Concerning The Present
resurrection
resurrection
Many masters of violence
are among us, few skilled in peace,
where destruction carves its angers open
gravity realigns its broom and its rubble,
pulls on the strings resurrecting will.
Freedom rises for those of us still living,
a naked music floods from the coalescing sky
north quadrant at solstice
knowledge went north with grace, then turned, went
south -- it is often harder to form a noun
which lives with the presence of a rock than it is
to find a verb as active as a running animal.
Heavier and heavier the wars of our world
weigh on us, until one evening the wind
growls through the fence and water itself
shines like gauge steel. Sometimes standing
in the evanescent veil of time we can see everything
north quadrant at solstice
knowledge went north with grace, then turned, went
south -- it is often harder to form a noun
which lives with the presence of a rock than it is
to find a verb as active as a running animal.
Heavier and heavier the wars of our world
weigh on us, until one evening the wind
growls through the fence and water itself
shines like gauge steel. Sometimes standing
in the evanescent veil of time we can see everything
misericordia
Open fire, planes, the General was heard saying
after the eastern fire of the sun came.
For me the trees are in leaf and I continue
seeking a direct beginners language
where thought is freed to confront violence,
such as when they blew up the city
on the other side of the sea and it seemed
such a thing could never happen here
until the next day it did, taking us
From the place where death was a thing
we didn't speak of during cocktails
to the next night when so many died
and there was no cocktail hour. We did
bring machines to help straighten things out,
they could not save much. There were then
no more beautiful girls and even sunsets
lived in smoke and sackcloth, followed
by years of noise and banging in the dark
misericordia
Open fire, planes, the General was heard saying
after the eastern fire of the sun came.
For me the trees are in leaf and I continue
seeking a direct beginners language
where thought is freed to confront violence,
such as when they blew up the city
on the other side of the sea and it seemed
such a thing could never happen here
until the next day it did, taking us
From the place where death was a thing
we didn't speak of during cocktails
to the next night when so many died
and there was no cocktail hour. We did
bring machines to help straighten things out,
they could not save much. There were then
no more beautiful girls and even sunsets
lived in smoke and sackcloth, followed
by years of noise and banging in the dark
it is 1890 again
I'm just a stranger now on my way
through this divided land. I see each
of us whose freedoms the President
has sold for billions or was it trillions?
I see children at schools with Right-
thinking books. I see gilded furniture
and mansions built on the backs of second-
generation immigrants who are said
to be illegal. It is eighteen-ninety
again, only the rich will survive and
they will pay less and less in taxes
while citizens who need help will get
less and less help. Soon the President
will end medicine for those who need it.
Soon diamonds will fall from our sky
for those willing to bow and pick them up.
I see the sun will refuse to set and night
refuse to sleep. How could we have
become so old and seen so much kindness
fall from us like water spilling from a cup?
We once had words which could speak
for our souls and neighbors we could trust.
Our blood does still flow freely as if we
lived in the streets of a democracy and our
shared dream of harmony was not on fire
it is 1890 again
I'm just a stranger now on my way
through this divided land. I see each
of us whose freedoms the President
has sold for billions or was it trillions?
I see children at schools with Right-
thinking books. I see gilded furniture
and mansions built on the backs of second-
generation immigrants who are said
to be illegal. It is eighteen-ninety
again, only the rich will survive and
they will pay less and less in taxes
while citizens who need help will get
less and less help. Soon the President
will end medicine for those who need it.
Soon diamonds will fall from our sky
for those willing to bow and pick them up.
I see the sun will refuse to set and night
refuse to sleep. How could we have
become so old and seen so much kindness
fall from us like water spilling from a cup?
We once had words which could speak
for our souls and neighbors we could trust.
Our blood does still flow freely as if we
lived in the streets of a democracy and our
shared dream of harmony was not on fire
who went
is this how it ends?
the first snow having fallen on the rock-strewn hills,
submerged boats rusting in the surf,
everything gone -- the soldiers who fought,
the weapons which were fired once then dropped in mud,
the relatives who came to shed tears over the ashen graves
then cried out to those lost that they would have vengeance,
even these words, alone in the darkness
of closed pages. If this is the end,
is no one left to begin?
they're here but they're not here,
who were they? where are they? which went to where?
who went
is this how it ends?
the first snow having fallen on the rock-strewn hills,
submerged boats rusting in the surf,
everything gone -- the soldiers who fought,
the weapons which were fired once then dropped in mud,
the relatives who came to shed tears over the ashen graves
then cried out to those lost that they would have vengeance,
even these words, alone in the darkness
of closed pages. If this is the end,
is no one left to begin?
they're here but they're not here,
who were they? where are they? which went to where?
poem in the mind of a letter
strange isn't it how every day
brings us to a place we have never been,
strange isn't it, my nearly perfect one,
how passionate we once were, almost,
I would say, like bread and cheese
which cannot bear to part and thus go
down the dark throat together. And
now it seems we have nothing other
than opposite ends of the table. O naked
and tragic/ironic silence, to see us
separate as if centuries had risen
like mountains between us. Good night,
good long night of the soul, my marvelous
eternal one, this morning will bring
a different day -- adventures, awakenings,
unbanked curves. And still strange, these
different and strange turns coming
toward us, each alive as if it was there
to uncover something hidden, growing,
and needing to be lived to be understood.
