precipice (falling & the fallen)

precipice (falling & the fallen)

"Everyone is a terrorist. Everyone carries a gun in his heart. . . .

For want of a rationale, or courage, we are all assassins."

A Very Private Gentleman, Martin Booth

a man left hanging is not a hanged man

even a fallen man is not falling

when the rope holds him there

swinging against the act of killing

but she did not kill him this time

& failed to destroy what she wanted

to end like nightmares she dreamed

it proved impossible to defy physics

to simply ask a moon to stop orbiting

to will an apple not to drop to the earth

he had been stabbed cut loose & ambushed

but despite the assault his heart was resolute

& ached to toe a ledge just for the peace of it

this hanging-never-turned-to-hanged became

instead a myth weaved from the yarn of riddle:

he wanted only & always her who wanted him

this is the truth of poetry

that stains her lips&tongue

like blackberries&raspberries

& the nectar of her breathkiss

filled his lungs heart & mind

against the creaking branch above

surrender (when they come for me)

surrender (when they come for me)

And the more I thought about it, the more I dug out my memory things I had overlooked or forgotten. I realized then that a man who had lived only one day could easily live for a hundred years in prison. He would have enough memories to keep him from being bored. In a way, it was an advantage.

Mersault, The Stanger, Albert Camus

[death]

when they come for me

i will not put up a fight

as they rush me from behind

pinning me down to earth

underneath the weight of a knee

bloodied mouth and handcuffed

my hopelessness will seem brave

my solitude will cloak me like armor

i am a warrior monk celibate and monogamous

as i have surrendered my sword to prayer

burying little scrolls of you in my lungs

tattooing haiku of you beneath my tongue

each heart beat a confession of supplication

eyes blinking Morse code meditations

for a man cast aside faith is a silent weapon

against the undertow calling like Sirens

gods and mortals alike are offended and angry

because bones can break but i cannot

captured and sentenced to life in prison

as if that changes anything

as if that changes anything

•

[resurrection]

whispering to myself no longer praying

the secrets of a dead man walking

if it were you slipping up behind me

your hand on my shoulder to turn me around

your hand taking mine as we face to face

look at all that has come before to this place

that could be the end to this crusade

a façade of all that we have failed to share

i am weary of being a solitary soldier

whose only grace is recollection and belief

and that is the truth behind the legend

of my falling under the weight of their assault

delicate (rice paper)

delicate (rice paper)

her skin was as delicate

as rice paper

as rare

as kindness sustained

(anyone could be kind

or string acts of kindness

one after the other

to appear kind

but sustained kindness

offered beyond thought

was rare and beautiful)

and that skin

pale and sun-denied in winter

toasted brown in summer heat

(he would learn in the days to come)

made every shape curve and gesture

of her nearly unbearable and indelible

and he fell in love with her

watching her unaware of him

before she knew anyone watched

before she could imagine being watched

or loved

like a haiku carefully feathered

black ink etched across rice paper

rolled and tied with a green ribbon

later much later

when she sat cross-legged and barefoot

the soft white arch of her upturned foot

assured him of the promise of kindness

and nothing as delicate as that could match

the words he tried to lift from his lungs

that came out as only humming

and then she smiled kindly without thinking

28 days (this metamorphosis of words)

28 days (this metamorphosis of words)

Father Benedetto: [speaking to Jack] You cannot deny the existence of hell.

You live in it. It is a place without love.

The American

yes we had begun again

rebuilding and sculpting

our subterranean world

our lives at the margins

and anyone would admit

that this fragile Shangri-La

this sanctuary spawned softly

from the blood of imagination

could not stand for long

like sandcastles washed away

by the insistent rising tide

chanting this can never be

so how can i remain bound

buried under two surgical emails

crafted 28 days apart cycling

from blissful hope to stripped anger?

so how can i face this metamorphosis

of words like scalpels and sutures

casting me precious in your heart

and then bull shit on your tongue?

when the steel of me lies in bone

surrounded by the fragility called

skin blood flesh muscles and sinew

that burns and bruises under blows

aiming past this cartoon rib cage

expanding and contracting always you

and framing this beating heart aching

singing holding believing nonetheless

“but” means you don’t (sport fishing)

“but” means you don’t (sport fishing)

There's no one above me to stain my fierce hands.
No you don’t love me, don't say that you do because you can't.

