rain water

I was born
a cracked clay pot
and placed under
a rain-gutter
so that tears
bleed through me always
and slowly tear me apart
and never allow me
the relief of emptiness.

Ode to Amanda

Wrote this last year.


At the crusted sight of my bare feet
He stops his lecture, stands straight, and asks me where
My shoes are; I can only blankly stare
With innocent eyes, and envision the street
Where minutes ago, before we donned our lies, we laughed indescreet
"Guess what A. just did?" she shakes her head, a mare
That has already begun ascending the spiral stair
And now cannot choose between death and retreat.
"'Cid," she giggled, and my smile was wet with tears
Not yet shed. I shiver. "You're blue, man!"
--She'd said, touching my hair with trembling fingers.
I am sure that my eyes still show my fear,
And that she in some way did understand;
--But it is deception to believe that more than the smoky color lingers.

The poet, the lover and the madman

Also written last year.


There he was,
everything they said he would be,
violent,
unearthly,
stumbling,
dizzying,
a reeling world of confusion
that I was not privy to
nor never would be
(if I did as I was told).
I envied him that
he had done everything
he ought not to do, broken every rule
he ought to have obeyed.
Then too I pitied him
that he had little left to do.
Is it strange of me to hold dear
the lengthly list of what I have yet to live?

He will not stop squeaking,
loosing a rambling narrative
that makes sense only to him
and within the bottle.

Something in me knows
that if only I were a step closer,
half an inch less sober,
or the tiniest bit smarter
I might hear
the secrets of the ancients,
the throve-guarded mysteries of the ages
come tumbling
from his froth-corrupted lips.

And then I cried
because what I labor to write
with all the force of my existence
could never meet
the raw beauty
of his drunken
broken
stuporous
syllables.
My passion,
the force that moves stones
and sometimes people,
will never match the
painfully
lovely nuances
of his words,
which drop like rubies
to the sea.

I cried because
no matter how long
I labor and pine to be heard
and remembered,
my voice too
must hang invisible,
a single drop beneath the surface of the sea
dispersing no farther than his
for all my inky pains.

I am afraid to step much closer;
and yet despite myself I drift,
wary,
towards his magnetic
wandering eyes,
hating my own caution
and my own painful desires.

Phrases drift within me;
"sweet sad world..."
"blowing in the wind..."
"to wish for impossible things..."
and, finally
"the poet, the lover and the madman..."

and then
for a moment I am smart enough,
near enough,
drunk enough
to hear
and see
and live
how much I have yet to know;

"...all are one."

The Poet of Garilye

Again, I wrote this last year.


Sweet Lindy May of sweet Garilye
Was fearful to cross her own door
And wore her hair straight like a curtain of sea
So that she'd be looked on no more.

But Arish was also in Garilye
And loved every street of the town;
Each morning his eyes jumped so jovially
That not even Lindy could frown.

He ran to the sunrise each Garilye day
And ran to the moonrise each night;
And he ran past the doorstep of Lindy May
And gave no regard to her plight.

Poor Lindy May of poor Garilye
Shied to the window each night
And waited and wondered all Garilye day
In hopes that he might end her plight.

"Arish!" she whispered one morning one May
"Will you stop and talk to me tonight?"
"I alas cannot stop all the Garilye day
And have not one spare moment to-night."

Poor Lindy May of sweet Garilye
Drowned her eyes and turned out the light;
"Alas my sweet Arish poor I will not see
Nor by day nor by Garilye night."

Then--"Mother," said Lindy, "please help me to-day--
Smooth my face and green my eyes
And teach me the elders of Garilye's way
That I might turn ever the tides of my life."

"And should I have Arish for just one day,
Should I hold him for just one night,
I'd keep him faithful the rest of his days
And the rest of his Garilye life."

So she crossed her own door in Garilye
And stepped into the light
And there she waited 'till it faded and he
Came dancing through the night.

"Sweet Lindy May, I cannot stay!
I must persue the night--"
But with smooth her face and green her eyes
And the lovelies that came with their yellowy light--

"Will you not stay all through the day
And through the poor Garilye night
And wash the sea away from me
And cloak me in your light?"

"Sweet Lindy May, I must not stay,
Lest the day devour the night!"
But pretty her eyes and green Garilye way
Begged for his yellowy light.

