a time of large and small adventure

ya_be

what is this geologic crawl
but a time of large and small adventure
a time to “do” things.
Right?
something the dinosaurs couldn’t manage
in their 140 million-year “dominion”
why all that excited Cambrian hustle
an efflorescence so sudden and bizarre
it made Darwin a stammering dyspeptic
whence the animating spirit
flatter the fuck out of the trilobite
then walk away?
don’t mean to pry.
Brontosaurus. what’s that shit about.
treetop-eating bore
flintstone burger. oil company emblem.
huge tooth gouged out of the hillside by the interstate.
Trilobite’s like; seriously?

chair in a room, lights out
door closed, closed till it latches
we are all asleep
all around the house
behind the door
inanimate chair in the inanimate dark
something must disturb the air around the chair.
that’s the intuition.
not nothing. something.
if nothing, then there is your horror
we can’t intuit nothing
that’s been a longstanding problem
Dear Jesus take this from me
take away my jughead childhood reverie
a chair in a dark closed room
the door latched
dark air undisturbed
for as long as you care to imagine.

I reach across the coffee table
yeah yeah yeah
lever the pizza to my expectant face
yeah yeah yeah
take some care not to let the granular salt
roll off the surface of the pizza slice
that’s how much I salted;
grains are layered and unstable
they may roll off
it’s a lot of salt
I read a comic when I was 10
some ships discovered mid-ocean salt mountains
later a princess said
“this is the best meat I have ever tasted!”

there go the eons.
asteroid? come sailing in
our eager telemetry means you can’t surprise us
but we’ll still get the torn clouds and the sound
and that will surprise us.
a spielberg boy will pause mid-pitch
track your progress across the sky
his hand raised to shade his eyes
though he’ll be wearing a baseball cap.
stir the laundry on the laundry line
give us our Rockwell closure.
you shall be as a fragrant spring breeze
or the metal joy-smell of sprinkler water
on the hottest day of the year.

pulmonary

life as we know it_frankenthaler
flirt – helen frankenthaler 1995

air is drawn into us by a fluttering membrane
an autonomic bellows
okay, a tympanum of muscle
a muscle-floor, honestly
it bisects us longitudinally
keeps the sub-basement below the belt where it belongs.
vein-threaded muscle-floor distends and relaxes vertically
so? so the careful admixture
(nitrogen. and oxygen!)
flows into diaphanous skeins that depend,
like two weary undershirts,
from a forked hanger.
what we breathe is borne downstream
into the body’s countryside
by river and burbling brook
sometimes by a silver
thread glinting through reeds
this year’s Intelligent Design
is a nesting doll of grief and wisdom
you will inhale a gnat
taking that life inside your own
though the gnat-horror of this intake
is likely not experienced as poetry
nor is there any evident design ingenuity in the episode
when that mechanic on the aircraft carrier deck
sanguine in his jumpsuit
got sucked into the fighter jet nacelle
was glory given to McDonnell Douglas
with upturned palms and murmuring lips
not that we know of
but when men are sucked into engines
the talk does turn to vessels
this is the murmuring lip talk
“we are but vessels…”
the gnat is herself a vessel
brimming with the busy ur-citizens of this comic romp
the cells are likewise jammed
with mitochondrial filigree and magic jelly
but here we’ll stop the regress
before it gets disgusting
or so wondrous we slide distractedly off the interstate
the grinning overweight boob
with the unshaven chins and kind eyes and ear buds?
who always boards babbling and laughing?
today he’s accompanied by a beautiful, unblemished young girl
he sleeps heavily against her, his bear arms
movingly clamped across her torso
his paw clutching her right shoulder
hard to describe
he’s leaning sidewise and half-twisting
the angle is awkward, supplicant and shameless
a drowning man’s embrace
but you’ve heard that one before
her eyes are glassed with moisture
the whites darkened, Bergman on the tarmac
she stares straight ahead like Bergman
occasionally kisses his forehead
she seems about to weep
she’s beautiful and inexplicable
he awakens blinking like an enormous grizzled kid
she speaks to him
in a high, impeded register
hollering around a swollen, unanchored tongue
stammering indecipherably
her brain fibre compromised.
she is just so beautiful.
this is not a reasonable realm
but a room-temperature cauldron
or an entrapping wind tunnel
whose swirling spicks and specks
we grossly misapprehend
with each buffeted breath and gesture

