Quotation: Samuel Taylor Coleridge

"I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose equals words in their best order; poetry equals the best words in the best order."

An Announcement

******OFF-AIR UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE******

Penelope, 05.21.07

can you be untaught something,
unweave a lesson wrapped around
the brain, disentangle it from
the blue, the red, the delicate threads?

if so: what do you do with
the unwanted knowledge?
turn it into hand-me-down wisdom,
or donate it to some charity?
do you mend the tears,
try to replace the forgotten bits
like buttons, or just toss it in the bin?

and what will fill that empty space?
something else that will later require
another careful unwinding?
something worse, which will demand scissors?

or something better which will be
more than woven, more than stitched:
it will be dyed into the fabric of your mind,
will color the delicate blue and red
something more: the color of water,
the edge of evening,
smoke on the far side of the sun,
and the whispery tongue of a fire.

---
MWL
05.18.07
edited: 05.21.07

Horizon, 07.18.06

A thin horizon of pain along
the short line of my ribs,
a stabbing dawn of cracking light,
thunderous taste of pain –

it makes me think of
morning in my bedroom:
sunlight spilling through
naked windows, across the bed,
shafts and anchors of brightness.

the thin horizon arches,
curves up my back, carries me
to a throbbing noon, bell tongue
echoing the noise in my flesh.

* * *

What is the holiness of gates?
The boundary of midnight?
Do they watch, or are they simply watched?
The coils of the sun
burn away the remnants of sleep;
the moon cools the steps of the day.

The rain has subdued the fountain –
little faces of the sky scattered
evaporate without a word,
spindly tree in a circle of concrete –
drowsy, wind-worked, washed.

Storm perpendicular to the water
to the sidewalk to the slanted roof,
right angles with the day,
time dropping out,
fading from the start of the stars;
trying to define summer without negatives,
discovering impossibility at a certain age
a certain angle a certain angel…

all stories and humanity,
melody of torn tape and key clicks.

---
MWL
accepted end: 08.02.06

untitled 08.03.06

black and white by the page,
the gusty gap between words and lines –
pen to paper, thought to sentence:
fin to fish, fish to current –
contact made for the tide –

it’s a letter – a poem – an article –
insufficient. water frozen. tide pool.
spray over the rocks, clutch of shells.
what does it mean? what could it mean?

* * *

a whisper against the ebb,
swirling siren around legs and feet,
a wake of salt and seaweed
cut across the sand
beneath a fading blood moon.
the sun blooming as it crashes
into the water – untouched, unsaved
by the whisper that swept by,
taking the candle flames with it.

* * *

loaded, a fear of pleasure,
no record of anger –
where would such a soul go?
where would it come from?

grace without sound,
mercy without a scent,
desecrated beyond flesh,
murmured with meals and
scattered for the feet of the dead…

no rice for the corpse,
no birds for the brides,
no keening trumpet for alarm.

* * *

the stolen night rises up,
leaving the page of the evening folded.

white stars tower, red stars tower
blinking in the purple mist –
windows closed, curtain lowered.

going home, following the voice
of streetlights and street signs.

---
MWL
accepted end: 12.18.06

south city dirge - epilogue, 12.12.06 ~ 12.13.06

this dripping heart
blueful rampant city
north wind dreams of
curtains pillows tassels
doors never closed,
windows always open,
into the great houses.

hours after the hours
minutes after the second hand’s stopped:
storm bayou blue mirrored green,
heron boudoir sandy tantrums –
edge of the water murky.

turtle secrets, cypress altar:
has she risen again from the bleeding,
voodooienne, courtesan?
Babylon: answer!

brick streets, oak roads –
veins illuminated –
green glass beads, black feathers,
gold filigree, amethyst sky:
rex et regina, crowned,
water children singing winter
and the groan of the great river.

south city, rise up, rise up singing.
ain't no chains on your heart,
ain’t no lock on your laces.
the high walls of your blood are
razed and risen again.

rejoice, rex et regina,
morning comes again,
washes the night,
washes the sky.

---
MWL

Winter of My Discomfort, 12.07.06

Touch to the tender to
the white wild spaces between
blue and sky
bone structure under blood
unease of breath, bile,
the fundamental fragility
of flesh...

...a litany of fractures,
of bridges broken and burned
in this body, this temple,
this village of rough words and ripe,
this city of thought and fire.
I’m not coming apart-
just coming unglued, a little.
But I don’t know it, not really.

Tender to the touch to
the skin fevered, the sleeplessness,
blood martyred to sterile phials
bones hidden and revealed by light
supplicant to the secrets of my rind-
no howling aloud, no whimpered hallucinations:
just the bravery of my bones, the honesty of my blood.

Can’t rest, won’t rest, left to ruminate
on the sins of my muscles, the secrets of my organs.

The doctor is my priest,
reading the scripture of my skin,
the pronouncements from my heart,
the whispered revelations from my lungs;
no reading of my entrails...

...the inevitable wreck of time.
Not even 30; not even 29.
Poisons, potions, and pills:
these are my communion. Amen.

---
MWL

untitled 07.06.06

top floor conference center:
some asshole’s playing piano,
and he’s good, too, but
that’s beside the point.

The point is, I’m stuck here.
I keep thinking about
these guys I knew,
was close to,
and how we’ll never be again
and how I’m not sad about it
but fascinated by the explosions.

* * *

Two dozen girls have gone by,
perfume flip-flops long hair
lip gloss short-shorts

this is my summer

nostalgia envy pain highlights

box of magazines shredded for
collages, recipes torn out
hapless wife in me
keeps trying

* * *

sun’s going down
bayou is a murky watercolor
weeds and cypress knees
the windows look washed-out

how I feel

firm cold feeling of muscles seizing
sculpture of white-hot horizons and throttled moons

25 more minutes of this and
I’ll be screaming

* * *

piano man’s stopped
construction on campus has ceased
it’s quiet, but for keys clicking
doors squeaking
day’s end ghosts sinking
into their sofas and barstools
tinkling of tv stars beer bubbles

* * *

I don’t even give a shit, and
look what’s happening.

a girl has begun to blossom
into pretty
but isn’t sure how to cultivate

skirt too short unsure
bad posture
humped up my father would say,
hiding behind her hair my mother would say
no bra, tank top,
flapping sandals
summer colors in bag, clothes, foundation
self-tanning tart

* * *

what else is left at the end of the day:

carpet vacuum laundry pile
dishes dinner watering plants
in this southern humidity
drowning in the thick waves
of water

pain chases pain

lemon-colored shirt of coworker
focus drawn blinking red light on the phone
sun sets against the
curve of my spine
twitch in my hands
day of days and hunger

why don’t I bring my own

---
MWL
07.06.06

a haiku

wind warm with clear sky
rain-drenched boards, no paint:
voice of the back fence

---
06.19.06
MWL

[as yet untitled]

a mojo-pinned morning:
thrust against the
rear windows
of pick-up trucks,
crumpled in the wrapper
of a granola bar breakfast,
swinging between
18-wheelers and CDs.

it slams over the horizon,
scattering through the ghost
of my city, the
urban chimera
twisted around
a DNA strand of
superhighways.

now it's a trapeize,
mounted by vibrating acrobats;
then the storm tripping
over the skyline, amused--
and before all that,
throwing itself through the window,
on to the bed, spilling on the floor,
mixing with the scent of sex
and the sound of the alarm.

---
11.11.05
MWL