SELF 1993

Alone

I am alone with a tank of fish,

God bless them, they so surpass TV:

the only sound, the faintest bubbling,

aerating water and thought.

I do so love being all alone that, 

telling it, think of asking forgiveness.

From whom? For what? There is no one here.

From my kind? Myself? If so, then granted.

For tonight, a book and a look at goldfish

affirm an existence without noise,

convince me that I am free.

Genesis

As for the lineage of ourselves,

if we were to know about it in depth,

going back even a few generations,

we might welll cringe and throw up.

Going back further, to the Paleolithic,

we’d find ourselves the certain offspring

of rape, incest, idiocy, slavery, 

knavery, underpaid prostitution

and fucking Neanderthals.

Before that, of course, we were pond scum,

and before that, less— nearly random— and random.

Thus, may we skip any pride in lines:

mistakes were made, which is why we’re here.

Vagabond In San Francisco

At the edge of the street a squatting form

shifts on its haunches, hawks and spits,

curses and mutters from semi-darkness:

‘You piece of shit.’

I glance his way in disturbed surprise.

‘That’s right, you heard me, you son-of-a-bitch, 

and you fucking know it.’

I avert my eyes. I am on my way 

to dinner as part of two well-dressed couples,

strive to return to conversation,

but feel my choler, quick as a dog’s,

imagine the two of us rolling about

on the sidewalk, instead of strolling on—

howling, gouging, biting—

can see that he has a point.

On The Especial Plight Of The Poet In Time Of Illness

The carpenter, on feeling ill, will saw some fewer boards,

Musicians sick will use their skills to strum some fewer chords,

And so on is the workload less for airline pilots, stevedores,

Cooks and cops and seamstresses, and any man or maid with chores.

But lo, the weakest of the chain, the poet, while of little use,

Cannot exert a lesser main, with nothing to reduce.

Alas, in bed he sorely stays, aggrieved by all his woes,

The same as on his normal days, undone by all his foes,

But now, with added anguish in his belly or his bowel,

And nothing more to languish, from his biceps to his jowl,

Nor can the wretch, for love nor spite, neglect his Muse’s voice,

For as to when to rise and write— in this he has no choice.

Fog

A derelict, sailorless but for a clueless

fool who staggers across the decks,

is afloat in the fog on huge swells.

He is only vaguely aware the waves affect his walking.

His rhythm and pace are a matter of pride,

and his footfall sounds to him prognostic.

His vision is zero, but trust him, he knows—

the fog, the vessel, the snarling granite,

the nearness of nothing to everyone

Seeking Sympathy

My mother’s dead.

My wife is sick.

I'm doing hard work

and the flies are biting.

I have insertional tendonitis.

My left heel hurts.

I limp. I’m lame.

I should also point out, I’m on antibiotics

to have a tooth out with less pus.

Where once on a sunny day like this,

I played golf or tennis

and danced and fucked,

I now am.

Back to wrestling railway ties

Analysis Of A Pacifist

He was becoming a knee-jerk pacifist,

wanting not to fight at the drop of a hat,

had mentally clenched that class of fist

that pummels the very idea of a punch.

He wanted to fight with fighting men—

castrate all of their hobby horses

and give them their balls as eyes to ken

the blinding nature of aggression with.

He had this murderous rage inside,

to kill all killing and bottle it up

in some legalistic formaldehyde,

and the pickle pricks who start wars

Spare Time

The way my time is spare these days,

the only thing I do is verse,

a leisure verse, it will be clear,

falling at random, as white outside,

leaf-like on the kitchen table,

birds on the feeder, kicking snow,

everyone stuck in traffic but me,

up to their knees in slush,

hush, it is quiet here,

the sound of a pen

like the birds outside,

then nothing, pause,

as I search for meaning, 

find it or not,

get up and add a log to the fire,

put on more coffee, Bach, soup, 

peel a grapefruit and eat lunch.

I Feel A Fool At Funerals

How much I feel a fool at funerals

can scarcely be exaggerated.

