after the droughte of march

last poem

2007-04-30T21:15:00.000-05:00

this bed is too big, I roll
in my sleep seeking warmth,
breathing, these sheets go
to waste - I hear every frog

chirping in the night every
thrushie’s peep the buzz
of the electric fan lulls me
in this silence marked most

by the absence of your breathing
the dull thud of my heart promises
to send up bile, my hands
shake, I reach for you in the night

and find only memory the hairs
on my arm tickle me anew
the sun is bright and the air
is not poison but still I ache for you

Night drips down

2007-04-29T21:14:00.000-05:00

A drop hits my bald head
I reach to feel the wetness of rain on my scalp
no I look at my fingers and they are ink
I move my eyes to the ceiling
blue and white, not gray
but in the very middle
the highest point of sky is a black spot
wet with ink dripping
this night instead of filling the eastern sky
and dropping like a dusky western curtain
is pooling in the middle completely black
the spot grows, the sky soaks in the dark
the whole sky will be taken before long
a new way of becoming night
if I ever forget to thank you
for sending the sun every day
may my life be bothered constantly
by gods that look like humans

Roosters Ocean

2007-04-28T23:36:00.000-05:00

roosters crow, crows caw, macaws screech
screech owls whinny, winnies eat honey
honey is silent but bees hum, hummers roar

roars stifle and stifles bury, berries stain
and stain brings wood to life after its blood
is leached by sun and rain. rain patters

and patters are well fresh and fresh is a feeling
rarely felt these soiled days. days go on and on
suns set and hiss as they hit frothing ocean.

frieda kahlo

2007-04-27T09:36:00.000-05:00

parrot with flames of hair, wings end in hands
his hands are clean in the clear moonlight of the islands

I am not a demon he declares with bloody teeth
trees behind bleed sap and green smells like death

there were many thousands trolling the graves
only he survived the night the earth heaved

whoever can look at him directly will turn
into me, but I will have grown thorns.

2007-04-26T14:35:00.000-05:00

books are for reading the life that you want
into being alone – all the same, intelligent
monkeys can claim to have known the scent

of uprising, obscene and spectacular, burrowing
into the quiet betweens of the heart, narrowing
choices and feeling brows gone to furrowing.

2007-04-25T12:34:00.000-05:00

roosters crow different at noon, bleached
houses glare their white back to over sky
above there is only blue and white, so simple

variations on a line I thief from Øyvind Berg

2007-04-24T11:32:00.000-05:00

the silence rasps
these loons rise up so
thistly, no serious poesy
those lying icy hours pass
the soil once rosy pays.

Can't Done

2007-04-23T20:24:00.000-05:00

Today the rain can’t done – every gut
is spoiled with mud and rocks spilled down the hills
and roads – spewing the island’s blood into
the chalky green harbor – it’s now the drought
decides to end? On Wednesday midnight thousands
plan to take to darkened streets and dance –
For who? For life. No gods that wait to send
their rain and clouds till now get love from us.

Psalm 23

2007-04-22T20:20:00.000-05:00

O horde of lepers: I shall not haunt
curdling pastiches. He lives in the rose, beside hurtful matters he feeds me.
Seething pressures my souls and rides me down white paths toward tame snakes.
Eating so, I balk at the alleys of wealth. He beats me, I hear no revels. You are my guide with your shoddy half of grizzled outrage.
Your head a fable to bore peons; height of woes, you appoint my dread and foil, my cup overthrows.
Overly good, guessing why it’s allowed me all the ways of strife. I call hell the house of the Lord, for the tears that call it home.

Roots

2007-04-21T20:19:00.000-05:00

So what are roots anyway in these days of wireless? Today on the side of the road, shards of mirror lay on the ground by a dumpster, chickens pecking around them uninterested. Every single one reflected back to me something different. I have no native language.

Lizard

2007-04-20T12:24:00.000-05:00

How about dropping into pools, plop
at night swim eat flies or strive then bask
belly tan and cream heaving solid black
eye beading at the sky toothless mouth open.

Palm trees trunks so thin fronds hang
from nothing green black silhouette
bursts of rustling grassy flutter
underlining stillness dusty footsteps

How about the tail flicking where it dropped
tiny eggs in corners, babies if that's the word
hiding behind a painting whose orange sky
reflects burnt earth before thatch huts

how the bomb learned to stop loving us

2007-04-19T18:24:00.000-05:00

The bomb wanted to hold us, but our flesh doesn't keep well touched by tentacles of flame, shrapnel makes the beloved bleed.

The bomb wanted to graze our fluffy hair and gaze longingly at our limbs; we responded by going bald and casting permanent shadows on walls.

The bomb wanted to breathe its promises into our ear, whisper its sheltering words. We died by the score, prostrating ourselves to the metal gods we made.

The bomb worried - our voices crumbled to nothing, our teeth fell softly to the ground.

