21st Century Poetry

Introduction

If you haven't arrived here by mistake (if you have, I imagine that you will be exiting shortly), I assume that you have some familiarity with contemporary poetry. I hope that this familiarity has led you to these conclusions concerning “serious” poetry, the type that appears in “important” journals and books which are not published at the authors' expense:

Nearly all serious poetry can be assigned to two categories, (1) opaque, gimmicky stream-of-consciousness squibs, which communicate nothing to readers, and (2) overtly meaningful, but monotonous works consisting of emotionally flat declarations. Both types have made serious contemporary poetry dreadful. No one reads the stuff anymore, and there is no reason why they should.

Readers should demand better. They should tell the babblers and bores that poetry is meant to be the literary form which, above all else, celebrates language for its own sake. Poetry is supposed to wallow in language, bathe in language. It's supposed to seize upon the sounds of words, and mold, and bend, and splatter them to make astounding music. It's nice when a poem makes sense, but coherence and subject are secondary. The most important thing a poem can do is to thrill the mind with what it has done with the mundane aural symbols we use to communicate.

Sometimes, it's hard to understand what Shakespeare is trying to tell us, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that his poetry surges and sizzles. We read it over and over because it sings when we say it aloud. Each stanza is equivalent to a solo by a musical instrument. Gerard Manley Hopkins' poetry has this same aspect. It's electrical. Walt Whitman's poems, snubbed by those who aspire to elevated sensibilities, has such electricity.

This is what I try to attain. It is what anyone who calls him- or herself a poet should be trying to accomplish. The sweater-clad plodders, the grad students and writers' retreat drones, should step aside. With their inability to use language artfully, and their emotional emptiness, they have come close to wrecking poetry. It is time for us to retrieve and heal it.

(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

1/1/12
We see a man inside a box. It's not
A coffin, just a box. He seems
Asleep in there. With him are his
Few possessions, worn and battered,
Grubby things. We must conclude
This is his home. We see him with
Our television in a home which is
A house, a bright one, filled with
Pleasant things. It's not a coffin,
Just a house, and we have many
Things to do. The man is sleeping.
We must go. We leave him in
His box.

1/1/12
Your roommate lies. He says you're
Not at home. That may be for the
Best. The clock has ticked. My
Mind's congealed, and, in it,
Motionless, are you: an image,
Always indistinct, of someone who,
I'd hoped would show me, one way
Or the other, what she sought from
Me. You never did, and, now, as I
Prepare to leave, I see a light in your
Apartment, see a form. It may be
Yours. I think of making one more
Effort, but I won't. I'll go. It's for
The best.

1/4/12
I dream, eating a sandwich, of leading
A more dramatic life. I have wild hair,
A ruffled shirt, and, on a cliff above
The sea, in darkness and in pouring
Rain, I'm telling my beloved that
The time has come. I have to go.
She weeps, of course, and we
Embrace, and I can taste the salty
Tears (or is it ocean spray?) upon
Her lips. We move apart, my
Fingers drawing slowly from her
Outstretched hand, and then, at last,
With one more lacerating backward
Glance, I dash away, and we're
Forever changed. My sandwich
Almost done, I face a mild, hazy
Day, a thousand miles from an ocean.
She, who I believe I love, feels nothing
Of the sort for me, and, when I go,
She won't be changed. Days will pass
Before she even notices I've gone.

1/5/12
Whenever I believe myself fulfilled/content
(You pick the word), my mind drifts after
Erika, and I know that I'm not. The gently
Setting winter sun, the barren fields, the
River, with its icebergs, and this glass of
Bourbon, all the things I know and love,
Are empty, like cicada shells, without her
Brittle beauty here. I know she needs
Someone to tell her, “All is well,” and all
She's done is good enough. She'll see in
Time, and what I want, to be fulfilled, is to
Sense that she's softened, not so brittle, and
That she, though not, and likely never
To be, mine, has understood I care
For her, and, if she has, then I can be
Content.

1/6/12
We speak in whispers. Fireworks explode
Above this little town. She came. I didn't
Think she would, and, though I can't hear
What she says, I see her face in shades of
Red and feel the heat of her beside me.
When the fireworks are done, the nation's
Birth commemorated, we rise from our
Patch of grass and join the hundreds
Headed for their cars. I can't see her
Anymore, but I can feel her hand in mine,
And I have heard her whisper, “Take me
Home.”

1/7/12
If you were to look at a picture, a ship
Being christened, a man being hanged,
You can see me. I'm one of the dots
In the crowd, and, if you heard the roar
In a stadium, “Touchdown!,” it contains
My voice. I'm always somewhere, never
Acknowledged, and, thus, not missed when
I'm gone.

1/8/12
Beyond some point, the anecdotes are numbing.
We know what's been done. We've seen the
Chains across the gates. We've seen embarrassed
Women come to churches for some cans of
Food. We've seen the darkened limousines.
We know the ways we cannot speak, and all
The things we aren't to do, and, numbed,
And beaten down so far, we see no point
In protesting. We haven't any hope.

