Poems
in the pursuit of
in the pursuit of perfection
i have become
a golden cup
with nothing in it
in the pursuit of love
i have become
a long blade
with blood upon it
in the pursuit of wealth
i have become
a vast house
with no one in it
in the pursuit of pain
i have become
a broken horse
with no one on it
in the pursuit of sorrow
i have become
a swollen river
with no fish in it
in the pursuit of nothing
i have become
a single lily
with sun upon it.
what the day refuses to damn
the names we would
call ourselves
the people we're obliged
to meet
the loss of our angels
feather by
feather
behind the curtain
doves still flutter
clear pools
smooth stones
drop through
shatter
the calm
ripple by
ripple
in the belfry
in the garden
in the deep good
windowlight
things return
light of the father
passing in the vein
stuck there; fundamental,
naming you by day.
awake in the unknown world
where doors and chevys
groan in the night
and i think of you
to keep my heart alive
if anything were easy
the asters all would die
if everything were true
no gun would speak
something simple
it would be easy i think
to begin the world again
from something simple
a stone
something hard
to shape it all like that
and whirl it up out of one breath
something was always sour inside of this
maybe the cards were always marked
maybe the gun was always loaded
but some mornings
when the sun fills up the kitchen
and i walk in to see it lighting up the leaves
of the plants in the window
and making all the dust float like snowflakes
well then i feel like i could just twist
out of this like a weak headlock
that i could tuck up my arms and fold into stone
that i could be calm and beautiful
and pray through all this murder anyway
and then i think it would be easy
to begin the world again
from something simple
like a son.
this night
i eat this night
like a bread of silence
i take the moon
in my hand
in this night,
men struggle;
women struggle;
young and old.
some
do not go on.
in this night,
with this silence
i share some of it.
tomorrow
those left
and me
will rise
will move through time,
forgetting the past
forgetting each other.
walk through the dance
one. two. three.
dig and look and kill
for love,
keep hands
around the fire.
but tonight,
this night,
i eat this night
like a bread of silence.
i drink this prayer
like the blood of angels.
tomorrow
is all ladders,
is all grapple and bone.
so for tonight
i eat this bread
alone.
after awhile
after awhile
things get easier
the dials of saddness
of native grief
can be turned low
the ache
the great ache
the fire with no center
becomes a quiet throb
like a drum under cotton
below the bone
inside the teeth
a little softer
every
day.
untitled (scar)
there is a pale scar upon the day
written in its veins
like the blood of a king.
go back to before i knew you
or felt any of the insects you planted
below my skin.
go back to my original sweetness
of a little boy reaching out into total darkness
for the blue dress of his mother,
and reaching back with a hand full of ashes.
large fish go by, and swim deep in this sea.
i have tangled a million lives together into mine.
with one breath I drink them in,
in another they are gone.
who am I then,
i am the one who says amen.
i am the young boy with the scar
who goes out to hunt the great eagle
who must climb up to the sun on a ladder of arrows
who becomes something wholly new entirely
who slides back down on a rope of braided horse hairs
to find the beautiful daughter of the greatest warrior
to put a seashell in her hair.
I wish ...
I wish my poems
were white horses
the texture of twilight
that i could ride
into tomorrow
I wish my poems
were queenly swans
extending their long necks
through your window
while you're sleeping
to read your dreams
i wish my poems
were good swords
the length of morning
and when i took them
in my hands
i could level fields
full of my enemies
i wish my poems
were brave kisses
tracing up your spine
like red balloons floating
up a spiral staircase.
I wish my poems
were hard drinks
and after a good pull
your eyes would mist over
and you'd step out into
the night to smoke
and reconsider
eternity.
i wish my poems
were aisle lights
that showed you your steps
through endless dark hallways.
i wish my poems
were acts of God
occurring on mountains
and in marketplaces
to heal lepers
and raise corpses
I believe
mostly my poems
are small ships
on huge oceans
sailing toward
a dark continent
with one eye
on a compass
and one hand on a wheel
with one eye on jerusalem
and one breath
in the sail.
move on
whoever you are
you will come to a point
where no advice you've ever gotten
will prepare you
for what you face
you will come to a point
where the trail breaks.