lost and alone II

Christina's World by Andrew Wyeth
Christina’s World – Andrew Wyeth 1948

i see a long journey
a pale ribbon of road, as Nevil Shute wrote
i’m stumbling along its shoulder
my age confounds me
i am not what I expected
Arrow of Time defeats our predictions.
are you what you expected
you’d better not be.
i said you’d better not be.
i wish you’d tried harder
and I wish I’d tried harder
how can I tell you to try harder now
i can’t because I’m a phony
when my jaw moves you hear a dog barking
this morning an unshaven guy and a wall-eyed woman
spoke loudly at the bus stop
coherently but loudly
the guy wore a camouflage baseball cap
in a jungle he would be loudly visible
but for the area above the squamous suture
the wall-eyed woman appeared to have
pinned her hair up in the dark,
or angrily or vengefully
or while running for the bus
these careless choices haunt us
wrong turns don’t always shatter bone
often the denouement is a sly flattening
a doctorate in the next room
who laughs till he cries, for instance
all the day long
meanwhile our bland nuclear furnace
describes a Euclidean arc above us
a prancing ass we have to crane our necks to see
and then we’re blinded by it
celebrated fire dips out of sight
rises elsewhere
serenaded by poorly programmed songbirds
with blank expressions
ma’am make of the dawn what you will
write your crappy sonnet
your daybreak is a coordinate on a circle.
there I said it.

who do you think we are

bad-paving made good
we’re all of us warm,
doomed little torches;
or bitches, depending
on the day’s cosmological demeanor.
under the covers we’re alive, though
falling to the pavement we’re alive, though
taking our hits at scrimmage we’re alive, though
hurl us through the windshield; we live!
with blackened eyes, yeah
and uneven laughter.
but here comes the sun again,
elephantine footfall in the hallway
our daughter bursts out of her room in the morning
like a force of nature.
count the days if you want.
an arbitrary number, our living days
you (dear) give off warmth in waves
I can feel the waves, almost peristaltic
your biological life
the cellular processes make warmth
it comes off you under the covers in waves
machined and purposeful
when my mom passed the heat left her by degrees
but quickly.
what’s the hurry.
the big soup tureen hastily reclaims our ingredients
this is not a vacation
but a slinky running down the stairs
alright already
spend caloric heat as we burn down
alright alright already
burn down through all the days
we scarcely take notice of them
in 200 years or less
we will never have been here.
yeah yeah so we lie here in the morning
burning down and radiant
burning down and down to nothing
skin changing, eyes changing
telomeres work their dissolution.
thermodynamics will preserve our stuff
but not this hour of lounging under covers.
this long hour transparent as a neutrino.
it’s really all we’ve got,
more than enough.
it’s much much more than the Big Bang owes us.
I hope you remembered
to make the coffee last night.

whoever you are, forgive me

forgive me

Forgive me, whoever you are.
when puffy radiant clouds inhabited yesterday’s sky
I walked among them as an actor would
though they bled like shadows
over my speeding car
and otherwise provided
good cloud visual
when I stepped back I saw
what we aren’t given to see
this is indeed a large wet stone
in an empty space, adrift, alone
cloaked in an envelope of gathered air
a filmic matte painting overhung
only chemicals and steam
night “falls” across the dinner hour
and the entrapping firmament
has the aspect of a lazy dream

i know

 

i knowSo this is what it feels like to know Life ticking by.
Contrary to the excited stammer of the sages
in their saffron pajamas, there’s not much to it.
Given the ballyhooed scarcity,
the celebrated mathematical precocity of it,
it does sidle past at this moment without any pageantry at all.
If we are a child’s handful of diamonds scattered across the unlikely aeons,
you wouldn’t know it as I stand here, outside my dumb office,
and feel an ordinary unscented breeze;
watch an ordinary scrap of jetsam flutter around the sidewalk.
“Be gone, breeze!” (he gestures with ham-like arms, in silence)
Humorless birds wheel and holler and alight on stucco.
A cloud wanders by in a poetic vacuum.
O starlit Machine, O numb Dynamo, is this your epiphany?
You have emptied your stellar coin purse on cognition,
and then dressed it in a Sears-issue windbreaker.
I suppose you think that’s funny.

