Tagged: ars Poetica

Senility Lane

the blanket says I brought it on myself
but doesn’t remember why
she might’ve meant how much I’ve grown
or the tree I told her has fallen in the yard
I hope she doesn’t think a tree
has fallen on me in the yard
or that I might have already called her
she might have already told me
the things I’m supposed to know
like how to get out from under a tree
how to clean a fish over the phone
my parents could’ve looked it up themselves
or probably done it for me
but they made me call my grandmother
who walked me through a process
I’d have to call her again to do
that little perch, its bones
like splinters in its own flesh
newspaper torn, black blood and
sunlight shifting in the winded
tree, garage glinting
it had the look of still writhing
or still writing, which is
the back and forth of fear for me:
a dead thing still moving
an alive thing that doesn’t

Guerrero Park

In the same vein
hands are laced
of lovers walking

Runners erect
their running stances
filling with air

like animals do
to avoid
being eaten

I am guilty of this
And pulling away my dog
from his interests

Something about today
though. I am
in touch

A hand has drawn the sun
a little closer,
cracking it

like an egg
over
the water

I let my dog stop
and sniff
whatever he wants

and gaze upon a duck
at the edge
of the spillway

I will be a new man
when I have forgotten
this day

and can read on it again
its fishing men
beneath

like ants in a sink
twitching in the spray
of a silver faucet

They won’t catch much
Most of the fish
are sent downstream

through a bypass
in the dam. Shall we
go to the end today?

Where heron stand
aloft in
their jubilant arches

piercing
their faces
on the water

Last Poem in this Apartment

I am trying hard
to think of things
that stay in one place
and get better. A tree?
I am not a tree
Trees have almost
written all the poems
I cut myself against them
Nailing plywood down
on lower lines
to lay there, looking at porn
I’d leave my house at night
sometimes to look at porn in trees
Even when very young
I’d walk past a
retention pond of taggers
blowing their colorful
horned instruments
Their illegible, foam names
like those of the animals
Some of us have things
we don’t remember
choosing to be
These are the things I mean

Question

I wonder if I lie will I ever be a poet, will ever
these stories about stories become more translucent
(like christian boys in their minds when they sin) will
ever I be given new fish to swim inside me, something
to carry from place to place god as you have made me
alive out here, with not enough time to be different?