“Woodcut,” Jenny Owen Youngs

“i love you but. . .” means

you do not love me

as i loved you and love you

i never knew that you

were into sport fishing

casting a line and hooking me

only to release me once reeled in

but my love is not rust

easily polished back to steel

shiny as if the water had never

turned the silver to amber brown

the hook is deep and i am a fool

no one can erase you buried in me

and i am not easily cast aside

as if nothing happened or mattered

“i love you but. . .” digs

deeper than any hook

and tugs at the edges of me

always

we have lain

we have lain

we have lain

three soft nights

naked as spoons

beneath warming sheets

together—

we two gather

those soft nights

like honeysuckles

picked and sucked

together—

we gather moments

like leaves pressed

against our skulls

until they bury there

together—

we two separated

in the flesh

of one mind

honeysuckle sweet

together—

            tear aside the sheet

            and find us there

            wrapped in each other
            lovers mindful lovers

people do this (masks)

people do this (masks)

people do this

stealing a life to the side

whittling carving sanding and polishing

a masking or unmasking

these statue-lives created

for living breathing fearlessly

will you love me

behind the mask i’ve fashioned

like a dream of beauty and confidence?

will you love me

exposed sincere and honest

the me of me laid bare and open?

yes, people do this

these mannequins of risk

we strip of common clothing

and place about the room

and hope no one will notice

or pull back their eyes and hands in disgust

acetylene (2003)

acetylene

“acetylene”

is a beautiful word—

it makes me think of fire

like warm and soft

when i  imagine you—

whispering in my ear

your name, your laugh,

the curve along your neck—

they make me think “desire”

acetylene,

i wait to strike the match—

if only you were here

half-life

half-life

once upon a time:

her love for him

was as clear and calm

as a glass of water

the echo of time

was another story—

a shattering and a quake

the half-life of her love

for him was forgetting

things happened, of course—

or things were done

with no scar of intent

but things done cut

as deep as things intended—

bleeding out all the life

the half-life of his love

for her was remembering

then things were said—

spoken and written and implied—

like uranium hidden in a shoe

after the end that lingered—

silent and radioactive—

in the bones of his hope

the half-life of suffering and loss

is always and never

he wore his face then—

the one they all wanted to see—

like a lead apron

though his bones glow

in the darkness of his belief

regardless and forever

as he told her

as he told her

eminence grise

eminence grise

she needed both

and on top of that—everything

and running through it all

like a thread—nothing

it was the thing of her

a part of the bones of her

some people called it by name

but she knew it to be wordless

now:

if she took a razor blade

and maybe a thousand years

she could gently remove that gray thread

from the skeleton of her Self

underneath she wondered silently

if removing nothing was removing anything

but such surgeries done carefully

leave someone else on the other side

someone who uses words

and needs something

like leaves moving beyond the window

to believe that the wind is blowing

things built & things uncovered

things built & things uncovered

these wrinkles of sky & ice

are where they always seem to meet—

at least these were the words

that came to him unbidden

(as if the Universe had spoken)

then he saw her coming toward him—

but it wasn’t her—of course—

a shape recalling her to him—

flinging open the doors to her—

these rooms that held all of her

that lived in his mind—like bone—

things built—he knew—can never stand

against things uncovered—

things in his bones—

hidden like yellow folded into blue for green

held like yellow folded into red for orange

he used nails—no tape or glue—

but things hammered never lasted—

pieces and parts rebuilt into that—

this was his thing—he imagined—

hiding his shovel and always always looking

for the right place to dig—the right place—

and then he realized it all so clearly—

if he ever slipped and fell—hers

was the hand he would most like to be offered—

endemic (this moment called you)

endemic (this moment called you)

as long as your feet

move across the curve

of this spinning planet

and your lungs expand

with the sweet salt air

worshipping the rising tide

this moment called you

is etched indelible and deep

in the bone and marrow of me

and courses warm and faithful

through every sacred cell

that builds flesh sinew and muscle

i have tried to find where you

begin and i rest kneeling alien

turning me against me in prayer

peeled and cast aside like rind

from an orange desired only

for the juice and pulp of this fruit

the math of us (stages of grief)

the math of us (stages of grief)

Two hands clap and there is a sound. What is the sound of one hand?