1/11/12
A bug, so pleasantly direct, has found
The food. It eats. It buzzes. It will
Spy another soon, and fornicate, and
Lay its eggs, while we, the hobbled,
Higher beings, squirm upon our folding
Chairs, imagining, for reasons only
Those with crumpled frontal lobes
Would find persuasive, that our lives
And those of those we procreate
Depend on our pretending that we
Value what this speaker says. In fact,
I've long since ceased to hear. I see
The food. My stomach hurts. I see
A woman, standing in a suit, which
Seems to signify that she would
Rather have me tell her, “You have
Such a lovely brain” than voice my
Truer, basic urge, which is, “We ought
To fornicate.” I wish I was a bug.

1/12/12
Where are we, Annie? I'd like to know.
In a state park parking lot, next to a
Lake, in the cold, in the darkness,
Unseen, we are busily mauling
Each other. We always do, but you
Don't want your kids to find me in
Your house, and our boss said the rules
Say leave you alone. We are here, but
Not anywhere, coupled and stuck.
Will we ever move on? I don't know.

1/13/12
I came to her in polished steel, upon a
Steed, a knight, whose only duty was
To rescue her from villains. I saw many
Near. She scowled. She could defend
Herself. “You leave bruises when you
Hold me. Shed that useless armor
Or you'll have to go away.”

1/15/12
Half a moon above has lit a half a love.
She looks at me. I take her hand. I need
Somebody here, but her? It's hard to say.
We search for things to talk about. The
Moon departs, and darkness, as it often
Does, envelopes me. She turns away.
“I need somebody here, but him?,” she
Wonders, and she cannot say. She also
Fears she may be feeling only half a love.

1/16/12
These shards of glass, remains of what had
Been a vase before my lover's sleeve had
Caught it, made it fall, now glitter on the
Sunlit floor. She's horrified. A metaphor
For love in ruins; are we done? A tear
Appears beneath her eye. I grasp the
Sleeve, the arm within, and pull her to
Me. Not this time. A vase has broken.
Love remains. The glitter is the metaphor.
Let's go and get a broom.

1/18/12
Who but you would carp
Because the weather man had said
A blizzard would be coming, but it
Turned out bright and warm, instead?
And who but you would brusquely
Tell me we're not lovers anymore,
Then beg me to come home with you
When we met at the liquor store?
Now we're in bed, and you seem calm.
I fight the urge to rise and fly,
And ask you (though I doubt you know)
Who can face your madness? Only I.

1/19/12
I read Bill. He's going bananas in Paterson.
I know his woe. I needn't put on a doctor's
Suit to feel his pain. The poem folds flat
In its place in the attic as Bill's bills and my
Own are paid, and the woman I cannot
Decipher stands next to me, Delphic?
Possibly. I cannot tell. She seems
Happy to see me, and I am the same
To see her, but, honestly, what do we
Have? There's a picture of her with the
Man she's to marry somewhere on the
Internet, even as there are these poems
Which mention my love for her, poems,
Which Bill, to his sorrow, has said, no one
Has read. She smiles and searches for
Things she can say to me. I will respond,
And we both will sense that there's something
Between us, but neither knows what,
And I'll come here to Bill, and I'll castigate
Poetry, lose her to him, write out my loss,
And be Bill, not in Paterson, here.

1/20/12
The snooty clerk behind the desk appears
To have concluded Jen, or anybody else,
Is much too good for me. He winces at
My shabby clothes, it seems. He sees
I haven't shaved. He has a bellhop take
Our bags, and, craven and obsequious,
He wishes Jen “a lovely day,” but doesn't
Speak to me. I tell the one who brought
Me here, the one who's said I saved her
Life, to go ahead. I won't be long. The
Elevator's doors have closed. I creep up
To the desk and lean my prickly face to
His. I smile, full of backwoods malice.
“How's your love life, pal?”

1/23/12
The world, as it always does, has offered
He who claims to see it clearly its assent:
Nowhere upon it is there love. This wasn't
True a day ago. There'd been a woman's
Backward glance, a start, a thought that
Eager and embarrassed words, and fluttered
Lashes represented love at birth, and, lo,
The world showed it did. The birds in
Trees had chattered madly. Squirrels
Chased each other, and two dogs had
Coupled, copulating on a lawn along
The way to work, where she drew close
To him. But, then, today, inside a place
He'd saved to be its nursery, the baby
Love had coughed and died. The woman
Whined and, when she didn't, she went
On about herself, the life he'd hoped that
He could share revealed to be so full of
Her there wasn't room for him. Now,
She has gone, and will not be brought
Back, and, from the nursery window:
Not a creature anywhere in sight, the
World proven, as he knows, to be
Devoid of love.

1/27/12
Evolution in reverse, and progress likewise;
Look! I am a fish who slowly churns
Through turbid waters over sunken things:
A banking system, tra la la, with broken
Windows, empty vaults, a house, in which
Nobody lives, possessed by gold-encrusted
Crabs, a government of squirming shrimps,
And bodies, oh, so many of them, human,
Rotting where they lay, as I swim on, alone,
Intent on not becoming food. The eggs
Which I had fertilized have hatched. My
Minnows swim away. I cannot see where
They have gone. I hope, a fish who cannot
Reason, evolution, in reverse, will be reversed,
Allowing them to leave this world of sunken
Things, these waters, and emerge.

