Come Back

try again now that we have been there and come back saw "Juno" rain off and on all day ears asizzle I do love the idea of theatre have I maybe seen enough sublime hour's drive home late I'd rather not

My Breath

a connoisseur of everything must I watch Iraq destroyed hear lies about Iran practice ignorance of Palestinian distress humor illusions about Afghanistan hold my breath over Darfur Congo Zimbabwe atolls swallowed by the sea relive bloody history where is this my own distracted no wonder let the effect suffice

What We Need

life-changing music only listen Schubert leans close to heaven carries us along sublime Dante distracted bitches about popes then the radiance beyond blind snow tonight everything white my hoodie memory of Burning Man most purely myself in play lilting lightness antigravitation what we need to die undefeated

Breaking Free

I yearn to write words as gestures the true critic goes up on stage and kisses actor they duel he dies telling lies as art signifiers fitted together like stones in a tower overlooking a sea meanings counters in match play breaking free

Avoided Pain

world-conquering at twenty what's left for us old to do as if it matters rising tides our children's problem it's their children who will sink each avoided pain our gain as each winter day warm spring's comfort is closer leaving gradually then fast enjoy smooth youth's rise

Back Roads

Bill Hart died another lost friend first time we met got lost on back roads western Massachusetts neither one of us knew where we were going fearless laughing in the raging storm saved by a fallen tree blocking the wrong road surprise I wrote him into "Country Music" as the wacko loner neighbor wish I had a picture of him in it perfect presence last time dinner at the Khyber Pass on St. Mark's Place enjoyed him so much so funny unique esprit he was leaving for L.A. came to see a runthrough my new show stumbling star stalling didn't know her lines wretched how I wanted him to like it I still do

Mere Thought

back to square minus name-the-country-not-to-mention how not write self imaginary lives mere thought knowing invention better cursed by the Worm Queen January 1967 suffering suffered loss unthinkable innocents' revenge never more to be perfectly spontanous

Piling Up

Drowning in reading Aeschylus "The Persians" "Ender's Game" "The Bad Girl" by Mario Vargas Llosa Sunday New York Times mealtimes all week New Yorkers piling up beside the toilet New York Review of Books piling up beside my chair The Sun new n+1 Theater and American Theater cancelled Proust months of Shambhala Sun input is good

Who Knows

Anything can happen; some things do. Who decides? Who is the novelist? What is the real story? Not everything can be told, there isn't time or patience, and who would listen? Isn't truth richer than fiction, less ambiguous, more complex? Can there be a simple life? What you tire of remembering you are free to make up. Facts are the trap, after all, any way of counting, a calendar, a balance, a list. Who is known? Who knows?

Hard Enough

Simple instructions perversely understood as self-complicating system empowers confusion sincerity ironicized it's a wonder anything gets going done works pleasures of effective action sweet possible real being turned against other brother fellow human isn't living hard enough imagine billions of wills planet's fearful wealth thus calmed blows deflected energy our delight

The Rub

Julian Beck asked me about my sons, I told him. Real life meets dream, the living meet the dead. This is the pain of haunting, ordinary time bust open. Morning precedes light, aching bones, hot pillow, sad story winding down. There's the rub.

Dark Waiting

Softly silk-wrapped latching superwindow ends draft gas-flamed stove purring silently Saint-Saëns workers crawled under insulating floor enjoy warmth unusual moment passing be old miserable shivering huddling blankets months in dark waiting even Dante imagined blinding sun flaming spirits when before turn up heat aftermath masses minus power modern conveniences ease age youth capability rising only slowly slips away

Just Right

Too little to do? Long empty days at home, no calls, job, company, few obligations. The library hired someone else. Books to read, periodicals, poets, no time for blogs. Music to practice, play. Books to write, plays, letters, diaries, blog. Clean house, cook, all that. Archives calling. Movies to watch, and tennis, now. Regular swims. I was ready to go back to work. I'd be good. Too much to do? Just right?