—Hakuin Ekaku

eager sprites stole these flints

chiseled into pomes to sing and dance

with tambourines, banjos, and castanets

weaving through the forests

beyond the sight and ears

of humans dull and distracted

(1)

me plus you equals too much for you

spent and hardened like a diamond

marionette unstuffed and clipped free

us minus you equals a tongue silenced and tasteless

eyes blinded and crossed

fingertips scalded by your lips

i cannot hear myself think inside

the din of this empty room

i find myself circling stores at the mall looking

for a perfume counter and golden bottles of Chanel

i can barely carry these recollections

that have propagated against my skull

minus equals multiplication

(2)

negative space

i am not an artist

although i created this

the absence where you are not

driven to emptiness and gone

my paint-by-numbers disaster

razing Cain against the possibility of us

and no matter how i figure against this

it simply does not add up

(3)

we watched Bubba Ho-Tep

because you had watched it alone

together the watching was not adding me

us there together watching was exponential

you lay with your head in my lap

tired from a day of work

and for just a moment your hand

found my knee and rubbed the cap gently

and this comes rushing back to me

day after day after day after day

the memory piling one on the same

each time recalled and re-lived

wide-eyed and heavy i stare at each day

looking for something to remember

something i can count on

(4)

was it lies

the hiding

the masks

and dodging

that killed us

that killed it

for you at last

pent up inside?

or was the lie

the hidden

the masking

and dodging

that we (i trusted)

that it (i believed)

was never there

at all for you?

and now this awful

question builds inside

me cast aside remainder

outlier parenthetical

embarrassed doubting

fearing your eyes

and answers hidden

like papier-mâché

(5)

i scroll through pictures of you

and realize you are never looking

at me

someone else behind the camera

your eyes turned down or looking away

or pictures from you

there behind the camera

this beach where you live

with footprints and a gray-blue ocean

(6)

i never calculated on this

you i did not anticipate

you i did not recognize

peace and happiness could not blossom

under the shadow of my burdensome love

addition by subtraction

a formula i cannot handle

fingers stiff against such cross tabulations

(7)

algebra

a house of stone

with marble countertops

and granite tile

rock gardens shaped like talismans

to conjure faeries heavy as bricks

crunching like gravel as you drive away

(8)

infinity

my lips pressed inhaling

against the inside of your wrist

your pulse there

metronome of my heart

(9)

i am now calculating

how to trace this paradox

drawing thick black lines

around the outer edge

contradictions added together

the sum of us in negative silhouette

(0)

geometry

solving proofs

of marriage soulmates

and star-crossed lovers

nothing

nil

naught

nada

nata

the irony of trying to express nothing

the space where that who once was is no longer

a word there to say she can no longer

the goodbye she never uttered

like feeling the rain in the air

after the storm has passed

zero

this ring around the finger gone

0

•

these human tales

become faerie songs

because my hubris

is a wicked thing

among the disasters i am

the common denominator

trust me

i have done the math

of anne sexton—and my lover (periwinkle & lavender)

of anne sexton—and my lover (periwinkle & lavender)

may i kiss the back

of your knee

trailing up up

along the inside

of your thigh

like an anne sexton poem?

may i take your foot

in my hand

kissing the softest part

there

though you complain

that your legs

are not long and brown

(sorry, anne, sorry)

hamlet tells ophelia—

that’s a fair thought

to lie between maid’s legs—

and i suppose

that’s true

though “fair” can mean

many things

like “delicate,” “amber,” and “perfect”

and i believe he was not talking

about “thought”

no—

it was “to lie,”

it was “between,”

it was “legs”

and you sent me her poem

in your handwriting

on a small white card

periwinkle

            sprung from a woman’s eye

lavender

            bloomed from your fingernail

her words

in your hand

have carved themselves

inside my chest

scars sprouting like roots

and speaking like Braille

to a dying woman

searching for her child

gone blind from exhaustion

crawling on her hands and knees

in her withering hysteria—

yes—they will carry me in

on a wooden bench

then everything—everything

will blossom across your cheeks

like a bouquet of tears

because no one will speak

no one will speak

so every hand

can hear

the words

like periwinkle & lavender

wishing away the bars

wishing away the bars

James Dickey stood there   full of himself

                                                                                 bulging from his 63 years.