And quickly he did part the sea,
Smooth his face swimming green in here eyes,
And down the moon fell on Garilye
But the sun, he did not rise.

Clay

Today as I walked to class,
molested only by the fingers of the clock,
I heard a sentimental song, and
I wondered
at the futility of human emotion
and the
as of yet unfathomed
amount
of pain and everything else
that surrounds us,
imposes itself like a rude guest
and makes away in the night
with our jewels, heirlooms, false teeth, false smile
and leaves us bare,
our age exposed once more;
why, I wondered, what possible reason could we invent
for recieving the same guest again?
All human emotion,
all poetry,
all song,
all hapiness and sadness and every human consciousness,
--which requires constant thought,
demands opinions and reflections to no end
regardless of our inveitable eventual fatigue--
seemed perverse, awkward, irritating,
offensive.

I had walked perhaps ten yards
when the last notes
of the horribly sentimental song
fell
on my ears
so heavily as to sink to my feet
like sand to the floor of the sea,
routing me there,
regardless of my sudden fatigue.

A bell rang.
I was late
an ironic ten yards from my destination,
but my thoughts didn't pause to lament this,
being busy, as it were,
caressing
the delicate tender thing
the words and sounds created from
--imposed upon!--
the soft clay of my mind.

Above the river of my thoughts
I watch my hypocrisy,
proud, conviction-riddled contradictions,
confusion,
emotions,
triggered by events with which they do not correlate,
and enjoy the privelege and right
of youth,
which is to possess
a mind of clay.

It's freezing in here.
I squeeze my fingers
but
I can't help noticing
the raised hairs on my arms.
I'm wearing nothing
but
a silky beige dress
and a single ring.
I curl in closer,
tucking my left foot under my right thigh and peering over
to make sure my shoes haven't danced off without me,
bored with waiting.
The luxurious leather chair
feels like hewn rock
against my bare ankles.
I twist,
scraping.
I turn the notebook another
ten degrees to the right
and then re-set it.
For half an hour
I have shifted my calves
and moved them back,
turned my body around
and pulled the sack of a dress
uncomfortably down
as if covering my knees will spring the door
and send me back to the sightless jungle
I used to love.
I wonder if I will even know it now,
if I can still touch damp leaves and remember
a safe path through eyeless trees.
The page stares,
looks me over,
makes its iris indistinguishable
and its mind invisible.
I grope, sigh,
run my fingers over its mystery,
marvel at its austere power,
prod the dignified silence
until it relents,
whispers
in ghostly braille
the words I dread most,
the syllables that stalk my dreams
on the occasions when I am offered
the solace of sleep:
All you are
is what you can bring
and do
to a blank page.
And I close my eyes,
tentatively touch
a slippery
thick leaf,
and my right foot falls down
in search
again,
terrified
again
of the blind night.


Looking back the next morning I hate this piece. Ugh.

song lyrics that I don't really like

(Wrote this at two in the morning. It goes without saying that it's utter crap. And I don't know that the verses would go in this order if I were to salvage it.)


I'm going to fill my backpack up
with books and drug-store beer
and tie my guitar to my back
and get the hell out of here.

I'm going to steal a Vespa
and call it my white steed
and pretend that no one ever asked
me if I disagreed.

I'm going to wear thick jackets
and tie silk in my hair
just to see the twin tails fly
and the fringe flap in the air.

I'm going to lie in ditches
and kindly farmers' sheds
and make a home of any place
where there are open beds.

I'm going to eat at drive-throughs
and lick my fingers clean
and fill a whole fresh notebook up
with tales of what I've seen.

I'm going to love a stranger
and ride off while he snores;
I'm going to work in rice fields
or a tiny antique stores.

I'm going to take a picture
of everyone I meet
and I'll tell them that there's lots of room
still left on my back seat.

I'm going to play for anyone
who wants to hear me sing:
I'll let my guitar shout my freedom
'till my fingers ache and sting.

I'll hear a million different views
and give and take a loan
unitl I find within the words
some wisdom of my own.

To John In a moment of anger

I really don't like this poem, but I've promised myself to post everything I don't destroy, so here it is. Like I said, I don't like it.