His Mark

Celebrating William Stafford model poet teacher man this is his mark to be remembered "he taught me to think" completed personhood marvelous placeness saying everything clearly fearless seriously awake

Play House

People so boring no one wants to do anything fun games music amateur theatricals dress up shoot a movie read aloud rearrange the furniture sort the books discuss build a secret room of books furniture blankets play house all together now everyone but me in bed and it's only just nine

Staying Up

Outside it is quiet except for the rushing creek, and the moon shining in deep sky suddenly clear. Inside the house the thermometer is beeping, the temperature falling because the night is clear. A light still on in the neighbor's garage suggests he is awake loading shotgun shells. In our house everyone is asleep except me, staying up, Brahms-bemused, abandoned, air-washer fan humming without surcease.

Hay Later

Now is the moment, routine readily adjustable, fear not. Affliction addiction affection which what is the question. Constant progress individual paradigm economic disaster. No one looking, doors lightly closed, future flying this way. Shower, dress, add leeks, hay later; I'll presumably go as is.

Mere Shadow

Judging chocolate—Tanzania, São Tomé— drive home expecting silence ha ha— wind in trees, creek in spate, highway intruding, and myself. Light is the norm, night mere shadow to outwit, outwait.

His Line

Boeuf bourguignon slow-cooked all day satisfies hungers. Horse chore solution cheers, relief. I make slow progress, one word at a time. So it always goes. Godot waiters await me, second act. I remember everything. His line. Short twine. Wind resistant eucalyptus. Saute onions, add mushrooms last.

Not Bear

Flaming barn in the snow! Silver melody resolving to minor. French kisses require tongue because the lips are pursed. Impossible vowels. This is the permanent me, permeable, effulgent, changing only when I must, pursuing not bear but what? Death sting-a-ling. Either dessert is perfect.

My Fault

Too many good poets how will we choose? I like them almost all. The form allows expression of every extreme, observation, emotion, personal loss or gain. The person embodied in words. How can we judge? Only to compose a festival we must. My fault for inviting so many to apply.

Sonata Form

As the light returns I might move a little faster. That one moves at all these dark days may be mistaken. What are we pretending? Each human span lost repetitions enlightenment gains wars exploitation. Great monasteries rang bells monks rose prayed wrote copies. Few rise above sonata form models the dance.

Plain Wood

DeeDee's cottage at Lake Miltona continuous with my chicken house continuous with dude ranch cabins spartan luxury the simple pose preferring plain wood unpretentious style plus curtains of silk art a harpsichord. Snobbery of a nonexistent class plus European avant garde. Happiest memories alternative places fortunate childhood innocent love.

Wet Snow

Day "rest" drive rain Ridgefield video try horse Bach Schubert Orson Scott Card explore great barn "lost" provincial lunch urban vibe dry barely awake driving home brief pause salad potluck Grange people fun good food values meet install Ceres Pomona Flora charming not my club too bad wet snow Chopin.

Giving Up

Much more smiling charm responds to beauty. Not just concepts but actual buildings, implied lives attitudes, modeling one's own story. Liam O'Gallagher eluded commonality too late now, I moved away. Gave up in a sense. Every decision a way of giving up on everything else.

Still Waiting

In groups of four there are always more than four. (Proust) I may have said too much. They seemed friendly but everything can change faster than you think. I am not really afraid, at this moment. I am not unhappy enough. (Beckett) Still waiting for wise men. My toe not broken after all.

A Smile

What is he thinking, sitting beside the pool, looking at his hands, his hair bowl-cut like George's, but dark? George, not much older, liked to put on makeup and a dress and floozy around to records for his friend. The canvas roof leaks a little in the rain. Drops fall at intervals from the edge of the light high overhead. He catches them in his hands. He looks up, sees them fall, catches them in his hands, permits himself a smile.

Imaginary Obstacles

Burning snow between toes like coughs in music. I should play more seriously convey my pleasure share what Lizst and Chopin mean to me. People like it even bungled; I'm ready to teach. Self-pity doesn't excuse imaginary obstacles.

Wool Socks

Having cooked, having made a delicious salad and cut up fruit till I could hardly hold the knife or myself upright, everything ready, napped ten minutes, dressed himself in blue on blue, welcomed, talked about Fassbinder, Dante, the necessity of opposition, filmmaking in Texas, gave away my first iMac, played beautiful music stumbling, farewell cleaned up, in flannel and silk my feet in wool socks massage themselves accepted accepting.