(Yes, it's) Another Damned Poetry Page

Introduction

Hello. My name is Lawrence Beck. Among other things, I am a poet. I have
created this web site as a means of making my poetry available to anyone
who would like to read it . I am too lazy and too easily discouraged to
send little packets of my work to journals and e-zines, where, at worst,
they would be rejected and, at best, few people would read them, anyway.

I have written, and I have been paid to do so. I have been refining my
poetry for thirty-some years, but I am not a literary guy. I do not have
a BA, MA or MLA in English, Literature or Creative Writing. What that
means is that you are not about to face "literary poetry", the kind
that, if it has any meaning, is so solipsistic that it cannot
communicate that meaning, the kind that lays out a trail of precious
images that does not go anywhere; in short, the kind that academics fawn
over and everyone else hates.

I have two goals when I write. The first is to create poems that clearly
communicate their meanings through everyday language. The second is to
make use of the music that is within this language. My poems are not
free verse. If it seems to you as if they are, please read them again.
On the other hand, these poems also do not have thumping rhythms to
them. They have what I call melodies, and these come from that music
that is in everyday language.

I hope that you enjoy some of what follows. If you would like to tell me
how much you loved my poetry (or if you would like to be an asshole),
you may contact me at walkserect@yahoo.com

(This site is updated every two months. The poems which are entered onto
it first appear on www.PoemHunter.com and/or www.Poetbay.com.)

Recent Work

4/1/10
Don't start the car, Johnny. I have to think.
It's a beautiful morning, sunny and warm,
But we're gulping our coffees and going
To work. We'll be stuck at our lathes
Until it is so late that we cannot do
Anything; go home and eat, and wash
Dishes, and wish we had gotten outside.
And our bastard boss, both of us know,
Won't be coming today. He'll be out
Playing golf, spending money we made
Him to stand with his friends and complain
That we're lazy and paid too much. Fuck
That shit, Johnny. I'm calling in sick. He
Can pay for my playtime, and yours, if
You'd like. We can go fishing. I'll get
Two poles. When I'm back you can
Start up your car.

4/4/10
I am not who I had hoped to be
At any point, nor am I, apparently,
Who anybody had hoped I'd be.
Observed, of course, yet never seen,
And never curbed, except, of course,
By fears within, which came from
Where? I dare not ask. I occupy
The no-man's land between the
Blandly awful, but secure, the
Shaven junior grandee of the suburbs,
With his lawn and kids, his barbecue,
And evening news, and smug
Awareness that he is almost exactly
As his neighbors are, and all of those
Who they are not, the dark and scary,
Poor and strange, the ones who lead
The marches for what never comes.
Not the anchor or the motor, I am in
The hold, afloat, adrift, a cargo borne
By others, not at all who I had hoped
To be.

4/5/10
One must not be disenchanted when one
Finds one's dulcet phrases in the garbage
With the flowers and the icky printed cards.
One must never say, “I'm destined always
To be one,” and lose hope that he'll find
Someone. The lore suggests each one has
One, who'll take to heart his dulcet words,
And keep his cards and flowers, one who
Can, by coming through the room, revive
The one who hasn't won, and, leave him
Rapt and wrapped in arms, and certain
One the other has enchanted.

4/6/10
Said I to she who I visited daily,
"I've fallen in love." "Have you?
With whom?" "With you, dear woman.
I thought that you knew." She looked
At me strangely, then ran from the
Room, and I didn't see her again.

4/7/10
It's not like being divorced, you know,
And seeing the ex, who hates you,
And hating her, too. Divorce has a
Long incubation. Husbands and
Wives have time to adjust, moving
Slowly from love to numbness, then
To intolerance. Both of them know
Where they stand when they meet,
And exchange chilly greetings, but
I'm in the hallway with she who
I loved. Somebody told her. She didn't
Love me. She refuses to speak. She
Scurries away, as if I have embarrassed
Her. How is that so? Is a person
Diminished by unwanted love? At least
I desired her. What about me? Having
Loved and been pushed away, I am
Embarrassed. I stand as she runs,
Aware that she hates me, but we're
Not divorced. There hasn't been time
For me to decide how I feel.

4/9/10
I swam one time in Walden Pond, the shrine.
The water wasn't bad, but I detected no transcendence,
Felt no urge to gush the way the famous hermit
There had done. I walk the forest of the bluff
Beneath my house, and do, in fact, grow happier
Among the trees. Their branches now show
Little leaves. The ground is green. My face
Can feel the sun. It's warm, but I'm not up
To spewing lines of rhyming nature treacle,
Such as one could read (if one was paid enough)
In books by guys from Massachusetts, circa 1844.
Instead, I offer lumpy lines, and tell you simply
That these trees, the river, sparkling below, and
All I see across the valley, fallow fields, a highway,
And the sky, which is a brilliant blue, transcend
The dull and ugly things which wait for me,
Uphill, inside my house.

4/9/10
The pictures came in little frames
He bought because he thought
That he would need them, but he
Never did. He stares at them from
Time to time, and wonders how
These pretty children look, now
That they're grown.

