I could lament about Shakespeare or Donne,
Dickinson or Hopkins, or Frost but I will cry
for Tony, Donald, and James.
Who opened and closed worlds
to me.
Who dreamed my dreams
and entered and exited nightmares.
Who made me stop.
And made me go.
Who swim in the ocean of my brain.
Who, without their knowledge,
unlocked, unzipped, and unraveled me and
Jesus became someone I could sit with
and cry with, for a moment
then he would take his molten hot finger
and plunge it into my body
and open all my wounds;
even healing some of them.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Thursday, November 15, 2018
Observing the Inside of James Tate's House While Delivering Him Meals on Wheels
I had already been to houses--
front doors like air-locks releasing strange
smells and stories seeping
into the atmosphere and into my blood stream.
Volunteering can be tiring
and then I got the call
to deliver a meal to James Tate.
This was before he died.
He's never been a celebrity to me
reading his quiet words in some dark corner
of my apartment or out loud to my family
around our sparsely crammed dinner table
or standing up late at night in my underwear
in my favorite place next to the book shelf
taking in his stories.
When I read How to Be a Member
God pierced me with a sword
and began to dismantle my need
to belong to this world
and my tears were hot and violent and sad.
The directions said the door would be open
to enter his house and leave the meal
on his counter.
I saw fields and skyscrapers of books.
It was a large medieval village on his desk
the books leaning into one another; a crowded
imagination.
I tip toed to his kitchen counter
and I wanted to whisper out, James.
But the words would not come.
I closed the door behind me
and left him, with a sandwich and some chips--
his buzzing thoughts.
This is based on a real life event. I volunteered for Amherst Community Center's Meal on Wheels program back in 2011. It was one of the more surreal experiences of my life!
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
Why We Need Bad Words
Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the embers
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to smolder.
4th draft written on 2/17/19
Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.
3rd Draft written on 10/23/18.
Why We Need Bad Words
Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was a safety glass
to a prisoner talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
him from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
In a cacophony of shrapnel words
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.
2nd draft written on 10/16/18. Originally written on...
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the embers
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to smolder.
4th draft written on 2/17/19
Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was safety glass
Prisoners talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
them from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
Shrapnel word cacophony
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.
3rd Draft written on 10/23/18.
Why We Need Bad Words
Barn talk, is what my sister called it.
It acted as a cocoon, where our words
would come out with the hope
of growing up someday,
but they laid nearly inert inside
the chrysalis of hay inside the barn.
The barn, to us, was a safety glass
to a prisoner talking through the hard
plastic wired phone piece to protect
him from visitors, visitors being
our parents.
In a cacophony of shrapnel words
spewed from my soda-pop mouth
fireworks being released and splayed
out momentarily, I thought
they would dissipate or change:
fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn.
We cursed so much
it didn't even make sense.
My sister and I talk on a phone now
and our words sound different,
grace, hope, faith, love,
but singed with the memories
of fuck, shit, damn, piss, damn
eloi eloi lama sabachthani
where there was no roof
or shelter or clothing or friend
just those words strung out in the air
left to linger.
2nd draft written on 10/16/18. Originally written on...
Lessons from my Father
The long silence
of a hanging phone.
His head
the long shut down
silence of the industrial
building casting long
silent shadows
onto the patient earth
who will be there in sunlight
and darkness
long after his voice
is gone,
like it is now,
breathless
perhaps or out
of breath
from his steam
engine heart,
the coal being
shoveled fast, reaching
the abandoned bridge
it will be a swift decent
which was the engine's
plan from the beginning.
Still. I want.
Him. Say.
Something.
of a hanging phone.
His head
the long shut down
silence of the industrial
building casting long
silent shadows
onto the patient earth
who will be there in sunlight
and darkness
long after his voice
is gone,
like it is now,
breathless
perhaps or out
of breath
from his steam
engine heart,
the coal being
shoveled fast, reaching
the abandoned bridge
it will be a swift decent
which was the engine's
plan from the beginning.
Still. I want.
Him. Say.
Something.
