From Parrot Eyes Lust
30º
For Elliott Helfer
I do this
I do that
hard drive hums a different tune
More of a growl really
Orphan files recovered
not unlike tips of text
at the top or bottom of page
Please wait while this page restarts
Dear lovely cursor
little line
from which somehow letters leap forth
out of which words
warp & wave
& wiggle
as certain
as gravity to a waterfall
here deep in the forest
Too much Saturn
not enough moon
We knew
not only that you like
to 'pop' your knuckles
but that you do so 'inside out'
center fingers first
alternating
from one hand to the next
then pointer
then ring finger
birds loud in the canopy
not a hint of the squirrels
I see one robin
fat on the lawn
hard copy is
at least truthier
Spot
right at the soffit's edge
where invariably
I hit my head
Old iron wind chimes
you can smell the rust
The rest is time
already at dawn
I hear someone's sprinklers
Lavender hydrangea
up against the fence
Squirrel among birdcalls
Kiss of the hummingbird (not seen)
Who in that house
all those kids
the girls & their boyfriends
reads a book?
Rabbit in the road
Last night the first June bugs
tonight even more
Little concrete stupa
hidden behind hastas
Newspaper ungathered
at the driveway's base
Pulp of the banana
slides down the esophagus
great lake
of stomach bacteria
awaits
That clicking, kissing sound
is the squirrels
hum of the first
weekend pilot
Sun suddenly
casts its shadow
Hundreds of tiny
flying things
so small
you wouldn't even notice
but for this
moment of illumination
Dog's moan
so particular
I even know
which dog
now, somewhere in the mix
a rock dove coos
I know who he was
but never really read him
didn't notice
that he'd disappeared
let alone that you'd died
now, 21 years later
these brilliant poems
shimmer in the light
well not the light exactly
this gray paper
starting to darken with age
These beach houses
furnished all alike
pastels too bright
seashell decorations
& the promise
of an outdoor shower
The "girl" at the market
made me happy
with her Russian accent
The compost of America
becoming that much more rich
The joints of my legs
conjoin with the pelvis
where just to sit still
is not entirely
"pain free"
This gigantic notebook
Gradually the poem
unveils itself
I hear my son yawn
two rooms away
The rain appears to have stopped
but that bird's returned
with its 5-note song
Dear Philip,
it's 5:03 AM
nine hours west of here
three hours west of Hawai'i
I have to be careful now
at the sight of the slightest spider
It might be you
At dawn
one finds moths
gathered at the sink
A pickup truck
in whose bed stand
upright
tied tight
(bright orange straps)
a dozen glass doors
From The Fly-Bottle
358º
Taking on a new long poem at the age of sixty is really something. I have no idea
whether I would still have the vigor and ambition, need, that sort of thing, to do it.
I have a tiny little secret hope that, after a decent period of silence and prose, I will find
myself in some almost impossible situation and will respond to this with outcries of
rage, rage and love, such as the world has never heard before.
M. Dick
Paris Review Interview
Pages age
in stages
bound against what
but their nearest kin
the thread
thru the spine
an arc of pain
the bow pulled taut
flexed tendon
sends forth its call
into the cloud
posed as mind
I made
a pained face
my own reflection visible
window illumined, interior light
the woods beyond dark
but for June bugs
late into August
humidity is perfect
the air most, thick
ropelike
in the lungs
knotted
the sprawl
to which one wakes
the spine with which
to twist
as if torque
might be an emotion
this is my sad face
but my happy one also
Emmett Kelly
to the heart
muscle is the master
without whose beat
no drum is possible
impassible
but plausible to all
but the closest
for whom it dissolves
into pixels
how close
Chuck Close
the palm divides
as into map
lifeline but the root
of thumb's muscles
off of which shoot
any number
of other creases
tributaries
with their own
subdivisions
until one reaches
the original
on a street corner
in the City
listeners, tourists, shoppers
the local unemployed
all commingle
Woolworth's in the background
blow job in a hot tub
later that night
I would lose my voice
for days
what percent
of the world's population
wasn't yet born
the shock of seeing
friends now old
or not at all
the numbers dwindle
Berryman never
lived to test
his thesis
geese, the saxophones of nature
loudest at dawn
the mobile on a neighbor's deck
spins idly in the wind
tho the one next to it
is still, least bittern's
yellow-green legs
match perfectly
this marsh grass
tho the lone blue heron
on the far side
looks huge
beach town's main strip
smells permanently of popcorn
tho to get here
you have to pass Dover
where the dead arrive
every week
hapless guardsmen, serious patriots
no matter
training, so to speak
jihad's next generation
& the one beyond that
the last Civil War veterans
died when I was a boy
their widows, often younger
took longer still
the effects of Iraq
will linger
an entire century
poison in the system
(it was his task
being massive & strong
to hide the printing press
whenever the Cossacks were near
but not being bright
could not later recall
where in the snow
he had buried it
(the other spent a year in Mexico
for which there was a more generous quota
entering instead as a Mexican immigrant
who spoke only Russian & Yiddish
the one sold vegetables
from the back of a cart
which his son later upgraded
to a simple truck
while the other
like his brothers
became a bootlegger
& for a time became rich
before his love of the product
finally caught up
hat damp at dawn
just from the humidity
the book's pages limp
paper understood now
as an impermanent cloth
this book's binding
by the thickest of threads
handmade paper
inexactly cut
onto which
I imagine lines
not otherwise visible
save maybe as the cross-hatch
of grain
tho rain is forecast
could it be
wetter than this
thru the window
I can see my son singing
tho I hear not a sound
From Silence & Prose
359º
Taking on a new long poem at the age of sixty is really something. I have no idea
whether I would still have the vigor and ambition, need, that sort of thing, to do it.