You taught me well.
I know what you would say:

Find your chi.
Find the strength of your soul.
Breathe deeply.
Find the bodhisattva within you.
I know it’s there.
I see it in your eyes
and the eyes are windows,
peepholes
out of the prison
your soul
rattles
and echoes in.

Find me, John.
Teach me again
what I have forgotten.
I know you’re out there
with your effeminate hands
and Ramones shirts
and rebellious tranquility
in a world that wants you to be loud.
I wonder what you’re doing,
if your eyes are still blue
and cracked white like clay,
like trees in winter.
Your black hair was never messy enough to get you noticed,
never neat enough to get you picked on,
and your skank-dancing made me smile.
You always smiled back,
a perfect little brother,
and gave that inescapably charming wink
that you reserved for me alone.
You rolled Dan’s bowler hat onto your head
smooth as a lemon on a table-top.
Although I tried for years
I never learned to roll it that way.

You knew I couldn’t do it—
why did you spend so many hours
holding my hand, picking up the stiff felt
time after time as I let you down?

I laughed each time it fell,
Bowed a bit and made up an excuse.

I have no coordination.
My sense of balance is terrible.
It doesn’t matter, I’ll learn some other day.
I’m such a clutz.
I’m sorry.
Don’t bother yourself.
It’s okay. Thanks anyway.
I really don’t need to.
I’ll just mess up.

And then—

Fine.
If you want me to
I’ll try again.

You told me not to cloud my vision with judgment.
You were right.
I learned from you:
Don’t let them force you to be something,
Don’t see them only as they want to be seen;
Don’t cloud your vision
with judgment
with pills
with needles
or with love.
Love flows naturally
and cannot be forced.
If you have no love in you,
do not be ashamed,
you said.
You will find it.
It is already there.
You just have so much of it
that you have hidden it
and blocked the doorway.
But love is like water
and cannot be controlled.
It will seep out
or evaporate
or break down the doors
and return
no matter how deeply it is buried.

Is a week long enough
for an atheist to recognize
a bodhisattva?

Why is it
that I had almost forgotten you,
you who I loved so deeply,
my little brother and my mentor,
my little pea-plant growing in a closet,
your pale skin an obvious sign
(as I have learned
in school)
that you needed sunshine more badly
than any of us,
my cloud-child with sky-diamond eyes?
After all this time
I remember you
only now
as I stand poised
to break a lovely thing,
all sharp edges and dangerous delicacy,
as a means of vengeance—
would you have shed a tear for me, John?
Reminded me again
that I have forgotten everything you taught me?
I imagine that you would have merely smiled sweetly
and kissed my forehead
as I lowered the glass,
lovingly passed the soiled rag over its surfaces,
and put it away
with the hushed reverence of a child,
not daring
to let a tear
blemish its smooth harsh surface.

The Gypsy

stupidly modeled after Edward Thomas and written in my head on the subway:

The weekend before Christmas no one was anywhere.
The streets were filled with foreigners who seemed doomed to stare
at sparkling windows for all eternity. I began to hunch
my shoulders forwards, pocket my hands and skip lunch
from time to time. letting my bagged face grow pale
and bony and my shoulders point, growing frail
and squaring the corners of my worn black coat. Coffee
alone remained sweet and safe to me.
Amidst a crowd united in wonder I felt alien, new,
a stranger to the city of my heart. "Do you
have the time?" I'd ask, trying to break the weave
that smothered like a scarf on a summer's eve;
but they just shook their heads and picked up speed.
"Help me," cried a voice, "I only need
a few more bucks to go home for the holiday."
"All I've got is a twenty, but here--you must weigh
less than I do. Take my Sicilian slice."
"God bless you." I wondered what God was so nice
as to leave him alone in the New York cold
and hoped not to be so calculating when I'm old.
I wondered if he really had a family to journey home to,
and if I should have left him a buck or two.
Where was my giving spirit? Him and his kin
have often stopped the cold from seeping in
with friendly smiles and music that pierces through
the thickest of scarves, regardless of whether you
enjoy it. That night the snow blocked out for me
the faces of the city; all I could see
was the old man's smile, the peace on his very lips.
"God bless you." And now the tips
of ink-pens alone will thank him for the kindly look
that turned my icy eyes into running brooks
whose marks stayed on my face all night,
invisible in the city's frozen light.