Don't forget them.
You can't forget them. They
are like a like the first balloon, inflating. They
are sudden like a flying fish. They are friendly.
Always moving about.
Don't forget them. Feel them
feeling the earth grind their skin.
Go into the ground, go out. What
will you come to? But don't forget them, for they
are awake in no time
and they busy themselves inside, their loving fulfilled,
eternal; they will live through it.
Don't forget them.
They never forget to jot down
the lively music playing. To write, to hear
other sounds--they starve in a symphony.
Don't forget them. Keep your distance, for they
are feeding forever, and there's still more to go,
As in a long run, when a thousand
begin the last stretch. Who is the runner
And what is the challenge,
unless it be the day's empty canvas stretching out
Over the dearth of indifference.
Who gives me a bad name
Causing former friends to shrink; new foes
to light up like Christmas--suspected, unknown,
leaving jettrails of ill-favor, but
no sure destination -- let him choose
that name too lowly or too high, a tarnish
fast-passing into unbelievability--oh,
go for broke, accuse me --
I'm a stingy miser, a profligate drunk
A puller of others' posies, tormenter of dogs.
Have no sense of middle ground when you accuse me; be
a wild-eyed prophet when you level your finger;
and so miss the names of crimes too much my own.
The small erudite face of
a morning roadkill, the cartoon raccoon
face upwards on the road
as if to trace the shapes of cloads, the delicate paws,
fingerlike, each claw separated, on display
to passengers at the intersection,
looking through the thick glass--they crowd to see
those eyes at last, not reflected in flashlight,
but softened, still; Hair sticky with blood
on the pavement, each filligreed, bright tooth, in the
open jaw, more sharply drawn than ever in life,
life, which would never let us see so much.
We went north; you grew more ugly,
A mermaid lumpen with tangled hair.
Too heavy, your hips slid outward,
Your eyes growing lamplike, large,
And your fingers lengthier, grasping.
Your laugh became a thick gruel.
That washed over you nightly.
Unhinged, it clung to you like a robe
When we left you at the river basin,
Floating on a water-slimed log,
Your hair eddying eel-like in
shallow currents, your strange chuckling
moving in with the tide.
Reach over to feel the back of the green signs directing
The traffic below onto 395 and points Southward and out
Of the city. The buildings here channel to wind to a sharp
Slice; birds flying above hover like fish in a current.
Below, we act out the mime; The cars are caught up in a bottleneck.
The birds get nowhere. They’re headed the wrong way.
The poems for today, yesterday, and Saturday are all on a disk in my bag. Unfortunately, I don't have the floppy drive in my laptop right now. So you will have to wait until somewhat later in the day for poemy goodness. Alack, Alack.