who am I this time

checked my ID
reaffirming this identity
simple in its deceits
my humanness always questioned
my memory occluded
come this day
the irish poet died only
74 he had a good
piece posted in the story
these pieces are still just a list
the jigsawed memories from these days
but also from that other time
or many other times
versions of the self
page after page of this shit
separated primarily by material
objects the candle burns
no specific time is checked
on the old form the dates are changed
at random anyway the various
partners paid to obfuscate
and was anyone in my life
trustworthy? was anyone of them
actually involved with me? this
fear is just another burden
who is it you think you have chosen to be?

the girl in the sand

can I work through the ancient language
be an interpreter of a lost heart?
can I see those images of the lathe turning
in the dark, revising the serried
outlines of the girl disinterred, fictive
illicit, burnt into the conscience? was
it really my work, my stark dreaming
of the menarchal child destroyed by
someone's confined understanding
in the daily day of here and then?

so I felt responsible
only for thinking it possible
and then it came true and truer
all around me the same story
repeated its details different and
varied yet the girl I met the
girl next door it happened to her
her crippled father wrecking her
very flesh not a murder
but too close to dissolution

we all struggle back from this loss
it is a version not of defeat but of
mourning
she mourned those days gone now
she mourned a different way of
loving her dad
she mourned all this yet I came along
with my story of the dead girl and
nothing was healed nothing really
changed perhaps the face of the
source of loss has been varied
varied and treated to his own loss
everything loss these many years the
girls the women the female being
murdered in nearly every part
of these thousands of days

I am savaged with self knowledge
trusting only to the attempt to live truthfully
the mourning continues doves leaving
the scene are you still out there
Miranda, the girl in the sand?

seeking truth, 2013

Looking at a map of Los Angeles, trying to figure out how to get there from here. Recognising the obvious metaphor and following it around the room..


would I know the truth
if it came up and kicked me in the shins?
would the sorrow of a stranger
only remind me of my anger
today its summer for some natural reason
the rest of nature in the usual struggle
for warmth and resources
the map doesn't represent truth
it allows for motion its features
change as they change the infrastructure
I'm pretty sure my truth is a struggle
with my vanity my innate ability
to screw things up but the question remains
would I know the truth
if it kicked me in my ass?

I asked my friends for help
but they often knew even less then me
& the ones who tried to say truthfully
framed their words like an engineer
cutting the problem down to a single vision
a blueprint of existence, taken room
by room, each truth made individual
I see the bridge collapsing here
me on it

is this ignorance perceived is it desired
am I locked in this box by a magician friend
would you return my email
have you fallen down and can you see
the suicide note left in the freezer
so many failures of the man
taking the wrong road the battered highway
walking into the wrong room loving
the lost boy holding out hope to the anonymous

not to say I won't keep looking
perhaps that is the only truth available
in this indeterminate state someone
thank heisenberg for me perhaps the truth
is in an unopened box and we are meant
to never know it for sure
it's not exactly a joke more like a grace
given to us by the Great Lady

First Valedictory, 2013

Can I mark these notes and find something valuable, or useful in them?
The self attenuates, age, the failures, the friend who wrote me off.
My response to this fact, to this ending of things, is not exactly abandonment
More a defeated desire for a  nap that never ends or another bourbon
          on the rocks.
Nobody will help me now. Nothing will come will come into focus.
What I get for thinking the world is interested in me. It just isn't.
I did nothing. I said nothing useful. Those I thought cared for me
         often didn't.
Now my bleeding is silent and there's no reason for this blog. No one
has been here for months except google's robots and myself.
The notes are only valuable as flawed history, and not mine.
People come for Amezquita, and Steve Dolgin. I took Janne's
         name out.
 And of course the Garys were never really here, none of them.
My family abandoned me long ago. Perhaps that was predictable.
My mother meant well but was an awful power freak. Really
I don't miss those people at all now. A sad truth
        waiting to be disturbed.
Maybe there will be more to this. I don't know now.
Goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye. That's for
Phil Ochs, he said No More Songs. At least he had
a reason, even if he was utterly betrayed by Dylan
       I sympathize.

