Inbox

Again, my Inbox grows from zero to one...
And so it seems the day is never done.

11.10
s.d.

Ode to Pinot Noir

Sleeping with open eyes and typing fingers
I digest a random Pearl Jam song
And smile fondly before the new echelon.

I consider the what else
How I tripped up, but wouldn't change a thing
And landed in cloudless California.

10.10
s.d.

Friday

My calf is aching
And my brain can't quite process...
Can you repeat that?

9.10
For a friend.
s.d.

Peruvian Incas

Peruvian Incas
seldom suffered heart disease
and loved building stairs

8.10
s.d.

Old Logging Road

The old logging road
An orange salamander
And I realized this couldn't possibly be a haiku
There was too much to say about
The pitiful lizard squatting in the gravel

Bright as a neon sign
Hardly cloaked
Seemingly afraid of our footfall, or curious
Or searching for Stratton Pond
As a dozen more appeared

The old logging road
Looking like the Vegas Strip
Blazing with construction orange
Of thousands of salamanders, the only diversion
From a piercing rainstorm

7.10
s.d.

Ten Ways of Remembering April

Reprieve from February. Tramping through
the Garden State. Played games to pass the time.

Talking of amber in afternoon heat. Walked with a noticeable
limp. Coquettish smile without laughter. Eye noticed
the red velvet cupcake. Pale as a salted cat.

Impermanence is such a beautiful
word. Most days it rained.

2.10
s.d.

Wanderer's Barter

Trundling onto another capsule,
Lugging my shirts and chargers,
I wonder if I'll still smile
Or merely nod in acknowledgment
Upon arrival.

     The wanderer's barter: a few
     Flat snapshots - nothing else
     Captures the confusion,
     The high-water mark etched in
     Adrenaline...

Exhausting pats and attaboys
From glazed-eye acquaintances,
I wonder if this marks an end
Of acknowledging nods among
Checkered-flag friends.

6.10 (revised)
s.d.

longing for home

rising rising in the air

above a world hes left behind

he stares out the window

and sees merely clouds

interspersed with the waves

five miles below

for a few fickle moments

the insipid hum

of the jets siren song

teases/tempts/traps

his fragile spirit

yet he cannot decide

if his ultimate ride

leads him forward or back

puts him on the right track

if it renders him stable

or wholly unable

to face life alone

with a heart full of stone

hes a wizened wayfarer

a will-o-the-wisp

an ancient memory

a human being

a few hours pass and

the jet glides down harshly to the

specked surface of a black tarmac

but the journey is over

for him and he breathes

a sigh of relief

its been an endless

hour/minute/second/lifetime

and hes tired

all the world is aloof

hes almost home now but

he stops short

and wonders where exactly that is

but there is a voice in his conscience

guiding him softly

so he closes his eyes

and forgets everything

before this moment

and smiles because hes home

11.07

I wrote this six years after "desire to travel."

s.d.

desire to travel

early early in the morning

before the trees are even awake

i lean out the window

and focus my eyes

upon some distant spot

at the horizons edge

for a few wafting minutes

a spectacular sight

my eyes behold there no

birds/breeze/butterflies

scatter my attention

yet somehow i know

that if i were to go

to the place im yearning

eyes barely discerning

i still wouldnt find

the calm peace of mind

that slowly unravels

for someone who travels

im a nomad in chains

a vagabond cooped up

a wanderer in a glasshouse

an anchored migrant

soon it is noon and

the sun climbs the stairs to its

regal throne in a sky blue sky

but its sovereign kingdom

seems as inaccessible to me as

the sun itself

its been a lengthy

day/week/month/year

and its late

even the trees are asleep

its almost black now but

for a few stars

and the shades are drawn shut

but there is a lamp on beside me

so i let my eyes adjust

they meet your eyes

and i see my future

and i forget everything

before this moment

11.01

s.d.

Scintillation

The richest diamonds:
Less scintillating than
Naked fingers.

3.10
s.d.

