Tuesday, October 25, 2011

I'm Back

Posting poems again. talkinginthedark.com

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

microscope / telescope

I cannot see; I'm far
too close.

I let the danger fall by the waistside.
I let the answer fall by the waist.

No one will help us with our need.
But the body tells him it isn't so.
It says I am the one to blame
because the body is the one
who does the blaming.

I let the danger fault the answer
and the answer fault the rain.

You will never know how you hurt me.
I’m not that kind.

Read the original: April 21, 2005

Tuesday, April 07, 2009


Love is real, but only for me.
Want nothing of it. There is too little.

This only
little line in the earth.

Me, I want money and a hard life.
I want the death of a lover and to outlive lust.

I want harmony still in it.
And drugs I won’t enjoy.

Mostly, I want everything you want
to come to me instead.

And for you to look down at me
from whatever post you'll receive in heaven,

wanting me to learn, hoping I will
learn to avenge you.

This only
little line made sand.

Read the original: April 7, 2005

After a Battle

From the edge of the cliff I saw them, each asleep,
And wondered how our fathers could bear to lay so close.
First, the moon-glint of goodness on the heaps, then
Love made among them, running crooked from their mouths.

Closer, I could almost place from which wounds their souls escaped.
The mantis sent for a boy, younger than me,
And he dragged his pet goat up the slope, hungry for sacrifice.
But the blood ran black and wild around us.

We stripped the loose bronze from the stiff leather.
There, in the thrush, one last animal
Beckons buck and belt. I hold you here to watch among us
Hammer the plates of the dead flat, shape them the rough shapes

Of who we'll be when the goat gives calmly.

Read the original: April 6, 2005

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Marriage 1

Doors that hang on one hot hinge, and yet they keep from slamming.
Doors that open in more than two directions, and are made of you.
Men say what they say to their wives because they love them.
They say wait, but they're wrong, they mean now. They mean you've
       waited until now.
Compasses are big because they were made to be read.
I knew just east of you. I knew west of you too but didn't listen.
You were young once. You were open to watching the same movies
and were the same when I opened my eyes.
Doors that are answers, doors set inside their own sliding.
But what is life if it isn't someone whose agreed to your shared
We were young together once. We were given what we were worth
and won't let go.

Read the original: April 5, 2005

Saturday, April 04, 2009

Apical Dominance

This diagram, drawn from observations
Gathered over the course of one spring's circuit,
Describes the pattern born
To every cell that opens, and to each
Who forms a capsule or a bud,
And spells from her ovary code
The blueprint.

Present at each node, all knowing,
Is a force which feels the cold of long displacement.

Having waited for inflorescence to amend your partial death,
You will break from the gates of the system
And thank your trigger.

That which eludes the intrinsic circle
Provides, by will of exodus, our entrance—

This all will end. And in its shift is the arrangement:
It is freedom to commend, not speak,—
It is freedom to arrest the flux and breed,
The limbs of your bodies outheld.

And to need among the labors of life
Some of that which longs and holds.

Attach yourself to the spiral: that which continues and whirls,
That which outward asks
The whole of the soul's commitments.
The apex is a replica by design, though it seems original.

It extends from us to be seen;
It directs and reveals itself
So that we believe, individually. And only then
Will we recognize ourselves as fitting the surge
And fulfill the promise to that which we believe, unending.

It is the life itself that expands
Once you recognize yourself as one whose cause you've carried
All along. One for which entirety is available, probable,
Already turning toward the sun,
And the burning, and the flower.

Read the original: May 19, 2008

Calling Home After the News

The way my brother put it,
the power went first, just before,
and the yard went blue, and the glow held on them.

The VCR stopped blinking 12
and the motors each slowed or stopped to listen.
And inside, what? He didn't say. But the trees, he heard them
snapping like vegetables.

Careful not to press your face to the glass.
You have a lot of small things you'll miss,
which aren't worth listing.
I hope I'm one of them.

Read the original: April 4, 2009

Friday, April 03, 2009

Love Poem

Our loot scored itself.
But it's hard to have a handle on what keeps.
Is this rain, packed in snow? Is this seed?

Tanager, you are what you eat.
Take honey with your bread
and bread with your meat. And turn down

the switch. Locked ward. Door blown open
from the inside.

Read the original: April 3, 2005

Thursday, April 02, 2009

Into the Wee Hours, They Laid

(napowrimo extra credit)



He laid down with the grace of the round-faced flower
who made peace with the seasons and slept and died

only to pace near the flaked shore and grasp and pray
for another thumb another organ to waste
nor sacrifice
oh liquor or love or the hate for his brother's wife. Or th

Collapse, said the sworn taker, I don't want to let you die
But the peace is made, and the bed. Morning is weak
Or wise
Men say what they say to their wives because they love them.
They say wait, but they're wrong, they mean now.
But what is life if it isn't made to escape into each other
Or to break bread at dawn and not notice your companion
Coming back as the dead do to listen, or to remember faces.

while compasses are big because they were made to be read
and the courts make the most with their gods' great anger
except when they choose: trigger or anthem. I knew just east of you.
I knew west of you too but I didn't listen. you were young once. you were open
to watching the same movies and you were the same when I opened my eyes.
and we were treated fairly for once and it was worth every sacrifice written
or treasure found


said the
Don't know
how to w
ant th
Have dreamt
as many t
imes a
s yo


This isn't death, not even a little.
And yet
you let him call him up or let him

call your brother's house.
Did you
shake as you answered?

Did you ache with so much
for how he loved your

not knowing how?
is a low moan, horribly

alone in its hope—
me, they’ll bury you in it.

Read the original: April 2, 2005