A Change in Chaos
The sound of a vacant baseball diamond
and bleachers that have been emptied out
is not the cavernous sound of desolate city,
but more like a farm without animals
and no chores to be done. The quiet barn.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white chalk lines
of perfect angles and perfect geometry
I see a vine that fights and twists against gravity
it claws its way up a tree to follow the sun.
This is (the above poem) the third draft of this poem.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white painted line
all at right angles and perfect arcs,
I see a vine that fights gravity
and follows the sun.
Originally drafted on 12/24/2015 with moderate edits made here particularly in the second and third stanzas.
and bleachers that have been emptied out
is not the cavernous sound of desolate city,
but more like a farm without animals
and no chores to be done. The quiet barn.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white chalk lines
of perfect angles and perfect geometry
I see a vine that fights and twists against gravity
it claws its way up a tree to follow the sun.
This is (the above poem) the third draft of this poem.
Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.
In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--
that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.
Beyond the white painted line
all at right angles and perfect arcs,
I see a vine that fights gravity
and follows the sun.
Originally drafted on 12/24/2015 with moderate edits made here particularly in the second and third stanzas.
Monday, October 15, 2018
I Should Go To Bed But Can't Seem To Stop
My dog's eyes are two black, sad caverns
longing for my touch.
Late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore the field of fur on her back
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
Late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore the field of fur on her back
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
far below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth;
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
where we could feel the earth;
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
of my weight as I make to leave
for bed-- she begins her low whimper,
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
This is the fifth draft, posted above.
My dog's eyes two sad caverns
longing for my touch
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once crawled
through the hay field staying
far below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift
of my weight as I make to leave
for bed-- she begins her low whimper,
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go to bed
would be a kind of death.
This is the fourth draft (posted above), tweaked on July 31, 2019. Only minor changes, but I think somewhat significant,
My dog's eyes two sad caverns
longing for my touch
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die.
My fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once crawled
through our hay field
staying far below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
My dog feels the subtle shift of my weight
as I make to leave for bed
she begins the low whimper,
nuzzles deeper into my lap.
And I stay. For to go
to bed would be a kind of death.
3rd Draft (written on Tuesday October 23, 2018). Originally drafted on June 10, 2018 and redrafted on Monday October 15th (see below). Major edits made from the 2nd to 3rd draft including stanza changes and removals and word changes throughout.
I Keep Petting My Dog Sport Knowing I Should Go to Bed But Can't Seem To Stop For Some Reason I Know Goes Beyond this Earth
We are like tenants that want to be owners.
The vapor of life can sting
or boar a hole through.
A wooded night with no fire
embedded in the rural stone house
in Rhode Island where things went to die
in the cadaver pond I would later examine;
my dog's eyes (Sport) two sad caverns
longing for my touch
late into the darkness I linger
knowing she will someday die
as my fingers explore her fur-field
the way my brother and I once
crawled through our hay field
staying just below the line of sight
where we could feel the earth,
my fingers slowly rushing through.
Arthur Jones, the exercise equipment inventor,
longed to discuss truth but realized
having a meaningful conversation
is the pinnacle of impossibilities.
There is a barrier of pain
that punctuates all relations.
Speaking to her.
Wanting to giver her good news
that comes from God's
very own mouth.
2nd Draft. Originally drafted on June 10, 2018 with some major edits including the addition of most of the second stanza.
Dirt, Worship, Plague, Far
The incessant plague sound of the power
washer: combustion felt reverberating
from my heart, travelling down the road
of my arms into the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
A deer, its whisper feet passed
poundless through the cacophony
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed.
I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord.
The people far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail.
But the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and simple breathing of the cut air,
a near perfect worship; she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: 3rd draft written on October 23, 2018. Originally written on June 17, 2018. 2nd draft written on October 15, 2018. With major changes made to the first stanza and minor changes made to spacing and layout.
The incessant plague sound
of combustion felt reverberating
from the heart to the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
Thus went the cacophony as a deer,
its whisper feet passed poundless through
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed
and I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord
and the people
far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail
but the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and breathing, a near perfect worship;
she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: Originally published on 6/17/18 with only minor edits made here.
washer: combustion felt reverberating
from my heart, travelling down the road
of my arms into the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
A deer, its whisper feet passed
poundless through the cacophony
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed.