I have a tiny little secret hope that, after a decent period of silence and prose, I will find
myself in some almost impossible situation and will respond to this with outcries of
rage, rage and love, such as the world has never heard before.
M. Dick
Paris Review Interview
Tuesday Night Trash
Calm as tho stunned, we performed our functions. She was a visitor. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. This means defining with precision every class and ever sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage in the struggle against imperialism. Continuity, divisibility, infinity. There was my life as form of fact. I had forgotten summer was an emotion. My points are extended, their borders provisional. A specifics taste, like chewing on a pencil. We begin to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. Amarillo ramp. I am Marion Delgado. These flowers bloom in fog. Trucks, cattle, dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. Herons wading in the shallow water. This is not so complicated. I swam in the tide pool, thick salt water. The fog burns off. This is the stage of anti-imperialist development. A great din at the ocean's bottom. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. I had forgotten summer was an emotion. Memories of my mother's mother. We begin to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. Amarillo ramp. A tunnel under the river that would take you from Detroit to Canada. As the sun set they cooked dinner on Bolinas Beach. My points are extended, their borders provisional. Rough squares had been cut from the seat cushions of the bus. She wore a small silver chain about her waist that she refused to remove. Able to apprehend the object of my perception. Herons wading the shallow water. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. This means defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage in the struggle against imperialism. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. I had forgotten that summer was an emotion. We begin to notice gangs of women roaming about the city. Woman in a pink pantsuit, head tipped forward, asleep. Come Sunday morning, we brunched in all the cafes. A great din at the ocean's bottom. She was a visitor. Each day the road took us inevitably by the prison. Small speckled eggs. My points are extended, their borders provisional. Memories of my mother's mother. This is not so complicated. Herons wading in the shallow water. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. I had forgotten that summer was an emotion. In the rear of the bus a man bottlenecked a guitar as two others wrestled silently in the aisle. Calm, as tho stunned, we performed our functions. Patrick climbed in to his Chinese drag. Trucks, cattle, dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. How was I to square my emotions for that beautiful, burned-out case? Woman asleep behind dark glasses. A great din at the ocean's bottom. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. Rough squares had been cut from the seat cushions of the bus. My points are extended, their borders provisional. This means defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage in the struggle against imperialism. Herons wading in the shallow water. This is the stage of anti-imperialist struggle. Here is the question of truth in fiction. These flowers bloom in fog. Memories of my mother's mother. As the sun set they cooked their dinner on Bolinas beach. Is the door a path which is sometimes closed, or a wall which is sometimes open? Anyone with a bullhorn and a red armband was a leader. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. She was a visitor. A great din at the ocean's bottom. This is not so complicated. My points are extended, their borders provisional. Herons wading in the shallow water. My friends were all unhappy and confused over the pill, the diaphragm and the I.U.D. A tunnel under the river that would take you from Detroit to Canada. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. Come Sunday morning, we brunched in the cafes. The young Arab engineer, popping bubblegum, stood at the edge of the crowd. Fuck with fear. Memories of my mother's mother. This means defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector line up at each stage in the struggle against imperialism. Trucks, cattle, dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. Rough squares had been cut from the seat cushions of the bus. A great din at the ocean's bottom. My points are extended, their borders provisional. There was my life as a form of fact. Woman in a pink pantsuit, head tipped forward, asleep. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. Calm, as tho stunned, we performed our functions. When is the word "in the language?" Ideology is for everyone. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. This is not so complicated. As the sun set they cooked dinner on Bolinas beach. Memories of my mother's mother. She was a visitor. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. A great din at the ocean's bottom. The fog burns off. In the rear of the bus a man bottlenecked a guitar as two others wrestled silently in the aisle. This means defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage in the struggle against imperialism. These flowers bloom in fog. The old woman uses the Laundromat as a library, reading notices stapled to the bulletin board, discarded newspapers, magazines, engaging in small talk by the dryers or peering silently through the large windows, drinking from a bottle of Kaopectate. Over cocktails, relaxed, taking on not one but several conversations at once, I tended to mix the various responses. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. Rough squares had been cut from the seat cushions of the bus. Come Sunday morning, we brunched in the cafes. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. Trucks, cattle, dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. Memories of my mother's mother. Patrick climbed into his Chinese drag. Able to apprehend the object of my perception. Here is the question of truth in fictions. This is not so complicated. A tunnel under the river that would take you from Detroit to Canada. Class struggle, at times hidden and then more open, assumes a wide variety of forms. The pelican flew alongside our car, accompanying us over the bridge. This means defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage in the struggle against imperialism. She was a visitor. Calm, as tho stunned, we performed our functions. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces of the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. AS the sun set they cooked their dinner on Bolinas beach. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. Memories of my mother's mother. Small speckled eggs. My friends were all unhappy and confused about the pill, the diaphragm and the I.U.D. Rough squares had been cut from the seat cushions of the bus. Woman in a pink pantsuit, head tipped forward, asleep. An old scow emerged from the haze below the bridge. The two girls traveled with their mother, a professional shoplifter, from suburb to suburb, Kansas, Missouri, Texas, somewhat ahead of the cops. This is not so complicated. Trucks, cattle, dry grass, the moon in the morning sky. These flowers bloom in fog. This means defining with precision every class and every sector within every class, and how each sector lines up at each stage of the struggle against imperialism. Come Sunday morning, we brunched at the cafes. Tho it was too crowded to see the front of the bus, I could see the sun-illumined faces to the boarders, the light in their hair, reflected on the inside of a window a few seats ahead of me. A specific taste, like chewing on a pencil. Woman asleep behind dark glasses. There was my life as a form of fact.