1/27/12
“We're not what you think we are. We are
Not lovers, merely friends.” “Then why
Are we in bed?” “A friend in need's...”
“A friend indeed, especially when one is
Drunk.” “Or both, and shelter close at
Hand.” “Will we be lovers later on?” “It's
Hard to know. I'll say perhaps. I do like
Laying here with you.” “The friend who
Thought he was your lover, chosen once
To fill a need?” “Indeed.”

1/30/12
Let us say, I'll say, only one of us speaks,
You being fantasy, someone recalled from
A life which ended long ago, that I have
Suffered from several mistakes. Who was
I, anyway, to have believed that a woman
So lovely, so young, and so frequently seen
As lovely, young and desirable, would have
Imagined herself with me? You didn't, I
Know, and, my knowledge confirmed, I
Ventured here; my first mistake. An aged
Fool, who flew from what he, in his sorrow,
Had to see was fantasy, and nothing more,
To fantasy, and nothing more, to search for
Flashing flakes of gold along a fetid river
Bank. I have a fever. You wouldn't know,
And a filthy, awful little home along a
Muddy road within a jungle on the other
Side of earth. You suffer winter there.
It's fiercely always summer here, and
Insects come to feed on me, and women
From the coast, and from the jungle, come
To sleep with me, although they won't if
They're not paid, and I am running out of
Money. All the gold they said was here
Appears to have been taken, or it never
Really was. Who knows? Let's call it
A mistake. Whatever; I can't come back
Home. Though broke, I've saved a little pride,
So I will live in wretched squalor, doomed
To die of something that will issue from the
River or the sodden sky. My pillow sings
Its siren song, while you, imaginary, fade,
Your way of saying, from such distance,
From across the equator, that, when I said
I loved you, I made one of those mistakes.

2/1/12
This is America, Laura. The door has an eye
And a motor. It has to close. You have to
Determine which side you'll be on. Stay
With your family. Stay in this god-awful
Ghetto of mind, and fall behind. You can
Glide to your spot at the table with Mommy
And Dad, and Eddie, and Uncle Fred, and
Say grace to a Jesus, who says, “Though I
Suffered for all of you, woman, you'll suffer
More. Don't bother going to college. Get
Pregnant. A woman's a womb and that is
All.” Eat the factory food that Mommy
Has thawed: starchy and tasteless, lethal
And gross, your pizzas and wienies, washed
Through your viscera on a tide of something
Only a robot ever would say was beer, a
Foul-smelIing substance without a taste. It may
Make you stupid. You're already there, bedded
Down, poking cards in an ersatz democracy. This
Is your choice, pretty Laura. Decide. You
Can take fake. That's been the American
Way. What's almost authentic is almost
Acceptable. Everyone here almost lives
Like a king. Still, you may want to glide
Toward a seat on this jet that I will be
Taking to Conakry soon. The future is black.
The food is like food, glorious, dangerous.
Beer has a taste, and, the doors in that
Place, so unlike America, must be manually
Opened and closed.

2/3/12
The world is said to spin, and so it seems.
I find it hard to make my way across the lawn.
A couple drinks out on the porch and I am
Done, a cheery god who'd summon servants
And be borne again inside a fine sedan if
This orb hadn't spun so much already,
Hadn't humbled me. The Pantheon's
For tourists now. The bacchanals along
This street are dull as hell, and look at
Me. What sort of god would wear such
Clothes, would let himself be tumbled
From Olympus to a little cube, in which
He oogles numbers, blushing virgins
Nowhere to be seen? But, hark, the
Grape remains at hand. The sun has
Warmed my little field, and, with the
Skill and strength of one divine, I heal
This earth's decay. It will recover all
Its glory as I make it spin.

2/7/12
We are, sad to say, two practical people,
The sort who look two steps ahead to see
What must, and mustn't, be sustained,
Or started, to continue getting butter
On our bread, and, thus, though I believe
I love you, and believe (but without
Faith) that you love me, we can no more
Than pass close by and turn away, you
To the man who'll be your husband, me
To she who is my wife, but we do pass,
And we must meet, so here I am,
So far from where I ought to be, a drink
In hand, upon a chair beside a table,
Looking at my watch, but not, not even
As a threat, anticipating going home
Before I've seen your face and heard
You tell me how your day has gone.
You said you'd come, and I believe
You, said you couldn't stay too long.
A little while has to do. We'll talk,
But never mention love. We are, as I
Said, practical, and, sad to say, I'll see
You off without a kiss, to see you later,
I suppose, when we have had our bread.

2/8/12
With such regal pomp as might offend
The god he says he represents, the bishop
Blesses us. We leave his structure little
Changed. The sky remains remote and
Gray, our tables, in our lesser structures,
Bare. Our children beg for food. We
Cannot simply smile, as the bishop does,
And shuffle off to brandy and a comfy
Chair, a dinner and a book. We cannot
Conjure sustenance from air, as gods are
Said to do. Instead, we further cut the
Portions, shrinking blessings, offered
Without pomp.

