Her truck roars angry sounds without a driver
In the wet of night, parked in a spot of mud
And a thicket of weeds and gravel-dirt.
She who had crashed it while it rolled downhill
Lies only close enough to where it was
To blister in the iron breath
Beaten with a burning excruciating
Skin taut and glazed and smooth and cracked
Old and senseless, in her dying mind
The world does not move. She sees only the glow
Nor twisted nor scarred
Nor truck nor flame. Her legs feel the least
Frightened crash she hears the roar
Thirstily consume
Now crackling laughter popping and sharp
Cacophony of roars escaping the jagged-tooth jaw. She weeps
She struggles anew, but still he consumes
In the uncaring night, boiling in the smog,
And dreaming of taking all.
She burns and she prays to be taken–away,
Pleading deliverance of her wasting body.
…She faints the heat becoming too much:
But whether dream or lying light
She vanished. Only scorched Earth remains.
poetry
We Are Kept Awake at Night by the Cries of Starving Children
It’s August now, and the stores are gearing up to save the economy
The holidays are coming close and spending has been low
To cure what ails we need to spend, the price of liberty
We are the best, we need the best, as everybody knows
Ghosts and goblins frighten children until they laugh with glee
Throughout the neighborhood they scatter, to every door they go
And bring home treats they went to earn with costumed trickery
But Hind Rajab, phone in hand, cries the tanks are coming close
Thanksgiving next as leaves turn brown and red and orange and fall
The turkey fat and steaming, plucked and stuffed so we can savor
And everyone gives thanks to God, that we could gather one and all
But Nabhan’s bodies in the orchard marred our grace, ungrateful to the Savior
Then Christmas time, with all the snow, and elves and gifts and wonder
Santa Claus, he’s at the mall, with manger scene prospectus
Parents wink and purchase gifts which to the tree go under
But Mohammad Al-Motawaq, that bony babe, should starve; it’s all genetic
Would that some high stationed man with money and a suit
Could find some way to hide from me the children destitute
For their cries are shrill and feral and they break the season’s peace
I don’t feel bad; I’m just annoyed: I want their cries to cease.
Want
I wonder at times
what life might be like
if somebody cared about me
if there were someone I could call
whenever I’m crying
without being a burden
if there were someone I could invite
to a birthday
and expect them to show
I have been made
to feel I must beg
for companionship
I wonder at times
what life might be like
if I believed somebody cared about me
The Test
I shouldn’t be writing this poem.
I should be working on my book.
Or my other book.
Or one of my essay ideas.
But poems are so sweet and tasty.
I would have failed Mischel’s test before he left the room.
Writing a book is such a long arduous process
But a poem
From concept to finish
Takes a couple of hours.
There is no research involved–
I might look up someone’s name.
I could do some thinking work
Seated at the long wooden table in the research laboratory
Staring at the fluffy lump of gratification in front of me
…I need to study Wittgenstein, and go over the Gorgias again…this scene has to be just right…
I might mean something to someone
I might make some money
I might become an author
Then again, I noticed something today
A small detail that I could make meaningful
An image that seemed poignant
A phrase that bit into me
It could be delicious with a touch of processing.
It’s right in front of me, on a pink porcelain plate.
Cylindrical and lopsided
And velvety smooth
The fleeting sweetness of a poem
Would not leave me for so long
With the burden of possibility
I haven’t written a word of the book in months.
Perhaps I don’t believe it will be as gratifying
As a completed poem–
A moment on the lips…
To struggle in the laboratory
For only a pair of marshmallows
Is a cruel punishment.
Ode to the Lint in My Belly Button (2011)
Originally published in Tributaries (2011)
Oh lint in my bellybutton,
Whence comest thou?
Surely you,
Who keeps my navel warm at night,
Are the manifestation of love
And warmth,
And all things good,
Which cradle in the center
Of my being.
Lint, though you are gray,
Do not despair!
Those who wash you out
Are empty inside,
Where I am full.
Oh lint in my bellybutton,
How I miss thee so,
When I search
And find naught
In the center of my being.
Lint, you Omphalic dust
Collecting in the center of life,
I mourn for the outties
Who do not know you.
Lint you gay gathering
Of dust and of hair,
May you ever return to my navel:
May we ever be paired.
Up and Down (12/21/06)
She crossed my mind today like
a long, slow train crossing a busy road.