The bomb stopped trying to love us and tried to love itself.

We had never asked the bomb to love us.

conure emergency

2007-04-18T22:22:00.000-05:00

Outside in the dark there is a conure emergency
Erupting. The parrots shriek and break the quiet,
Nocturnal chirping bugs stop - I hear no flutter
Of wings escaping. A cat perhaps encroaches on nests?
The racket dies. A truck climbs the hill across the valley.

tactile

2007-04-17T22:23:00.000-05:00

I never learnt to embroider or knit
I tie cloths in knots and tie
the knots to each other
I'm making something
to cover the table
I don't know what

2007-04-16T22:23:00.000-05:00

Can flowers dream of

being people who still dream

of being flowers?

An afternoon at the beach

2007-04-15T20:42:00.000-05:00

Everything around me is evaporating
The dazzles on the water this afternoon
Turn into clouds further down
The archipelago – the wind whips around
Umbrellas in frozen drinks, lotion
Glistening on tourist’s bodies and mine
Drips into sand and everything ripens

This Body is so Small

2007-04-14T20:41:00.000-05:00

this body is so small. it doesn’t fill the porch. it doesn’t make sufficient noise to stop wars or make clouds drizzle out. it doesn’t shelter small animals or birds’ nests.

the porch has all this furniture that’s empty. the sun bleaches the chairs and the only other things moving are the potted palm trees and their shadows. and the wind. only ghosts can sit out here when it’s bright.

i tried to make a bigger body, but giant food was abhorrent. vegetables are dead and meat gets sticky. candy was rotting my teeth. water wasn’t enough to giant me and it never turned me into clouds.

i have to learn to be happy here. maybe it’s not so bad – i fit through doors and when I rain, no matter how much my eyes burn or how wet my skin gets, i don’t disappear. i might even grow to like food if i don’t expect so much of it.

the week ends

2007-04-13T19:13:00.000-05:00

Sub base sunset, rastas hold still
for tourists, who start to slink
back to ships, sweaty workers
skulk down dusty paths, done
with their days, traffic heads west
with the sun, away from town,
pastel houses line dusty hills.
people exhale and are quiet,
respite is in the very air

Paper wasps and birds

2007-04-12T11:52:00.000-05:00

another sudoku poem

brass wasps madden my space, each one flips
it gold ringed map about to make its crispy paper

a purple bird hurtles through new camps of the absurd
raspy breezes sound like papers clacking like shackles

it's safer to see the pulp bared in supple shadows
made by moons or brass lamps, avoid the gasps

I flop down and clasp my shadow, a bird limps
and chirps, drags cool white paper that bears the image

or glimpse of brass men shaded by paper and loss
they flop down bored and ride turtles, poor birds

above vapor into moons breaking up over hot meadows
whose bugs whisper about clamps to bind the moon

later so it can pour its supple cusp into heaps
they've heard the bad or swollen speak, popped

mostly words that flop about pasted down to moody
shadow people, glints of brass better cleansed

if the purple bird brings in its mouth another flapping
bird that's made of hissing paper bones and heat.

ars poetica

2007-04-11T21:57:00.000-05:00

Being the first speaker of a new language
is sort of like being the last speaker
of a language that plans to die with you.

Actually there is no difference.

2007-04-10T14:07:00.000-05:00

who gave the stars the right to break my windows?

Oyvind Berg

2007-04-09T14:07:00.000-05:00

Pens express, squeeze out lines and create with tinges of ink
while I say all through cringing the streets with my eyes
filled with yes - this lit understanding I see on pages from Norway
differently burns out my nose. By pressing I express and depress

the destruction of structure that calls for instructing constriction.
I get what reading is for but writing is to forget the winter's snows
I didn't recognize sitting in my rain barrels, wet as Easter. It's time
to list what ails and drop it in a brook, since wings are not ours to give.

Once in a lifetime

2007-04-08T14:07:00.000-05:00

I sharked into Troy, recalling kings
Who used to run their fingers through my beards:
I was Greek that day, my polished rings

Held diamonds and souls, I was feared
But only if crossed. This was before
The Troubles and Helen, there were deer

Dashing through gardens and the golden shore
Found me oiled and waiting for princes
To notice my charms. Like Hector, the poor

Darling should have come with me - the hints
Had begun, the rust colored clouds were gathering
In sky that hasn't been as gin clear since.

Emancipation Garden

2007-04-07T23:43:00.000-05:00

I puzzle at the bust of King Christian IX
with its Danish inscriptions, a language whose
ghosts haunt our streets: Kongens Gade,
Wimmelskaftet, Fort Pladsen.

But if this is Emancipation Garden, where
is Von Scholten? What plaque bears his words
we all learned in school:
"All unfree in the Danish West Indies are, from today, free."

