poemscommunity

About a night

A night filling
outside the kitchen window
While the street is all empty
And the pup
that was yowling in the night
Has died upon the pavement

The automatic sound
Of the cycle
Spinning water
In my mother’s room
Slept a silent transition
And there came an awful silence
Inside my heart

The lights have gone off.

Campfire

The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

yet
I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 








The Agent

As you turn-twist
you realize your own automaton
and that,
many things were never voluntary.

This is not to pan-flip
the age old egg of free will,
This is a war

against
the time travel agent sitting inside your head
who thinks,
and very well apprehends
your blouses, suits and cardigans
your armors and knee-tights


It is a printing press
It presses before there was an apprehension of a button
and out comes the news,
the rumor based truth.





Exile

 There was a curve in the road
 Where I left you
 And then I suddenly became aware
 Of the public space floor;
 It was a desolate throat without water,
 It was blackened 
 At the same spot
 Every day
  
 By a man who differed with his left foot
 Or the woman whose trolley car had canines,
 I waited and absorbed the floor
 Like a sad old mop. 
  
 And the limbo before the sunset
 Did not itch the back of a woman
 Sprawled in the irony
 Of white sheets
 On the floor
 Without a mattress
 Without a cushion,
 Waiting to exile the land the next day,
 Sleeping on an airport.
  
 At that time,
 I felt as if I had forgotten to pick up my keys
 I walked as if weeded out 
 Mismatched
 Letting go of rubber bands
 Handbags, violins,
 Wondering to myself
 How odd it was to be alone
 With one’s own mind.
   

On abiding the seasons

I.
I remember the cold in my body
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

There was daze in the eyes of the sky,
it had blunted its own vision
and melted down the buildings off their roads.

I was in the white room
they had barred the windows
and I could not tell the knock.

There was that life-explaining roar of the wind,
may be,
they did not let me listen.

II.

I remember the cold in my body
in the pit of my heart,
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

The August was grey
and hinted an October,
but they had opened their obedient mouths
and smelled the plastic lilies.

Their colors were gay,
and not like a hermit’s hut’s kitchen;
they persisted
and those who couldn’t,

they left behind.