If I shut my eyes to it,
I can strike low..
hit a high c, machete
weeds cringing in the
undergrowth; burn
villagers who, a few
short years ago, in turn,
stormed here, now mere
non-distinct individuals,
but still..
The air is dead still
but for a stray
whistler
even the wine-soaked flies
can’t stand.
Sit down, friend
And drink this.
This one’s for Jimmy.
For his voice, and passion –
The way he leaned into a song,
Rode the microphone
And this is for Tom.
Yeah, he liked a drink.
Or did. He joked to Letterman
That it got in the way –
Of jogging.
Imagine that:
Tom in his pork pie hat tipped back to show his coolness,
Jogging, stopping in the blinking neon to fold a hand around a light.
Sucking in, looking up to nowhere, the way singers do.
Have a whiskey.
Feel it dance in your throat,
All the way down.
Knew a bloke who ordered them by the threes:
Irish as Irish.
Even wore a green shirt and had red hair.
Spoke a bit posh.
You know: Bushmills, squire, if I may –
Here, have one for Hank.
God, he was only 29.
So, you, sing me a song.
Sing me a night song.
A piano song.
Make the notes waver,
Make them sinewy
If I cry, it’s your fault.
On this, of all nights
See how the ploughman looks back to cut well,
His frame turned on an iron seat to see the quality of cut,
Where the silver boards slice and fold the black earth on itself;
How he tinkers and measures, two wheels in the gutter.
Slow and even now, there is no need for speed –
Not here, where the iron horses drag a slanted rear wheel,
Where the soft autumn earth gives beneath the foot
And the tractors move in a wide arc at land’s end;
Squinted eyes under the battered felt – all for a straight cut;
The little engines spitting widening smoke rings into the blue.
Thrum and furrow, shares deep in the belly of the earth,
And, always, the black soil curling over and over
sigh
hear the sigh
of autumn
from leaf
to last
cicada
down the
oak and elm
branch tip
to the root
in damp
a sigh
in pale
cloud even
the moon
cannot
save
from
tearing
within
its glow
the sigh
of old
pictures
where
faces are
cast as if
in crumbling
metal
a shine
that’s
flecked
a sigh
moving
in that
wave along
the heart’s
shore where
the mind
winds in
all manner
of painful
junk
a sigh
in the marching
shapes of
the dusk
islands
clouds
the sigh
of starling
flock
blown out
on a high
roll toward
the sea
sigh
of the
dusk
sigh
into the
dark
sigh that
wakes you
in dream
that breath
around the
stars just
before
dawn
march/april 2016
I’d begun to think it was a crime
to have and to hold more than we need
the marvellous thing of keeping you
interested—is it so? like a light bulb
before the mind goes
it gives an intensified clarity?
I knew how the walls were
telescopic
how the skin is
the edge of the universe
knew how the first thought
ran
yet there I’d go
a cling form man
sent across the wire
to dance in liquid drowning
my round about infinity
buying breakfast at the bottleO
porno pizza Mars and sport
raw poetry organic spells
for betterment—to want some thing
outside yourself basic vice secret love
peace of a promise broken
peace be the judge of its worth
cleanse cleanse the purge and health
judge the peace in long term constant use
let wonders render worry obsolete
I’ll never do a thing has been forbidden
hold back be humble
there will be some will stumble
into bed every night being humble on behalf
and feel a type of caution
as if an act had been forbidden
when habits go against what was declared.
The beat at the moment is fast
Those trumpeted jazz tones are a little slow
I want to hear the sax bleed up the tempo
Those drum hands going a little faster
I can’t swing that low to low
No duwop for me
This is the way I hold myself afar
I am something you’ll never be
Take me to the stars
Envelope my dreams a misspent letter
Astral postage another cape
An infant in the plane
Smoothly again
Infants playing a game
Spit in the faces against the grain
Where the rolling hills end
Beyond the claps of thunder
Beyond the bridge trolls grasp
Give me an instrument of death
Somewhere I can start again.
They drove off, waving
from the backseat,
on the wrong side
of the road
at first because
the Moving Truck
was still reversing in.
the Bulb invents its filament,
Lightning stalks the lonely,
and the over-celebrated.
Death: a living body…
Form: a Life imagined;
exercised athletic substance
excursions running mountains
kayaking mountain rivers
cycling into effigies
of how we want enlightenment
through urban redevelopment
where I am neither slow
nor medium, and certainly not
the fastest, even with the advantage
of the water grabbing gloves on.
once, it was only, ever, & always
the performance
at the parties…the artistry
of light, and the bass
we smuggled in
the arteries,
beat, move, & pick-up,
the navaho cortex,
mushroom cloud
and cactus way,
cornering those
who took
their thinking on
verbatim
from their parents, teachers,
government, while not the most
creative
were the more reliable
and they would not be left
texting on a beer crate
in an empty lounge
as the moving truck
turned over in the driveway
as the last red worded
boxes were carried out.
2
I’ve plugged the ears with age
and snapped the rubber cap on,
sprayed the anti-fog, filled the gaps
with home-made, I’ve rode the waves
of causeless bliss, lifting weights
and waiting lift. I’ve left her
singing gently from an inner happiness
to pull her tights back on, how she puts
her best toe forward, I wouldn’t drink again
…unless I had to, there, for courage, full
comfort in the density of real things,
and their not-ness, too;
the outside shape the white horse
makes, stood still, is enough,
in the green grass, snow
tinged bluely on the mountains
behind the cemetery, where strollers
and their babies
feed her yellow flowers;
I latch on to a bouquet, the smell
in a shipyard, the steel and
the hard work,
the feel of a hung bell
looked at.
He held a hand in a hand,
Kneading the joints.
A tired etched bluebird looked north
Between thumb and forefinger,
The arch of its nose lost in folds of sunken skin.
He was at a loss, consumptive lungs begging
For the still chapel air
As they sang
How Great Thou Art.
He rose with the voices
In hanging black pants
And sought his voice, too
But it was lost in sickness and sorrow.
When it was over – when the weak light
Hid the mourners, a nurse’s arm
Fell to his shoulders,
A soft hand cradled the bird