Dressed as if for an interview

with some narrow-minded son-of-a-bitch

I wouldn’t want to work for but would

if he’d have me, I sit there, 

brow-beaten, brainless, sorry

for whoever got fired

to create this horrible position,

and damn it, I’m hired.

The Avant-Garde

I’ve applied to be in the avant-garde.

The bloody form was eleven pages.

The questions they asked were all hard,

and the queue to drop it off took ages.

My feet were tired by the time I left,

the crowd still flowing through the door.

They looked, the entire lot, bereft

of what it takes, and more.

Not that I know, myself, yet,

I suppose it'll take instruction;

but think it a pretty reasonable bet

it will follow from deduction.

A Clever Poem

I’ve written a very clever poem

I want admired in clever circles.

The tone is clever, the meter’s clever,

the rhymes and punctuation are clever.

The words and thoughts are especially clever.

The innuendo and puns are clever,

the lay-out too. The whole thing’s clever,

even the spelling– I’ve looked it up.

The feeling? Well, the feeling’s clever.

The idea works as a simple lever–

myself the fulcrum, myself the weight,

myself the hoist-petard-elate.

Whenever I read it, I feel I’ve never

read anything else that’s half as clever.

 Dark Stroll

Once I ascended a hill in winter,

at night, with rabbit's fur in my ears,

good boots, a warm sweater and a down-filled coat.

The snow on the brow arose in a vortex

the height of a man, and seemed to be me.

The wind in the bobbing firs disturbed.

The moon was nearly full and shone.

The clouds before it raced, and their shadows;

and everything was black and white 

and dead and in motion, all powder,

and I was insubstantial, no force,

moving the well-made clothes:

nobody inside, nobody out,

everything would end.

Crazy Paper Route

I had the craziest paper route

anyone ever delivered on,

and learned from it my life’s ambition.

It went from my house in two directions,

out and back twice, two miles in all,

and in all I delivered thirteen papers,

the pay for each being one full cent.

Now back in those days, you may say with a sniff,

thirteen cents was a lot of money,

especially to someone about my age,

but it wasn’t– is not and was not.

My folks felt that what made the route precious

was the act of earning, and lessons thereby,

the daily, distinctive, prospering experience

of trading spare time for cash.

My dog, Fury, got the most from the route.

I got good at throwing rocks

at telephone poles, and wading ditches,

up to the tops of my rubber boots,

a mind growing still as ditch water.

The lesson worked: I don’t work, 

for cash, and may never again.

You

You are a disappointment to you.

You know now you are faulty.

You have memories of you

you would rather not,

quite a few, on many themes.

Yet you are you and no one else is,

and you are not criminal. 

You are the judge.

You are the source of you.

You are worthwhile. 

You think.

Ontology And Ontogeny

When my mother was young and more beautiful

than any reasons there are for life,

and I was inside her, the size of a tadpole,

swimming the unplumbed depths of health,

I could hear my would©be father murmur.

When she let him in I would snap and bite,

a little fish against thrice my length

and strength and rigidity; and lo...

he would back out, only to charge again.

I was born of the Maiden Mabel,

Sawmill Ralph and The Great North Bear.

The Northern Lights are behind my eyes

and the Milky Way is a strip of my brain.

My nose, in the past, has been Niagara,

but now Hudson's Bay is the heart of my breast.

I mustn't exaggerate, these are feelings,

and I have been cold toward life of late,

but once was as warm and soft and slippery,

and slimy and good and self-satisfied,

as any amphibious creature is.

All my needs are diminishing now,

except the coldest, enduring, fame.

My tail just dropped off yesterday,

felt it fall in my underwear,

the size and weight and shape of a pine seed,

not the cone, but a single flake

tumbling tickly over my anus,

settling in the seat of my shorts.

(Forgot to find it at bedtime, though.)

This morning I said, I've matured at last:

at forty-three stopped dreaming pudendum.

It is time to explore with The Great North Bear.

Who am I kidding? I still long for the swamp

of the virgin and hate my birth in the North,

but what can be done but proceed to forget?

I just buzzed up six cords of spruce.

What a racket I made for days on end.

