vortex

i want to write a poem that starts with the word
vortex and have it end up being a story about how
i feel all this love but also a study of why still
so much sadness

vortex may not be the word i want to use though,
really, since it means something that resembles
a whirlpool according to the dictionary, and though i
really believed all this time it means a place of great energy
and mystery, what do i know compared to the forces of
definition?

so what are the words that mean the most to you
becomes a part of the story too,
and what do they mean when you mean them
some other way?

and so we go down the vortex mute or mumbling,
imagining stumbling together toward
light

and the reason why still so much sadness is because
you see
sadness never ends, and the meaning of all this love is
you see
you've found someone to share your sadness with

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photo credit: pyriet

everything they do is conscious

which is mastery of intent,
which is pure, and art,
which I respect for its clarity,
and admire for its beauty,

which I want you to respect
and admire too,
so we can share that feeling
each of us,
share in that groove,
so we can feel something
that is unlike anything else in this world

and for a moment
feel what is real.

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brave man with a sword

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

— "Ballad of Reading Gaol," by Oscar Wilde, read by Mike Tyson

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nobody likes a sleepyface

someone so insomniacal
sullen and bleary, befuddled by noise and scents
they deem all action too intense
conversation confounding with humor
they do not want to laugh
the sun is too bright
these clothes don't fit right
and their back and their neck

nobody likes a sleepyface
because where is their mind

what to do, what to do
misery they look it
they cannot think of one thing
except to touch their head
and close their eyes

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little chap

A careful man I want to be,
A little fellow follows me;
I know I dare not go astray,
For fear he'll go the self-same way.

I cannot once escape his eyes,
Whate’re he sees me do, he tries;
Like me he says he’s going to be,
This little chap who follows me.

He thinks that I am good and fine,
Believes in every word of mine;
The base in me he must not see,
This little chap who follows me.

I must be careful as I go,
Through summer’s sun and winter’s snow;
Because I am building for the years to be,
This little chap who follows me.

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hippos on holiday

is not really the title of a movie
but if it was I would be sure to see it.
I love their short legs and big heads,
the whole hippo look.
Hundreds of them would frolic
in the mud of a wide, slow-moving river,
and I would eat my popcorn
in the dark of a neighborhood theater.
When they opened their enormous mouths
lined with big stubby teeth
I would drink my enormous Coke.

I would be both in my seat
and in the water playing with the hippos,
which is the way it is
with a truly great movie.
Only a mean-spirited reviewer
would ask on holiday from what?

- Billy Collins, "Hippos on Holiday"

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the memory of a stop sign

this row of lights all in a row
pretty lights across the water
lights in the sky, lights in the water
reflected in my eyes
in the sky a spotlight,
a moonrise, a helicopter flight
in the sky spinning
up and up and up away
ludicrous volumes
delirious noise
does not fade
away, like love
a breeze before a storm, cool
twilight before the dark of night
this row of pretty lights all in a row
across the water, a bridge across the water
crossing the bridge
a bridge made of light pretty light
a bicycle rider in all black peddling
the mist of history in his eyes, the memory of
a stop sign and belonging to more
than this
more than ever
across the water
a hip hop song in his earbuds, perhaps
a crescendo of hope, an ocean
of consciousness, an ocean within,
a wave crashing,
wave after wave after

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to the center of

the almost boy smiling at the sky
the cosmic ray from the center of
his heart to the center of
the sun to the center of
all things
smiling
at everything
he can almost see
the center of

the everywhere machine eating the heart of
the earth every day
eating the sky with its smell of
nevermore its cries of just once

the center of the emptiness erupting
with love
never was the thing she wanted

the all-around girl smiling at the sky
the everywhere machine all around her
crumbling to dust clones
all alone with a camera
and a phone
cursing

it's not anger or dread silent dread
it's not hope or hopelessness
or ferociousness
she once felt but no longer
not the acceptance of the universe
she seeks not the center of
every moment she misses
not what she believes

she wants to know the way
to the center of a sunset
to the center of a sound
to the center of her senses
to the center of unbound

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the other side of here

feel disconnected going through motions
emotions
folding clothes comfy coming down from
so many moments only seen from a distance
far away
the future and what i want to be someday
am i
the best sexually
i could be
on top of a mountain somewhere probably
out in the earth doing some good
not under some blanket
asleep always dreaming
asleep always awake wondering
what it means to wander
when
every time i want to drop everything and run
every time i want to look around town for
lights in different patterns and sounds
i've never heard before i wonder
what it means to wander
and i find nothing
is on the other side of here