Three Wishes

Wish for something mundane:
A raw fish with little bones, rusty
Drainpipe or sprig of maple.

Wish for something trivial:
A faded washcloth, three-leaf
Clover or miscut postcard.

Wish for something transient:
A whiff of mown grass, rainbow
In drizzle or taillight glimmer.

s.d.

Magnanimous Prometheus

The weakest god and strongest man:
Prometheus, his arm in chains,
Is splayed across a rocky hill
Reliving his recurring fears.
The cog in Zeus’s nasty plan:
A monstrous eagle hungrily tears
His sallow shell and fragile will
Until a writhing fool remains.

An awful fate befalls our prey;
His daily anguish makes me weep...
A single tear. Pajamas on:
I contemplate another day,
Ignite the wood stove; then upon
A cozy bed, I drift to sleep.

s.d.





















(Peter Paul Rubens' "Prometheus Bound")

What I Recall of a Message Delivered at 9:52

Tacitus asserts: “Kindness is welcome to the extent it seems the debt can be paid back. When it goes too far gratitude turns into hatred.”

I.

I’m much stronger than my small frame betrays.
Don’t estimate me by the size of my footprints.
My corrugated lips are not yours to kiss.

Forty-eight hours hence, I’m gliding on silently.
Don’t stuff the dumpster I leave behind with moments we never had.
I may be stubborn, but not as thoughts of air when you are drowning.

IV.

I must leave now; I must find home.
I will lose myself in a wilderness of solitude
To find home in the faces of those who care about me.

An unexpected wind pushes me off a soaring skyscraper; I free-fall.
I brace for impact; I land in a net woven of human beings.
There are a few lost teeth, a few broken bones, and I am home.

s.d.

An Antique Sand King

I mocked the words of a wrinkled traveller
Who met Ozymandias, the sand sculptor,
Beside a lone pedestal in the desert:

     “A wreck of a lifeless heart
     Lies sunk in the vast sands.
     Two things fed its shatter’d remains:
     A bare hand and a colossal despair.
     Those stamp’d passions tell that
     Nothing is boundless in its decay!”

A decay whose command is cold and level?
I stretch my lip in a mighty sneer.
Ozymandias, read well the frown on my visage...
My heart is stone and yet I survive.

s.d.
(Note: All of the words in "An Antique Sand King" are recycled from Shelley's famous sonnet "Ozymandias")

Ozymandias (Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Ekphrasis: The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory (Second Iteration)

A (curvilinear) waterline
Disguises the remnants of
A disbanded civilization--
A world that teemed with
Life, progress. Submerged
Below the surface, reversed
Inertia coolly rips apart old
Civil War ammo, the tallest
Building on Wall Street, six
Russian rocket ships and
The Golden Ratio (≈1.618).
In essence, these forms
Acquiesce...Steadfast above
The surface, tranquility
Flatters a barren crag with
Exquisite detail. They fail to
Note the fractured limb, a
Mocking finger, interjects.

s.d.



















(Salvador Dalí's "The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory")

Insolitude

I can sit anywhere,    on a chair.
The squawk of your incessance.
Ears unclogged:
     rivulets
        of cotton.

Today was a two out of ten.    At most--
Among the shards intact: jagged
Capsules of pillowy hope
In bile, swimming    clockwise.

Rapidized pulse, clenchedbreath.
Smothered under a Lincoln Log cabin of
You, until some kid    kicks it in.

If I stand somewhere to think:
Staticky oblivion, just    a headache.
So I intend to retrace, embrace
A quiescent moment,
    I retrace.

This is me.    And until tomorrow,
    anew.

s.d.

From Birute Hill

A lifetime since the widely nights in Vilnius,
Alone today I lean upon your chest cold wave
Your power granted, as aspirations to the heart
Expressed so powerfully, you are My Baltic!

How you have grown longer, infinite and wide!
And as you listen impatiently to mysterious voices
I dream of you alone to receive my earnestness,
Upon each stillness your wave ferociously strikes!