Can remember nothing of doing this

but the howl in my sleeping hands of death,

the preparation of trees for fire.

Admittedly, I am a lot like Ralph,

which is why The Great Bear eludes me now.

He imagines me with a three-hundred Savage

padding across the moon-white snow,

white in the eyebrows just like him,

toes curling into the granular crunch

through moccasins and thick wool socks.

What chance would he have? a god against ghost

and a long-range rifle, Mabel remote from memory.

So he keeps to his turquoise toys in the sea,

great cubes and rhomboids of water floating,

an indifference he nearly achieves some days,

till he slips to take a new seal in the ocean.

Yes, I am a lot like Ralph and The Bear,

having crept at last into middle age

and lost my tail and tenderness;

I've become so hardened and lacking need

that hunger itself is a bit like ice,

and whatever I want is just vaguely desired:

gratitude, love and remorse, but words

that ring like rotating teeth in my head.

Reading Badly After Dinner

I take several geniuses to the fire,

land in a big chair, the books in my lap,

and fall asleep, full of food as I am.

Later I wake, yawn at some pages,

the great men, now, a mere pile of heads.

I gaze on them fondly in long reflection,

then at the fire, back to one book,

back at the flames, and at last am content

to know nothing new.

There is work to be done, but perhaps not much.

These captured heads will be shrunk by my methods

to ashen forms I hang on my belt,

so when I’m out drinking with primitive friends,

they constitute trophies referred to by name.

Burp

You rise from your easy chair and belch,

a personal action, no one around,

some air you swallowed drinking water,

odorless, meaningless, hardly in mind.

You tighten your gut to extend expulsion.

Ah, the last few fragments of burp!

No one, not even yourself, you think,

has thought how good to be de-gassed.

Or have they? Historic and philosophic,

you wonder if this is a subject worked.

You are not the first, you’re sure of it now:

whole volumes, in many tongues.

On Excellence And Limitation With Drink

I have shaken my ass,

I have shaken my head,

I have shaken my foot (both heel and toe),

and I am sure I have shaken them well,

but whereas others could talk and tell,

the only thing I could do was dance,

and hope the rest went without saying.

A Prince Is Rejected

I said Dancing. May I take you dancing?

She said Dancing? You're dressed like a bum.

I said Dress me up in your husband's clothes.

She said What makes you think I have one?

I said You have one before your very eyes,

there must have been others before me.

She said Listen, the time and the place are wrong.

I said Dancing, without knowing your name.

She said I find this a bit too random, sir.

I said Randydom, that's where I come from, south.

She said Dancing would not be enough for you then.

I said Believe me I'll keep my clothes on, please.

She said That's what makes it impossible.

Unstoppable Versifying

I turn the simplistic, syntactic crank

on the jar of my limited lexicon,

and the thought emerges, terse and frank

as the word in that worthy octagon,

Stop! You are wasting your time and others’–-

people seeking feeling or thought.

Writing without any interest smothers

all interest and is the deepest rot.

Yet as a whim that precedes the change

of channels in an evening of bad TV,

my mind takes a moment to rearrange

itself by itself so itself can be.

And though its content is nearly nil,

it insists on the right to ponder

those empty paths, neither good nor ill,

which exist to simply wander.

Firewood

Five hundred and twenty dollars it cost,

and a few days work with a chainsaw,

a rented hydraulic splitter to split it,

a hard day’s work with that to be quick,

another few days to stack the stuff

and bag the bark and sweep sawdust.

Now it sits in the yard, yellowing,

magnificent in July sun, a sight

that is truly a miser’s pleasure,

riches beyond any near consumption,

abstract heat and wealth of smell,

sweet, and a smell of wealth.

Foreplay, Postplay*

I am one who likes to stand before a pan of browning sausages,

rolling them idly, greasily thinking, splattering breakfast,

blue flame under my inspiration, warming belly abutting stove,

toast and coffee jingling my snout, and another minute

before I eat. When I am gone, say: He noticed that.