You know, she always seems to do
that to me when I’m under a heavy load.
I tell myself “what does it matter?”
It matters, ’cause it makes me feel so...
Sometimes I look around me and what
I see is something I’ve never seen before.
And sometimes I listen to people and
it seems they’re asking me to open a door.
There are times when everything seems
so common I can't take any more
But every once in a while I feel so...
I can tell right now I can’t
make up my mind
but I’m pretty sure
I don’t know.
More often than not things seem far more
black than white.
And when I wake up those same
gray shades get so very light—
Sometimes it makes me feel so...
You know I’m blind sometimes
and sometimes I see everything.
Times do come when even I tire of all my bitching.
She’ll cross my mind tomorrow like a long slow
train stopping across a busy road.
You know she can do that to me no matter
how heavy the load.
And I’ll think to myself “It doesn’t matter
at all,” but then I’ll look out the window
and see how the traffic has stalled.
Gulf
“How's the woodworking going?”
James must be thinking of my brother
“It's alright,” I offer
Have you sold anything?
“No, nothing,” I say.
“It’s a hard business to break into. A lot of people don’t appreciate it.”
He tells me about a jewelry box he made that his daughter didn't want.
I have little patience for strangers.
I don't often care to disabuse them.
They call me the wrong name
I answer their questions
About things I haven't done.
I only have so much of myself
to give away.
I’ll ask the therapist on Wednesday,
“What's wrong with me? Why is it so hard to connect with others?”
It seems like there should be some kind of answer.
Something must have happened
To make me so alien
So haughty and undeserving of kinship
Strangers tell me happy birthday
And I am angry they know something about me
Dad asks me if I’m alright.
I very clearly am not. I have been trying to keep it together
So that no one will ask me what’s wrong.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t challenge the lie.
Minutes later I break the silence:
“Well,
I’m going home.”
Button
I haven’t wanted to ask this.
I’ve been afraid asking would be the end of our relationship.
But I’ve already wasted so much time and energy trying to figure out if
I imagined our connection—if
I’m imagining the disconnection.
Reality is hard to grasp through mania and depression,
Every crumb of attention starts the cycle over.
The truth is, our relationship ended a long time ago.
I just hadn’t figured it out until recently.
What exists now is two people who used to know each other,
Being friendly from time to time.
So what is there to be afraid of?
I’ve spent a lot of time replaying our conversations,
Trying to understand when things changed.
I am profoundly wounded that you couldn’t say, “Something’s happened. I need space.”
A friend would have said, “This isn’t working.
You need to work on this.”
So I need to know if we're friends.
What happened?
Why did things change?
Severed Connection
Late nights for days–
unable to sleep or focus or do anything,
racing thoughts down the freeway.
I was thinking of the women I know and how lovely they are,
when something reminded me of you, and I reached out–
and you were excited about the people
who still matter to you
I slept last night.
No more racing.
I was thinking how I used to be part of your life,
and how quietly you slipped away.
You didn’t even leave a note.
I sat in a chair,
thinking at nothing,
until I felt bad
Bitter thoughts may be cruel–
but joy is no ally.
The good days are a Trojan Horse.
The bad days are reality.
And each day rewrites the last,
except when emptiness comes–
and both inside and outside the horse,
there is
nothing.
Sometimes
I finished reading and slipped to the back of the crowd.
“I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”
We were both surprised.
I thought everyone wrote poetry.
Years ago, a friend and I floated down a river in Missouri,
love taking shape in the air between us—
“I’ve noticed you don’t speak with proper grammar,” she observed, approvingly.
“John Dryden can go fuck himself,” I replied,
“The way people speak is what is magical about language.”
I ain't worried too much about grammar—
But I spell as good as I can.
Grammar’s like color theory:
useful, sure, but not the thing itself.
It helps you tell the difference between
"I liked what she said"
and
"Her words caught me,
held me up in the light of her living."
My brother, when we were kids, would irritate our mother
Saying “I gots a new basketball,” looking her right in the eye.
I never cared much for the word myself—
But I wouldn’t have punished him for speaking his truth.
She wanted us to bear the markers
of civilized society,
But–
As Ross might have said,
I gots no time for that.
I’d be shocked
To find anyone
who never sang in place of speaking.
Sophistry and Solipsism in the New Millennium 