Poem 85

written in the back of a book just recently tapped, about our tree

Some are to climb trees–i suppose–when the wide earth licks up wise
branches and invites you in. i meant to climb this tree (as i have
1000 times) and look upon the leafing; the hairline sap splinters–  below. but no.
the ants among her too studious to disturb  and instead settled among
the short hairs of the in between spaces. not branches, not roots. in between:
a compromise of the all seeing & unseen. some mortal spaces where I can
devote the hour between four and five to the quick slap of a turned page,
a passing dog, a frisbee, and the optimistic flatulence of a tuba in the music building.
Bare feet bare minds–rooting in hopes that below in the unseen,
untapped soil of the wide earth our toes might intertwine…

Poem 85 RevisedPoem 85 Edited

Poem 83

An assignment from 18 months ago. describe a painting.

White all white, but white when it pretends to be yellow
With mustard catastrophes
Falling down down until they meet the storm
It begins with spheres. Maybe. If only they could agree
On their trajectory. Burrowing out the blackness
Desperate crimson navy epiphany. Flashing lights.
Scribbling. Over and over until the golden blending
Comes again to new circles, its own length from the base
Where yellow cyan smudging compromises into green
The pathetic furrowing of greys blues and wax
Blacken near the middle where lifeless pearlescent curls
Calm the outer reaches of the canvas.
White all white, but white when it pretends to be yellow
And settles for deep blue or ruby when it cannot be that.
White, the quiet in the corners, compromising colors.

Poem 82

for my grandfather upon his death… in conversation with the brahman poem from several months before. 

Come walk the windowsill between light and
Night. Shut the curtains on the sun, forget
Preoccupations trivial once yours
You are free now. Seize it like the grass roots
From the earth. Your worth no longer tied to
The ticker tape tally of time, a fist
Could crush the grandfather clock; why bother
With trifle threads in the loom, consume them
With the mouth of the sea. Be the palms beneath
Soil shoving mountains to their peak. We speak
Of cancer; of pain; never again. Now
You are free to live amongst miracles.
What fortune, the body merely a loan,
At last, no longer limited by bones.

Poem 81

written for my grandfather five days before his death. 
Grief is mayan skin.
It was never mine, but I wear it now
I grieve the living, ache from my skin
to hold back time with my nails.
ACHE! What agony to wear a dead man’s skin
History gnaws at the last few syllables
of a dead man’s name like raw meat
cooking in the mouth.
Sweating under a someone else’s skin,
some stranger’s grief.
When one grieves the living they gnaw
at the past tense like fish bones. Perhaps
if chewed enough, swallowing won’t ache. ACHE!
What agony to wear a living man’s skin. 

Poem 80

a little angsty…. it was about love but now i think it’s a little about trust
Fall for me
Fall for me
Like the leaves do
Flush with color
Helpless to the descent
Fall for me fall for me!
Before the wintercomes
And we are the last branch-burdened
On the tree
Or you’re all alone
All alone up there
Fusing to fall for anyone
fall for me…
before we freeze

Poem 79

from last spring… it was spring today so it seemed appropriate
A cucumber could not taste as sweet
As arm hairs in a long forgotten breeze
Carrying chattering laughter of weather and what not
Across untidies—ever eager spring—comes grass
From eye level the down low dirt colors summerness
Becomes the pressures on elbows straining this afternoon’s
Latest failed attempt at slashing to to-do list
Waiting for the sun to prefer certain patches, clockwork
The excuses to-do nothing collect armies
Of cross hatched spear-seedlings: a barracks
Against the wide view of impending calendar crossing