And I am the sort who likes to sit with the TV on

and a bottle of beer, peanuts loose in casting hand,

another hour or two to play, friends around me, talking, belching,

arses deep in the old settee, remote control 

to kill the commercials, and a couple of jokes I haven't told.

After I've left, say: He cared for such things.

And I am one who likes to reflect

that the way it is is the way it is 

the poets of old were feeling too— 

funny, feeling their feelings rare.

----------------------------------------------

*After Thomas Hardy's poem, Afterwards

Narcissism From The Start

We met when we were mere gametes,

yourself and I, and ever more,

nor fish nor fowl nor baby beets

could make as big an impression.

I love you as the egg on my face!

I love your supremely wiggling tail!

I love you for carrying on the race

with me! God knows He didn’t fail!

We love and are the imperial We,

will be lovers until our dying day,

and normally think of ourselves as Me,

which proves the state of our union.

My Mind

My mind will work but has to be touched,

like an ox with the idea of grass

by the side of the road.

It always goes to the side of the road.

The thing is calm and slow, chewy,

not at all prone to stomach ulcers,

but needs the occasional touch on the flank,

it forgets as soon as it feels.

It’s a good mind and I like it, it works,

even if normally it doesn’t work. 

Admittedly, it cannot take instruction,

but pulls strong, wherever it goes.

However it got to be this way,

however, it got to be this way,

and has to be driven to work with a switch,

or a mental carrot like: Make something.

A Confession

Just when I thought life couldn't worsen

I met another low-energy person,

and predictably, when push came to shove,

we were lying down and fell in love.

I told her, Get up or we'll die in bed,

but she told me to get up instead.

I said, As much as I like to eat,

today of all days, I'm completely beat.

So she gave me a peck on the cheek and went

and fed herself and came back and lent

her weight to my acute depression,

and we're still together. That's a confession.

The Hammock

Today I made the greatest discovery

since quitting work, the hammock.

Tied in the shade of a Tombstone rose 

about to bloom, near cooing doves,

In full view of lizards and butterflies

on a block wall fronted with penstemon,

In winter warmth that is ever-brightening

Arizona, the hammock bulges:

A belly pregnant with these sensations,

and scribbling on air and ease.

Trying

The goal of some is to achieve,

to fully achieve and get the goal,

where the goal is the goal and that is all,

and man and goal are one.

Others would like to just keep trying:

go out there and try, try at length,

do their best and see what happens.

You hear this a lot in sports.

My goal is rather to try to try,

to see if, in spite of scant success,

I can come up with some sort of effort,

and failing that, try to try to try.

Sketch

If I could have looked forward many years, from the bumboat of youth to the ship of my later self, I would have been disappointed: with its anchored indifference to getting places, its need of scrape and paint, the unkempt crew and uncertain captain. I might have stopped bringing supplies altogether. And in later life, as now, for example, standing on deck of the ship of myself, looking down on that dumb bumboat: splashing in circles it called independence, its inability to be helped, its coarseness, its grandiose lack of real knowledge, the laying off oars and absorbing waves, drink, fuck! I could almost drop a rock on the thing. However, this is how I got where I am, contented, working, nobody bothering me, satisfied as usual with the clunking arrival of boat to ship, a ship that, after all, still needs provisions, a bumboat that still needs employment.

No Captain

I am the object of my fate.

I am the oarsman in the hold.

I am the subject of my state.

I am the poet. I behold.

Sketch

What if a carpenter built a gibbet and came back after dark to reflect?  Tomorrow the man will stand on this work, hands tied, and then on nothing.  The moon is full, a gold nimbus behind and above the imagined head. A nearby tree, two hundred years old, in the breeze jiggles, a work of God.  The earth itself, though it's dusty and shifts, supports everything, more than it lets down, living and dead. Nature is quite without judgement. But the carpenter's work is all death, in every detail, each nail he has driven, each board sawn flush.  He thinks of himself as he built it, sweating, stopping to eat his lunch on the steps, hardly able to swallow then, returning to work, making level and plumb. A trap for his mind forever!

The Poetic Feelings Of Feet

How shall we say we felt with our feet

  when enough has been said of the eyes and ears, 

  the heart, etc.?