4/11/10
I'm made of stone. That's what I'll say,
Which means that, when the silence ends,
Her words won't have effects on me. If
She is sweet, I won't dissolve. If she
Is acid, I will go uneaten. Bleak and
Monolithic, I will show I'm silent, too,
And soon enough she'll go away, at which
Point, like a ravaged cliff, I will tumble
Down.

4/12/10
He and she can share a dinner. He can
Feel the warmth of eyes, which, recently,
Would kindle mine, and he can hold her
In their bed, and sleep. He must have
Pleasant dreams. I'll consume this frozen
Pizza, sitting on my sofa in the TV's cold
And charmless light, and, when I force
Myself to bed, I'll be alone, awake most
Of the night.

4/13/10
Reborn on this balcony over the ocean,
Honeymoon two, I grip my chair.
Staggered by all that has come to my
Senses: the smell of the air, the sound
Of the waves and the screeching gulls,
The spray on the rocks, the taste of my
Coffee. I turn to the missus, who's
Lovely inside of her soft, white robe.
“Isn't this wonderful?” She doesn't hear me.
She stares at her lap, and fucks with her
Cellular phone.

4/15/10
The man from whom you hide, my love,
Is manufactured. He's not me, just
As the one you think you're saving
Isn't really you.

How could you have convinced yourself
That I, the one who came on afternoons
At work with pleasantries, would plot
To wreck your pretty home? You never
Would have known I loved you if I hadn't
Said, and surely, you have learned that I am
Meek. I cherish time I spend with you, but
Only when it's easy for us both. I don't
Know where you live. I do not own a gun
Or gag or rope. My car is out of gas. In
Other words, the monster you've created
Is a fuzzy toy made scary in the fading
Light, nothing that you ever had to fear.

And you, in truth, aren't who you seem:
The faithful wife and mommy, prairie
Pure, who wouldn't let her head be
Turned by an attentive man. I saw;
You liked to have me visit. You were
Disappointed every time I said I had
To go. You always asked when I'd
Be back, and we both know that you
Found out I loved you only after you
Had looked for me on your computer.
Why, pray tell, would someone so
Contented think of doing that?

Go on hiding. See me as a danger
To you, if you must, but, for your own
Sake, you should try to understand
Yourself.

4/17/10
In moonlight, silvered, treeless hills
Are backs of beasts, and my protectors,
Circled. I'm the crippled calf within. I
Will be saved, though, to what end,
No moon, no hill, can know. I do not
Profit as a prophet. My words are too
Clear. The monastery's many monks
And nuns, who labor to bring meaning,
Muddled meaning, from each other's
Spat-out indications of “authentic
Feeling” find me useless. Nothing here
Is code, and, in the village, oh, the
Dreadful clods, the beasts from whom
My beasts protect me, pass. All of their
Ears are plugged. They twitch to signals
From the corporate zone, which, in its
Wisdom, profits from its warnings:
“Pay no mind to crippled calves. Do
Not ascend the hills.”

4/18/10
I don't hail from anywhere near, Nadine.
I couldn't pass the classes, so I slid back,
Bug inside a bowl, to Colby, where I keep
The books for Arthur's Drilling. We do
Wells. But I subscribe to magazines, and
Read reviews of poetry and painting,
Sculpture, sometimes, dance. I'll tell you
What I think I've found. Somebody
Once, in every field, went nuts, and then
Confusion reigned. The brighter people
Went away, but those remaining were
Convinced that madness equals genius,
That what is opaque must be profound,
And now the arts are little ghettos, filled
With feeble-minded folks, who dribble
Paint, and hammer beams, and write
The first words that they think, as
Those around them spin out incoherent
Theories meant to justify what no one
Understands. I'll tell you now, Nadine,
I see no meaning in your paintings.
They are severed ears, or heads in ovens.
Still, I like the one in red. I'll buy it,
Take it back to Colby. Mostly, though,
I've come for you. The article I read
About your paintings had your picture.
You're so lush as some old caveman's
Venus, brought up from a well, and,
If you're vapid, I don't care. I don't
Intend to stay here long. The floodlit
Flotsam in this ghetto leaves me cold.
What warms me are my thoughts that
I may do some drilling, artfully, with
You.

4/18/10
The magpies on the Sunday shows return
To set the record straight. Of course, the
Thing is full of kinks because they twist it
So. A monster needs a handsome face. A
Hero needs a cloud. The sponsors tell them
What to say, but, when they're sitting,
Cameras on, these magpies seem so
Self-important folks at home have no
Idea they doing as they're told.

4/18-9/10
Here's where I am, if you care (and you don't).
On the corner of Seventh, in this fucking town,
That is twenty blocks long, and a couple across,
And I saw her this evening. Did she see me?
There's no telling. Most likely, but she just went
On. It'll always be like this. There's nowhere
To hide. We'll keep passing in silence, and people
Will stare. “Weren't they sweethearts?” “They
Were, but they're not anymore.” From the
Corner of Seventh, at sunset, I'm able to scan
Almost all of this pitiful town, and I'll be
Observed. I am easily seen, not that you or
That woman will care.

