STARES AND A LOOK

May 29, 2013

 

 

May 29, 2013

S T A R E S

 

Where is the wound that shines?

Over 50 years on

Over this  his day on?

My Back  way against all this memorial day here

I’ll intentionally send me to a ill-shielded shy there,

Back at again to that  day where

I’m Far too young  to fathom,

Or even  notice  yr. crevasse,

Yr  Grande Malaise,

Yr. countdown…Yr. Pass.

It makes me madly think now

It takes  the saddest thing    to tell now..

Stuck in a stack of old NewYorkers

There’s this old drawing

A mere boy  drawn in black & white

Stands on a step of his own basement, stares,

He did look down on his own  livid  apocalypse,

His lips, and the caption say

“It’s  A.O.K.”

.

Here is the wound that shines

Tonight, a glint off yr. cracked onyx ring.

I lift it  in my open fist to my lips.

.

.

.L  O  O  K

.

Hope  we’re having  a heaven  so

I’ll look all about &

Daddy can call out, (& it won’t hurt,no)

He’ll look just like he just got home from work:

“There’s my angry young man,”he’d shout.

We’d have it out;

My young man’s misery,

His young man’s mystery.

We’d upheave it out. One Heavy inquiry would unfold

If he mightn’t have killed himself he might have taught me:

“you gotta take the bite of bitter with the cold”

.

My Mother could steady things when she told me

When I was ready she told me:

“I know, I know,

With time…

We’ll  heal.

He  was  not  well.

They say  You/

Have his look.

You  know.

You know

I say  you’ll/

have my smile”.

.

.

.

.

 

For always, again, rest in peace, daddy 3/21/1929-5/29/1959

 

 
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AMSTERDAM

September 13, 2012

I lost a friend tonight.

The fleshSTOP forever kind of loss.

When he didn’t show up at the job

He went  on & on  about leaving

& Joining his dream;  Free  in Amsterdam.

Friends from that job

Went and found his body.

He’d lived alone in his own woods

Since his wife died.

Yet I knew him to truly enjoy his day.

(He was ahead of me that way)

His own time he’d savor.

Complex gourmet foods he’d prepare for himself.

He’d  savor

Simple fairweather, days & nights, for himself.

Goddamn, he wanted

& Waited on Amsterdam,

.

.

RIP  Dave

NORTHWEST TRILOGY

August 30, 2012

this is retrieved from years ago, it showcases a damn fine vacation, one I am about to repeat, starting tomorrow. I thought I’d reprint it to mark a “time out” sign here. See ya in a coupla weeks.

.

NORTHWEST  TRILOGY

 

I’d say Seattle’s a city that’ll likely

Set you so free that you’ll likely

Be reminded of the high flight where you might just

Find me,  plowing clouds way way above the bird play.

I see Seattle as a solution

Not too much a town to touch down to w/

Warm outstretched arms on a runway

To catch a wretched, falling runaway,

A getaway  on holiday.

.

II.     W A K E

“Guests must remain on the patio”

Insisted the sign in a winded sun.

I read it right there  in my Adirondack chair

On a cliff  so clearly steep.

I feel I might have fallen  deep

Narcoleptically Asleep again, Though surely,

The luringly named

Pacific Ocean below

Drew me here, to it’s  wake up here

This pace  maker  peace

could liven this

.

III

There’s this tree, I took three pictures there.

A tree creatively crooked

& pointing down most of the Oregon coastline.

At least three pictures.

It rather weathervaned  the ocean edge

& pointed, as a staggeringly lovely hag

might with her stick. A crow

lights in her hair, & All of it

blown forward

down the edge.

seattle09 032

 

PROMINENT

August 29, 2012

“Truth  Be  Told…”

Is an old  start to a story

You never heard from Grandpa Gallagher

As he held court

For any ear  near his

Prominent  living room chair & ottoman.

.

Oh, the  OUTSPOKEN!