Let us record our foot-felt feelings–

those poetic feelings of feet.

When first we think of our feet we think, 

  Holy Moses were they ever hot!

Left and right they tramped in heat, 

trotted and ran, plodded, stood,

(in the sense of endured, bore),

sweated and, loaded, trudged.

But have these feet ever been too hot,

ever in their lives walked too much asphalt?

No, in their ways, they have not been too hot.

For though these feet have been very hot,

(and we shall not wax on how they hurt,

throbbed and sweated, or slightly bled),

these feet have never been too hot.

For, at some point, they came to cool tiles

or shaded grass, and naked they went­–

hungrily over grass or tiles,

  swishing, slapping, spanking, oh,

how they sighed with plucked green blades

or how they squeaked on ceramic floor!

Eek! Eek! they said, Eek! Jesus Christ we’re not

 crucified!

But have these feet ever been too cold?

Stiff they have been and, at times, and numb, 

near senseless, pretty unsure of themselves,

  and though my eyes watered and nose tooted,

  and I, the person attached, moaned,

thawing these feet on a heater, no, 

the feet themselves were never too cold.

For, at such times, they both said:

Oh! crushed grapes! There is pain! We live!

Tired?  Yes, these dogs have been tired.

But have they ever been too darn tired?

No, for at last they stood in the shower,

taking their turns at being scrubbed,

and though they were weary and near the drain, 

  No, they said, to each other sagely,

  No, we will not go down that drain.

All these feet have ever complained 

are a couple of bouts of bad ennui,

a feeling worse than athlete's foot,

standing stupidly stunned around, torpid,

in a state of indifference, melancholy.

Why?  We don't know why.

As for the fantasy life of these feet,

they themselves are ashamed to admit,

they would like to go stinking, bare on baize,

frolicking, hopping, snookered and oblivious,

laying claim to a grand pool table, a snooker table,

drunk, right before taking a champagne bath.

They don’t like sandals but can’t say why,

and likewise have little use for slippers.

  Knowing others do they think them fools,

  but these are my feet’s very few, bad thoughts.

Of their happier days and earned rewards,

and unearned blessings, they’re grateful: New socks.

Clean sheets.  Old shoes.  All the dancing.

New sneakers and boots. Woods walks. Tennis. 

  Idle, delicious, do-nothing hours

of burdenless, flat-on-your-back relaxing,

  awake and inspired, or watching TV,

squirming under nice behind on the couch,

rubbed in sublime female hands–

These feet are having an excellent life

   and are pleased herewith to make their report.

Bad Day

His feet are cold,

he is sad and has a sense

of ridiculousness

with a small, soft cock.

He is lazy and tired

but has no wish to sleep,

and his waking gives vent

to no intelligible complaint.

There is fat upon him

flowing where he should be hard,

but neither is he supple,

for his joints have aged.

He's a short forty

with thin hair:

Excuse me, he thinks

whenever he sees someone.

What You Need

What you need

to make life a lot lighter

is people with nothing 

to forgive you

for.

Let us demarcate

these as those

you call, or could call,

drinking cronies.

They're good for the soul,

survivors, saviors,

generous, not damaged

by you yet in carelessness,

nor looking sad, as a calf to be veal,

or mad, perhaps, as a bloody assassin,

about to strike at all you hold dear.

These comrades, seen amid smoke

and mirrors, low lights, known 

but by conversation, are listeners

to you, not yet fatigued, 

and not suspicious or well aware

that you are a draft of poison.

Rhododendron

The rhododendron's leaves are frozen.

Snow is on the ground, a kill

to most other things, but not the rhode,

not even its leaves, which seem bouquets

of green ruin, a hanging done by Season’s change,

in the look of parboiled green. 

This plant is playing possum to God:

devoid of bloom and sign of growth,

pretending surrender to Winter’s sword,

like ourselves in a mood that will pass. 

Death Flies

Thursday evening, good one for squash.

Sleet flung sideways.  Salt trucks out.

Streets of pubs.  Drinking after.

Ready for anything.  Lost lost.

