the sieve and the sand

Thoughts are so very different
they have no boundaries, need
no explaining; they are words
and pictures but totally unlike
either
A picture still needs words to
animate it
Words are still needed to
describe a picture but a thought
has use for both, but is never
dependent on either
A thought is already alive where
commentary is cumbersome, it is
the wordless movie we have seen
so many times, we already know
the score
And expending one-millionth of
the time to think then the time to
explain—and even when we do
explain, the colors aren’t vivid
enough, the expressions aren’t
genuine enough, not quite how
we’d like them, the proportions
are off.

As she stands in the entrance
of the sanctuary, every sense
taking in the chatter, the perfume,
the palette, the cool air on her
bare forearms, the acrid residue
of a breathmint and still cannot
ascertain the beauty which is not
sight, and the voice which is
not words, which he says
to her

Enjoy, my daughter! Look
what I have done.

A teenage couple rendezvous in the park to unleash their newfound passions.
His scrawny arms grotesquely embrace the body she’s still growing into;
plump legs and small chest; not quite the ideal woman yet.

But he doesn’t know that.

Those lanky limbs that can hardly lift a backpack tell her he’ll never let go!
His hands grasp her hips and a coolness rushes from his fingertips
to his chest and he thinks this must be love.

But it’s hormones.

Oh, but he’ll tell her it’s love anyway! And she’ll believe him.
‘Cause right now they’ve got the fever.
And he’s whispering promises that he has no way of keeping,
but he makes them anyway.
His attention is caught up in what he says are her beautiful eyes,
but he’s never examined at any others
so how would he know what’s he’s comparing them to?

And she’ll say she’s hot when she’s cold,
so she can show a few extra inches of her shoulder.
And she’ll say she’s cold when she’s hot,
so he can dangle those bony arms around her.

And won’t it be grand, this life together?
But they don’t know what that means.
They don’t know what a three week’s anniversary means.
And they’ll run through seven more, twenty-three more,
forty-nine more relationships just like it
swearing that this is the last time!
And this time I know what I’m doing!
And I won’t be fooled this time!
And this time it’s the one!

And it won’t be.

But none of that matters now, ‘cause they’ve both got the fever.
It’s that first 70 degree day in April and love is in the air.
God, this is what they’ve been waiting for all their lives!
And you’ll be damned to tell ‘em differently!
Yes, this is love. This is the fever.

I keep drawing strawmen
sketched, smoldering somewhere on the backburner

my consciousness registers the faulty pitch and swings
right from contact I know it’s a knockout

shredding the stuffing out of scarecrows
stepping on a rake I already knew was there

lurching up like figures of target training
where I’ve been waiting to fire away

every argument wide with holes big enough
to light on fire and cartwheel between

but could we stop before another round
I’ve tired of this charade

and you would never say something like that
so shut up because I’m tired of arguing with you

Wallace Stevens imitation—
“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”

I.
stare into the face
to witness history reflected in his eyes
ever at enmity with the future

II.
begrudgingly he rolls in the thick slope
of a Neanderthal’s wheel
bridging what was, what will be

III.
today he would be better
to trust in God
alchemy cannot help him

IV.
sixteen multiplied by five
equals three and it takes twenty more
to make one and one

V.
to appear whole
he furiously twists at both ends
taking the sphere of a pitted olive

VI.
he would be better off
applying himself to sport
adding one more to make ten which is actually six

VII.
choose trails over heads
to his little mountain
guarded by levy lions

VIII.
tobacco ate
the warden of Monticello’s bones
and Mulberry Row’s worms had their fill

IX.
he never could have known simple pleasures
could no longer be afforded by children
in a candy store

she on her way, unknowing
or knowing completely
that we leave each morning on a dime

finding our rendezvous
braking parallel to paraded construction barrels
complimenting her burnt orange fiat

we are common strangers
sharing daily communion
without a word between

are we yet to be acquaintances or greater
that we might shout a conscious phrase
between our windows

or a sidelong glance
a minute smile, if nothing else,
says, see you tomorrow

A childhood memory returns
with his mouth stained in something that tastes like a dish served lukewarm
when I see in myself what I promised my father, “I will never be like that.”

When no one else is listening I can hear him laughing
at the savor it arouses in me that I don’t want to change
unless I have changed already.

What good is a day if it is not passed between three others
including the one who started it?