2/10/12
Treed bear, or something, I am here
And help is far away, and hounds are
Howling at my feet. Another day;
They're all the same. The view from
On this branch is nice: the winter sun
Upon the snow, the ghostly trees
Beside the river. If these hounds
Would go back home, or if a bigger
Bear arrived, I might remain where
I have been. I do enjoy the view.

2/12/12
I've made this chair for you, my friend.
It's basic, surely, maybe crude, but
Its stout wooden legs will keep your
Ass above the floor, and that is what
They're meant to do. I practice craft.
I'm not an artist. What I make I mean
To have you use. A thing should have
A use, so take this chair into the room
Where all those other poets babble out
Their atmospheric art, their strings of
Unrelated words, which, they assure
You, must mean something deeper
Than coherence would, and seat
Yourself upon it. Once the gusts the
Self-appointed artists stir have calmed,
You'll see it still is here to hold your ass.

2/13/12
We know where you are. You think that
We don't, and you calmly go on, watching
Your bets on our debts pay off. Lucky you.
You expect to go home to your nice, gated
Street, but we know where you are, and
We're coming your way, and we want what
You take from us, want you to know what
It's like to be frightened they way that we
Are. Do you hear us? Look up from
Your screen and you'll see. We are
Burning the city. We're done with our
Fear. If you won't share, we'll ruin
Whatever you own. We are saying it's
Over, the way that you live. You may
Laugh, but we know where you are.

2/15/12
The TV is on. We are not watching,
But murmured fragments of news
And commercials reach us inside
Of this darkened room, desperation
The theme of the day. A man shouts,
Don't be denied. Buy a car. A woman
Is purring ecstatically, having just eaten
A chocolate treat, and, somewhere,
Some leaders are meeting. They're
Going to "wrestle with issues."
Claudia sighs. We have wrestled
Ourselves, and, neither denied, we were
Close to ecstatic. Now, nearly asleep,
I reach up, and the TV is off.

2/17/12
I've seen my share of grayness. You don't know.
You're young. You've grown up here, but, look,
The lines attack your face. The fun I hoped
To have with you has been diminished. Dear,
Despite your youth, already you grow old.
We hesitate beside the floor. We have our
Drinks, one must have drinks, to see if we
Can gain momentum, plunging through
The crowd to dance, as those your age are
Wont to do, but I am, what?, four decades
On, and tied by tendrils you are only now
Discerning. Hence the lines. The party
Ended back in school, and, now, just as
The bills are due, you clutch my sleeve.
You say you're sorry. Don't. You have a life
To live, and, as it goes to grayness, as mine
Has, and as I shuffle, aged, toward the door,
And back into the silent crypt I call my home,
I have to tell you, fight the lines, and clutch the
Color that remains. You have to turn away, and I,
Who'd hoped to live through you, must go on
On my own toward a hole upon a hill, which
Has a plaque which bears my name. Your time
Is short. You'll soon be me. Be free of me
For now, and take the floor with one who's
Young as you, and jump the lines.

2/19/12
Nicely dressed for what they are, they come
To pillage, find each other, do, and then
Depart for homes which show no evidence
Of gain, except for scraps of paper bearing
Numbers, saying, "Call."

2/20/12
You know, I'd hoped. I was stirred.
I thought we'd be lovers. I never
Established a plan, but I saw us
Together as one, and the world
Would bend to our passion and
Brighten, its colors becoming
So lurid, intense, and each minute,
Each simple occurrence, would be
Almost too much to bear. That's
What I'd hoped, but the feeling
Diminished, and we've become
Friends, and our time together
Is pleasant. It is, but the world's
Unbent, its colors subdued. Our
Minutes are nice, like an afternoon
When it's neither too warm for clothes,
Nor cool enough to require a
Jacket; pleasant, yes, but hardly
Intense, and that, my dear,
Seems a shame.

2/24/12
I'll grow feathers and fly, and learn
To sing a song. I'll sing it from upon
A branch above her head. She'll see
The bird who was the man who
Loved her, marvel, and be sad.

I will gather the force of a furious
Storm and shake the walls of where
They make the laws which ruin
All our lives. They'll see they
Should have been better to us,
And marvel, and be sad.

2/26/12
I look down from my seat in the darkened
Theater at a woman I know being somebody
Else on the stage, and I'm getting confused.
Is it simply that, since I am older, I see
Mistakes and desperation, things which
Caused the cruel things I've done, where
Evil once had been, and Maggie the Cat
Really isn't so bad? She is hurt. Good God,
We all have been, and even Big Daddy
Is hard for a reason. He grew up poor,
And had to fight, and all the others,
Wounded souls, as are the people in
The seats around me, and the woman
On the stage, my friend, who's sweet
To me, wouldn't hiss and snarl
If she hadn't suffered so.

