last words for vernawan

where is my art?
she walks away sloughing a silent garment

O well of the creative
O well, O well

a storm line like a limb of the world-tree
swings over the flat skin of life on earth
thoughtless and crackling with transmissions

where is my art?
scratching hard, dry dirt moaning up for rain
in a castdown halo of light without origin

I pull the brittle bucket to my chest
and splinter my lip on her wordless rim

O well of the creative
be here soon, be here now O well

rainbows on the cusp of night
and her naked legs arched over my lips
and my lips on her wordless rim

O Darja, O lover,
O well and my slack rope ready for rain

I realized today that all the old dragons
that ever were lived
and slept between the thighs of men

neither here nor there,
where is my art?

she was in the lightning that danced
while my camera was still awakening
and refused to come again

she slept in the cup
in the rainy season

the fruits of the night-tree wink untouchable
and in my bones I hear a far-off autumn
now only a creak, a sway
and a want

less than a poem (jumble, jumble)

ran into my uncle at the bookstore today
he thought I looked verklempt
like he could see all I’d been thinking about
the whole day, the week, the month
these last six months of desert and ghost love
(I could stand religion if he were the god above)

words and phrases stick in my brain
trying to become poetry but mostly failing,
“turncoat,” “turncoat” was one of the words
and a meaningless name, “Chaindamere”

everyone wants to plan to be something,
I thought “sometimes, something…”
was a pretty good form to begin with,
like sometimes, something seems true or
to have a reason,
and that “sometimes, something” stands in
as a disclaimer

because everything has an exception,
that’s a rule—
sometimes I think I never wanted to be an artist
all I wanted was to be a priest,
to find peace, didn’t I begin
screaming at the sky when I was in my teens?
after my first lover and I fell apart
I had to know if living had any more reason.

I started a poem the other day,
it tried to take all my loves and make them
analogous to the train tracks where I worship,
one my steel locomotive,
one my high-voltage tower high overhead,
one my verdant farm field bathed in sun.
and then I got to thinking
of colors, how I went
from red to blue and back again
but it never got any farther than that.

ran into my uncle at the bookstore today
and he thought my eyes were wet,
but I was just tired,
or so I said.

i been through the desert on a boat with no name

the great wheel of ka
turns
on a sea of
fortune cookie advices

blue tunes

choices like eels
becoming a spread of roots
fleeing yesterday

a sailor’s arm looped
around the rail

shoes and feet
skating on crunched shells
and
slips of paper with orange phrases

voluminous treble
clefs like sky whales
out of the Nineties

her dragonfly
wings
the mother of salvation

dreams
come into harbor
and go subtly wrong

red sunlight

staining his new face
smashed
with blackberries

metaphors
tangled as mangroves

and
midnight oil

final tallies

number of heartbeats
number of breaths
highest elevation reached
lowed depth visited
number of sexual partners experienced
number of orgasms achieved
years of formal education completed
number of footsteps taken
total distance traveled on foot
total distance ridden
longest soliloquy spoken
sharpest retort
dullest conversation held
first moment of heroism
last person disappointed
happiest year
saddest day
number of eyeblinks
number of finger snaps
number of high fives left hanging
earliest morning phone call
latest lingering phone call
last regret
first mistake
most concurrently active friendships
loneliest week in a summer
total infants held and rocked
closest distance to the moon reached
furthest from shore ever swam
total taxes paid
total tips received
kindest guardian angel encountered
mortal enemies forgiven or forgotten
number of kisses desired but not dared
clearest remembered second of life

waking the shabti

you taught me how to love the sun
like a tawny Egyptian cat

now beyond the dark still Nile
two or three stars and one red

black silhouettes of soundless rats
cruise the wet sandbars below

narrower eyed I look to the moon
borrowing less and less amber

I reintroduce myself to the night
the cat more and more its color

your grandma still walks the earth, i swear

you seemed to see a wolf in my gaze
put at your
imagination’s door

by too many letters and hot blood
after a long absence.

maybe my imagination
but you hid in your red hood.

from me.
from me.

nothing hurts
but your eyes darting away
over and over in a snowy second.

i will not be the beast to worry your trail.

Eugenia

The masseuse found knots
Behind both of my shoulders
And set to work untying them.

When she was finished
My wings fell off
In the dim room behind
The party.

At the end she whispered
Something I could not make out
And I said Thank You.

Later, at home
I see on the back of her card,
In blue ink:

BREATHE

filling the vacancy

he asked her to be his motel summer,
his blue pool tile and chemical scent

she asked him to be her roadside stand,
her asphalt patcher and heat mirage

together they knotted used condoms in the moonlight,
alone they smoked out into the corn

they split the cost at each break of a kiss,
margarita dreams in a gas station reality

sunscreen loners pounding out novels
on air-conditioned sheets

gramercy

with your grace
the sun was resurrected

in your love
the moon was allowed
to crest the lost mountains

for your eyes
my lightning rebuilt the sky

by your hands
a tendril bruised and tender
was guided to purchase upon the stone

gramercy, gramercy
the dolphin at my prow is you

[this is easier]

this is easier.

the shutoff valve
and the silenced motherboard.

no,
the memory is fine.
but out here

driving away from the hot spot
into the quiet place without towers

that is easier.

when what was never yours
is not yours again.

it makes it possible
to understand ruthless dictators
and vicious fanatics.

one day
you believe the world
can never be any other way
than the way it is now.

you believe
that to allow the world
to change is to kill
that which makes you.

yet, it does go
despite your wars,

yet, it does evolve
despite your dogma

and months later you
find yourself.

still alive.

still loving.

that is easier
than it has any right to be.

[red waves]

red waves
the froth of this
spinning red wave

this red wave like hair
rolling me up inside

rolling inside me as I
cry out, howl, cry

in the red waves
coming in,
coming in

I see them
building on the orange
horizon

red waves
running toward
me

the sky is the
palest blue
I have ever
seen