I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord.
The people far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail.
But the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and simple breathing of the cut air,
a near perfect worship; she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: 3rd draft written on October 23, 2018. Originally written on June 17, 2018. 2nd draft written on October 15, 2018. With major changes made to the first stanza and minor changes made to spacing and layout.
The incessant plague sound
of combustion felt reverberating
from the heart to the radius and ulna,
to pisiform, triquetrum, lunate, and scaphoid,
to hamate, capitate, trapezoid,
trapezium, and then on through and on
this violence passed through from generation
to generation.
Thus went the cacophony as a deer,
its whisper feet passed poundless through
and I, this collection of violence
and nuance went unnoticed
and I felt the engine die
and the engine died
of its own accord
and the people
far away
did not care I had been power-
washing the paths and walkways
and tying to make new the through-ways
or how much the muscles encased
in my forearms hurt
and my fingers were beginning to fail
but the deer engaged in worship
with simple eating of the cut grass
and breathing, a near perfect worship;
she did not notice
the people I incessantly notice
carrying their weight even
as I clean the dirt of through-ways
blasting it away to somewhere else
but it never leaves.
If only someone could make it go away
and let the deer wonder.
Note: Originally published on 6/17/18 with only minor edits made here.
A Man
A boy in the gloaming.
A man is a gadfly gathering,
always gathering.
A boy wanders the night paths
amidst the shadow of trees
and star-branches.
A man sits pondering
always pondering.
A boy subdues a forest
passing through its tunnels
and mud pits
skimming and plumbing
a creek's mysteries.
A man is left with nothing
always nothing.
This poem was originally drafted on 6/24/18 and presented here, nearly unedited.
A man is a gadfly gathering,
always gathering.
A boy wanders the night paths
amidst the shadow of trees
and star-branches.
A man sits pondering
always pondering.
A boy subdues a forest
passing through its tunnels
and mud pits
skimming and plumbing
a creek's mysteries.
A man is left with nothing
always nothing.
This poem was originally drafted on 6/24/18 and presented here, nearly unedited.
"Jesus's death was both the saddest thing and happiest thing that happened."
Sixteen thousand nine hundred
distinct people groups.
Topsy-turvy
winged-fury
hurry furry
furry hurry
burr and burred
scarred and blurred
bleary cheery cherry
scary.
A whole galaxy in a drop
of water one thing brings life
another destroys
Vishnu and Jesus
Oppenheimer and Churchill
Weston and Ransom
Bultitude and Scar.
My daughter feels bad
squishing ants.
distinct people groups.
Topsy-turvy
winged-fury
hurry furry
furry hurry
burr and burred
scarred and blurred
bleary cheery cherry
scary.
A whole galaxy in a drop
of water one thing brings life
another destroys
Vishnu and Jesus
Oppenheimer and Churchill
Weston and Ransom
Bultitude and Scar.
My daughter feels bad
squishing ants.
The Idleness of Idols
What do we praise?
A man bashing his body against
another man's body
and if bones are broken
we first cheer?
Or a man who pretends for years
to be many others?
Or the CEOs who abuse, oppress,
and profit, whose children are chaff and fodder
and hindrances?
The idleness of idols
do not move us
or perhaps move us towards
self-destruction.
Originally drafted on July 15, 2018, with only minor edits here.
A man bashing his body against
another man's body
and if bones are broken
we first cheer?
Or a man who pretends for years
to be many others?
Or the CEOs who abuse, oppress,
and profit, whose children are chaff and fodder
and hindrances?
The idleness of idols
do not move us
or perhaps move us towards
self-destruction.
Originally drafted on July 15, 2018, with only minor edits here.
Friday, October 12, 2018
Jesus Is
Food-eater
Humanity-dweller
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Heart-hardener
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Kingdom-bringer
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Spirit-sender
Sky-ascender
Church-founder
Death-destroyer
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-breaker
Blow-taker
Sin-absorber
Death-diver
Wrath-taker
Empty-outer
Filler-upper
The above is the third draft of this poem.