4/19/10
In her nightmare, she's going to Grandmother's house.
There's a wolf in the forest. His voice is so sweet,
But he's hungry. She's certain she'll be consumed.
In my dream, she recalls that I'm actually human.
Neither is destined to be.

4/20/10
I am done, a prince relieved of peas, a rooster now
More lightly pecked, and, on my deck, a gin and tonic
Next to me, I soak up sun. If I was of the Christian
Faith, a dour doer, certain that the path to heaven's
Lined with tasks, or if I was a money grubber, mad
To make a little more, I'd rise from here and set to
Work. I'm neither. I'm an atheist, and one with
Buddhist inclinations. Neither past nor future is,
And now, regardless of its nature, always will be
Where I am. Nothing comes from wishing, but
Unhappiness, and, so, I say, I'll sit and drink,
As I am doing, until I am done.

4/21/10
Having come, again, to the edge of a chasm
Between two minds, he turns to go. Surely,
The landscape is level somewhere, and the
Woman within it, who seems to be waving,
Actually wants him there.

4/22/10
One must learn from one's mistakes.
“The pizza's burnt,” this lover moans.
“It's only brown,” I say, “and, if you
Love me, you should try it. Eat, and
Feast on my good wishes. Cherish me,
If not my food.” I watch her push
Away the plate, and learn. Next time,
A pizza, cooked correctly, will be served
To someone else.

4/23/10
My back is turned to the pathos at home.
What is wrong with my kids? They
Quiver and whine. They're afraid to
Do anything on their own. And the
Woman I love, where the hell has she
Gone? She is cowering somewhere.
She doesn't speak. Well, I'm done with
The lot of them. I'm in my car, and I'm
Off for the weekend, the nomad the
Chromosomes say that a hominid ought
To be. A hearth is okay as a place that is
Visited. Home is the road, the looming
Horizon, and, after I've hunted, though
I will be back, the pathos won't let me
Stay long.

4/25/10
A man in a crisp tuxedo strides onto stage
From the right. He claps his hands together,
Smiles, and says, “If only,” and then the
Parade of pleasures begins. Everything
We've ever wanted arrives, and we, and
The man, from his place on the wing,
Are in awe. We laugh at times, at the
Wonders. The show goes on for hours.
When it is over, the man, our host it seems,
Again returns to center stage. He spreads
His arms, and shouts, “If only! Goodnight!,”
And all of the lights come on. We rise.
Nobody has much to say as we mass at
The doors. We squeeze outside, and
Separately go to our homes.

4/26/10
Almost all of the atmosphere is nitrogen,
And nobody cares. Almost all of the people
Who plod the earth are dull. They are not
Worth the time it would take someone,
Like me, to listen to what they thought
They had to say. You, I believed, would
Be different. You weren't. You are
Nitrogen, nothing at all to me now.
She is the air I need to breathe.

4/26/10
Am I abject? You believe that I ought to be,
But I am not. I was caught, I admit, for a
Time, in a pit of self-pity, believing those
Things that you said, that I wasn't refined,
Wasn't, couldn't be, someone with whom
You'd be seen, and I sank. You were right.
In your glittery world, on opening nights,
I would stand out; too coarse to be horsing
Around with your affluent friends, but
I thought about them, about you, and your
Milieu, and rose from my pit on awareness
That I didn't fit because I couldn't do what
You do. Useless and decadent, dear, you are
Dreary, a negative thing that reduces
Whatever it touches, and much as I'd like
To be swell, I'm aware that I'm fit, for the
Better, to dwell among those who contribute,
Their rough, calloused hands tending land,
Building palaces, filling the plates and the
Glasses of all of you asses. You ask me if
I am abject, and I answer again that I'm not.
Now, I'm putting the question to you.

4/27/10
Graceless she is, on these rocks by the river,
A grounded goose, her pole in the water, her
Hook unbaited and in a snag. You laugh at
Her. She seems ready to cry, but this isn't
The whole of the world, cousin. Come to the
City, the part that is hers, and you'll marvel
At how she can fly.

4/27/10
She is so bright, they say,
The sun that sets alight the room.
No normal man can stay away,
And I cannot, despite my gloom.
No, I assume a place in line
To listen as she chatters so,
And emphasize that she is fine.
She smiles sweetly, “Yes, I know.”
The jostling and flattery,
And knowledge that I won't succeed
Combine to take a toll on me.
I turn and let the others feed
Their vanities, and hers. I shake
My head and wander down the hall.
Her sister reads before I take
Her book. Again, I'm first to call
On she, whose beauty, like the moon,
Is cool and quiet, truly right
For one the sun exhausts so soon.
That's why I stay with her at night.

4/28/10
Do you hear me, Johanson, you son of a bitch?
They said to be nice to you. Sure. You're a shit,
And I've known you since grade school. You aren't
Any good. Are you in there, Johanson? Then, come
Out and fight. Look. I pissed in your bass boat
And buggered your wife. I took all of your tools and
Left them outside. Are you ready to kill me? I wish
You would try. Damn it; Anthony, open your eyes.

