the flaccid radio dial

a turn to the left
at the Bolivian bullfight
5500 miles from me
350 miles from the sea

a turn at the right
and Tilden park beach
kids washing up
like kitchen flies
around my ears and smoking

Flex back the peel
first left then right
turn the page down 300 east
to my aging sunbathed bodies twilight
and be midcentury, flabbergasted

Rag-doll of Kilkenny

I will not speak of where I found her bird-boned and fragile; all rag and filth she was and gazed at me with hungry eyes-- that were not fierce nor calculating, but empty as a piece of sky. It was the eyes, as they were, chilly and still blue, very round and almost popping out of her shrunken face... the loose jaw bobbing-- no voice. I swaddled her in my apron and brought her through the door. All I had was a bowl of milk still warm from the May cow. When she finished, her lashes were moist and I thought I saw the ghost of a smile before she laid by the smoking ashes, content, limbs heavy like clay; and, like clay, grew cold. 12-4-09

the sound of your pencil

scratching

me

reminds

that once i was old

and remembered

that once i was young

that once it all begun

with the morning

born

from our writing

hope

we three hands

wrinkled bodies

nearing

death

Of Hazel and Well

Old Hazel is bent with the load-- bowed boughs shade the Well; swelling waters of Moon tide hide an ancient Mother. Another season Hazel waited-- mated to time and mysteries          and when ripened let fall all her epiphany and "splash!" Flash of silver answers           in echoing hollows swallows the vessel           but retains its gift and swift returns           to deep, dark, and cold. 12-4-09

Skeleton Tree

Through turning season swell
I have been bleached white:
finally effaced with salt and sand;
like the skeletal tree
that was so oft adrift--
freely jaunt,
playing as both hull and mast,
only to falter
and beach itself 
in time.

11-17-09

on married men who don’t wear rings

you thought he tried

to shut-eyed bashful hide

delight when on the stairs

you nearly crashed

from opposite directions

through the winter rushing

with your duties bearing

heavy coats and other burdens

on your ways you thought the other time he leaned

on accidental meeting

made a broadflash grin

inadvertent invitation but

it would be wiser not to trust such instincts

you are always reaching

dipping lazy fingers into sweet

imaginehaze for narrative, for poetry

looking in the wrong place for logic

that might order the

breaking litany still

after courtyard talk

the leveling of yellow leaves

walk beyond the pale

when he shied from the brown gaze

you must have steadied

though inside you wobbled jelly

it is certainly a first

and a new father too

baby just two months how almost comic

were it not bursting

the little gasoline dream

that had been tugging you along

I’ve spent eternity in a wasps nest
Not inhabited
But dry and withered
The grey of its walls spilling onto the floors
All is chalky and warm

While I plunge
To the one place in my life
With walls
I defy to recognize
That wasps are still here
First just pricking my flesh
Then the torrent
And my white, warm,
Naked flesh is filled with scabs

And while this Jonah
Wondered away from his home
All manner of diamond footed lynx
And syrup tongued foxes
Snuck into his dead den
And took the cheap trinkets that were stored their
While he was away

finding honey

New Decade, Embarcadero

At the surface of things

loose cupped hands comb

water through spaces

between fingers. Talk

but do not plunge the arm in deep—

cold to the elbow—No

you are civilized; Stay aloft

at the surface. Fingernails click

at the lacquered tabletop, the talk:

only a gentle disturbance to the deep

green pond beneath.

If you tore the lid off,

would there be many eels? Or one

thick-bodied fish, spotted and slow,

a jeweled box guarded by a gate?

At the surface of things

the new year is turning,

clicking over

while some thousand bodies shout at it—

edge of a number

and not so arbitrary edge

of land and bridges sparkling loudly into night.

You are the grand cog shifting

in the pond’s very bottom.

Together make the marker

of change to guard against

otherwise—fear that every moment

is in fact the same.