2/27/12
She says, "I'll race you," and does,
And wins. I'm hardly a challenge,
Worn out from work, hollowed
By cigarettes, two times her age.
I keep panting long after her
Breaths are calm. We walk under
Bare branches and into a park.
She's holding my arm as if
Fearful of drowning, and I let
Her hold me, feeling the opposite.
I could rise into the air if let
Go, and I don't want to rise.
I like where I am, and I like
How she makes my heart race.

2/28/12
In the end, she'd talked about herself,
And she had found him suitable
Because he nodded as she had,
And he had gotten disillusioned.
That is truly what it was. He'd
Learned he didn't have her love.
He left, and dreamed that she'd be
Sorry, but she soon found someone
Else, who would nod in silence as
She spoke, and, so, she never did.

2/28/12
I thought you said, “thespian.” Really, I did,
But I'll soldier on. The night has gone
Wretched. Someone's onstage, playing
Music to mimic a coming apocalypse.
I came for fun, but my tardy confession
Of love was a bust. You've a friend.
I've a highball. I'll make my way home,
By myself, I suppose, as you grapple with
Her, and I'll ask in the morning if
Anything out of this evening proved to be
Worth what I spent. Probably not.
One shouldn't confess, not to someone
Whose words he misheard.

3/3/12
I'd heard, though not from her, that she is
Leaving, heard what seemed to be a fierce
And chilling northern wind, and I foresaw 
What it would do:  this pleasant little prairie
Town of tidy homes and shrubs and trees
Obliterated, emptied out, and I alone upon
Its streets in search of any sign of life,
The season past, the summer, her, and
Warmth, withdrawn, and, in her place,
Not anything, a world cold, and, shivering
And terrified, I begged the one who'd
Spoken to take back what I had heard.

3/4-5/12
I know; we cannot go on as we have.
The world turns and darkens.  Everything
That grows decays, but, dear, I saw us
Growing longer, thought our sun still
In the east, and dreamed of such an
Afternoon as this, so sweet and slowly
Moving, voices intertwined, ahead
Of limbs, perhaps?  You're saying
No.  You will not be here past a
Week, so we can't go on as we have.
If I proceed, I will with sorrow.
This I also know.

3/5/12
I've grown old (inexplicably).
This much you know, but you're
Young.  With so much still yet
To be done, you can't fathom
The thought that, though soon
We will part with the requisite
Sorrow, said sorrow could stay.
The future could shrink, and
The silly old fellow who's loved
You so stupidly worries with
Reason that this love may turn
Out his last.

3/7/12
Dear Mr. Hancock (you're not dear to me;
I consider you loathsome), I'm writing
To thank you for (grudgingly) letting me
Sit for an interview.  I believe we got
Along very well (inasmuch as I smiled
And nodded agreement as you indicated
I probably wasn't the one you will hire;
You said I was slow).  I believe that the 
Job would be perfect for me (as I'm broke 
And its pittance could help me pay bills),
And I hope that I get it (I doubt that I
Will).  I look forward to hearing (I didn't)
From you.  Once again, let me say I was
(Dis)pleased to meet you,  I wish you 
The best (go fuck off). 

3/7/12
Drunk by six, and off to bed by eight,
Exhausted by the words I babbled,
Which you never heard, I take your 
Face, so porcelain and perfect, to
The sheets with me, and sleep,
And, when I wake, I see, but 
Cannot speak, and you are gone,
Forever, married to a man, who's
Better suited to you than this one,
Who's drunk and filled with fears,
The greatest of which is that you 
Won't hear the words of love I
Meant to babble.  You will go with
Him, and I, who'd hoped to have
You close forever, or a while more,
Must face the fact that you've
Departed.  I, another drink in hand,
Will meet the sheets without your 
Face, and understand that you, 
In all your porcelain perfection, 
Never even noticed I was near.

3/9/12
What price the donning of a collared shirt,
The shaving, paring nails?  I sit among
A brace of shits.  They're fat and wealthy.
Still, they whine.  Their fortunes, so they
Tell each other, came from brains and
Ceaseless labor; virtue, then, not simple
Luck.  One needn't bring up moms and
dads, who pushed them through expensive
Schools, and fixed their teeth, and found
Them friends, who got them jobs and
Lent them money.  No, each strived for 
Wealth alone, and got what he deserved,
And anyone who isn't here, who can't
Afford the entry fee, and sits somewhere
In shabby clothes inside a buggy rented
Room also has what he deserves, as
Anyone who's poor is proven lazy or a
Fool.  This would be the price I paid
To chew a tender piece of meat.  I
Should have gone the cheaper route,
And made my way to Annie's in my
T-shirt for a sandwich, and a better
Class of person at my side.

3/13/12
It wouldn't do me any good
To go to her again and tell her
That I wish she'd stay.  She'd
Say again she has to go.  It
Wouldn't do me any good to
Make clear that she holds my
Heart, and, when she turns,
She'll lose her grip, and it
Will fall and break.  She'd
Say I'll find somebody new.
That may be right, but she
Should know that, in her
Absence, there won't be a
Woman who would do me
Any good.