4/29/10
To be here beside Charlotte, who still is asleep,
Recollecting the evening, all that we said,
And the wine and the veal, the walk to this place
Through the summer-like air; to be watching the sun
Coming up through the shades, knowing neither of us
Has to work until Monday; neither of us even has
To get dressed, and that we can have coffee together
Outside on her balcony, and to be, somehow, depressed,
Indicates that I'm truly insane.

4/30/10
The TV is on. It's barely audible;
Two in the morning, insomnia news.
A sailor was killed in the Indian Ocean;
Pirates again. A family in Pakistan,
Up in the mountains, blasted by
Missiles, a little mistake. Orphans
Of earthquakes, tear gas in Athens.
As I begin wondering what I should
Do, a dim-looking man with impeccable
Teeth says I need to be fit. I must buy
His machine. I must firm up my
Abdomen. After I have, oily women
In swim suits will beg for my love,
And the rest of the world, in awe
Of my body, will follow my lead,
Buy machines, and grow fit, ending
All of the problems these others are
Facing. That cheers me. I'm going
To bed.

5/1/10
Who knows what would happen if I
Held up my hand, and said, “Not
Anymore!”? Would these dutiful
Drones look away from their lunches,
And ask what I meant? I suppose
That they might, and, out of
Frustration, I'd find that I didn't
Know where to begin. “Not any
More of any of these things.
No broken men making beds on the
Streets. No selfish millionaires
Making our laws. No kids in countries
To kill and be killed, and no advertising,
No self-serving lies, and no starvation
Wages, no one turned away from a
Hospital, no one in jail for his
Skin, and no half-wits with sacred
Texts saying that some are immoral,
Unequal, and ought to be shunned.”
Drones, being drones, would be
Dismissive. “We like how things
Are. We get scared when they
Change.” They'd go back to their
Lunches. That's what would
Happen, and I would be taken
Away.

5/1/10
In this bar in Broken Bow,
A cowgirl angel succors me.
Of all the places I could go,
Not one is where I'd rather be.

5/1/10
In an office, facing “Bob,”
An inner voice begins to taunt.
“He'll tell you that you have the job
Because it's one you do not want.”

5/3/10
The undertaker's elder daughter isn't pale.
She's tan as toast, and she is very fond of me.
I see her running on my street, on mornings
Such as this, her shadow churning through
My hedge and far across the lawn. I wave.
I do not talk to her. She's busy. In an hour,
Though, I'll chase her down the course she's
Run to meet her at her father's house. We'll
Have some coffee on the porch, and walk
Into what passes for the center of this little
Town. We've seen the things in all
The windows. We don't see them anymore.
Instead, we watch each other's eyes. We
Mine them, as we chatter, for their warmth,
For reassurance that the joy we found one
Night last summer is intact. It always is.
One day, last week, she turned and said,
“If you abandon me, you'll give my dad
Something to do, as I am sure I'd die.”

5/4/10
It was fun, in those days, to go courting
Confusion, windowpanes leading to
Places where patterns appeared on the
Walls, and bushes would murmur.
Faces would age in an instant and melt,
And the arc of water, out of a fountain,
Would stutter peculiarly. Droplets, like
Comets, left tails in the sky. Now, the
Ones who would go with us scowl
In their kitchens. Their faces have
Aged irretrievably, as have their
Minds, and they want all the
Windowpanes gone. “Sober is better.
Labor is life.” And their children,
Corralled, encounter confusion,
But never the kind that is fun.

5/5/10
“Superman,” she called him once, but she's flown.
He's the one in the chair, feeling helpless and weak.
He might find her if he possessed X-ray eyes,
But, then, what would he do? Even comic book
Heroes aren't able to make someone fall in love.
They aren't able to unlove, to alter their destinies.
Poisonous woman, whose heart is of kryptonite;
He stirs his coffee, wishing that he'd never seen
Her, wondering whether he'll rust, as the man
Made of steel starts to cry.

5/7/10
“Oh, they're disgusting,” she says from the kitchen.
He raises his eyes from his novel. “Who?,”
But he already knows. The missus is watching
The Paoli twins laying next to their pool.
He joins her, but briefly, tells her she's right,
And goes back to his book. Once she has left
With the laundry, he rises, tiptoes into
The kitchen again and gives them another look.

5/9/10
I wake up, even now, convinced that the river has risen.
The crops are gone, and I wait on the porch for the
Sheriff to come, the nudge which sends the bug
From sink-side into the swirl, and down. Oblivion.
Off of the land, and into the city. I watch as my
Father fails us, falls through the doorway, and
Curses, and smacks my mom, and I come back
From meetings and shit-eating grins without
Offers or money. The sign on our door says the
Bank wants us gone. A sheriff is coming. I feel
Like a drink. The world is swirling. Three days
Of rain. Ten months of nothing. The river is
Rising again.