Jesus Is
Meal-eater
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Death diver
Wrath-taker
Kingdom-bringer
Sin-absorber
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Church founder
Death-destroyer
Blow-taker
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-hardener
Flesh-taker
Emptier.
Filler.
Originally drafter in my journal on 10/7/18.
Humanity-dweller
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Heart-hardener
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Kingdom-bringer
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Spirit-sender
Sky-ascender
Church-founder
Death-destroyer
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-breaker
Blow-taker
Sin-absorber
Death-diver
Wrath-taker
Empty-outer
Filler-upper
The above is the third draft of this poem.
Jesus Is
Meal-eater
Breakfast-preparer
Vinegar-taster
Meal-multiplier
Tear-dripper
Water-walker
Friend-befriender
Storm-be-stiller
Death diver
Wrath-taker
Kingdom-bringer
Sin-absorber
Bread-of-lifer
New covenant-establisher
Church founder
Death-destroyer
Blow-taker
Enemy-maker
Friend-creator
Stranger-welcomer
Enemy-turn-awayer
Life-giver
Life-taker
Blood-shedder
Ear-opener
Ear-closer
Heat-opener
Heart-hardener
Flesh-taker
Emptier.
Filler.
Originally drafter in my journal on 10/7/18.
Friday, October 5, 2018
A Prayer to Receive God’s Word Before Reading Jeremiah 31
Ears plugged with wax and dirt,
An immobile heart rusted in stone.
Eyes willingly closed, binded, inert,
No desire deep down to the bone.
Melt me, shape me,
mold me, create me.
Drench me with a longing thirst,
For you my cup, cool running river.
Unbind these cursed, parch-sealed lips.
May I drink deeply from the giver.
Open me up to let you in,
cut me with your two edged sword.
Your words and tongue pierce the skin.
I am healed by your Word.
Originally written and posted on October 3, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2018
Senior Year Modern Dance Final
This is an untitled poem I wrote for my final exam for Modern Dance II class with Tina Wentzel my senior year at Colby College on May 5, 2005 (I found it on a crumpled up sheet of notebook paper). I spent a couple of months choreographing a dance piece which I would perform. But the night before the day I was to present the piece I realized that it was not the right piece... so I scrapped it and started over. 12 hours or so or later I had a dance and a poem. It's a "one shot" poem in that I wrote it in one sitting with no edits... I may edit this later on, but I think it's important to record the original here:
I feel extremely perishable today
Quite destructive
The self has to walk
the dog, change the diaper,
take the exam.
The eyes of fishhooks
in my skin and all the social
fisherman crank on my epidermis--
reel me up real tight
so I won't get away
so the tissue starts leaving the bone
like cotton candy.
Quite unadhesive.
The self has to write
the essay, do the practice, wash
the dishes, wash the hair, nail
the nail, trim the toes.
I have no boundaries now.
Bones. A maxilla, a mandible,
two femurs. But I must go.
I must function. No time for holding
I must brush the teeth
sleep the sleep
pray the prayer
eat the food on the table
sit in the chair one hour and 30 minutes
and erase and edit and run and smile
and eat and love and cry and
flick and kneel and pick and stoop
and stand and kick and click and pat and crack--
I feel extremely perishable today
Quite destructive
The self has to walk
the dog, change the diaper,
take the exam.
The eyes of fishhooks
in my skin and all the social
fisherman crank on my epidermis--
reel me up real tight
so I won't get away
so the tissue starts leaving the bone
like cotton candy.
Quite unadhesive.
The self has to write
the essay, do the practice, wash
the dishes, wash the hair, nail
the nail, trim the toes.
I have no boundaries now.
Bones. A maxilla, a mandible,
two femurs. But I must go.