3/14/12
They're asking me if something's wrong.
There is, but it must go unsaid.  "How
Could there be,?" I smile and say.
"My friends are here.  The weather's fine,
The food and conversation good.  I have
To say my life is full," and so it is,
Except for this one chair, which isn't
Occupied.  It was until this morning.
That's what's wrong.

3/14/12
I can't do what I've been doing, grieve,
Forever.  Minds must change, and mine
Seems set to say it's done with longing
For the one who's gone.  The sun is
Bright and strangely warm.  The trees
Are forcing out their leaves.  The 
Winters of the mind and earth are
Moving off together.  I believe that I
Will take a walk to see a world looking
Better, surely, not forever, but for now.

3/15/12
No nagging recitation of the sure arrival
Of the day, no bland and buttered
Consolation, "everything will be okay,"
Will turn me from what I am doing,
Sitting, being foolish with this pleasant 
One, whose name, she says, is Jasmine,
And whose backlit siren's form has 
Sung me to her side, to use the sight, 
The smell of her to tether myself in this 
Night, and sever my side of the tie that 
Frayed and broke in brilliant light.  
A love is finished.  Lust must do, and dark 
Will be the castle which protects the wounded 
Man within from howls of phantoms sure 
To circle round him in the day.

3/17/12
Being where she'd been the day before produced an ache,
A sort of hunger of the mind, which nothing could alleviate,
Not radio or friendly chatter. Either only made it worse.
I worked in silence through my shift, and left, unlike the
Day before, with no one to seek out to tell goodbye.

3/18/12
Inside, I writhe, a snake stuck with a stick
From which I can't be freed, and she would be
What's skewered me.  She hadn't meant
To do me harm.  She never asked me for 
My love, and never promised hers to me.
A kind and thoughtful weapon, then,
With which I struck myself.

3/21/12
Let me rant a bit, Eddie.  It's great to be mad,
Get the heart rate and blood up.  It gives me
Some energy.  I've spent so long being silent
And sad.  With the plutocrats pressing,
The money all gone, the hypocrites lecturing,
Legions of idiots slobbering slogans they don't
Understand, I've forgotten, for now, that that
Woman's run off.  I know she doesn't miss me,
So why should I grieve?  I am better off ranting
And mad.

3/22/12
A star,
A shining star,
A shining star appeared in my night sky.
It turned into a sun, which warmed me.
How I cherished it, but, then, one day, it disappeared.
One day, it disappeared.
It disappeared.

3/23/12
Why, yes, I do sit, numb and bored,
But, dear, these are not novel feelings.
I've been here, upon the plains, among
Such gap-toothed, mindless ignoramuses
As these folks you've invited for a long,
Long time.  They like to talk about TV.  
They fiddle with their telephones.  They 
Share the latest sordid details of the 
Lives of people who are famous because
They are famous.  Years ago, out on the 
Coast, I used to go to parties populated
By another sort:  the ones who opened
Books and read, who learned, who'd
Been inside museums, people who
Could make out of their thoughts
Coherent sentences.  I so loved being
In their midst, but, if I'd had you with
Me then, oh, little savage, I'm afraid
That you'd have sat as I do,
Numb and bored.

3/24/12
They let us out of work that day
To see the trial of the evil man,
Who'd treated us as slaves.
The prosecutors he'd appointed,
Newly freed of their old fears,
And newly bent on seeking justice,
Read him lists of heinous crimes.
His judges wouldn't look at him,
But, when the evidence was in,
They said, as one, that he was
Guilty.  He looked very small that
Day, surrounded by so many
Cops, who led him to his prison
Cell.  The people in the courtroom
Clapped, but only briefly.  Soon
Enough, the cops were back and
Growling, "Get to work." 

3/25/12
I am the world, and that's disappointing.
I'm tired.  The world is tired, too.
I'm old, and see how the world's decayed.
You are young and mistaken.  You say
There are hopes, but I'm hopeless.
The world has none.  

3/25/12
She knows how much she's meant to me,
And knows, and says in cryptic fashion,
That we cannot meet again.  She wishes
I would turn away, and I do also.  Ah,
But when?  This, neither of us knows.

3/26/12
I'm no Jack Spratt, darling.
Your king can eat no lean,
So, if you abhor grease and breading,
Be another's queen.

I am no athlete, angel.
I'm not inclined to run,
So, if you seek to sweat and struggle,
Our romance is done,

But, should you find it pleasant
To lay still by this pool,
A cocktail shaded at your elbow,
You have found your fool.

3/27/12
It's not so bad to be the last to sleep,
To watch the lights go out in houses
In the village on the river's other side.
It's not so bad to have the darkness
Cushioning the world's blows, to 
Have no more to hear than thoughts,
The ticking of computer keys composing
What you read.  It's best to take a break
From being someone else for someone
Else.  In solitude is liberation.  Soon
Enough, I, too, will sleep, but, first,
I say, beneath the moon, it isn't bad
At all to be alone.