8th Grade Science Outrage

handandatom

Back to school night
slumbering parents sag through rooms
look brightly at each other, wrinkling noses
then drop masks
plop into plastic saddles
their asses stir to remember
in history the teacher exults
“the kids didn’t mind the Mayflower!”
frightening me badly
in maths the teacher
is lanky and thick-haired and cheery
wearing a lanyard and i.d. badge
like a classified scientist
thoracic concavity and blousing shirt
conveying underfed youth
a distance runner
at the spring dance
in his excited kid voice he says
“we’ll study exponential variances.
So, geometry.”
I bark a weary laugh
look around at the parents
jaws open, dogs awaiting a tossed mercy-snack
worst is Physical Science
eyes bagged and non-responsive
grups looking tiredly at their iShit
the teacher is a former materials engineer
wonderstruck by her subject which is
the Crushing Vastnesses, plural
our real-time embrace of the growing void
things are moving away from each other
as one would expect in an explosion
but accelerating as the mess blossoms outward
teacher talks about kids finding passion
she calls it “their passion” like everybody does
a common mistake.
the dead are unmoved
occupy the eternal moment daintily moving fat hands
over phone screens with pinkies extended
“We’ll study what makes up the atom,” she says.
The Atom!
they stare at her through draping eyelids
my blood leaps like a synapse
I attempt to stand
I can’t wrestle myself free of the school desk
with its sanguine pencil groove
and perpendicular tubing
heads lazily turn
I’m momentarily constrained
unable to free myself I begin shouting
from a semi-crouched, prostrate position
legs held fast by gunmetal
“Oh! Are you bored of the Atom!
Space is a windless field of rocks!”
So self-righteous, I later realize.
Possibly being dumbstruck
is not a sound measure of spiritual wholeness.
We go home and microwave mini pizza
the first greedy bite fastens a scalding flap of cheese
to my hard palate
and I scream o god how I scream

what i won’t do. the mandelbrot set. i’ll need more convincing. stop pulling that goddamned dog