I must function. No time for holding
I must brush the teeth
sleep the sleep
pray the prayer
eat the food on the table
sit in the chair one hour and 30 minutes
and erase and edit and run and smile
and eat and love and cry and
flick and kneel and pick and stoop
and stand and kick and click and pat and crack--
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
To Give an Ear
To Give An Ear
For Firefighter/EMT-Basic Instructor Trevor Frodge, who taught on handling psychiatric emergencies
For Firefighter/EMT-Basic Instructor Trevor Frodge, who taught on handling psychiatric emergencies
It's midnight or 1 AM or some time
after he has been bending over backwards
with his gear and the smoke and the blood
and the unfortunate calls and a child died
and then there's this person
with no blood or brains or bullets or fire--
he sits his heavy, saturated brain
aside with all its baggage and takes in the present
after he has been bending over backwards
with his gear and the smoke and the blood
and the unfortunate calls and a child died
and then there's this person
with no blood or brains or bullets or fire--
he sits his heavy, saturated brain
aside with all its baggage and takes in the present
person right in front of his
nose
like hoisting the anvil-mind
out above the ground and this situation
to see the world’s map:
its quilted fields and blankets
of forests
and mountains and sprawled cities
and this one person--
this person who’s mind has been
taken over
by something else: a disease, a thought, an
emotion
or it’s just him or her and
nobody wants them anymore
like the man with legion left to
the tombs and the caves
and the emptiness and the pigs and the chains.
But these things on the side of his
head
these solitary ears--
the listening and the words pour in like a cool
drink
in the heat and desert of this
one’s life.
The above is the 4th or 5th draft of this poem.
To Give An Ear
Firefighter/EMT-Basic instructor Trevor Frodge teaches on Pyschiatric Emergencies
It's midnight or 1AM or some time
after you have been bending over backwards
with your gear and the smoke and the blood
and the unfortunate calls and a child died
and then there's this person
with no blood or brains or bullets or fire--
To sit your heavy brain aside with all its baggage
after you have been bending over backwards
with your gear and the smoke and the blood
and the unfortunate calls and a child died
and then there's this person
with no blood or brains or bullets or fire--
To sit your heavy brain aside with all its baggage
And to take in the present
Person right in front of your
nose
Is like hoisting the anvil-mind
out above the ground and this situation
To see the world’s map:
Its quilted fields and blankets
of forests
And mountains and sprawled cities
and this one person--
This person who’s mind has been
taken over
By something else: a disease, a thought, an
emotion
Or it’s just him or her and
nobody wants them anymore
Like the man with legion left to
the tombs and the caves
And the emptiness and the pigs.
But these things on the side of my
head
These solitary ears--
Words pouring in like a cool
drink
In the heat and desert of this
one’s life.
First
draft originally penned in December 2017 with various changes made here (March 2018). To see previous drafts and
the original draft, see below.
To Give An Ear
Firefighter/EMT-Basic instructor Trevor Frodge teaches on Pyschiatric Emergencies
To sit your heavy brain aside
with all its baggage
And to take in the present
Person right in front of your
nose
Is like taking the anvil mind
And hoisting it out above the ground
To see the world’s map:
Its quilted fields and blankets
of forests
And mountains and the cities
sprawled out
and this one person--
This person who’s mind has been
taken over
By something else. A disease or a thought or an
emotion
Or it’s just him or her and
nobody wants them anymore
Like the man with legion left to
the tombs and the caves
And the emptiness and the pigs.
But this thing on the side of my
head
This solitary ear
Words pouring in like a cool
drink
In the heat and desert of this
one’s life.
First draft originally penned in December 2017 with only minor grammatical changes and major enjambment and line spacing changes made here (January 2017). To see the original draft, see below.
To Give An Ear
EMT instructor Trevor Frodge teaches on Pyschiatric Emergencies
To sit your heavy brain aside
with all its baggage
And to take in the present
Person right in front of your
nose
Is like taking the anvil mind
And hoisting it out above the ground
To see the world’s map:
Its quilted fields and blankets
of forests
And mountains and the cities
sprawled out and this one person.
This person who’s mind has been
taken over
By something else a disease or a thought or an
emotion
Or it’s just him or her and
nobody wants them anymore
Like the man with legion left to
the tombs and the caves
And the emptiness and the pigs.
But this thing on the side of my
head
This solitary ear
Words pouring in like a cool
drink
In the heat and desert of this
one’s life.
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