the sequester beckons

the seraphim are quiet this afternoon
you were so very distant
yet no one seemed to disagree
the double helix is a poem
or a spell that much seems clear
on the far edge of notoriety
the remnants of this life repeat
their living and their death

so X you've disappeared again
unable to cope with anything but
the syncophantic expenditure
of energy that usually characterizes
my relationships you've gone away
left the building
not even calling from that phone booth in
the midwest not even remembering
how this all proceeds

why is it that I am responsible
for all communication? None of my friends
write me first. I write all of them. None
of them offer me their words, their lives,
their meaningful synthesis. It's all reduced now
to a few drifty fragments in an email;
we've left that world behind the world
where there was struggle for meaning
and sometimes truth now we just look over
our shoulders for that final confrontation
with the biological norm

the old guy poet still lumbers around
I got a note in Facebook from Steve Dolgin
where he sounds just like Knoepf, "old man"
and all that crap. Do we just turn into
frightening ciphers of ourselves
living not a verse but a chorus?
same song same song, lou reed's berlin
there's a scorcher of a sad tale probably
not true but doesn't really matter it still
reminds me of hanrahan her embracing
the dark and cynical like so many other
catholic girls they like that abusive sex

so Captain America circles the earth
in his tasteful trousers very trendy and some
comfortable shoes from an old hippie's store
he's maria montessori's golden boy though he is
neither golden nor boy these days that's okay
someone has to make a living it's not like
I'm doing anything worthwhile

in the armor most of my friends are starting
to question the length of days. Understandable
people are disappearing, online, in my heart,
taken to the earth, the sky, the very air. Does
Pat exist beyond those words that John Knoll
published? Her daughter's children echoing
that faint memory that was their grandmother

She's in my head, as is Sandy R., and certainly
so many of the scenes along the way

well, today there is nothing to report
in an hour my child will be out of school
and I will be wondering if the mail has come
nowadays it is just bills and fliers not like
the 70s and 80s when people wrote me
8 and 10 page letters speaking of their lives,
their thoughts, their current understandings
gone away now left in the boxes in the basement
that X is so worried about

what he doesn't understand is this:
pretty much nobody is interested in his life
getting people's attention is actually pretty
difficult sure he's the expert in his field
and he probably knows what he is talking about
but his actual life has little interest for anyone else
who he slept with and how many times
what happened in his marriage
wherever the hell he is
self important and still the
center of his own universe
but utterly charming and careful
and completely defensed
he even took me out of the picture
afraid of those boxes in my basement

I must be missing something
really
there is just nothing that interesting in what
I know of the man certainly nothing beyond
what I know of myself

well, like so many
he has that desperate need
to be right
not really a questioner
too many things might live in the answer

and who am I then?
I ask the angels every day
the helix turns in the widening gyre
I'm full of a passionate intensity
but it just makes me question
the story thus far
X of course would edit it heavily
that's what he did
 

Son of the Oak Tree

we were all
making something out of nothing
another babylonian god or goddess
in a golden shawl worshipped
from afar or right up next to you

the charmed life
is still led the fragrant hours
still consumed will I
ever admit the real story?

what was the woman's name?
ishtar in this encircling not an
enemy nor friend someone
in whom could reside the pregnancy
of an explanation

against the coloring tempest
that is deep space (as opposed to
shallow earth) the vast starfields
represent more beings then have
ever been conscious on this
certain rock

is She a queen, an understanding,
a way forward? is life its own process
the return and the returner my son
in my mind's explanation his daughters
my own understanding of subatomic
syntax Hey in this case

mine own, She is a queen
the queen that walks the forest
the mother of the trees and I
myself am the Son of the Oak
I know this because my 9 year old
wrote it on her placemat
about her father

something to be known then

still naked in the day

for Sandra P. Riseman, 1949-2012

 Your fate is in an armoire disguising
the dress to be worn post rapture
your fondness for the kitten is
duly noted the increase of her days to be
spent clawing the furniture the armoire
has scratches on its 18th century feet

somewhere in the deepness of this
celluloid cavern is a cassette of you
reading that scene in Sara Sara Jane
where the freaks from Scarritt pick you
up and you hear those desperate jokes
we wore like hats in them days