5/10/10
Existence itself is a pain in the ass: the constant
Toil, for water, for food, for safety, one's own,
And for one's children. Also, there's this, I say
To myself, as I trudge down the sidewalk, soaked
By the rain. At the corner of Timmons and First,
I come to door of the Komfy Kafe. Its windows are
Fogged. When I enter, I see all the faces I see all
The time around here. Some stop chewing and
Offer hellos. Others keep going. From far in the
Back, in a booth, I hear Howard. He's calling to me.
“Sit over here. Try to be sociable.” He's in the
Overalls he always wears, and he's halfway
Through pancakes and sausage and toast. I
Examine the menu. I know it by heart. Howard
Is smiling. “Beautiful day,” he says, pieces of
Pancake flying toward me. “You don't believe
That, do you, you dog?” Slightly disgusted,
I shake my head. “No.” “Because it's so wet!
I can't plow, or do anything. Irma's in Lincoln
To visit her sister, so I'm staying here. Isn't life
Grand?” “Maybe it is,” I answer. I order,
The pain in my ass having gone.

A Short Drive Down State Highway 92 in Eastern Nebraska
5/10/10
I tour Venice. Yutan up the hill.
I will get you at seven, and we'll
Drink in Mead. Then we'll pass
Through the cornfields and out
Of the county. When an ancient
Courthouse appears to the west,
We will shout to each other,
“Wahoo!”

5/10/10
I will gather flowers, as I did in those days
Before you were born, and I'll say that I'm
Certain that love conquers all, which
Anyone your age doesn't believe, and I'll
Tell you of times when I saw the apocalypse,
Close to the stage, to the blast of the music,
The moment when love would be savage
As hate, and I'll turn, since you've turned.
I'll regain my indifference. Either you
Loved me and ran, or you didn't. You
Couldn't. I wonder. I don't have much
Faith in the children of decades in which
Every synapse must pop to the prospect
Of getting ahead. Do what you must. I'll
Be okay. I'll take flowers to somebody
Else.

5/11/10
God's little creatures
Have gotten confused.
He's spoken too often.
Which words are the Truth,
And why, in His Majesty,
Doesn't He silence
The ones He's misguided?
Isn't it cruel
To not let them know
They are wrong?

5/15/10
I am no farther from you now than I was then,
But how the distance shows. What do we have
To say? Go, occupy your other world. Stay
Away from germs and windows. Stay within
Established lines, and neither speak nor hear nor
Know what those who need you for some
Purpose (never yours) forbid. Do be the useful
Thing you've been. You need to shop. Go to
The mall. It's never very scary there. And
Work, your gift for catchy falsehoods being
Much in vogue these days. I do not care where
You will go. Just go, and leave me here to
Ponder all that is forbidden, all the items
No one thought to price, the germs and other
Scary things which fill the world I inhabit,
One so large and sturdy that it has to someday
Strangle yours.

5/17/10
The English teacher isn't pleased
With how the story seems to end.
It doesn't really end at all. It started
Okay. A colleague arrived. He was
Pleasant enough, and they were
Friends. They would chat (about
Nothing) for hours, but then, only
Days before the summer began,
Someone said that he loved her.
She didn't let on, and she didn't
Respond to the letters he sent.
Still, he chose to remain, and, now
That it's fall, there is awkwardness
Everywhere. She cannot speak to
Him. He looks away when she
Enters a room. Flattered, somewhat,
By the thought that he loved her,
She hates how the curtain refuses
To fall. If only he'd been more romantic,
A hero, who, heartbroken, jumped
From a bridge.

5/17-8/10
This place is dismal as hell, a crypt, a fitting
Finish for the Yanqui epoch, clearly gone.
A knot of flabby assholes nurses drinks
And whines. The world doesn't treat
Us well. The jobs all are in China now,
And dusky men who don't speak English
Cut our meat, and cut our lawns, and
Do whatever must be done. We flabby
Assholes, insulin injecting, look, but
Barely move. The rock 'n' roll we say
We cherish (played by broken blacks,
Who languish, probably in jail), recalls
The days of... what? Of rows of pounding
Wealth machines, of giant cars with
Flashing fins approaching drive-ins.
Everything was fine, and then the darkness
Came. Now, look at us. The jukebox plays.
The dirge is rock 'n' roll, and in our crypt,
We snap our fingers. “Carlos, come and
Take this glass,” refusing to concede our
Fate is dismal as all hell.

5/18/10
Donna Kwan, the weather woman, smiles
As she gestures toward an image which
She cannot see. She's in a room which has
No windows. Nonetheless, she tells me
That she knows the weather will be fine.
I'm glad. I haven't left my bed. Beside me,
Donna Delaurentis sleeps, a smile on her
Face. The sun streams through my eastern
Window. All of us appear to have agreed
It is a lovely day, though it is one which
Only I have seen.

5/18/10
Will I change my ways? Oh, darling,
Be serious. I am too old. I can't. I won't.
Will I suddenly see that your face is not
Beautiful? Will I conclude that you are
Not sweet? Why don't you ask if I
Cherish America? No and no and
Emphatically no. Will I love you
Forever? We'll just have to see.
Will I reach for your hand, which
You never will give, and suggest
That we slip away, out of America,
Traitors to idiots, true to ourselves?
I'm aware that I shouldn't, that you
Would refuse, so, wherever I go,
Be it Uruguay, Mexico, you will not
Go with me. You will be beautiful.
I will be lonely, and on my own,
Never changing my ways, never
What you'd call serious. I am too
Old. When I die far away, do you
Think you'll be sad? Say you will
Just to humor me. I know you can't
And you won't.