not eat in public

what i won’t do

i’m not going to eat around strangers
i mean other people
i’ve made it very clear
the helpless Piltdown mastication drives me
to an inexplicable distraction.
i look at you and I see an hourglass figure
sand in all the right niches
Clairol hair
a lipless x-ray skull filmed in profile artlessly chomping
chomping and chomping
chomping and chomping
i see that everywhere
lipless awful chomping
like a death skull but lit up by x-ray
and ravenously chomping
the mandibles and chomping more annoyingly vertical
when undisguised by fancy-flesh
you’ve seen the film
probably around the 4th grade
why eat after that
why ever eat again
we have to eat a little
but not in front of these assholes
idiot mandibles disrobed, no lips, no flesh
know what that looks like?
looks like the skull is smiling, smiling like an idiot
the village moron smiling and cracking his gum
smiling and chomping smiling and chomping
while a rolling shadow of x-ray chow
gets hustled around the inside of the yap
like a wilding victim, this x-rayed bolus of food
hustled and harassed from molar to molar
until finally the great heaving translucent tongue
rises out of x-ray nowhere, pulses disgustingly into the cavern
to throw the thing slickly down the back stair.
Oh yum. They’re bringing out the hors-d’oeuvres.
No thank you.
They’re bringing out the catered hors-d’oeuvres.
No thank you.
Honey, just eat a fucking hors-d’oeuvre, it’s popcorn shrimp on a Ritz cracker.
Can you even hear what you’re saying? I’m not gonna eat in front of these people.
Yes, honey.
No.
Yes.
NO.
Yesss! Honey!
DON’T YOU YES HONEY ME. Listen. C’mere. Let me take you aside.
Don’t fuck up my office party.
Some mornings I wake up and the world is a contusion.
Oh, shit. Don’t fuck up my office party.
– whole fucking world a stubbed toe –
EAT THE CRACKER
No.
What is this?
I’ll tell you what this is. Put your purse down. Put it down. Do you know what your mouth is going to do to that Ritz cracker?
I don’t —
Answer me!
You’re scaring me. You idiot!
Oh, you’re scared. Take a look at an x-ray of your yap working a Ritz cracker.
I just got this job!
Smiling and chomping. You can’t even call it chewing!
Sssshhh!
This whole charade is a horror show.
Ssshht! Look, just don’t think about it. How hard is that. It’s an hors-d’oeuvre. IT’S A CRACKER.
I saw the HR lady eating over there by the empanadas, that’s another thing. She put the matter in her mouth and it disappeared.
…what the fuck are you talking about —
She put the food into her mouth and it disappeared. Where did it go? The mouth moves, and the jaw. The stuff doesn’t come back out. It’s gone. It’s gone. Where? Pushed down a living hole, that’s where. You’re cool with that? I am not. Pushed down a hole. I’m not comfortable with that. I’m not going to stand around with these jokers and push stuff into my mouth.
It does come back out! what’s wrong with you!
You know what I mean
NO I DON’T
I’m not eating with those people. I am not going to beat off into a plastic vial.
Oh my fucking god
Can’t I go into a room at the clinic with a magazine. Like in the rom-coms?
Oh my god!
“Please masturbate into this brown plastic pill bottle then race it back to us before the sperm die. DRIVE YOUR SPERM ACROSS TOWN, BREAK THE SPEED LIMIT IF YOU HAVE TO. Run into the clinic like Jack Lord. Hand the pill bottle full of your sperm over to the young lady behind the front desk.” huh UH! YOU masturbate into a pill bottle! YOU hand an attractive young volunteer a plastic bottle full of YOUR living sperm. You mandibular jackasses! Screw you!
<hissing> Eat the fucking cracker you asshole!! Eat the cracker!
No.

the mandlebrot set

An infinitely finite number
or number set, rather,
which when expressed graphically
flaunts its recursive hoo-ha
in lavish fractals and floral expressions
of frustrated finitude.
The Mandlebrot set.
what a stupid name.
So annoying. So fucking annoying.
Benoit Mandlebrot,
did he have a lot of time on his hands or what.
Who thinks this shit up?
Benoit Mandlebrot, for one.
that’s what the Mandlebrot set is to me
a guy with all the time in the world. this is what he does with it.
Do my dishes, Mandlebrot, you asshole.
Fibernucci, too, or whatever.
Clean out my closets, Fibernucci!
you layabout theorists!
not to sound like a government functionary
giving your collider the bad budget news
but what of the application
just look at this dump
spacetime may be a superfluid
what can that mean
when the sink looks like this
-you mean Mandelbrot –
Shut up

