Better Art

optimistic in spite of knowing better art is
what you were trying to say or maybe not
all ideas are naive even decadent indecent
music better than words can more specific
about actual experience the rest machinery

Forced Fight

privacy if you want it shade
from the burning sun if warm
enough comfort for isolation

poetry a form of song sounds
in the mind through eyes or
ears needing to hear it twice

weeds invade claim garden
entropy in action forced fight
to balance anarchy and order

My Bones

many little things and one
big thing accomplished in
a day feel it in my bones

No Complaints

if I don't write it down
what point this musing
Buddhism too vague to
counter night thoughts
reading writing reliant
uncertain eyes mind
squirms within driven
bed comfort gone bad
no complaints allowed

Interesting Ideas

come somebody with interesting ideas
stage work not just shooting the breeze
do I have to read a book I guess I do
a composition authors delight in craft

in real life meanwhile we meet enjoy
talking thoughts need to sprout actions
with consequences pushing us beyond
what seemed to be limited experience

everything that can happen already did
I still have to be creative write every
day not pressing for results the which
never last just be doing what I like best

What I Do

how can I tell whether saying
alters anything might happen
fate illusory though generally
plans pan out we slowly learn
limits of continuing to exist

as we are moved to tell our
stories expect more response
each mainly interested in our
own tolerating mutely judge
see ourselves among the rest

another humbling experience
can't hurt who I know myself
to be revealing special insight
artfully expressed many years
of practice result in what I do

Particular Loves

how the wars are affecting us
will not be known until we're dead
meanwhile the sky is pink with beauty
we have our particular loves to cherish
losses and afflictions to absorb endure
spring is late but coming right along
our houses cleanable dinners eaten
poems written history somewhere
else where Obama did better
unnecessary wrongs forgiven
vengeance deferred forever

Different Scales

all different scales people pretend
to be statues beautiful and alive

many people are normally sized
only a few doomed to pedestals

No Excuse

piles of books wait to be read
books about books better than
what actually happens politics
distracted suffering grotesque
mistakes men mad with power

art is no excuse for forgetting
only sensibility counts loving
one other person at a moment
and as long as you both live is
equally the story remembered

I have to go on doing what I
can more or less as time goes
past filled full with responses
acting on choices made earlier
saying what could be expected

what is remains alive despite
certainty chipping along seams
identity nipping heels running
between tasks of self-becoming
obligated to relish playing me

Dangerous Road

I don't like that feeling about to
fall over befuddled but I like it
better than panic failing strength
too far from home on a dangerous
road even if someone is with me

I barely glimpse it don't let it get
the upper hand still it scares one
faceless black-robed scythe ready
that's how death will feel prepare

Hasty Cuts

Proust writes Fin insists on dying
although not really finished hasty
cuts deprive readers of good parts
he surely would have put back in

what a weird sad story and yet he
kept going out balls boys the Ritz
agreed with Gide he'd left out the
sweeter side of being homosexual

writer suffering for art we owe to
him asthmatic self-eccentric rich
overdoing drugs relentless giving
too much conjuring the great book

I Belong

the house is dark
it's where I belong
my love is in it
watching television
our stuff all over I
walk right in close
the curtains and
turn on the lights

All I Have

trying to express what really is
to rise to your deserts be specific
instead the details slip away my
thought ephemeral as a dream

if I could say what I mean I would
instead apparently holding back
fragments all I have to offer not
finding the time to say it better

is all we can do nod sagely seem
to share the other's understanding
nothing in words except artifacts
confirming what we already know

Still There

it isn't as late as I thought
time passes but it's always
like this Paris still there if
you wanted you could go

of course it's not the same
after the war another war
another civilization ruins
love lost art in fragments

final days if you think so
meanwhile this is what is
existing despite its errors
with or without my words

My Story

nothing stops even if I do
and I can't even if (when)
I want to although I can
make subtle adjustments
change habits or merely
take a refreshing break

things happen anyway
and I play a leading role
this is my story after all
as long as my character
isn't sidelined killed off
misses his entrance cue

Half Past

one or half past anything the same
single bong means time to get up
or nothing doing whatever you can

asking the dream for meaning may
delay gratification until tomorrow
if then you could change your mind

such signals permeate our house
like drying laundry Prokofiev and
Brahms so it must be Wednesday

