Making Faces

where we went when we weren't where we were
peppermint tea in the West Village yesterday was
what I did before I did what brought me here I sat
aching squirming reading writing drinking eating
making faces in the mirror finally made me laugh

Eating Dates

in the other kingdom in between
eating dates off an imagined tray
overlooked by unromantic eyes
misjudged by ill-prepared tastes

the kings are disappearing faster
when where is not reconcilable
and why is on hold until hours
pass with no one doing a thing

place was a construction of being
never to be seen again or missed
and time a geography of presence
literary people trapped in thought

what I remember is not what was
but the story we contrived to tell
what we wanted to be at the time
teases the possibility of meaning

Any Occasion

shut up mind stop spinning
words until it's time to say
or write them down I know
what I think having thought
enough about it all already

on the other coast it rains
or else it's drought we're
willing to be ourselves in
public as well as privately
prepared for any occasion

Waking Up

too depressing when freedom
turns into emptiness nothing
to do between sleep and meals

is this where life really leads
fragmentary distractions fail
to fill relentless recurring hours

I see it all around me the young
busy doing the old waking up
wonder how to survive the days

Rapid Retreat

black uncertainty shakes my inner
energy inadequate New York stairs
small appetite for repeating thrills
rapid retreat safe home only $200
action taken reservation changed

Small Regret

flight correction pivots tube redirects
over pebbly cloud paths northern fields
pairs of threes consider stretching time
confined to seats engineered to please

each landscape shapes a different life
neighbors not necessarily doing same
beauty noticed passing through again
never present for the scheduled kills

if you are reading what I am writing
we are both halfway across the land
earth's thin film of atmosphere fluid
enough to sustain my dubious flight

panic of going away from home pales
as the bright sun reconfigures hours
dark beneath scrambled cloud shapes
promising arrival with small regret

Besides Books

what else have I read besides books
music reveals its beauty reluctantly
the mind plays solitaire with itself

who told what would happen next
the cat licks its testicles soon gone
silence a buzzing crowd of ghosts

Fatal Trap

a neat puzzle set for the unwary
as if words meant what they said
think of them in a different order
no one can grasp what you mean
inarticulate in your own groping
frustrates the revolutionary cell

revolutionary will lacks language
you understand the words alone
the subject more or less defined
anything useful to say about it
subsumed in assumed solidarity
argue instead among yourselves

misunderstood you blunder on
insisting on hidden differences
mispronouncing provincialism
loyal to your blunt conditioning
necessary subtlety a fatal trap
silences the revolutionary call

Not Much

not long to do not much
he had better make a list
pick up cleaners books
back up computers pack
shopping calms anxiety
be clean and well rested
whatever he wears is fine

Bad Decisions

is this the way through
or am I already beyond

has the future happened
without anyone noticing

is it too late or too soon
for what won't be done

energized by negativity
we strove to stay level

that was so long ago it
doesn't count anymore

but I'm still here kicking
myself for bad decisions

Your Seconds

writing is time in action
my sentences your seconds
given freely rewarded well

we are here together after
all the confusion we love
each other and the world

Direct Observation

two worlds cross every other
meaning less than the first
when direct observation was
enough to be honest and real

reviews are about something
poems not necessarily what
I wanted to say was what I
thought about what I saw

is that what they meant if
anyone told me I didn't hear
free to speculate only later
realized how right on I was

how are the small town and
chickens relevant to who I
am or used to be thinking
I knew enough to be wrong

Like Bricks

demon time waits in a motel room
like any other he can do tai chi in
practically no space too much time
before he can sleep night through

words stacked up square like bricks
ready to collapse in an earthquake
we made it through another dinner
another horse coming to our barn

All Clean

did I tell you what happened
how I did what I meant to do
effortlessly rain or sun swam
I will have my books in time

asked to remember the room
where I lived for seven years
since gutted rebuilt all clean
smoke parrot shit music love

I have told you all that before
hard to hold onto other's lives
your own wavers as you look
even now its outline obscure

Better Version

some should say less
some should say more
what is the difference
which one are you
forever aspiring to become
a better version of yourself
and others wish you would
the fact is this is it or you
perfection a deadly ideal

One More

it has to work out
the fifty-two cards
the game is rigged
just not every time

so it is with life
it averages plus
children born etc.
or so it has so far

if you like play on
until you win one
then quit if you can
or play one more

Actual Content

beyond style is actually serious
Bach is not just using religion
as a pretext for music there is
the possibility of meaning what
you talk about when you write

"managing his inner doubts" is
not it I mean something more

beyond style is actual content
I realize Sam put me down for
merely mentioning its absence
called on it by my mentors I
stepped aside into acting it out
every day meaning is still there
beyond style the heart of human

Deep End

no password to my heart
only cobwebs in my hair
this momentous occasion
like any other night in fall

more men should exercise
women's workout music
rocks the swimming pool
I'm alone in the deep end

all this makes sense to me
in the major mode drama
remembered without envy
its time past my endurance

At Night

the cock crows long before dawn
full moon still riding high bright
colorless moonlight lying on land
the vegetation trying to be reborn
even at night dry restless lying still

dreams use themselves in dreaming
tell made-up stories of old friends
meeting in rooms we've never seen
fully furnished for others' odd use
like manuscripts eaten by the mice

All Out

big long turds are best
get it all out

Private Music

a low-flying plane inside his brain
augments the private music he would share
if anyone else would give it the time
let's all stop talking and listen
at any moment the music is enough

if he is trying to make a point forget it
everyone else has their own point
they are busily defending elaborating
appreciate them give up any idea
that particulars can be set aside

stop being yourself and try being me
for a moment shouldn't be so hard
that's what art can do if you let it
as a book opens personal fascination
to anyone who bothers to read it

Being Here

others have other ideas
odd that we don't agree
about anything really

even so we get along
grateful for variation
being here then gone

My Luck

can you be serious
another birthday dawns
pale Schubertian pink
existence trembles

saying what is true
is not so hard anymore
once choices are made
reality shows its face

circumstances kindly
forgive many lapses
recognizing my luck
treasure my refuges

In Parallel

where are my thoughts going along in parallel
forming and dissolving like the dawn weather
whatever it is was changing even as we speak

it's uncool to insist on one single interpretation
though there's nothing else beside imagination
saving situations otherwise devolve into chaos

there was something I wanted to say whether
I can do anything anymore and whoever with
enough solitary writing takes me only so far

Only Survivor

like the only survivor
I walked up the street
toward childhood home
we all want to go back
have never entirely left
becoming other selves
in a kaleidoscope world
fade out on another life

only I remain to recall
every detail of the past
redolent of a becoming
base identity in crystal
preserved in my being
alive I keep it all existing
when I wink out it's gone

Ancient Lust

dreams remember themselves or not
according to some mysterious inner
protocol signaling parallel realities
not just sitting there idle but active
forming pattern stirring ancient lust

I'll just sit here in the new October
morning working as a time to write
reading myself alive in intellectual
utility freely play words like music
ready to crystalize in the open air