When this happens
be afraid.
and then
when you are weak and quivering
and can feel the sky crumbling
grab for the center.
i know it will be dark,
but reach
for the middle.
amazing
how the sun will shine then
how your skim will feel
how your heart will grow trumpets.
if you are waiting for a flood
move on
if you are waiting for some antichrist
to bristle his jaw
move on
if you are waiting for a messiah
grab for the center
when there is silence
listen for song
when there is darkness
swim towards dawn.
There is the answer
if you were waiting
move on.
A wind story
before a cock will crow
or a virgin trim her wick through the night
before a king can grow a beard
or a boxer throw a fight
before there is time to dust under anything
or give any of your better things away
it will be over
and a man in uniform will move softly own the aisle
to punch your ticket
departing
a school of bright fish
scatter and jolt before you like a shock from a socket
returning
many birds drop into a bare tree in a grey field,
hang like wicked black leaves
alive against the wind.
is there time even to reattach the ear?
swords in the air men, swords in the air.
this is no age for surgeons
on a clear day even the pettiest fool
pulls bones from the air.
i have gone now i have gone
and to there you cannot go
i have gone now i have gone
and to there you cannot go
where thieves have attacked me
and stolen my robes
i have fashioned two bluebirds
one iron one gold
they are dressed in the ribbons
that the wind won't wear
and they can sing all the stories
that the wind won't dare.
The things that make me beautiful
are not my fears
or my jealousies,
my tired hatreds
my whining in the dark
it's not the size
or shape or color of me
What makes me beautiful
is the pureness of my dreams
that float through me
like a feather through a needle's eye
they rest inside me
like a lady's hand
in a bowl of wine
they shoot out before me
into the day
like strange silk arrows
i always search for
and hope to recover
the sound they make against my ribs
is like a string of pearls
rolling down a staircase
and on my skin
and through my eyes
it's a clear fog
that i look through
for miles.
There are scorched seasons
in which the heart cannot speak
in which your brain, your balls,
your dumb ambitions
blot out every sun.
You get in dirty vans
and drive endlessly,
scanning the windows
for visions
you've already had .
You glug and glug
till the ice cubes rattle
like bones.
in a thousand empty glasses,
a thousand frosted tombs.
you read read read
looking secretly for yourself
in the margins.
You consult the moon,
consult the moonlit eyes of women
you do not love,
but your voice echoes back
unanswered,
like you whispered into a deep well.
you feel around your neck
and in your pockets
for the charms you carried
the tiny capsules of grace.
but they are useless now
like bees that bring
no honey.
where is your love,
where is the tender voice
that called when you could not hear.
she tends her seven wounds
alone, wiping her tears
on her unfinished loom.
but a deeper voice reaches
from behind your eyes,
with words like southern winds.
it tell's you with it's lions tongue
that the womb of your mind can bear
many seasons,
that death is the cheat and beggar
you always suspected, that life
indeed, is very long,
and that love, once wounded,
can still go on.
half of all
our time
is spent hoping
that something
will anoint our lives
with meaning,
that someone
will set the green laurel
in our hair.
it is a quiet dream
with many faces,
and the snow still falls
in spite of everything.
i try to pass my time well.
i look most people
in the eye
i smile when i can,
i feel alive when i'm alone.
i walk in the morning
with little things
on my mind.
once, on a train
drinking hot coffee
i realized
how really alone
we all are.
It isn't always hard
to suffer
and after it's over
there is always
the glowing.
murky beneath our daily flesh
like a silver fish
in a fountain.
In a mouth where hungry
children count teeth
and pluck the harps
that will soothe the beast
there are digging hands
in the middle of a blink
that spend the coins
you try to keep
but it's all salt water
when you need a drink
I am an animal of wind
i am a puppet
carved from wind
i want nothing
but to blow and blow
hot and cold
and in the morning
to come home.