3/29/12
Her name is all that is left to me now, her face already
Badly blurred, and the daily ache of longing gone;  
A name to toss into the stack of all the others, loved
And lost, who ceased to matter long ago.  The liars
Say the first receives a special place.  She's always
Loved, but mine means nothing anymore, an owlish
Thing, somebody's wife.  I cried to think I'd never
Have her, haven't cried or thought of her in decades, 
And this latest one?  In months, and not too many, 
I believe I'll struggle to recall her name.

4/1/12
Agent, eh; that's what you are,
The one (of many) moving in a vacuum,
Choosing your own way, sure you
Know what "freedom" means?
You're unaffected by the throng.
You've raised yourself and earn 
Your keep alone (except when 
You are paid).  Pistol packed into
Your belt, you have the means to
Keep away the villains who would
Raid your home.  The moral compass
Next to it has made the government, 
At best, a waste of treasure and of
Time.  At worst, it is the mechanism
All the nation's losers use to force
You to provide for them.  The past,
The present, weather, wife and
Children do not cling to you.  You're
An agent... not a fly, who, caught 
Within the web which holds it,
Buzzes where it's stuck and claims
It's free. 

4/3/12
Who was I to appear so late to say
That I loved the woman, the image
Of her, a face in a window on a train, 
Who'd been warned throughout her life 
That she should never be?  Oh, but 
I saw and had to love the sly and 
Sometimes bitter wit, the mind, 
Set free away from home, which 
Rose up, like a butterfly, to lines 
She practiced for a play.  Now, she 
Is gone and tethered to the life 
Which was prepared for her.  The window's 
Face has passed from sight, and my 
Love weakens, or it did until last night, 
When, suddenly, the butterfly appeared 
Again and came to rest beside me 
In a dream.

4/4/12
I'll never know if your children are mine.
You'll know they're yours, but I will doubt,
And slither down here, among matrons
And ingenues, buying them drinks,
Seeding their furrows, hoping what 
Grows will be mine.

4/5/12
I suppose that somewhere, in some room,
Someone looks at a TV screen, and sends
Out all of this:  the bread and circuses,
The denigrating photos of celebrities,
Whose meaning to you should be nil,
The polls, the pictures of the food you
Ought to go and buy and eat, the videos
Of pretty singers droning truly boring
Songs, and who this man is, I don't
Know.  He works for someone, somewhere,
Makes their money, takes his kids to school,
And tells himself he has some meaning,
As you tell yourself, as you watch someone
Famous go to jail, that you have meaning,
But you don't.  You're just another cell 
Inside this organism, bled of any sense
Of, what, significance?  The organism
Blunders on.  The man knows how to
Keep you happy.  Do your work.  That's
All you're worth, and I will be inside
A room, somewhere, believing, because
He has shown me, that I am the one,
That I can save you, but I can't.  You're
Too wed to the TV.  So, am I.  

4/8/12
I shall come to your house and strangle you.
Really, you've given me no other choice.
I had hoped to be part of an honest
Profession, propelled myself (with some
Exertion) past the reefs of teenage
Angst, the "would-I," "shouldn't-I,"
"Oh, woe is me," the green, annoying
Proclamations of the meanings of such
Little lives, and over sturdy fences,
Barbed and wired, guarded by the 
Ones demanding poems rhyme, and, 
Free at last, I hurried here to be
Among exalted others, all those
Wizards I had heard of, who made
Magic out of words, and left spellbound
Applauding mobs.  I soon learned
That all are gone.  The wizards died,
And, in their places, frauds of your
Sort soon appeared, who couldn't
Understand the spells and thought, 
Instead, that letting words leak out 
Of nearly empty heads would pass
For magic.  Well, it doesn't, friend.
The mobs saw that, and they've
Departed.  I, inside this empty
Playhouse, having practiced, with
My wand, discover that you've
Made me useless.  I am coming.
You'll be strangled soon.       

4/9/12
One must assume that gravity falters from time
To time. It's happened here. I was her moon,
So keen in my orbit, but she's been dislodged.
I have no one to circle. A moon, a man who 
Has no self, whose brilliance is reflected
Light, will drift without his planet near,
As I do now, in dark, in cold; how she is,
Unknown to me, and gravity, a theory mostly,
Couldn't keep us near each other, proving
That it fails from time to time.

4/11/12
If she could hear me (she can't) I would 
Tell her it's time for me to leave Oklahoma, 
Not that I have somewhere else to go. I can't 
Sit anymore on this chair on the walkway next 
To my door, watching the highway, the cowboys 
And gun molls, in trucks, at the light, leaving 
Work for the weekend, the sun in my eyes,
And a sense that, whatever this place has to offer:
Its Bibles and bullshit, its lynchings and lakes,
And its guilt-saddled Baptists, in painted-on
Pants, which she wore to ensnare me, never will
Be what I hoped I would find, what I thought I
Might need. She's gone back to her parents, and I've 
Done what I can to shrug off what counts as a
Trivial loss.  I liked how she looked, and I
Loved her for sex, and I thought she was stupid.
I sort-of adored her, though not for her faith in 
Her Jesus and flag, and her fondness for 
Ministers holding out hands. I adored her, instead,
For the smile on her face, innocent idiot, 
Hand on my head, and a breakfast of bacon
Each morning, and eggs, and I loved how she
Played with her dog in the shade.  The hours,
The years, millenia fly. She belongs where she
Is, and she seems to be calm as I squirm in this
Chair, and I curse Oklahoma, and can't think
Where else I should go.

