Teething

The rhythm of the days is
        suddenly
                accelerated.
Short snatches of sleep
and frantic driving fingers
into a gnawing mouth.
The relief, too, is fragmented
wails into a space of silence ruptured
an eggshell snapping
a treebud bursting
a tooth poised to puncture.

Seeds and students

There are seven steps to sprouting
a sunrise circle that revolves
retracing itself in soil and air and season.
So it begins:
Step one- a sparking in the green
the wet vein of life thickening, slowing
solidifying from pulse to potential,
an idea taking on form
the single seed.
Second- a secreting of the seed
in sweetness bright and scented.
The thought must be sold
to the senses that seek it.
Third is the thickening
the fruit and flower grow
more complex and heavy
It's own weight begins to wax
a separation verging.
Fourth falls
the snapping of stem
and swift descent through air
Sudden independence
seeks its own space, sounds alone.
Fifth in line is lying fallow
waiting in sudden darkness
to sort out the sense of self
stripping the sweet flesh back
to the single seed, the green spark.
Sixth is a shooting star
in all directions new webs
stretch for sustenance, for security
It centers itself in knots
and shoves aside dead ground
to make room to grow.
Seven steps to sprouting
and the seventh sends itself
strong and shouting
a green thing grown
with roots and stem all its own.
Secret in the veins is waiting
a seed to be sown.

So I send you
with thoughts and dreams
that have been my own
and now are something new
an idea waiting for you.

Second sight

I have taken your city map
           -Thank you for that by the way
             such careful annotations of traffic
             and potholes and places to eat.
             You have a gift in noting such things,
              precise and to the point. A city
              well dissected.
I have taken the map, that is to say,
          it is in my bag
          growing new streets and boulevards
          by virtue of crease and wrinkle.
 I am quite proud of its dexterity
          such an dry old thing comes alive with
          the right ink and eyes.
          For example, in the warren where the
          old poor were placed, snug stacked
          against the concrete alleys, a burst of birds
          have found themselves all crimson in flight and
          stained the page.
          Along the river, I have marked at least
          three monsters metastasizing at a
          fantastic rate in green grey mold below the bridge.
          There are fifteen locations by which
          you may clearly see the sun rise and
          twelve where the sunset is not as
          melancholy as may be expected at such times.
          On average, the crossing of train tracks
         by small cafes that use chalk primarily
         creates a whorl that I have marked down
         so a fingerprint of sort develops.
I have taken your city map, I fear,
         but the city has taken me.

Kicked

To map the tremors
one must first accept
the truth of two living things.
A warm expanse stretched taut
with crisp bones and ridges
a landscape pulled smooth by tension.
A second force with ranging need
that spikes and drops
beneath the first
a sudden eddy against the weight
a shoving buoyancy demanded.
After this you may proceed
with hesistancy.
The mixture of the Richter scale
and dowsing rod
with jolts that spring unannounced
in the night to ripple through the dark.
The pattern rests, and swarms again,
a certain inconsistency
to breed obsession, to hook a fiend.
Each tremor fades, the map redrawn,
and untouched surface settles.
There is no change to eyed horizon
 but in the mind
the hunger grows,
another pulse, and then the wait.
Some needful knowledge or
pulsing ache.
There is no satisfaction found
while stillness haunts the hunting grounds.

Unbalanced

I grow unsteady
while this mesh of tendon
and ligament and flesh
stretches tight around my frame
and springs suddenly loose
at times unaware.
There is a constant tilting
a lean into the world
like a prologue that only exists
to push some further thought
into being, or at least
into being heard.
The spreading of my feet
does not correspond
with the widening of the path;
instead I must, with single mind,
find balance
a constant negotiation
between two limits of which
both appear unclear.
The center of the self has shifted
forward and threatens separation
a relentless murmur for independence.
There is no solid ground
nor silence, nor serenity.
In the most sacred places,
I am not alone.
I grow unsteady
as this dream grows within me.

Obtuse reflection

This is poetry
because I said so
because the way the lines break
force your eye to read, to see things
not differently
not always
but to see
the strings between two similar things
the thought that sat in your mirror
every morning when the fluoride was
not quite enough to wash out the taste
of not dreaming
and the way your brother lets women's numbers
go to voicemail.
Leave a message, a message, a message
after the beep. A brief pause,
and then never enough time to say what you want to say.
This is poetry because
there is a frustratingly tenuous rhythm
in the way the words come
but not enough to see
clearly
the way you like to see things
designated, well designed.
You are now resigned to the fact that this,
is poetry.
The sort of thing that pokes and pulses
and makes prose feel a bit like
the second cousin at a wedding,
known enough to be invited but not in fact
in any of the good pictures.
Poetry is after all, made up of good pictures.
It is the retraining of the eye, accustomed
to straight lines, towards tangentials and always
in the rule of thirds.
the lover, the brother, the father,
the intro, the conflict, the end,
the message, the message, the message.
This is poetry.*



*because I said so

adrift

your old syllables

sit like warm garlic on my tongue

warm garlic from the strip of green

underneath the concrete of my old window

are you too growing green?

the scent of you brushed against me

in the market place and I am too warm

too much skin and pavement and sound

pushing against me

where did the breeze get your smell?
it is too much to bear
this message from home
with no return address.