stop pulling that goddamned dog

mans’s best friend
is an expensive afghan hound
afghan may mean drone strikes somewhere.
here in the u.s.
afghan means a sleek-looking hound
at the end of a grasped leash.
aw look at the doggie
look at all the doggies
aw man’s best friends
you can’t have a dog
you’ll never take the dog out for a walk
aw yes I will, I promise.
and even if you do
it’s an idiot’s game.
man’s best friend spends every minute straining
against the leash
does anyone notice that?
man’s best friend wants to run
sniff pee-pee at every bush
make a little pee-pee himself
and take off running again.
“whoa, that’s a tall order.
i want a best friend, sure;
a loyal yes-companion from the ranks
of the docile lower animals.
but this is man’s dominion.
we made it to the top
climbed here with our thumbs.
where the hell are your thumbs, little doggie.
thought so.
you’ll be at the end of my taut leash.”
he doesn’t know he’s an afghan
and the pricey Shih Tzu’s id is indistinguishable
from that of the three-legged living rag
that nervous guy sold your neighbor
the Shih Tzu looks at the three-legged rag and thinks
that’s me
not bad
not bad at all.
i like.
the dumbass Shih Tzu doesn’t know from dominion
it has been bred to walk from room to room.
“interesting breed! what are they bred for?”
to walk from room to room
none of these best friends know what they are
they just want to screw each other
and eat and make pee-pee
like us
is that such a big deal
you get to do that every day
or nearly every day
can your best friend
maybe take a crack at it, asshole?
loosen that leash.
I said loosen it, jackass
i will knock you down
aw look at him strain
aw his little face
he doesn’t know he’s a prisoner
you dog wants to run
aw man’s best friend.
he wants only to run!
but after maybe 30 self-congratulating minutes
you’ll be fatigued from hurling
the slimed ball in its plastic “Lower-Animals-R-Us®” claw
let’s get back to the condo
and leave our companion alone
back to the kingdom of man
back to a blanket in a basket
and a synthetic Purina snack of glued brown powder
shaped like a cartoon bone.

i’ll need more convincing

light can be both particle and wave
dual mutually exclusive properties.
yeah, right.
they proved it with slits.
right.
i’ll need more convincing.
and what of it
two states at once?
what of it
that’s fine at the planck scale.
up here where the sun shines
on an upturned face
it’s another story
we’re a stupendous car wreck
of highly organized particles
a momentary spasm of beige brownian movement
invisible and inconsequential.
they recorded a couple making MRI love
and it was a nightmare of wet machinery
bumping and horrific
you saw everything
two machine-filled bags
and some urgent swarming
but it says here our electric laughter
rings through the numbing eons
travels outward
past where microlensing events
suggest other rocks and other skies
other lawnmowers in repose
under the blanched light of other suns
other realms. bikes, homework and cars
other blushing kids sneaking kisses
catching breath, afraid to smile. smiling helplessly.
for real. this part is real.
our embraces are finally meaningless, yeah. Probably.
no fear, no pain. no nothing.
just this mindless, schemeless bowl
kind of ordinary,
but filled to the lip with gorgeous collapsing stars.

 


forgive my politics

calgontakemeawayaway

We mobilized early.
I’ve learned, though.
my bible study leader
has been diagnosed.
the headaches are a tumor.
Krishnamurti,
who taught us to see
through the veil
and lectured musically
and at length
on our embrace
of the infinite,
parted his hair
straight sideways.
this morning
you are an insufferable
happy-mouth
and tempt the cosmos.
the toaster
is so full of crumbs
it may combust,
and that would be of a piece
with the sublime. so be careful.

changeling

dime is like a river
I’ve found my place in the cosmic order
marked it with a pen
content with my apprehension
of the eternal.
But in the all-too-temporal process of
peeling off my tight trousers
doing the helpless
suburban man-dance
in the previous quietude
of my room
a couple shiny dimes noisily fell
from a momentarily inverted pocket
and I shouted “oh screw you!”
The dimes rang accusingly
on the wood laminate floor.
Such small coins,
but commandeered
by mathematics and Gravity.
Mysterious and inexplicable Gravity;
unknowable energy field
into which the large bodies nestle
quantum thorn in the side
of the Grand Unified Theory.
We know this much –
the Mystery wants to see a dropped coin
perform an eviscerating hula,
each point of the milled edge
in its turn contacting the floor
in a round-robin rejection
of our race, our opposable thumbs,
our dreams of flight.
Thanks, Big Bang.
These goddamned coins!
They rang and rang and rang
and rang!
“Aaaaaahh! screw YOU!”
I had time to say it again
as the dimes whirled their lil’ dervish
for what seemed five full minutes.
I said it loud,
hissed it with meaning,
one aging chicken leg
yet ensconsed
in Tom Jones sale trousers.
Another scalding victory
of the inanimate.
I so want to live.