Wednesday, August 04, 2004

Something Herbert Said
For Chris Rizzo

The lady in figures
Bright yellow and
Orange language
To grab a touch a
Velocity of speech
The water as it
Exits the well

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

Everyone Should Sing Right Now

Took the whole day off to
muzzle the possible

to react insensible but
by direction, see?

There was an insecurity to waking
another to staying awake that

no longer mattered
when the big guns came to town.

You can rip a new asshole
for anyone these days,

it's the climb back up that
really hurts the soul. I've tried this

in practice, but have always taken them
out by the knees, delighted in the

tin momentum that
glides by on packs of dried ice,

refused to talk in circles when
a triangle would do.

Monday, August 02, 2004

This year's Boston Poetry Massacre was, to my ears and eyes, the best yet. Behrle hates being thanked, but what an amazing job. The poets were consistently great, warm, serious, funny, inventive. Too many highlights to write about now, but I WILL get to it. I dedicate the poem below, written on Saturday and read on Sunday, to all who attended and read.

They See Open Churches But
Find Closed Doors

Clouds move them
to place ads and
find lost ones

never known. See the
open churches and
continuous random liquids

that make you think 'brother'
when butcher or
car salesman would do.

They see open churches, but
constantly claw
at closed doors

stillness of an
elevated fatigue
the dry run

that leaves fingers
gasping at tools
with no uses.

Far past use comes
care then
a moment of commitment

a precious second when
to run would save being
seen in the company

of dog handlers and
bridge operators.
Look into the glass you've stained and

feast your fading blue eyes
on the future of
the late deal.

They see closed doors
where a fine church
should open

resplendent and moving
a touch isolated but
a high-rise to nature.

Men bring the church
cherries, women bring it
bread, or better.

All bring the
golden livers of
deflated ideas.

The self-sufficiency of
the early founders
was a ruse

a famous but
now disclosed ruse they
can learn nothing from

if they can't bring it to
scrutiny under
the roof they've built.

The wet loam that
made it to their
tables, the earth that

filled each room,
all of it wasting inside

Today they see nothing
but open churches where

some see granite poems
that deflect warheads
like bb shot.

They want in so bad
but someone has taken the
flannel key from

the dying man;
The children are busy
mocking the elders

from safe havens they've built
cardboard and twine.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?