And this is what I came here to say,
it's like this always, always love, always
as if dying, as if waking, astonishingly ours
poem in the mind of a letter
strange isn't it how every day
brings us to a place we have never been,
strange isn't it, my nearly perfect one,
how passionate we once were, almost,
I would say, like bread and cheese
which cannot bear to part and thus go
down the dark throat together. And
now it seems we have nothing other
than opposite ends of the table. O naked
and tragic/ironic silence, to see us
separate as if centuries had risen
like mountains between us. Good night,
good long night of the soul, my marvelous
eternal one, this morning will bring
a different day -- adventures, awakenings,
unbanked curves. And still strange, these
different and strange turns coming
toward us, each alive as if it was there
to uncover something hidden, growing,
and needing to be lived to be understood.
And this is what I came here to say,
it's like this always, always love, always
as if dying, as if waking, astonishingly ours
today's day-to-day
connected in breath to air
connected in feet to earth
connected in eyes to object
connected in object to curve of distance
connected in body to a journey of years
connected in time to times of change,
in life to recurring death, in
death to space of endless, in
space of endless reach the mind of endless,
oh, and along the American and the Appian Way
don't forget hard work and clean water,
each dollar taken in, each paid out,
holding to family and to strength between friends,
holding also to Mary and to Jesus in the manger.
And if tomorrow is your chosen day
to meet the sky God above his high altar,
and your shoes are getting heavy,
be ready to depart tonight. This day
is already too short to be finished
and too long to be accurately remembered
which leads us to endless revisions
within endless beginnings, endless endings
today's day-to-day
connected in breath to air
connected in feet to earth
connected in eyes to object
connected in object to curve of distance
connected in body to a journey of years
connected in time to times of change,
in life to recurring death, in
death to space of endless, in
space of endless reach the mind of endless,
oh, and along the American and the Appian Way
don't forget hard work and clean water,
each dollar taken in, each paid out,
holding to family and to strength between friends,
holding also to Mary and to Jesus in the manger.
And if tomorrow is your chosen day
to meet the sky God above his high altar,
and your shoes are getting heavy,
be ready to depart tonight. This day
is already too short to be finished
and too long to be accurately remembered
which leads us to endless revisions
within endless beginnings, endless endings
Chet Baker played in 3/4
that's almost always the way it is,if
it is love you thought you wanted you
must give up art, and if art is your truth
you will have to give up, what was it again?,
that ever-old, still-new, completely-alive,
house of its own called love. One thing
at one time in this world of arriving days
following onto nights which seem larger
because their insides have fallen out. Like
Chet Baker on heroin when his insides
had fallen all the way out, never to return,
not even in Europe. He was there and he
was here, he never left, it only seemed
he was gone and his sidemen with him.
None of them left, it only seemed as if
they were gone, that is our sometime friend
herion-- present here but not so that
you'd see it. Their night remains nights
of jazz, it was the fullest passion each of them
sought. And if you ask I will say yes
to the search for harmony in this life.
That will be about the time that you are
writing songs about love and we are both
remembering what it was like to be young
and feeling the full range of universal notes
Chet Baker played in 3/4
that's almost always the way it is,if
it is love you thought you wanted you
must give up art, and if art is your truth
you will have to give up, what was it again?,
that ever-old, still-new, completely-alive,
house of its own called love. One thing
at one time in this world of arriving days
following onto nights which seem larger
because their insides have fallen out. Like
Chet Baker on heroin when his insides
had fallen all the way out, never to return,
not even in Europe. He was there and he
was here, he never left, it only seemed
he was gone and his sidemen with him.
None of them left, it only seemed as if
they were gone, that is our sometime friend
herion-- present here but not so that
you'd see it. Their night remains nights
of jazz, it was the fullest passion each of them
sought. And if you ask I will say yes
to the search for harmony in this life.
That will be about the time that you are
writing songs about love and we are both
remembering what it was like to be young
and feeling the full range of universal notes
from a standing train in spring
continuing on the other side of origin
the silence of iron wheels resting
on iron rails, green hears itself
speaking to black through the long
arms of night, snow is now rain,
clouds call forward to spring, lights
one by one appear beyond the sky,
the mottled moon of light rises
from a standing train in spring
continuing on the other side of origin
the silence of iron wheels resting
on iron rails, green hears itself
speaking to black through the long
arms of night, snow is now rain,
clouds call forward to spring, lights
one by one appear beyond the sky,
the mottled moon of light rises
The Trinquetaille Bridge
in memoriam Vincent Van Gogh
seeing the water dark as it ran beside
and was darker than the quay, and seeing
the iron stairs also dark as they rose
from the quay to the bridge above,
and the bridge moving across the canvas
in colors only one or at most two
shades darker, the whole of it became
an image of a mind finding order.