Fresh Water

who could have known what you would have thought
when you were alone in the middle of the night
which you were in spite of not being

ring for the servants get them out of bed to bring tisane
or another pillow opium fresh water flowers music
something to distract you from the dream

the mood passes in twenty minutes if you can survive
that long wanting to die do everything imaginable
to get away from being your demented self

Urban Angst

wondering twice if spontaneous
portraiture allows eccentricity
urban angst improbably airy

no more random juxtaposition
jokingly practical remembers
who I did it with where when

this is the day of renunciation
implausibly taken with water
before waking to a better way

Right Away

did I do it apparently not
will I certainly right away

Existing State

let me know of changes if you
notice every word every letter
scrutinized it's not that hard
if you can pay attention brief
candle in darkness of asking

empty interior vastness the
negative space used-up time
echoing non-attachment to
offer what you mean in the
fewest possible word-things

then it is morning another
enters anticipating chores a
trip a farm experience waits
whenever you're ready I will
continuation of existing state

Do It

maybe I shouldn't even start
we can get along without it
function perfectly well as is

there is such a thing as too
much of anything good bad
indifferent to final results

someone else will do what
really needs to be done we'll
manage well enough for now

another person is speaking
an opinion I don't endorse
I'm for diligence and do it

Another Sunday

if no tickets we can't go
thwarted as one used to be
going to movies in New York

something else would happen
no doubt equally interesting
see the play another Sunday

Droning On

I thought the birdsong was part of the music
then I heard it where there was nothing on
they're part of the world our music is part of

why do I mind mechanical voices droning on
at the other end of the house I close the door
never no sound highways animals machines

the background roaring is my blood moving
nerve circuitry always faintly feeding back
beyond that the cosmic hum it's all part of

Vain Ideal

it felt too good to be bad I thought
at the time unwilling to give it up

circumstance conveniently limited
any actual pursuit of the vain ideal

enjoyable sans impossible action
compromising bliss of corporality

nothing to do with oneself there
by the happiest chance then gone

Higher Mind

"He didn't move at random from one idea to another, but he did believe a superior logic would impose itself if he gave it a chance." —Ronald Hayman, "Proust"

only afterwards was anything possible
until then he was blocked afterwards
released to consider before and now

more past less future not personal
unless it is your life mine elsewhere
imaginary literary holy being-space

idea survives the body proving what
that what we think trivial is essence
that a higher mind shapes utterance

Pile On

if I was not writing or reading
what would I be doing exactly
now or any old time feeling fit
I wonder just sitting here still
spinning mental thread a mill
in mind an empty warehouse

this the space I need to grow
evenly various densities ask
different energies deploying
emotion interpreted thought
confusing requirements pile
on even in perfect silences

Before Lunch

like notes on the page
representing sounds
words stand for some
other medium coolly
arranged in rhythmic
order suggesting less
content than hot milk
comforting food ideas
arisen and dissipating
in pastel morning light
like your own dreams
flat shapes aping time
taken with breakfast
reprised before lunch

My Zone

ladies bouncing in the shallow end
I keep to my zone crawling through
the fluid flailing legs swanning arms

intricate molecular connection past
reason shows in liking my chickens
as if called to appreciate their eggs

Fading Out

all your effects are chosen for you
by the designers of possibility options
limited by alphabet and circumstance
thus you can say you do what you can
as body with its own imperatives decay
in the sense of musical tone fading out

I do not mind cannot must not while
the clock is running so am I and you

Knowing the Words

as if writing rehearse knowing
the words must bear repetition
behind them the story behind it
the meaning lurks there is one
never to be explicitly revealed

specificity is not diminishing
after all the posturing and art
comes doing between resting
and being that can't be helped
beyond listening responding

Story Selves

not the only one bewildered
Sam perfectly pictures life
as lived if thinking like us
looking for the story selves
needing first of all to be told

I'm done wandering around
disintegrated western towns
looking for what never was
imagine being someone else
staying put feeling complete

almost who I thought I'd be
living the old way inside the
outside changed but not here
earthbound safe from all but
natural inescapable mortality