5/19/10
Upright at midnight? My dear, you do
Dream. Though I'll lay in your bed, I'll
Have long been asleep. If you tingle with
Lust, trust me, daylight is best. You can
Have me undressed, and upright as a
Rod, but I urge you to act. I become
Rather flaccid as hours go by, and, by
Midnight, though I once was sure to be
Upright, I doubt that I will be again.

5/20/10
Annoyingly elastic, hours shrink, just when
I want them long. At work today, not one
Would end. The sun was fixed as spreadsheet
Files lolled on my computer screen. I had
To meet with my new boss, who's known
To have a “gift for gab.” It is no gift, if
You ask me. At last, I fought the traffic
Here to be back at your side, and, look,
Already, it is very late. I have to leave to
Get some sleep, and, when my eyes are
Closed, I know the hours will begin to
Grow. By morning, in my office, they'll
Be infinite again.

5/22/10
The wilderness humbles the hairless beast.
Huddled here by the fire alone, the traits
Of my species, the masters of everything,
Prove to be useless. I have no claws, so I
Cannot dig or defend myself. My hands
Are soft, and my legs are slow. I am given
To turning the world to poetry. None of
The creatures around me cares. I know
How to set silverware, how to tie bows,
The circumference of circles, the name of
The man who shot Kennedy's killer, but
I have no food, don't know which things
Are edible. Should I survive through the
Night to consider what brings immortality,
I'll dismiss art. Only mating will bring it,
And no one is near. Hairless and helpless,
I'm master of nothing, a meal for mosquitoes;
That's all.

5/23/10
The streets are wet. It may have rained.
The pair of shoes beside the door is gone,
The bag, the buzzing phone. A note above
The sink explains: “It wasn't anything
You did. It's me.” No, it was someone
Else. She's run to he who treats her
Badly. I could say, should she come back,
That I will take her. I don't know.
Compassion has its limit, and it may
Be mine's been drained.

5/24/10
“Do not call these assignations.” “What, then,
Should I say they are?” “They're nothing.
They don't need a name.” “Does this mean
You want them stopped?” “Oh, no, but
I am filled with shame which would be
Worse if what we do was named.“ “We
Can be friends who meet.” “Not even
That. And, when our lips are touching,
And I taste your tongue, you mustn't say
We kiss.”

5/26/10
Old Thompson's self-important shout,
Professors shout, is all that echoes
Through these newly vacant halls.
The year is done, the students gone,
And Thompson's telling other geezers
How he plans to spend his break.
Each word is one he's said before.
Each inch of this old campus, with
Its lawns, and brooding Gothic halls,
And out-of-place, but cheaper glassy
Cubes, each season's stately movement,
Sunny fall to bitter winter, giddy
Spring, and then this sudden temporary
Humid death, is known to me. It's sad
To see the cycle at its end again, but
Comforting to understand that
Nothing's really changed. The cycle
Will resume in August. Someone else,
It could be me, will drone when
Thompson's gone.

5/26/10
It's hell to have to run the world,
Good, therefore, the wife has
Found the courage to assume
The job. I'm always wrong.
She sets me right. I'm idle,
Or I'm occupied by unimportant
Tasks until she tells me what I
Have to do. The children mutter
Darkly that she treats them as if
They're her fingers. So she does.
She must. She needs their help
To run the world.

5/26/10
Andrea, so many omens tell me
That you'll say goodbye. My
Horoscope, beside the comics,
Clearly indicates that one on
Whom I am dependent will be
“Disappearing from my life,”
My dog is out of sorts these
Days, and I am likewise, lurching
Home from Bakersfield and
Quickie fixes: banks becoming
Other banks, and restaurants
Remodeled into tax preparers,
Places where a guy can get his
Laundry done. The world is a
Thing which seems to mutate
When my back is turned, and
You, Andrea, mutate, too. You
Are not what you were before,
And beer and pizza, afternoons
On dirt bikes, in my water bed,
Seem not to be the things you
Want. What do you want?
I do not know, but all these omens
Fill me full of fear that you will go.

5/27/10
The siren here on the rocks is Scotch,
And the song she sings, of smoke and
Dirt, has drawn me close, a wreck,
To wreck what's left of me against
Her shore. I do not hear the calls of others.
I'm not part of any crew. I am, instead,
The man adrift, whose thoughts don't
Fit, whose clothes are wrong, whose
Lack of faith has led his mates to fling
Him overboard and go. I saw the sails
Consumed by waves, and rocked for
Days, for years, upon the board that
They had left for me. There are no
Points of reference where I have been,
So I have taught myself to cling to
Anything. The siren calls. Her
Master says this is her last. I see
Us trading blows because there's
No one else; there can be nothing
More. I will not ride the board another
Lifetime, will not seek a crew. I'll
Stay with her, and, should he try
To stop me, he'll be through.

