Going to Church
An old man is smelting the icon of exalted freedom. I watch him. He is well-natured, a force old enough to command. He swaddles the icon in a soft cloth and lines it up with the others. The light falls down from heavy window sills, I again write poems that die in mirrors or teacups.
Anarchism
I speed read a book on anarchism A typographical error by one anarchist is quoted by another. Sic! My coffee is hot I think of anarchy in Guatemala. Are they still selling their coffee to a god who comes in a steel vessel? A god who brings them smartphones? I think about Seattle and Kropotkin, ...
Imagine
You've got your life instagrammed. You stream a persona that never repeats. You snap up who you are in a dozen photos a day. You scroll through the deadened sea, of the others, and heart who you think they are. Your imagination is infused with the smell of Madagascar vanilla. You know your world. You ...
“a good poem corrals the mind of the reader, but leaves the gate open” - found on the Internet
On the mountain
We climbed the same mountain today A few white hairs we blew in the wind We surrendered to what never attacked us We entrusted our future to a rock I roll small pebbles down a precipice to test the symbolic capacity of this mountain. You smile and I talk the next two mountains in you ...
What power is only poetry can say.
Wealth
A downtown apartment with security and a water cooler. The furniture landscape emerging from a Persian rug. Slow drip coffee. Long bookshelves with "art". A low noise dehumidifier. A mahogany banister. Gentility. Heirlooms. Silence.
My violin teacher
After twenty years I found my violin teacher on Facebook. She remembered me, that was one of the joys of teaching, she wrote. In the mean time, entire lives have started: our children born, nine eleven, financial crisis. History has happened. I want to ask her about my vibrato.
A belief is all we have
A belief is all we have to hold on to, some warmth weaning us for darker times when we thicket each other's softest spots, make our fingers lost and blow weightless snow in each other's faces when we make chocolate gestures, blanket soft talk in some rearrangement of tired starlight
Vernacular
coffee beans and machine guns change we can believe in. blackness is an ideal churches full of popcorn mumbling generals in tank tops nightliners piercing darkness a dead dog's candy eye, the tightrope of history cigarette butts drowned in cold coffee orphans and Eurydice in ironed T-shirts earthworms tunneling underfoot abandoned swimming pools, and an ...