LOOK

May 29, 2012

Hope  we’re having a heaven so

I’ll look and

Daddy can call out,  (& it won’t hurt)

He’ll look just like he just got home from work:

“There’s my angry young man”.

We’d have it out;

My young man’s misery,

His young man’s mystery.

We’d upheave it out.  Heavy inquiry.

If he hadn’t killed himself he might have taught me:

“you gotta take the bitter with the cold”

Outside, My Mother softened things when she told me

When I was ready she told me:

“I know,

It’s vile.

He was so very sick.

They say  You/   Have his look.

It  is   mostly  OK,

You know.

I say  you’ll  have  my  smile”.

.

.

.

.

.                                                                                    RKM (3/21/29-5/29/59)  RIP

UNDER  ONE SMALL STAR—Wislawa Szymborska

.

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.

My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.

Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.

May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.

My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.

My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.

Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.

Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.

I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.

I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.

Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.

Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.

And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,

your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,

forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.

My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.

My apologies to great questions for small answers.

Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.

Dignity, please be magnanimous.

Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.

Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.

My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.

My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.

I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,

since I myself stand in my own way.

Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,

then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

s t I N K

.

of all the lies

in the air

that this liar

is truely unaware of

(is  ’truely’  the right word?)

of all the lies

casual and caressing there

the air currents  n

night-blooming jasmine

(is  ’current’  the correct word?)

the golden ones have come from…

(I’ve told em. All alchemy.)

emboldened lies, all born, I imagine,

from an open pen draining onto pages,

.

from nothing.

.

.

.

I’VE   IVORY

.

Shiny gold pen when an old

Shade-off light bulb

(it can be a candle)

Best Klieg-lights this crèche ,

Best showcases this birthplace.

.

On my knees

To lure verities,  (surely,  scour our trees)

To cure maladies,

Wrest fallacies from unsound foundations,

Whisper one less lonely

Wise,  recognizable incantation.

Take this shiny gold pen…!

.

It’s nearby,  go forth,  go further.

I clear my path,

&  Go over…

&  I’ve  Ivory!

Simba’ s  mammoth  cemetary!

(they must go deep)

Precious sunned bones poised on as symbols

Archetexture   actually

I take a sacred see of symmetry

.

.

.

.

.

.                                                                                                       (from years ago, still & for always true)

stares

March 22, 2012

Where is the wound that shines?

50 years on

On his day/

Why must the sound of industrial air here,

Its venting just sends me to a less-shielded shy there,

Back again to that day.

Far too young  to fathom,

Or even  notice  yr. crevasse,

Yr  Grande Malaise,

Yr. countdown…Yr. Pass.

It makes me madly think now

It takes  the saddest thing    to tell now..

Stuck in a stack of old New Yorkers

There’s this old drawing

A mere boy  drawn in black & white

Stands on a step of his own basement, stares,

He did look down on his own  livid  apocalypse,

His lips, and the caption say

“It’s O.K.”

.

Here is the wound that shines

Tonight, a glint off yr. cracked onyx ring.

I lift it  in my open fist to my lips.

.

.

.

again, r.i.p. daddy 3/21/1929-5/29/1959

A Little Enlightenment Here

February 27, 2012

Where there’s a world somewhere

One here can see to  between the lines

That feet freefall forward  down to

What then night’s end might see

Too bad about sorrow

.

.

.

for “Pop” Schmidt  12/22/1919-2/27/2012 RIP

Those days

Why did my Daddy

Want me to put up my dukes?

He didn’t know me

I needed answers, not anger.

You told me to hit you

On yr only cleft chin.

Confused, I refused,

Then I cried, then you laughed.

.

These days

One punch

Is all a backed-up drain like me…

I’d kill everything.

Furthermore, my diatribe here

Was directed

To my father’s spectre.

And he didn’t know me either,

‘Cause he said, “Go ahead”.

He thought & said, I’d be quite mad

All these days

With his violent abandonment.

I still need answers, not anger.

In that afterours club, in that cloud,

I asserted, “Are you still sick?” right out loud.

“Haven’t you watched me, or can’t you look out?”