impressionist calender, 2012

I will be the only face here today
the painting is of course a portrait
I will sit patiently in my kitchen
remembering the colors of the distant day
the strokes of movement conversational
disappearing still there are these features
those cannons could be nostrils those
great horned orchids could be ears
the tongue is paused in flight
the lanterns show only the mirror
in the pantry these regular memories
adding up into an image surprisingly
coherent but still a face not on a dollar
bill nor on a mountainside nor even
on a magazine I remember when Keith
Kelley was distraught he was too old
to win Yale Young Poets pushing past
forty hankering for his little piece of
the great vine and me
and me and who I thought it was
I might be long past forty long
shadowed by the errors the wrinkled
visage of the garden dying slowly as
autumn segues nicely into that cold
winter

Grey Goose in Maine

well vodka sometimes devastates
the self in its blind desires it was vodka
that stuck me with becky mcg august
1969 and it was good vodka the goose
that lost my trust in another old friend
from those same days who himself once lived
with becky, after she had thrown me out
on valentine's day 1973

if you can't trust your friends to tell you
when you have fucked up then who can you
trust... assuming they aren't actually
protecting their self. there's the rub of course
when your friend is a small planet concerned
with its course in a small universe it becomes
difficult to discern what might have been
the heart of his fearful words

in any case it doesn't change who I end up
being, an old writer with some boxes of other
people's words even a manuscript from
that old friend the saddest aspect of this
and every day is the recognition that having
gone out of my way to protect my friends
and not reveal some things it turns out
at heart I am not trusted and I suppose
I shouldn't be in a way this understanding
of what he said frees me now I don't feel
that compunction in what I say or write

I'll move onto that desolate mountain
and be an angel changing only the outward
names and using the characters from my
time in any useful way to discover what
truth I can finally find in their lives
Rosie did it and though she hurt me
I didn't complain and Becky Bradway
certainly has done it to me and many others
why have I even striven to be careful of
everyone else with perhaps the exception
of that blonde criminal who practices
law in las vegas these days?

abandoned and bitterly attacked even
by those you have protected and loved
it frees me now it shows me the way
there always was a reason to keep
those boxes of paper in the basement
now perhaps I have become tasked
with finding that needle in X's
haystack that divine whispering in
Sandra's lost manuscript that defeated
whimper in Adkin's satire and even
the shuffling fear of mortality that
Ross liked to wear like a cape through
the many days now I think I can
truly accuse Becky of having fucked
Kevin Stein if only in her own mind
now I can tell the world my many
embarrassments the level of play
in my sexuality dominated by the roman
church and various gothic principles

censored content
who couldn't see through that disguise?

the day opens up
I still have Janne's letters
though copies
I sent her back the originals
in 99. She has said nothing
to me now for twenty years
except for yelling at my old
poems in 2009

I don't give a rat's ass about that anymore
I changed her name and put them out anyway
she snorted a lot of cocaine in her prime
she slept with a lot of people and betrayed
pretty much every man she was ever with
but the worst thing she ever did
was abandon her own talent
she probably thought she was neil cassady
but now she's shirley jones in a suit
taking pictures of the judge's shenanigans
under the table (don't take my word
for it; it's in newspaper stories on the web)

well, Alison, I guess we'll see
if my aim is true. And thanks X
for destroying my good intentions.
That won't happen again,
not in this life.

Adieu dear friends, or anyone who wandered through these notes.

today, September 6

the candle in the small bathroom
behind the wooden sliding door
remembers its brief heroic role
in the last power outage the vision
of the bottom rung still sounding
in the lengthy archive of this not
so gracious tumblr this slow
agonizing in the flickering shadow
of the next tragedy the next loss
outside the window the birds
mate and strategize the squirrels
contend for the same forage
in the darkening room the man
types similar lists and notes the
box of matches on the shelf
in the basement the sump pump
marks its task with a clump and
sudden song the hours recreate
this life like any other
where is the flame this morning?
where is the man's desire?
the world is a constant song
das lied von der erde he hears
and sees the small moments
all bearing grace he holds his
heart apparent wondering what
could be next he trusts the
woman in the wings for She
is fair to all Her children even
him