A Matter Of

When they were rescued from the rubble. Half had died underneath. It was a matter of minutes buried hours days. Covered to uncovered. The bombing was a fact nobody disputed. Seeing the crater. Looking at the rubble. Forever marking the air. But what did it mean? What would it do? Handling it always questioning the weeds too many sprouting up trying to taking hold. Too much.

Afterbirth

She was never taken away carried Like that. To where and how? Before the show is the best living. Then after isn't really there. Isn't that What they call transformation? Or just More information? See that tree?

Survivor

She loves the show Can't wait until the next Episode. I tried watching Too. The plans. The teams. The game. The island. Clowns are the ones laughing In the face of annihilation. Count them. Ninety-nine. How come they hate vegetation And all curling vines? I spent the night flat on my back Trying to figure it all out. Un Tangling it. Jealousy? Too easy. Hate? Too easy. Love? Absurd.

Charmed

The bear disappears into the river becoming something else and there's also the part about Sylvia Plath and her tone which nobody exactly tackles in the open. It is taking shape but maybe too fanciful. There is no cave in the story but you know. I think we're moving into one soon. Out of the cathedral tower (bank). Walking away quickly would be the best way of saying.

History's Deepest Secrets

The pioneers dug their own graves. Who left you alone? We undid the gate before the ram could get out. The stones seemed to all have faces. Trees whispered secrets to their vampire helpers. Nome's melting streets. Always thought the Middle Ages too long. Did you come back on your own or were you returned?

So Far

Find out when you will fly and I'll meet you there same tree same time our best so forget any glitches wind will be in our favor we've managed this so far. That's what the night is for. Forgetting takes practice because buildings can often look the same.

This Is How

This is how I always remember her face fresh away rubble dust desperate looking disappointed and not the crone she has become free from that war except every day calling her sisters discussing details curly shavings from wood soft splinters showing themselves as fingers on hands knobby knuckles not fitting into mouths long ago forgetting about the bodies more about what they did and how it passed. Lots of grandchildren and now they barely visit never asking about it at all. Just as well those days are over busy forgetting.

Mountain Town

Mountain town let me in knock is that rain or not?

Flower House

Flower garden hillside looking into star cups seeing bunches singles their juicyfruit perfume shaded by the oaks by the fir and cedar nowhere and everywhere Lighting up the dimness it is where I live for now until night brings me upwards into doorways too many to count too many to see parking themselves along the dark

The Town I Crave

Called Eugene. This is where I am. I find Eugene under the rubble of air and green April wind. How I felt in the green glow that is Hendricks Park much too silent much too still. We saw the wind go up the small canyon. Where we stood there was none. How can it be Eugene continuing past its due date in the gigantic valley. This question is not new. It is so old this story. I could see what the poet was saying about things turning into other things. This has happened only a dozen or so times to me but I can relate standing there empty with nothing helping. The whirling will take leaves and things and tossing them around exactly what he wanted although he wasn't supposed to ask.

Community Garden

River on one side Train on the other. Freeway two streets over. There is the moon.

Not A Lot

There were some but not a lot.
How these changed I couldn't say.
The best stayed behind.
Another country claimed them.
Even past blackberries. Currants.
I've counted. Forgetting to count.

Sleeping It Off In Skinner City

Fumes of spring
branches heavy
surrounding
old swale

driving
just driving

brought me past
seriously speaking
to the hawk.

I Would Be Now

Swimming
at the Warm Pond
stars disappearing
above the water
above my own movements
through friendly phosphorescence
before they too were gone
to work at the dream factory
above and below
surfaces found there.

Midnight In April

Thirsty plants.
Roots half wet half dry.
The small
street running
under her paws.
Cream-colored
dog.  The road is her
life.  Will she fall asleep
during the long drive
back to the large valley.
Wasn't the call
that much wild?

April Noon

They spoke of stones
embedded in the landscape
they spoke of tough flowers
their delight.  How will I see

what I know again?  How will
I know what I see
leaning to one side or another
my shadow in the small place
until I move entirely.

Shrinking European Values

At the foot of the mountain
They run for their lives
Into the European Union
No way to get there
Screaming into the silence
Next day's tolerant sun
Watching how
make a population

Winter Rubble

New leaves strive in the rite of exchange

take the place of blossoms even if they 

don't bear fruit there are so many flowers

hanging above the cold ground down down

onto the memory of winter's tomb resting

on tomorrow's rooftop   dashing away 

gas the countrymen spray into the pushing crowd

marks where the land       breaks       faces

burning hot       cheeks        eyes        mouths

weeds needing killing.  Pulling.  Before sunset.

Rolling    razor wire   someday we’ll be sitting

at a table remembering  how and saying why.

Meander

The center of town is a drum.
Each road leading to

intermittent images
complete with their imagery.
Aspirin, coffee, cut flowers.  

Their Kids

Are not them.  Their kids are not kidding around

like they did.  You see them more around town.  

Like them.  You have to like them

too maybe.  They were there too

little people.   Is that?  Was it?  

Don't you miss them more

because of them the fact of them?

Searching their faces their fashions.

Where where are they?  Where is the real

them hiding?  The older them.  Calling.

She Had To Leave

I'll read it soon and answer
how she wants no more war
I'll read the book she speaks
photographs and I'm most interested
in her thoughts her writing voice
so unusual and brave when they sang
about getting out getting out of town.
Rambling.  Folding.

Narrative Ring To It

Was it my dream last night or the night before
the one where they told me purple would match better
neon pink out of fashion with what I had on.
Was it my choice all along or did this come in a kit
to put together again and again everything there
that was my dream how it flew away so old.
The women celebrate the cleft and yes why not
it is a cliff I can barely remember at times I am it.
Here it is more than ever before.  Here it is.

Come on they said.  Come on and you'll be that.
Okay I'll be that.  The bells jangling and shivering.

Afternoon

Maxwell House has nothing on the villa.
So at home
around the garden
instinct.
Plum, sage, balm, pine, olive.

Olden abstract dolls they played with.
Life and death
especially.
Tiny pieces fitting together.
Small captures in the picture.

This was way before cameras
but after knowing the way around
it was time to go
listen to the traffic.
That was
too late.

Venice

Days ago faces remembering alluvial
ocean pedestal mud.  Malibu.

Better things appearing. Second.
Slipping time.  Sloughing.
Pivot.

Away From

So it was said of the trapeze artist falling that way knowing
the swing and when it would be back above the darkening glitter.

Yes there are so many stars mostly blinking their winks
calling into the bouncing humility again with no other words.

In another few light years this will all be memory and even now
memory is waiting to leap on the opportunity to hold and grasp.

What fate is showing is another type of relay instead of tangling
impossibly in the ropes too used to being the net    an ache    twinkling.

Maybe another swim will reveal missing facts missing absences?
It is clearly a repetition passing between what life keeps letting.







 

Always A Comma, Never A Period

Her thinking where is his hair
under the story of stones
(a larger one) the place she is told about
and was it true he loved someone else?


He is here actually here running around
in her mind always and never absolute
any abbreviation silly enough knowing.

Conference Of The Clouds

What is inside might be dust or a mountain.
The clouds are visible from ground level.
Up in the air a few hundred feet
things change quite a bit
slamming distortion otherwise

necks for instance might be quite
tired from holding onto thinking

everything will change after this
it will all look so different days later
items softening into a hard song.