fears I have are like children;
crowding around me, beneath me,
tugging on my arms and clothes,
pleading with me to kneel down to them,
or to pick one darling up
so they can be closer to whisper
their candies into my ears
through their flushed smiling faces.
Archive for December, 1992
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I killed a foot-long lizard today,
I am really, really sorry to say,
accidentally; my sad excuse
was hatcheting unwanted ivy and
with a careless swing of my hasty hand
I clipped him roughly in the head
which, almost dead, made him just more refuse.
some excuse.
he twitched and I, in shocked surprise
moved the leaves to watch him die,
and knowing what I had to do
I swung again; I cut him in two.
looking at the pieces in my hands,
his beautiful head still blinked its eyes;
I still can’t quite understand,
but something in me almost cried:
I know that he forgave me.
A Dog looked up
at a Crow; to fly
would be freedom.
A Crow looked down
on a Dog; to love
would be freedom.
A Man looked between
the two; to understand
would be freedom.
science is so far gone
it cannot see the point.
if love is natural selection
and just a chemical in the brain,
do marriage counselors just prescribe it?
do we spray it on our neighbors?
if a computer can write these poems
and ask these specific questions,
then what good are we
the imperfect human being?
if our drive to truly learn everything,
then why do we only look here, in science?
are we trying to make the perfect being;
it will be better than us.
Untitled Poem #139 and 1/2
Posted: December 24, 1992 in PoetryTags: Love, Monster, Purple, Untitled, White
I am jealous of what you think:
all your monsters seem terribly attractive,
something to devour me right –
I mean, correctly.
you’re untouchable and yet
I know
that I’ve striped you
like being disembowelled with a Katana;
one white stripe, or a purple one
for you to look at
because I love you.
a blade is your friend
if you allow it to taste your flesh
yourself, offering something –
blood – for service.
until you are comfortable
with being cut by yourself,
you will not be comforted
by cutting others.
the opening of a wound
is an artist’s work,
a sculpture of skin and muscle
caused by skin and muscle,
not the edge of a sword.
giving your blood to your blade
makes it flesh of yourself,
makes its steel of yourself.
Kiai!
The Testament of Plymouth Garibaldi
Posted: December 20, 1992 in PoetryTags: Drink, Fear, Ghoul, Sleep, Street
I try to keep awake and watch the street
While Alan, friend and roommate, tries to sleep.
We take turns every night and sometimes treat
Ourselves to tugging off of something cheap.
I wake up in a sweat because I think
My turn to watch was now, when I had slept;
And Alan knows, he hands me a stiff drink
To chase away the ghouls from where they’ve crept.
Some lonely nights we both stay up and wait
To see if one is hiding ‘round the store,
Or walking past our window with that gait,
Or crouching with a whisper at our door.
Six months ago – it seems as many years –
I didn’t dare believe or know to fear.
Further Thoughts of Nathaniel Bishop
Posted: December 17, 1992 in PoetryTags: Bishop, Blood, Book, Child, Mind, Soul, Star
My dearest Ursula is just the kind
To wilfully abandon all her soul
To satiate my Master’s guessless mind
And pour her fiery blood into my bowl
Of copper wrought from star-flung metal
Which rests upon the altar ‘neath my books.
This pact of ours is something left to settle:
A child? If only it won’t have my looks!
A Bishop heir! You’ll lose the Langsford end
And you’ll be mine, or more correct, you’ll see
That you to great Agatha I might send
And you she’ll give to Him That Should Not Be.
To Bishop, yea, the fateful book was sent,
We need results from an experiment…
I gnaw my way through coffin ends for him.
By night I stoop my way through hallowed tombs.
He waits below his house in shadows dim
In corridors I’ve hollowed into rooms.
He waits and watched me return with spoils
I’ve taken from the dead’s eternal gloom.
Beneath the graves, there in the endless coils
Of tunnels carved through earth without a tool,
The Bishops keep us slaving at their toils.
They don’t believe we feel; they think we’re fools
And that because we live in places dark,
Nobody thinks we love, they call us ghouls.
Degenerate, perhaps; a canine mark
To my appearance, but I still feel.
I wish I was human, to walk the park
And had not fell so far to sadly steal.
[terza rima]
Him, the wind, is rattling my door
Like someone trying to get in.
I think that someone could be trying the knob
But it sounds like only the wind.
if I could give you a Crow
– as if a Crow would be mine
to give – I would
give you a Crow, black and fearless
to fly before you
herding your dreams
like a best friend who knew your mind.
a Crow, wise with the wind
and a crafty scavenger, like its kind;
always willing and able to find
each puzzle-piece of happiness,
every thing you could do.
Untitled Poem #138
Posted: December 11, 1992 in PoetryTags: Anger, Coyote, Death, Eagle, Forest, Frog, Love, Sad, World
he thought of strength
in terms of eagles and coyotes:
creatures of power,
of flight and of prey.
he could hear the frogs croak
for him and for the death
he knew was behind his shoulder.
he knew that his writing
had changed. he knew that
he needed to live very differently;
to tell those he loved
how he felt, angry or sad
and live as a warrior who has
stopped the world from turning
without his knowledge.
he wanted most of all
to hold himself, that part
of his being who saw and
who guided him through
the forests and others
that he could write about
but couldn’t thread.
the child:
he, long ago, was the dam-builder,
creator of landscapes in mud
and clay
with the courage to play
a God or an Emperor
to the hilt,
thinking plastic men had lives
to give and eyes
to see the wonders he had made,
the horrors of the floods
that would inundate
and kill
thousands of these men
buried under silt –
tons to them.
He Stood Like a Tree
Posted: December 6, 1992 in PoetryTags: Birds, Cloak, Clouds, Dark, Earth, Fly, Mind, Rain, Sea, Sky, Song, Tree, Wind, Wings
he stood like a tree
on the edge of a cliff
before the sea
and raised his arms
as if wearing a cloak,
as if they were wings.
his voice flew
to the clouds in the sky
calling them to fly
for him.
the breathing of the wind
hummed in his ears,
the earth fell away;
his body lay twisted
and broken open
where his mind had left
it alone, just a tool
that didn’t work this way.
climbing stairs
of cold dry air
ascending to grasp the halos
of those clouds,
flocking with birds
and smoothing his way
with the power of his thoughts.
no need for the wings
of physical flight;
the rain couldn’t touch him,
the dark couldn’t hold him,
and the songs couldn’t
sing him away.
seriously, now: forever
and whatever comes next I
love you no matter what.
putting that into terms
crushes me; it is beyond words,
the palette I can paint with.
I can try.
nobody can make things stay
that want to go; so
it is the same with you.
a promise means the best
that you can do,
not binding forever, maybe
doomed to failure.
and I promise love to you
as my best
whatever that means…
I go to Painted Cave
not to see the pictures
which aren’t easy to see,
but just to hunt for frogs
and watch the creek flow.
Painted Cave is not just
a hole in a rock of fissures;
you can feel the presence
of paintings in the logs
that lie in the brook below.
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