I admit I am a little afraid
to look in the armoire and see the
tuxedo I shall be wearing when we
share that dance beyond
I took your chapbook down
last night and walked those narrow
lanes again remembering how badly

you played bridge that time
Jake and Joel beat you and Cheryl
when they were kids and that time 
you and Cheryl went to see
the guy who published Uzzano
and shared some serious "sisterhood"

the days are nights and the nights
are curtains hanging now beside
your armoire its beautiful polished
surface with bright brass fixtures
waiting for the opening now

now it is you, waiting for me
dancing in the garden my memory
the memory of trees the leaves
falling now the fall has come

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

memory & remorse

I told my wife I would never say anything
that could be interpreted as self pity. I wonder
if that is possible. First thing to go would be
these poems, this entire site. I'd need to chop
it off whole, like amputating a limb. Most
of these pieces ache with my recognition of
loss and failure. Was that the reason for their
construction? Was I building an edifice
to signify the ego's need, even in the final
sum of days? I told her this last evening, this
grand gesture, meant to say I won't hurt you
and of course she apologized to me after that
but I said you only said it because it is true
and one thing about my wife she doesn't
make things up or twist another person's words
to score points in the battle. that was my last
wife the one who I was lucky enough she left me
and my self pity. And it is true, I've enough
sad feelings for this life I've led that I really
don't need any outside sympathy. I can stew
on my own, in my own words. I can review
the days, like making an examination of conscience
which I did daily when I was in catholic grade
school. It is those hard questions most of us
ignore until too late. Hubris is the one real flaw
that ego weilds as its main weapon. All those
other mild forms of moral lapse are really hubris
at heart. Particularly greed and the use of power.
and truth is I am as infected by a normal ego
as anyone else on this rock

the mistake of 2000

frankly the noise is intolerable in here
and its not just my tinnitus framing the anger
that flares now there are too many of us
overwhelmed with our greed our need to be right
we tell whatever lies are necessary to achieve
the power and wealth we believe marks success
this scouring high whine is ignored
by famous republicans it is only a sour note
to those democrats who have cast their lines
from the boats circled solely for next quarters
numbers all of them are now dragging the vessel
into the sinkhole stinking of ego and desire
they tell us to fear the world that can exist free
of these motivations the libertarians quack like
insane mallards ready to fly off by themselves
away from the noise away from the great ocean


you trashed us man
with your goofy grin and your stupid plans
your need to stick it to your daddy
you trashed us and left the party in shambles
you got that girl her abortion but us
you just left us here to struggle in the net
the noise is in your ear too
you will hear it ever more clearly
as your end nears
your father he jumps out of planes
but you hide in the texas brush
part of you knows
what is going to happen now
part of you understands
it really is your fault

but we all helped you out
including that saudi punk kid
it is interesting to me how often
the rich kids like diana oughton
and osama bin laden get a bug
in their brains about fixing
the world for other people

and we gave the man our utter trust
but he was always a fuckup and a loser
and now we find ourselves circling
the drain and the guy at the top
gets no help no respect from those
who imagine their desire will make
things better

like a shredded blanket in a music box
the melody of disaster plays
every tuesday they run the test
too late too late I want to tell them
the world is hot now
the animals falling asleep
the treewives disappearing

somewhere there's a one liner
for this situation

perhaps that line about ending
with a whimper

I see the people in their shelters
starving now wondering what happened