The age of saints
is never over
we still need someone
to glow in the dark
to light our candles
to hear our birds sing
how could we ever be beautiful
without the sad things
clinging to our coattails
trying to convince us
of the finish line.
with one hand in your hand lord
one hand in the fire
i will tip toe
to heaven
sometimes barely
breathing out
i will tip toe to heaven
sometimes singing
out loud
i will tip toe
to heaven
lost in the sound.
I wait for the bird
sometimes
make it plead
it still sings everyday
but i listen. now
to the different notes.
listen for the vision
before i lift the pen.
my belly is full
of the bird. because
we all know
the body has never
held the spirit well
chains. rattle often.
there are. wombs
we fall through in dreams
like. cobwebs of milk
we hear our. mothers sing
tender tender is the night
blessed blessed is the day
if your bird isn't singing
pay attention
if your bird isn't singing
stop what you're doing
if your bird isn't singing
turn off the alarm
go back to bed.
if your bird isn't singing
jump
if your bird isn't singing
forget everything
if your bird isn't singing
write a poem
with a pencil of blood
open your window in the morning
smell things
greet the sun
do you feel it beginning?
is there bird
in your lungs?
I wait for the bird
where is the champagne?
Where the shotgun?
i listen to the children play
they cry by my side.
we are mountains of our own decay.
when i was young
i climbed trees
and my echo down below was the lord
when i was a baby
they held my toes
and my mother whispered me a kiss in the night
when i was a river
i had no worries
tra la la la la
in my feet is the calling
i walk home,
it is dark.
is there room in this world
for a piece of my heart
i reach out into the sweetest music
there are things in me which are so soft
like beautiful women with wings of worn brown leather
which are also horses that run,
that take shapes
like shadow puppets on a white wall
and i let them run through
my fingers and hair every season
knowing they are the best stuff
what there is in my throat that can sing
is yours, it is yours, it is yours.
i have arrows and stones
and sticks for walking
i have mannah and gold
and wine for drinking
there is no wall above me
there is no bottom to my canyon
i want to go crazy crazy crazy
on a white day
with a strange wind
beside me
too often
you check the bus number
too often
you look at the map
too often
you call your mother
too often
you complain
too often
you find the reason not to
too often
you forget.
too often
you curse anyone.
too often
you speak without purpose.
too often
you frown without reason.
too often
you forget to pray
too often
god is a pretty idea
too often
the windows of paradise are fogged over
too often
you pass over your neighbor.
too often
you starve the ghost to feed the donkey
too often
your love suffers for chicken scratch on a page.
too often
history mocks you.
too often
you're already lost.
too often
it's the wrong number.
too often
you're already there.
too often it was the road not taken
too often
the deck is stacked
too often
you forget to breathe.
too often
you aren't where you want to be.
but as often as we fuck up
or forget the whole plan
the miracle is
the love
that still aches our bones together
for another morning
that puts our backs to the wind
and gives us the push
and though we dream without hope
though we fly without wings
it is the perfect struggle
for the only
prize.
you must speak
what the soul demands
as the horses
must walk
through the sorrel grass
and tall thrush
to drink
at the river
how can i touch
you now
and still drink
the flames.
i wanted the earth
for its beauty
i wanted to die
for the pain.
where can we go
where the flowers
won't find us
i'm barely twenty-three
and i've heard ten thousand
stories.
all strange
all different
all wanting the truth
all assuming they had it
or were on the fastest way there.
i remember their cars
or their faces
or a scowl
or a smile
i remember the hungry
ones and the angry ones
the ones hard up
the ones fed well and often.
the ones who laughed
and were empty
and the ones who cried
to get full
i tried to kiss
my savior
in most of them.
some i couldnt
and wept.
what can tomorrow
ask of you
that you
have not answered.
think hard
before you lift
the glass
to drink
again.