So for you know
reliable. Un-
derstandably
this is how I’d
continue to have lived
if this were so.
so long
ago, someone is saying so
what. Someone will say,
‘So?’ Can you say
so?
one. Un-
deniably so.
The so-so product
of my generation:
ignorance of you.
as others tell you
what beauty is, is not,
I will have no words
to show you so.
The Thousand Years of Sorrow for Ciara
of sorrow
sung in butterfly
shadows –
shadows
cast in fallen snow
angels composed
from a thousand years
of sorrow,
full
of my life and death,
breathlessly
held in the palm
of your tongue
and tears.
Metaphors of a Magnifico by Wallace Stevens
Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
Into twenty villages
Or one man
Crossing a single bridge into a village.
This is old song
That will not declare itself ...
Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village.
Are
Twenty men crossing a bridge
Into a village.
That will not declare itself
Yet is certain as meaning ...
The boots of the men clump
On the boards of the bridge.
The first white wall of the village
Rises through fruit-trees.
Of what was it I was thinking?
So the meaning escapes.
The first white wall of the village ...
The first fruit-trees. ...
"For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is."
The Feelies were one of my favorite bands from the 80's and early 90’s that never quite got the national attention they deserved (but does that matter? Hell, no, I’m kinda happy about it in a selfish sorta way).
Glenn Mercer was the chief songwriter, singer and guitar player from the band has just released a fabulous solo album, Wheels in Motion, which takes me right back to 1990 without sounding like a retread. Other former Feelies’ band members make appearances on the record, too.
Sample some track's on Glenn's MySpace page or pick it up from Amazon. It's on Pravda Records.
Sirius
Across the sky
the last shrill flicker
of sunlight blends
with the short waves
of violets and purples
of the night rise.
Done.
I am done today.
Through the half-darkness
the bark of the Dog Star
is the brightest
and I bury the bone
of my thoughts
in the last plank
of light withdrawing
across the lake into dusk,
secure in the circle
of colorless hills
holding the only dreams
to share, to tell:
I am safe;
I am well.
As If for Ciara
As if I am going home to someone
on this cold, rain-soaked October
night, I drive hurriedly into the black
of the highway ahead, white
lines on the fogged road
like rails of a track. I count imaginary
ties, nurture the distance
and unseen enveloping my car
and its reflected headlights:
a nerve pulsing mirage and sudden
comfort and sanctuary as if
I am already
home, pulling the car into the garage
and the heavy rain on the windshield,
the ending of a daydream
or flashback, cleanses
as the wipers lift
and retract.
Artichoke for Ciara
heart. Something
always find your leafy edge,
peels you back:
squish stroke of a bright brush
on canvas, vibration
of a word in the back of your throat
rolling off your tongue, a woman’s
laughter from a different room,
harmony of a chord;
revealing
the flesh of the core.
Footrace at Dusk
Across the pavement the shadow
ran ahead of me, the long hair bouncing
weightless at its shoulders
like some mythological Greek warrior
or Mohican daydream.
The faster I ran,
the faster it ran: arms pumping,
legs pounding. Fatigued, I begged
the shadow to stop and rest, stop
and share the secrets of its
speed, strength and grace.
As I slowed, my skeleton burst
through the hanging layers of my skin
and muscle. Tendons snapped
from bone. My skeleton chased after shadow
along the path of the open field and woods,
resonances of a dinner bell
sounding from beyond the neighborhood.
What Do You Know
The
white foamed and clear,
ambles toward
crows, demand on your own time,
I’m trying to fish, swoop into elm
and oak trees. Summer
morning and the river’s low
and the crows cry: the river’s flow
has slowed. Two boats barely
rock, anchored to a dock. And the brightness
reflected by water makes me
squint. A woman, her infant and carriage
push past me on the dirt path.
The baby calls
my name. No, no, no. Bending
to pick up a strand of grass
to chew, my knees buckle. Overcome
with dizziness, I grab for clouds,
and what do you know, I miss
and float away
over path, people, riverbank, trees, crows, boats and water
until I am sound asleep.
Cultivation for Ciara
oh how she works the green,
green, green garden
of my heart
with hands, hoe
and furrowed brow.
oh the light
of her eyes
feeds the beat root
and the blue, blue, blue tears
of monarch butterfly eyes
tender the soil.
she tills the brown,
brown, brown soil
of my consciousness
with her hands, hoe
and furrowed brow.
she sifts the black,
black, black oil
of my blood
nurturing seeds, cells,
ovaries, corolla and mauve,
mauve, mauve stigmas,
and stamens and styles.
