The Brooklyn Rail

The stone served us well

The stone served
Us well when we
Were young in a
World ruled 
By fear, as we grew
Older the bow and
Arrow aided the
Search for peace 

today we
Emerge fearless,
We own the earth
And bravely
Decimate our
Fellow creatures

Not one square 
Inch of land
Is spared —

Press your lips
To stone

Oct 29, 2023

PICK

Pick silence
From the floor
Move it
To another room
Praise violence
Ever in motion
Far from us
Yet near to heart
Pray for violence
Of dying stars
Spinning
Until we die
Make circles
In your brain
Clown-like
Born to perform
Enter the ring
At any time, bring 
Money, bathe in
Stored wealth
Place quasars
In the dining room
On your way
To the redwood deck
Brew caffeine
While playing
Haydn’s cello
Music, listen!
Celebrate power
Of a black hole in
Your frantic search
To out-maneuver pain
You will be less
Than the whisper
Of a sub-atomic
Dream
Meditate a breeze
In frigid winter air
As star systems
Collapse
Pick yourself up
And be one sound
On the death bed
Of the silent earth

February 10, 2024

FOR THE BARBARIANS

When you say good morning 
You actually mean
Leave it alone 
When you come in through the back door 
You really meant to have made your way 
Through the front entrance 
So simple 
And direct 
To make use
Of these misunderstandings 
That allow us to breathe 
Like any other beast 
When you say dog 
You mean a man 
When you say pig 
You have all these images 
Of mud and murder
I mean, I was standing 
Here in the doorway 
Listening 
Observing 
Most likely making 
A nuisance of myself 
Wishing I could direct traffic 
Or simply lie down in darkness 
Before the swan 

When you say good morning 
You might mean 
Thank God I’m still 
Alive even in this 
Junkyard, thank the Lord 
For the confusion 
And lack of respect 
For researchers 
In the stacks 
Of major university libraries 
You know they must be insane 
Looking into the business 
Of darkness and shadow 
Hoping to find 
Traces of intelligent life 
In all the crap 
You’re too young to remember 
When people walked around 
With stack of books 
Or even one slim
Volume like on the road
Or the catcher in the rye 
Or the red badge of courage or the sun 
also rises or the heart is a lonely hunter 
Now they have manuals 
On Information flow 
And laying siege 
To the World Wide Web 
All I wanted was to say 
Good morning 
And step into the streets 
After a heavy downpour 
It’s Broadway and Columbus 
people are reading 
The bulldog edition 
Of the newspaper, blowing smoke into the sky
Some of the old bulldogs 
Are still alive 
And one or two veterans 
Of the Spanish Civil War 
Nothing counts 
Like nothing , when you say hello
I think of all the other 
Voices 
Those yet to be born 
And in my head 
I make young poets 
Come to life 
In a new age 
truly young 
Acne faced 
Arriving in town 
With backpacks 
No visible means 
Of support 
I guess I’d call them 
Earth children 
I think of them as
Humanitarian criminals 
My young poets 
Erupting 
From under freeway
viaduct 
They are never homeless 
They never go hungry 
They are too smart 
Fired up 
Thinking of words 
As floral wreaths
Yeah 

When you say good morning 
Think of these beings 
As latter day 
Flower children 
Who ride on the backs
Of elk 
Say good morning
As the roof falls in
And words splinter
And the forest disappears
And the humans spirit
Spits nails
Against an aluminum wall
Say good night
To the boys and girls
Huddled together
On a rainy night
Under flimsy shelter
Translating poetry
Into raw sound
And rhythm
Into never ending whirlwind
In need of no redemption
wholly taken
By solitude
And the rebirth
Of our original prayer
Tossed like stones
Across the rapids
Of a river
Leading to the pale
Silence
Of moon
And sun that called us
In the dawn
Of an ever-renewing
Sign

15 feb 2024