5/28/10
My Uncle Buster's died. He, with my dad,
Who's also dead, exemplified a way of life
Which I could see, but never know.
Depression boys, the equals of the mountain
Goats up on the cliffs, they wrestled teams
Of horses hauling logs. They lived through
Nine-month winters high up in their
Rockies home. Old pictures show a natty
Pair, in suits, beside a bulbous car, with
Horn-rimmed girls next to them, with elk
They'd killed in bloody snow, in uniforms.
They went to war, my dad out in the
Philippines, but not in combat. Buster
Hunted Germans as he'd hunted elk,
At least, that's what we thought he did.
He wouldn't say, and, afterward, my dad
Attended college, took a job out on the coast,
And tried to live a softer life. He couldn't.
He would take us, every weekend,
To the mountains, to the roaring streams,
To be beneath the pines which substituted
For the aspens and the spruce he knew.
Buster never left again. He stayed inside
The family home, and made a living
Dynamiting rocks above the timber line,
And, when the two of them retired, my
Dad came back to the home, and he and
Buster fished and hunted, latter-day
Depression boys, until they got too feeble.
Then they sat and talked until they died.
The mountain goats have left their cliff.
The elk are safer. Lesser men now haul
Away the logs. They sit in trucks.

5/28/10
When Ezra's Pez dispenser broke,
He fell into a dreadful funk.
Already, he had had an awful week.
“To think,” he said, “my precious candy
Can't be gotten from this junk!
I never find the pleasures that I seek.”

5/30/10
The most precious thing that the ships brought home
Wasn't gold or silver. It wasn't food or an army
Of men in clanking chains. It was knowledge that
Everything wasn't the same, the Pope proven fallible,
Other gods. It was doubt, and, with it, the sense
That all that was said to be permanent could be
Changed, and the source of the inland's enduring
Poverty isn't its soil, its lack of rain. It's
The fact that the ships and their cargoes don't
Come. There is no doubt. There is only one god,
And everything stays the same.

5/31/10
Everyone's gone. I am here by myself,
King of the hill in this part of America,
Cigarette satisfied, feasting my eyes
On a robin's-egg sky, and the corn
In the fields of a valley still seeming to
Slumber in peace. If you happen to see
Me, don't utter a word. Turn around,
And make haste to the center of town.
Tell the lowly a monarch is pleased.

6/1/10
Scientists always, after a fashion, we marvel
At bumblebees. How do they fly? How are
They able to beat the wind? And we gaze at
The curtain of rain coming near, and the
Towering clouds, brilliant white in the sun,
And the thunder and lightning, the scattering
Birds, and I look at her shivering, soaked to
The skin, and I wonder, was anything ever
More beautiful, stars or coral, butterflies,
Trees, than this scientist clinging to me?

6/4/10
What we once were, we cannot be anymore,
I think, as I sit in her kitchen. Once, she was
Beautiful. Now, she's not. Once, perhaps
Because I would listen, she wanted me badly.
Now, what I am, it appears, is proof that what's
Wanted is not always good to have. There is
Little to say. She's tired, she tells me. We talk
About kids, and jobs, our marriages. Done
With the dishes, she touches my hand, and I start.
She smiles. I'm happy I came. What we were,
We are not. We are broken and old, but she's
Shown me that something remains.

6/4/10
“Justice,” my friend, is a fraudulent term,
A pompous replacement for others, which,
Lesser, but cleaner, mean simply that someone
Is certain that he deserves what he has got.
In this instance, it seems that I do. You do not.
Two thousand years, my people have wandered,
Reviled, without a land of our own, or certainty
That those around us would let us continue to work,
Or even live. They have killed us in millions.
So, to be safe, we have come here to settle. We
Live on your land, and, now, you are reviled,
And you cannot work, and you are not sure if
You'll get to live. You fight. I don't blame you,
But, so far, you fail, and, from here on the
Outside of your prison cell, I'm declaring
That justice was done.

6/5/10
I'm a busy man, Clarice; that's all.
I don't "look for reasons to run"
From your family. I treasure the
Hours I spend with your father,
Hearing (again) how the government's
Trying to end private enterprise,
Confiscate guns, as it offers welfare
To immigrants, and allows perverts
To fondle our kids in school. I am
Grateful for all that your mother
Has done. Through her chain-smoking
Haze, she has shown me what I need
To do to be righteous. So often she
Prays, and she leads me. She reads
To me Our Savior's words. And why
Would I shrink from your brother,
The warrior? He begs me to watch
As he slaughters the aliens coming
To earth on his video game. You
Have a wonderful family, Clarice.
I would go if I could, but I've
So much to do. Tell them that I
Apologize. One of these days,
I will visit. For now, I will see
You at home.

6/8/10
Here we are on these bleachers,
A pair of Koreas. We have the
Same name. The child who's
Playing the flute in the band
On the floor is the island which
Both of us claim. The silence
Is stifling. You've found an
Ally, and I have brought mine.
Though the fighting is over,
An armistice signed, the war
Hasn't ended, it seems.