We kept time with his meter

                                                                            as he fought   the slipping of his pants.

The podium   wood   ornate

                                                                           shrank before him   chiseled by his voice.

He was the words   the sound

                                                                             he was   articulation—

Casting images   sharp as hooks

                                                                                reeling in each of our imaginations.

Then he drew his ink-filled arrow

                                                                                  lowering it   even with our skulls,

To pierce   our preconceptions

                                                                               to twist the complacent looks   our faces.

Ultimately he wished away   the bars

                                                                         the black steel bars   our cages.

So we joined hands for the hymnal

                                                                                  we paced the aisles   panthers.

He adjusted his pants   one last time

                                                                          denying the weight   his years.

"Poetry"   he drawled   laughing  

the final word   stirred by his own wit.

We left with his incisions   on our brains

                                                                               the strong   sloping face,

The huge   gentle hands like wings

                                                                                   the magnificent agony   of sincere

Words.

melting

melting

yet it was the way

her shoes held her feet

that walked up to me

            into me

            over me

as if i were a black sand beach

& she, a ceaseless tide

wearing me into the Nothingness

that stepped to the drumming of our hearts

a silent dance on an empty floor

that held us like shipwrecked strangers

crawling through the surf & sand

of an island rising from nowhere

& it was the way

the sand held her feet (fleetingly)—

the imprints temporal & melting

like me into her, into us

drawn to two

drawn to two

I

Speed

Here I am fifty—          

                 half a life

ago tearing rumbling charging along

mountain roads   up and down the Saluda grade

driven by speed   the leaning and revving

on two wheels                     

              Harley-Davidson.  Then

young reckless careless   except for speed.

But those were days

of Marlboros and Budweiser                

                           leathers   no helmet

before children   only the wife's fears   like

a fallen phone-line                      

                    the pole I have to climb

the wires I have to restore              

                            fusing anonymous

conversations   calls for help   emergencies

tying people back together

                           as I break away

the seat holding only one   only me

alone.

II

Running

                                                            The years peeled away

the wind stripping me down to father

                                                                                     no leathers

smokeless   all the lines connected

                                                                                dial tones

replacing two wheels with shoes for jogging

the breeze gentle as my wife's contentment

bliss at her

             healthy husband grounded

breathing hard against the loop of my own

design pointless laps

                      the throttle rumbling

inside my chest

                moved up from between my legs

the desire of my thighs

                        jailed by heaving ribs

nylon rubber   the thumping of strides

I imagine myself chrome polished   black

red wings   Harley-Davidson

                            two wheels

long distance direct.

III

Pedaling

As if I were falling backward   a man

in my forties keeping conversations intact

from behind a desk

                   the pole no longer

between my heels my knees my thighs

replaced by a boy's toy

                        bicycle two wheels

driven by my legs

                  now pistons direct

to a chain drive crawling the same mountain

of my youth   the grade reborn under me

pedaling   my wife a woman I didn't marry

suffering through a cracked rib

                                broken collar

bone from leaning too far too slow

the recklessness gone

                      gray bearded   collect

I pedal nearly unconscious ears ringing like

a call I must answer   emergency   two wheeled

and charging calling me red wings.

IV

Motor

                                         Yes fifty

buying another two wheels   Harley-Davidson

resurrected Phoenix rumbling between

my thighs hog wallowing in the rumbling

no longer speed but sensation

the seat built for two

                       my wife

behind me liberated dialed in to the cycles

of the motor built for feel

                            vibrating us

together husband wife red-winged

charging recklessly leaning

against each other shaking us conscious

awake waking to the telephone poles

passing us marking our loops up

through down the mountains there

regardless of us or the wheels

following asphalt              us

                drawn to two wheels