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basically supercool

the breeze blows the blinds
the wind
the silence in the darkness
the way thoughts

words are everywhere
every word every tale to tell
everyone i know
everyone i know
all we want to be always is
basically supercool

all we want to be is always

beyond
books in the bathtub
the west side of the bed
the quiet cigarette in the courtyard
the cold

past midnight
windows closed
lights on
drinks aplenty drugs
what do they think about me
what do they think
why

outside the night
far inside
far

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no blogging

in the middle of a thought
no blogging
at night

in the middle of

no words to find to title
the moon my favorite kind

went and saw it one time you
were there
great

it was great you
were there

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sort of juxtaposed

somehow we are so certain
of so many one thing, somewhere
somehow sort of juxtaposed
when we dream and describe it

when we wake to our shaking selves
helpless with laughter in the quiet cold
cold and quiet and about to begin
to believe in the best of no more
beyond compare

but there
there i want to be
alive and asleep in a hotel big bed
out on a balcony screaming
but why?

and yet i want to be

without knowing why
i could sit forever i should
i would stack chairs stack
chairs all day perfect all
day every

but why would i?

and i'd be smiling

about to begin to believe
in the every of everything we talk about
the every that is floating
the every that is light
whatever it is however
it is
there
and isn't the way the thought arrives like any other
like any other
no

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photo credit: Jeff Kerr

poem for a new day

yes indeed there is so much to be had here
so much
so

certainly much

can't wait for it can't
wait

for sunrise
can't wait for dreams

can't wait for so much

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dance of the dawn

i am an undersarcastic american dancing boy
with a beard
which is a little weird
perhaps not

as hilarious as a terrific hotdog
costume wearer wandering around town
singing opera

perhaps

what i really want to say
about every band i see
is this jam is the motherfucking shit
right here

my favorite thing to do when i'm sleeping is
dream
i wonder

why am i so in love with this computer
music

this understanding of meaning
which whiskey sweater when

there's something i do love
always
and that's
the smell of a fine woman walking close in the autumntime

the dance of the dawn
the light, the light

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the autumn days

the autumn days are coming, the time to
find a hoodie and a coffee cup, keep an open
invitation to dinner and drinks because dark
sooner than light, light eliding like fog surrounds
the city, the folk alive in mist and whispers, ninjas
and crooks and nannies and perceptions of the hardcore
avoiders of fate, mumblers who'll wait for the past
before believing tomorrow lies, all sit around
saying "can i borrow your disguise?"

the autumn days are coming, do you want
to listen to every theoretically present person
share again such wonderful insight at full length
when you are perhaps only hungry for perfect
humorous doom? superheroes and the criminal
underworld excessively engaging as a motif,
the ability of society to wear a costume
and fool itself into functioning happily
as a democracy will repeatedly do

the autumn days are coming, the time for
sleeping under a tree and dreaming of the
tale you would tell buddha if you met him
at your local where you'll meet friends later
and watch the game, what would you say
would he laugh i would think so but it would
have to be a good story and in your dream
it is

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birdland revealed

unaccustomed to seeing so many pelicans soaring so high above the bridge,
the staring bicyclist swerves into a pedestrian and falls. motorists brake, heads turn,
a windy day.

the sudden sun, the glitter of the sea, the city far and built.

talking to a pillow near a lamp, the phone balanced on an ear, mumbling some,
making sense, sensing this, sensing the occurrence
of time, the long life of a late night past.
the door opens
and closes, the window lifted just enough for a breeze.
a cat in the street.

purposefully imagining a rollercoaster while trying to shampoo,
while trying to lather, rinse, repeat. listening to jazz music,
keeping music in mind.

this shared such-and-such, this smile. resist it, resist every last word,
resist the lie, resist when you wonder whether you'd rather be invisible
or fly.

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the arc of a cormorant

i saw more than four cormorants flying through the air
while sitting on a cliffside near the ocean the other day,
watched them swoop down in a giant curving descent
and then glide eversoclose to the waterline
till they were out of sight.

the sky was big that day, the sun bright.

say, what's the difference between a sun roof
and a moon roof? the difference between
the sun and moon, i suppose.

and what is that? no one can say
with anything approaching absolute authority.

so much is mysterious, unsussable, like when
a curious and not-unique thought occurred to me
while i was watching the film Little Children.

that is, that there is very little in life that is
all that curious anymore. life just is as it is,
for everyone, always.

and that is what's so curious about it,
that everyone else's everpresent mystery
is all that there is that
is all that interesting.

just this, the drama of another reality,
and how we can shape our love for it into song.

hey, i told you it wasn't a unique thought.
and anyway, it's probably wrong.

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