It is hard to have a moment
without wondering who else that moment might be shared with
because any experience unshared
is not really much of a moment if there is no one to tell it to:

Yesterday, idling at a red-light
the perpendicular traffic bled through the intersection
determined drivers making left turns, heading west

Not unlike a day in 1849
on roads crowded by hordes of covered wagon caravans
have gone
chasing treasures, a new world
and an American dream

Perched in prairie schooner seats,
resolute scowls detailing commitment
laying their claim to somewhere different than the rest of us
forgetting that we’re all going in the same direction:

A secret that everyone knows
but always forgets
like that we’re all completely naked under our clothes

Away we go away from Owego
And by the place where all’s well in Endwell—
To where perhaps there’s gold buried in Gouldsboro.
Further on, to where one wonders why
There’s such animosity towards vegetation in Bushkill Falls.
Of course, that’s nothing compared to Buttzville,
Which must be a terrible place to live, butt made a great rest stop.
There were others. They’re still there.
I imagine I’ll go back some time.

cause your real selfish, Freddie
and my Momma taught me to share
said it was the right thing to do
and you don’t share for nothing
Tiddlywinks not withstanding
but you always have to win
so it’s not even fun.

keep close to me
you and your mistress
american dream
soon you and your wet feet
will be hot as ifrit’s armpits

your lovemaking was like old books
burning the truth from your head
camping on the carpet of cowardice
a tent made from blankets
but your trailing yellow streak thinks
we’re outside
where

between the madness and the blind she is waiting
her breath is graveyards
she spits headstones and banal epitaphs
dead decades before the deceased
what are you sprinkling on cold biers for?

you hide it so well
you’re so dead inside

so set the house on fire
sweep up your dreams with dust pans
burn her picketed prison
as skuzzy as motel linens

turn your head and cough
I promise this won’t hurt
me at all
and I promise I wouldn’t lie to you
much more than the next saint
and pathological liar
trust me, I’m a doctor
in theory
and this is for your health
I think

This life is:

A collection of
Words
Misdirections
Puns and bad jokes
Open ended questions
and one way streets
Spreadsheets
Trailblazers
Square ones

East Sides
West Ends
and all the avenues
Jigsaws and equations
Between
the next traffic light
and equal sign =

Do you hear me?
He loves you.
He loves you!

What are you
going to do about it?

Why is it so awkward?
I didn’t make it awkward.
You did.
Because every time I ask, something inside you says,
“I should, I should, it’s right.”
But you say, “no.”
Something squeezes at your intestines,
getting caught like a moth halfway up your esophagus before you swallow.
But it’s there.
Something says, I’m rejecting it.
Something says, I’m spitting in his face.
But we’ll unravel miles of colored yarn balls
Longer than a curious kitten
With this and that
With this and that
With this and that
Yes, we could take a ride on this carousel and believe me,
there’s more than enough rope,
and there’s a horse with your name on it.
We can go around and around and around
so by the time we’re done, it will be hard to tell who’s who anyway-
Impossible to wrap it back up, present it as truth-
These gnarled, knotted strings become tripwires,
tripping us up
letting us give way to pretense- pulling the pin on explosions-
Messes that we couldn’t possibly seek to unwind and glue back together.
And there in the middle of it all you’ll say, “see, I told you so.”
But if you told me so, then why is it still awkward?
So let each be his own spinster
Pick the thread that best suits him
And let him trace it to his own sense of truth, you’ll say.
This, after all, is the road I’m on, and what right do you have to tell me that I have to pick one?
That only one is the right one?
Tumbling over tripwires, stumbling into traps you’ve laid,
bumbling backwards into the nets you’ve created with our words-
Your tongue twisted trails leading to no where but back to your own entrails stretched
as lifeline markers to navigate our return trip through the rabbit holes and loopholes you’ve crawled-
When you’ve finally found yourself and found there’s nothing to be found in yourself-
When you’ve willingly pulled every last organ out-
What will your whimsical words have wound?
I know the answer.
So you can spin it any way you want.
But why is it so awkward?
Is it awkward because you’re wrong?

A finger presses MUTE

sun glare silhouettes
a dying plant
streetlight
stop sign
leafless sycamore
empty mailbox
canadian geese in file
a leashed dog dragging its owner
two runners with white earbuds
momentary vehicles broadcasting phosphorescent joists
as reflections play life on the windowpane
and all the world is stuck inside two centimeters