LATE SUMMER POEMS 2008

I know that over there,
by the far bank,
under the overhanging trees
the river will be running black
its thick skin pierced by rain,
each puncture makes a milky
rim, and over here, where I
stand, on the side I walk on,
the river will be flowing white
under the clouded sky its skin
gleaming, its wounds arked
by dark ripples, and nothing
crosses from here to there,
though I also know that round
the bend before me
someone is killing time.

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This can not be addressed directly
there needs to be intercession
a careful approach, respectful
waiting, maybe gifts, we should
stay back, feed the altar fire with
twigs, not hurl our own bodies
to break on its marble slab,
nor open our veins to tempt
it with the smell of blood.

—————————————-

Now my skin is asleep
and the air around it is hazy
the motion is to retreat
inwards, to sink back, but

I look out, when my eyes
send beams to touch the
outer world, they change
me by connection, the
rays bounce on walls
and objects they recreate
me in space, are a radar
that tells me where I am.
When my gaze is put
outside, rather than
drawn or taken, the being
within remains aware,
the being remains within.

But some things drag
my being from me,
the screen sucks awareness
into it, I am fused with it and
then gone, my gaze powerless
finding no limit, no stopping
place in the light, I need to
see the frame and beyond
it the green of my table top,
see the whole computer
with my hands crabbing
across the keys, my wrists
disappearing into my
sleeves that waft like
seaweed, I need to contain
the whole machine in my
field of vision, this way
I stay connected not
consumed.

Sometimes it seems as though
the entire world seeks my eyes
so it can suckle on them.

There are sensations of bubbling
and sharp squirting

—————————————-

Sometimes I see myself, as I am,
walking along the alley stuck
with a thousand delicate thorns
bristling from my body like fine
hair, I am applying tweezers
but they are ineffective, the
thorns re-enter, and around me
there is only a limited zone
in which the air pressure does
not push them further into my
body. These microscopic sleights
from years ago consume me like
predatory emotional bacteria
and will never leave me while I
am willing to exude the sweet
sap we both feed on.

—————————————-

hooting
like owls,
squeaking
like mice, they
manifest at dusk,
separated forms of air
and food vibrating need
and effort, but elsewhere
the body and the self are
one, doing and being are
effortless, but, before
and after that, they
manifest at dusk
like owls
hooting,
like mice
squeaking

—————————————-

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