6/12/10
No sooner had the grass begun to sprout
Then summer came, and, with it, drought.
All of the seedlings died. A patch of
Dusty ground remains, and this is how
My love for her has gone: at first, it
Grew, a tender thing, but, soon, so
Like the grass, it shriveled; this time,
Not from heat, but from the cold.

6/18/10
The photographs all are the same:
The two of us, in jackets, in the rain
Somewhere. It always rains, and, in
The murky light, beside some water,
Always inky black, we hold each
Other. We are smiling, partly for
The camera, mostly because, each
Time, always briefly, we are pleased
To be together. Soon, I have to leave.
The home I knew no longer suits me.
I cannot be bright enough, these days,
To overcome the lack of light. I know
She has to stay. Along a deeply
Shadowed path beneath a patch of
Looming trees, we kiss. I tell her
I will miss her. “I know. I will miss
You, too,” she says before releasing me.
Our jackets rustle. Once again, it rains.

6/19/10
In the pregnant morning sky, the sun
Is not yet born, and, thus, this day
Is not yet quite alive. I'm glad of that.
With birth, with sun, begins the long
Decay.

6/19/10
I'll be here, immobile. I've broken my toe.
It hurts like hell to try to go anywhere.
You can come laugh, if you'd like. I won't
Mind, as my heart has healed. I no longer
Love you. Come or don't. Live or die.
The heart hurt more than the toe.

6/19/10
I've been advised by this gray-suited goof
That my mots are not bon, that I need to be
Meaningful. Sadly, I haven't a lot to say.
Is there meaning in misery, meaning in being?
Is consciousness real, or a sort of a sleight of
The hand of necessity, nothing much? We
All eat. We all fight. We crawl over each
Other, and fornicate, hoping to save our genes,
As the universe grows. When it starts to
Contract, it will ruin those genes, and all
Life, which amounts to no more than a
Species of motion, will end. Later, as always,
Existence will start to grow larger again.
It will generate life, and, as has happened
Uncountable times, in a room on some
Planet, a being will learn that his mots
Are not bon, and he has to attempt to say
Meaningful things about life.

6/20/10
A year ago, on Father's Day, I phoned my dad,
A courtesy. The call, I'm sure, was short and
Strained. We never had a lot to say. Who
Knows? I may have left a message. He got
Sick and died in August. This year, I'm the
Patriarch, the family's only father, but I seem
The lizard's second tail: regenerate, a lesser
Thing than what was here before.

6/22/10
Do you believe in me, honestly, Emily,
As I believe I believe in you? Would you
Be able to bend me away from my
Terrible tendencies toward what you
Know? You are decent. You've been
To me salvation, Emily. Say you will
Stay. I grow large when you're here,
And decay every day you are gone.

6/23/10
“Sew, gentle yeoman. I sense you're afield.
I myself am a field with a furrow to sew.
You've a seed. You should plant it.
My furrow awaits.” “Ah, you're flat,
Lovely lady, but you are not plain.
You are what I've been seeking. I'll
Do as you say, and afield, among
Feathers, so far from my home, I am
Awed by your bawdiness, blessed,
I would say, to be poised at your
Furrow, filled with delight at the lay
Of the land where I am.”

6/25/10
Let the rabble run rampant. That's probably best.
Let them come to the gates of the homes of the ones
Who have given their jobs to people in China, and
Leached all the cash from firms they destroyed,
And made fools of investors. They're next to their
Pools, laughing. “I don't believe in assisting the
Poor. They are lazy and stupid. They'll just have
To learn that, to win in this world, one has to rely
On oneself, no one else. No one ever helped me.”
Let them see, if alone, they can ward off a rabble
Which shows up, like locusts, and levels their
Homes.

Alas, there's no rabble. Its members are stuck
By themselves by their TVs, absorbing the
Message that, somehow, the needy have caused
Their misfortune, and government. Only
When those by their pools are allowed to
Run rampant will what has been lost be
Restored to this rabble which never assembles,
Consisting of those on their own in defeat.

6/29/10
This unpleasant silence signals what's been lost,
And what remains, the latter little. I've resolved
To stop myself from coming here. The sun
Lights patches of her lawn, but we are in the
Shadows of the maples, on the ground where
Nothing grows, and what I thought was love
Is gone. I look into her face, its warmth
And joy replaced by tension. She would
Rather that I go. I rise, alleging I have
Somewhere else to be. I don't. I say I'll
See her later, but I won't, and, stepping
From the shade into the light and warmth,
I notice sounds I hadn't heard before. I turn
To see her weakly wave, and quickly turn
Again. Already, I feel stronger. In my
Absence, I suspect she'll feel the same.

6/29/10
As I, a man of middling intelligence,
Make my way across this room,
I'll thank you not to note my irrelevance.
I'll own up to it quite soon.

6/30/10
By means of baklava and bedroom eyes, a skimpy
Bathing suit, and interest (whether real or feigned)
In what I said I liked to do, she made me into
Her marionette. Now, I dance as she decrees,
But do not do not think me sad or bitter. I'll
Submit to jerking strings forever for her bedroom
Eyes, her bedroom, and a bite of baklava.