Sadly for me! Have you turned? Why - I do not know;
Alone, would that the storm collapse me more acutely:
Forgetting between your calm and not seeing me,
Yet desiring yourself to the side closer to the Gulf.

I long to be your close friend: I believe in you;
It’s like a tidal storm pain in my soul;
Secretly you betray this dark face
And ever leave, like me, restless.

s.d.

Nuo Birutės Kalno (Maironis)

Išsisupus plačiai vakarų vilnimis,
Man krūtinę užliek savo šalta banga
Ar tą galią suteik, ko ta trokšta širdis,
Taip galingai išreikšt, kaip ir tu, Baltija!

Kaip ilgėjaus tavęs, begaline, plati!
Ir kaip tavo išgirst paslaptingų balsų
Aš geidžiau, tu pati vien suprasti gali,
Nes per amžius plačių nenutildai bangų!

Liūdna man! Gal ir tau? O kodėl - nežinau;
Vien tik vėtrų prašau, kad užkauktų smarkiau:
Užmiršimo ramaus ir tarp jų nematau,
Betgi trokštu sau marių prie šono arčiau.

Trokštu draugo arčiau: juo tikėti galiu;
Jis kaip audrą nujaus mano sielos skausmus;
Paslapties neišduos savo veidu tamsiu
Ir per amžius paliks, kaip ir aš, neramus.

Off Center.

Crushing you cruelly,
the slippery orange sky
blazed ominous friction.

I forsook the superficial
chivalry, the soft hand
kissing that fed you.

Your feelings strewn
as scrap metal pieces,
rusted and misplaced.

I rediscovered an old
friend, found work and
read Joyce’s Ulysses.

Vivid yellow and soft
lavender, both sunset,
still you wrote to me.

Discarding the earnest
letter, envelope intact,
I made a sandwich.

Off Center. s.d.
(Note: The artwork is Mark Rothko's "White Center.")

Grey Evening (twenty minutes of twilight)

We don’t deserve a decaying summer wind
Stroking our respective backsides as we crunch
Across the pockmarked pavement.

We embrace enormous grey sweaters, hoodies
To encase our delicate shells.  We require
Woolen hats and nourishing thoughts or we’ll wither.

And even as we’re sure to find satisfaction of soul,
We remember to look up; we see
     the pale cobwebs of the upper reaches of Sever Hall.
The class is closed but our questions remain.

s.d.

My Patience for Otis Expires Tonight

My Patience for Otis Expires Tonight:

Tomorrow I surrender. Take my sword
and my badge and my cross. Pelt my
withered skin with oblong pebbles
you find scattered all along the
cracked blacktop. Forget all of
the hard times I lent you cash
(but never kept track), heard
you complain about the women
who trampled on your dreams
and showed compassion when
your family dumped you on
the street corner. Since
your rebirth and coming
of age, I see that you
have no need for this
decrepit imposter of
a friend. No longer
will I inhibit you
nor drag you down
in any way. This
is the last day
I will attempt
to care. Upon
the new dawn
breaking, a
silhouette
will veil
my once-
vibrant
flesh.

s.d.
--/
--

(Note: This piece requires Courier or similar font to display properly; it may look strange in some readers.)

A Cereal Sepulchre

This title and image grace the cover of my first poetry collection. All pieces were written and revised during 2009 September - December. I will post the complete work over the next ten days.
s.d.

Dover Thrift Editions

Sometimes my mind is a Rube Goldberg machine. This past weekend I set foot in the bookstore of a reputable university with the honorable intent of purchasing souvenirs. Before I obtained an obligatory rolled t-shirt, my eye caught sight of a table lined with hundreds of plain, thin Dover Thrifts. I gobbled up poetry collections from Eliot, Carroll, Dickinson, Yeats, and Browning, as well as a sliver of African-American poetry and a “Top 101” of American works. This nifty little seven-pack cost me fourteen dollars--before taxes. This taught me two lessons: getting sidetracked can have positive results, but giving up a career to write poetry probably will not.

s.d.