4/13/12
Nadine knows how good she looks.
A little pride shows through the 
Gracious smile on her pretty face.
The men all have been caught by
Her, and by their own companions,
Staring.  Said companions also see
And suffer bitter pangs.  A slinky
Dress, a bangled arm, a perfect mass
Of chestnut hair, and eyes and lips
And cheeks defined and colored
Make her greater than she was when
We went out to dinner Tuesday night.  
Now, it's Friday.  All has changed.  
I'm at a table in the shadows, less 
Than I had been before, while the 
Somewhat dowdy woman I had thought 
I'd get to hold has grown into a
Goddess, out of reach of mortals,
Such as I.  She may as well be in
The heavens, glowing in the
Dance floor's light, which blinks,
As if it also can't believe how 
Good she looks.  

4/13-14/12
Some things remain with me:  the crash
Of waves upon the shore, the almost
Antiseptic smell of air above the 
Timberline, your blank expression
When you left, and tears I didn't
Think I'd cry, and, now, though all
Is old and dull, and I am sick of
Everything, a husk of what I was
So many years before I learned your
Name, I do recall the sudden jolt
I felt when I first met your eyes,
And I remember thinking you
Would never be, and ever be,
The one with whom I was in love.
You're gone, and I, so nearly wholly
Numb, am sorry I did fall in love.  
Your face, your voice, remain with me,
Like waves which bash me into
Sand, like antiseptic, insufficient
Air.

4/15/12
Four damned days of thunderstorms
Have brought down even farmers here
In Rita's for their ham and eggs.  Nobody
Speaks to break the gloom.  Some guy
Who's lost his girl sings, but, otherwise,
There is no sound, except of fork tines
Hitting plates.  I look as Derek lifts
His head.  He says aloud what we're
All thinking.  "I know that we need
The rain, but, gee, I miss the sun."
We file out at half past nine to
Pickup trucks which sit in puddles,
Stand and stare up at the sky;
Another rumble.  Damn.

4/17/12
"I know why you're here."  I suspected
She would.  In our brief time together,
She made very clear that she knew
Almost everything.  I was a dunce,
Who should not speak.  She spoke
For us, hours on end.  "What you
Want is impossible.  You'd like me
Back, but you're wasting your time.
You shouldn't have come.  I am fine
On my own.  I have brilliant new
Friends.  Learn to live with your loss.
Go back to your home."  "But my dear,
I've no wish to rekindle our love.  I am
Here to go out with your sister.  That's
All.  Are you saying that you didn't know?"

4/18/12
A man whose member is freakishly large
Is boning a woman whose breasts are
Enormous.  They moan like they're dying,
But go on and on.  They're on my computer,
The wall of my cave.  A counter below 
Shows that millions have watched them, 
Venus, Priapus, but isn't this strange?
None of my friends will admit that they have, 
And I promise you, neither have I.
  
4/20/12
Not so sweetly as I'd hoped,
She puts her hand upon my
Shoulder, shoves, and says,
"You have to go.  Ben and Kate
Are coming soon."  Who these
Two are, I don't know, but 
I obey.  I rise and dress, and
Shuffle toward the open door.
She follows me onto the porch,
And turns me for a final kiss,
Then asks if I'll be back on
Friday, sweetly as I'd hoped.

4/24/12
She snatched the newspaper out
Of my hands, saying, "Stop your
Complaining."  She brought me
Outside to the warmth of the sun,
To the wind-ruffled trees, and said,
"Tell me now what you have seen
In the news that has any significance
Here, where we are," and I thought,
"Not a thing."  We sat down on the 
Lawn, and this planet, my part of
It, proved to be calm, not at all
Like the places I'd fretted about 
In the paper she'd taken away.    

4/28/12
I've forgotten every god-damned thing
I meant to say.  I knew I would.  My body's
Beaten, now a pit of weariness, of sand
Into which my mind's blundered.
Helpless, I can feel it sink.  I'll sleep.
I haven't any choice.  I'll rise at some 
Point, possibly refreshed, and gather
Food to eat, and try to move beyond
The pit to firmer ground, upon which
I will work to recollect the thoughts,
Those god-damned things, that
I had meant to say.

4/30/12
I listen to the jazz she left on days
Like this.  She didn't like that west coast 
Stuff.  She found it rather vapid and
Complacent, like the people there,
Flying kites and having picnics.
She preferred the eastern jazz,
The sounds of blaring horns and
Being lost on rainy city streets,
The lunatics on subway steps,
In postwar Gallic black and white,
And, on this sort of dreary day,
When everything is black or white,
And rain blew straight into my
Face, and I am here in what was
Our apartment, looking at the 
Streets, her jazz becomes the 
Background music of the Gallic
Movie of my grimly solitary life.
It fills my ears with sounds, so
I don't sit the way I often do:
In silence, thinking, if I wait,
Her hand will knock the door.