Posts Tagged ‘Clock’

yes I write poetry, I’m a poet
and I can’t crawl in bed with you
when I’m hurting;
my heart was shattered –
a wine stemmed glass on the freeway
a sheet of glass and a baseball
a face of a clock thrown to the pavement
into slivers
silver slivers
shivering silver slivers
and I can only think of
you lying on my bed believing
breathing your belief
that it will be OK
in the morning,
my friends outside
thinking that I’m OK
or will be that way
when I sober up
in the morning;
parents, separate, so far away
missing each other and still
hoping for me
to cure insanity
and be happy
with a world full of me.

Pocket Change

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

I can feel the sum sadness
of everything, in each object,
filled tablespoons with a hose of sadness,
the impermanence of happiness
when good is how they are now;
in moments it is gone,
I’m watching the cherished abandoned,
and the whirl of the clock is
the blur of this sadness, this change.

check this out:
I keep on moving don’t stop the clock
I can’t keep on without the tick-tock so I
I walk on, rock on, keeping my shoes on
I hear you sigh and sing the blues on the corner
by the storefront windows. I stop and I listen.
I remember us doing some kissin’
but I cannot live as I was doing:
chasing you around, forgiving, boo-hooing.
roads are there to walk and choices abound
I know I’ll see you around town because
I still love you just as much as ever
I miss your clear eyes and your stormy weather.
a piano reminds me of a lonely day song
that I played for all the times that I know I’ve been wrong,
but I change my tune to keep you grooving,
and like Soul II Soul I gotta keep on moving.

this is the box that the spider came in.

here is the molt
of the mad spider
who came in this box.

this is the rock
from the cage where I kept
the spider, who was mad
and wouldn’t bark
after he left the white box that he came in.

these are the pictures I took of the box
that the batty spider came in
before I found that it was not him
who barked.

I am the boy who also came in the box
with such a grizzly spider,
put was not put in a cage
with a grey rock and a clock.

this is what happens to the crickets
that my spider hunts around the rock
by the light of that ridiculous clock.

this is Ezra Pound; a sailor, a spider,
who winds the clock in the closet of crickets.

here is the ward
where the mad spider and I are,
full of wind and white sheets and flat paper hats
and a rock.

here is the boy that bought the box
and found the rock for Ezra Pound,
that mad grizzly spider who wore a paper hat,
who gave it to me for the molt
that lies in the House of Bedlam.

this is the box,
the House of Bedlam,
where the spider molted even though he
was supposed to be hunting by the light of the clock
that Ezra wound.

I am the clock that tells the time
that the closet crickets die in the white box
– the cage in the House of Bedlam.

these are the legs of the mad molted spider
who ran around the rock in the white windy ward
of the house of the box with a paper hat.

this is the picture of grizzly me,
the boy Ezra and that deadly spider
who still wouldn’t bark after returning
to the House of Bedlam.

here is the box that is all that is left
of the boy, the spider,
Ezra and me.

[based on a poem by Elizabeth Bishop]

I want to stand naked on a rooftop in the lightning
like Shelley and tell the world that we are gods
and god is nothing, let me be
my own god, my own master. I am only
my own, naked, standing, hit by lightning,
drugged, dying, depressed, damned
but all this so I choose.

I will fall when the universe breaks
the subatomic clockwork monotone.
embracing the light, welcoming the darkness,
thinking to myself of Disneyland
to allay my fears of falling and falling down,
the cross behind you unsupportive,
catch me, Shelley, catch me, opium,
follow me, Byron, kill me, poetry.

my dreams are made from sand
as my flesh, as the mind is dimensioned.
the skull is an appropriate sieve
for the ashes, the ashes, the ashes
we all fall down. the wind turns circles
in the dust, draws the face of a clock with one hand.
drip castles; elephants; lightning again.
my cheek is pressed against the cold rainy windowpane.

Rainbird Alarm Clock

Posted: February 12, 1991 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

my newspaper blanket is wet.
I wake to the across-the-street sound
of the rain bird sprinklers capering;
one was whitewashing an aluminum gardening shed.
the stutter of the water
chides me for not wearing my shoes.