Friday morning, dead calm.

I like the phrase: dead reckoning.

Hangover mild.  Build bird feeder.

Think about fruitless nights of yore.

Here come the crows at 3 P.M.

Loud creatures, not far from feeder,

watching and yelling.  Scared them once.

Back they came.  Ruination,

size of tarred eagles.

Haven't a weapon I can remember...

except the kids' archery set for Christmas.

Take it outdoors.  No expectations.

Aim at the biggest crow in November.

He doesn't budge.  Release string.

Down comes bird, bouncing on branches.

Arrow embedded short of left primaries.

Long relationship.  Bad beginning.

Pick him up and he looks sore.

Disgusted.  Thinks and wants the worst.

You got it partner.  You're in my arms,

and three thin feathers of mine in yours.

Days later.  Identical diet

for him and the kids.  Wing bandaged

by my wife. We're both sick.  Kids on his side.

The moral superior watches me,

Ready to jump out the window

and hurt himself.

No more squash.  I take up the racquet

when we're alone. Confront crow

and clobber pillow.

How would you like it, black villain?

How would you like it? he shouts back.

Aw aw.  He hates and fears.  Aw.

And laughs despite himself.

Aw aw.  Read me the bible,

or rules of squash, as you prefer.

When the wife and kids are off to school

I propose marriage. Don't touch me, he says.

Give me that mouse you took from the cat.

I do.  I will, with this, oblige.

It is love.  It's love.  It is all lies.

I want the crow.  He heals, despises.

I take him outside and let him go.

He looks at me once.  Death flies.

  After Hitting My Finger With A Hammer

The right hand hammers the left drunk,

with sudden, humming, electric purr—

the sense of getting a bad shock,

the nonsense of kinaesthetic blur.

R was swinging as hard as it could

at a block L held to restore a sill.

Now the action is interrupted

for medicine, or at least until...

Out of the hard old work-glove slips

a creature sans exoskeleton,

damp and pale, it miserably ships

through air as if it abhorred sun,

Seeming to want to return to mud,

the index finger split like a grape,

leaking a slow, dark worm of blood.

This crab calls for a piece of tape!

What's Good For The Goose

What's good for the goose could be killing the gander

and killing the gander is cooking its goose.

When it's all right to gander it's not right to goose,

though what's wrong to a goose could have good gander use.

But a goose going ganderlessly is forlorn,

and a gandering gooselessly cannot be borne,

so if gooses and ganders together must go,

then a-gandering-goosily-goosily-gandering-

gosling-producing together we go.

Aging Makes Us More Human

Borges said it best of aging:

The animal is dead, or almost dead,

the man and the spirit live on.

This implies gradual Graduation:

Aging makes us more human.

What I would add for my part is:

joy and ease come from things not done—

crime nor terrible harm.

Is this too small an achievement to note?

I would say, No, it was a great success!

Let all the animals cheer for me now:

cows give milk and chew, contented,

chickens kick dirt and keep laying,

dogs go woof, a few horses whinny,

snakes tie themselves in knots laughing.

Let even the pill bugs go out of their ways

to walk my hallways always.

I am starting Life afresh, as a man,

leaving you cats behind.

Random Thanks

I had almost an urge to say my prayers,

except, having nothing to pray to,

got up instead to write this.

Whence came the urge?— It was based in luck,

or Providence, perhaps; anyway, a good day,

a day that required, as I went to bed,

I be thankful, and I was, and am. 

But to what? To whom?

No prayers to say, nor nothing to,

it’s a funny feeling, embarrassing

almost: satisfied and steadier.

My Far-Darting Piscine Poems

My far-darting, piscine poems

will outswim your anfractuous thought.

My verse is vatic verisimilitude venially vindicated bragging, 

and yours is not.

My best shot is a sursum corda,

a syzygy of stunning sidereal effulgence:

a Euxine, anodyne, coruscating one of mine

makes yours look like you're a dunce.

My far-darting piscine poems,

ashamed anent such notions,

scumble and repair to home,

to be rebuffed. O Land o' Goshen.