No despair, no hint of a break, and not
even he knew how madness came,
and not the paint, nor the brushes, nor
his brother either. Was it the weight
of being alone -- color the one bright
place before the iron filings of absinthe
took him into pools of forgetting.
He pulled the blankets close -- no air,
no room for a second person. If you
would be one who enters not-yet-
seen colors, not-yet-known forms, leave
a part of you on a remembered shore
The Trinquetaille Bridge
in memoriam Vincent Van Gogh
seeing the water dark as it ran beside
and was darker than the quay, and seeing
the iron stairs also dark as they rose
from the quay to the bridge above,
and the bridge moving across the canvas
in colors only one or at most two
shades darker, the whole of it became
an image of a mind finding order.
No despair, no hint of a break, and not
even he knew how madness came,
and not the paint, nor the brushes, nor
his brother either. Was it the weight
of being alone -- color the one bright
place before the iron filings of absinthe
took him into pools of forgetting.
He pulled the blankets close -- no air,
no room for a second person. If you
would be one who enters not-yet-
seen colors, not-yet-known forms, leave
a part of you on a remembered shore
The Trinquetaille Bridge
in memoriam Vincent Van Gogh
seeing the water dark as it ran beside
and was darker than the quay, and seeing
the iron stairs also dark as they rose
from the quay to the bridge above,
and the bridge moving across the canvas
in colors only one or at most two
shades darker, the whole of it became
an image of a mind finding order.
No despair, no hint of a break, and not
even he knew how madness came,
and not the paint, nor the brushes, nor
his brother either. Was it the weight
of being alone -- color the one bright
place before the iron filings of absinthe
took him into pools of forgetting.
He pulled the blankets close -- no air,
no room for a second person. If you
would be one who enters not-yet-
seen colors, not-yet-known forms, leave
a part of you on a remembered shore
the words in Vincent’s painted pictures
winter, darkness, he waits
in shrouded light for
southern light -- old shoes,
almost broken, brought close
from within layers of paint
a first field entered, dead
sunflowers sketched one by one
you should paint me, she said,
maybe I would live on forever.
I could make you younger, he said.
no, she said, it wouldn’t be fair
when facing a flat landscape
I see nothing but eternity
I paint with all my strengths
and my many faults -- there is
much destruction and much failure
at the door of a picture
trees, rock, space, people,
each of them speaking in my eye
I feel lost without a landscape,
when I look at a living thing
I see the life alive in it
If I begin to weaken
I look at a bush
or the branch of a fig tree, each
has the right amount of leaves,
not one more, not one less
she would ask me, are you hungry,
would you like something to eat,
some bread, some sheep’s cheese
I don’t need to invent a picture,
each tree and every face
are becoming mine
the words in Vincent’s painted pictures
winter, darkness, he waits
in shrouded light for
southern light -- old shoes,
almost broken, brought close
from within layers of paint
a first field entered, dead
sunflowers sketched one by one
you should paint me, she said,
maybe I would live on forever.
I could make you younger, he said.
no, she said, it wouldn’t be fair
when facing a flat landscape
I see nothing but eternity
I paint with all my strengths
and my many faults -- there is
much destruction and much failure
at the door of a picture
trees, rock, space, people,
each of them speaking in my eye
I feel lost without a landscape,
when I look at a living thing
I see the life alive in it
If I begin to weaken
I look at a bush
or the branch of a fig tree, each
has the right amount of leaves,
not one more, not one less
she would ask me, are you hungry,
would you like something to eat,
some bread, some sheep’s cheese
I don’t need to invent a picture,
each tree and every face
are becoming mine
the words in Vincent’s painted pictures
winter, darkness, he waits
in shrouded light for
southern light -- old shoes,
almost broken, brought close
from within layers of paint
a first field entered, dead
sunflowers sketched one by one
you should paint me, she said,
maybe I would live on forever.
I could make you younger, he said.
no, she said, it wouldn’t be fair
when facing a flat landscape
I see nothing but eternity
I paint with all my strengths
and my many faults -- there is
much destruction and much failure
at the door of a picture
trees, rock, space, people,
each of them speaking in my eye
I feel lost without a landscape,
when I look at a living thing
I see the life alive in it
If I begin to weaken
I look at a bush
or the branch of a fig tree, each
has the right amount of leaves,
not one more, not one less
she would ask me, are you hungry,
would you like something to eat,
some bread, some sheep’s cheese
I don’t need to invent a picture,
each tree and every face
are becoming mine
before, during and sometimes after
before, during and sometimes after
now turn the light off in the attic
of imagining where mice are running
past pursued by a cat promoting
the sharpness of claws. Thereafter
there will be many doors behind which
a moon-driven sea sleeps, those are
the moments when you wake in the bed
where night owns your feet and your mind
and the unrepentant sun finally arrives
to join the trumpet sounds of a raging
rogue elephant as he thunders through trees
calling out the sums of last night's data