No flourishing rhetoric, no long-winded speeches,
no qualifications:
"All unfree in the Danish West Indies are, from today, free."
And where is Buddhoe Gottlieb who guided the slaves

in their petition for their emancipation, whose
name means "god's love"? And the Moravians, who taught
the slave children to read because at least the Danes
lacked the hypocrisy to ban such a thing?

Instead we get Christian IX, who became king
after all this, if my rusty Danish is right, whose son
accidentally burned down the building across the street
when a Christmas party got too raucous.

They've never rebuilt the third floor. No one knows why.

Burning Bush

2007-04-06T22:21:00.000-05:00

blazing bougainvillea, the purple
burns my heart I cough ash
dust brown as the hills dry
to bone - amazed how fires leap
from petals through eyes and yet smell sweet
I am bewildered in all ways

Tiara

2007-04-05T10:19:00.000-05:00

I pushed the thumbtacks
in over the stove and
dried daisies with some
tarragon and rosemary
from the Leland Street
Community Garden and
tried not to think about
how the wall felt as I
anointed myself with
honey from Mike up the
street’s hives and
made a tiara from my
herbal gleanings.
Madness ensued quietly
in my apartment for
several hours. Even after
I had showered and gone
back to normal, I still
imagined my tiara’s leaves
and petals sticking
to my hair and walked
accordingly. The air itself
was splendid and regal.
I noticed that people
didn't mind me acting
crazy so much as effeminate.

Soonet to and from Pessoa

2007-04-04T10:23:00.000-05:00

yes, I mean soonet

the blue white winking lightning bugs pretend
around the country in a huge display
of boredom. painted men don’t know the way
the beauty of a naked body sends
the one who wears too many clothes a world
of black electric remnants. fog and smoke
make descendants eschew the warmth of teak
but ancient temples too were brightly colored

as ruined as a bunch of crumbling heaps
that people love to think were always white
some countries base their art on this idea
but all forget that there will be no seer
to shame the filthy socks about the street
and pass its judgment on bugs or the cheap

calypso poem

2007-04-03T10:23:00.000-05:00

rain drop from blue sky

gull fly the clear overhead

it seem unfair

they know how big is the sky?

don't envy bird

they could only be where they is

the age of aquarius

2007-04-02T23:03:00.000-05:00

after the 5th dimension and krs-one

in the name
of water
bearers and
moving suns
im only asking you to listen to me.
i sent someone ahead to tell you
i was coming. the moon has hushed
in and out of six houses. zeus & ares
have mashed their planets together. my first concern
is for you to hear the news about this
crazy new way to live that is sweeping the globe
clean of cobwebs & dust & other stuff that makes
it look old.
i don't know
whos behind
the wheels of
all the other planets, but im guessing
it may be amor and it looks like shes
aiming for the stars. her money stands
under sympathetic gazes and trust in
boundaries. the world is ending - just
kidding, but something is definitely ending
every minute. no more lies & stop making
fun of people. live in gold and try to see
more clearly
in your dreams.
mystics with
crystals can't
reveal more than a regular glass
window - just look. im tired
of telling people what to do,
i don't want to keep paying people
for their minds, they should be free.
astrology won't hurt you - when
did stars hurt anybody? when
the sun rose this morning it was bearing water.
i was born
back when they
were handing
out fish like
crazy. you dont
have to believe me, but some guy advertised
an all-you-can-eat sale of sardines & matzohs.
they were stale, but that was besides the point.
the point was that it was going to be lots of
sardines, two each, a thousand years for
each one. but were out of sardines now.
the whole world. well not really,
but its all a symbol. the suns been acting
funny, more
watery
shimmering
like some dress.
i heard a rumor about the fish
& matzohs guy - he wasnt a guy
at all - he was the sun. his tags went up
all over the place with instructions, but they got
burnt out (he was the sun). he also built
this wooden structure with all the zodiac signs
on it & himself in the middle. it had four
branches, one for each season. but somebody
wrote a bunch
of guys names
over the
zodiac
signs. then somebody broke it into four pieces
& said they were the sun gods spells.
but everyone knows theres no sun god - as if the sun wouldnt be
enough! but yeah, the sun doesnt hand out fish
any more - its turning into a shimmery gown-wearing
lady. shes gonna scrub away the last
of the graffiti she left last time. instead of leaving
more, shes just gonna keep watering the world.
people know it
& it freaks
some of them
the fuck out.

shower curtain

2007-04-01T18:48:00.000-05:00

a bad start - be dust rot - ebbed ester tee - beds to rat - i bid sit irit - by does tar tea - bod sot rot - i bade stars out - buds t rut?

flowers and plastic leaves
fill our snow dapples to calves
suspended in wet vinylscape
so, so pined on tv nails cup

whan that april with his showres soote
why not hate pearl? we thaw, hiss how ires set
the droughte of march hath perced to the roote
to head rough toffee, i'm rich he thwapped rice dot there tea

religion poisons everything
or algae naps on severe writhing