Disperse In Reverse

Nostalgic for the present-time.
Strangely, this very moment,
washed-out color,
light and dark, blare and eclipse
beyond recognition,
symptomatic of neglect.
It is a remnant self
in remnant surroundings,
the rest having taken flight
or succumbed to the tug
and allure of place-names
that seem greater than my own,
or to the tectonic grind
between agoraphobic spaces
and claustrophobic confines.

Retrieve the scatter, call it home.

Keene

Hurry, you may miss

the train.

You hate to wait

among passengers

and be reminded you

are one, must yet be.

You toss your smoke to the street.

You forgot to gather up the things

that fill suitcases on this platform

on every platform—

I dig from your jeans

a lighter, a slim wallet, not even a receipt

Of the shadows you reconcile against the real things—

bourbon, bottles, the secrets of your genes

tossed to the laundry with the boxers you wore,

called clean.

Your life is an unseen to you

as mine is to me—

I held you just the same.

I know that

from moving

windows for miles

you steel yourself to

solace, steal

a fleeting peace

to pour on your

parched, restless lips,

to summon the night

and your distant dreams.

Untitled, November 2011

Touch Sleeping (Austin, Texas 2011)

The world will die from a tired men,
walking through time, proving this to them.

Love is man's creation, and worth it
at moments--left breathless,
by laughter turned tears,
by this bed I've shared with you, ten plus years,
by your smell at all times of day,
but especially when at night, sleeping,
and I keep my hands on you.

Redemption is born in these moments of love.

fish in the water

-->

Night on the river, they sing,

burro in the shadow, waiting,

Mesa de Anguilla,

a cold wind,

a firelight,

woodsmoke on the air above,

candleflame on the plain below.

Night on the sea, they sing,

lap the hull, water, homeward bobbing,

Bahia Concepcion crystalline and hot,

jaunty octopus butcher,

drunk on mescal,

lanterns glowing at the bow—

a torchlight procession.

Black widows in the palapa.

Scorpion in the tent.

In both cases the water.

In both cases the water.

Nature, or the house

The hearts of men are witches' hearts,
lost,
grasping for a metaphysics
that long ago abandoned them.

List Of Things To Do, Saturday 10/29/11

1. Hear the early morning alarm, pre-dawn.
2. Wander the house, groggy-eyed, gathering travel items.
3. Drive to the airport, drop off wife and child.
4. Drive across town and back to Dripping Springs.
5. Go to the grocery store, acquire provisions.
6. Fill up the gas tank and withdraw cash from the ATM.
7. See the auburn sunlight pouring in from the East, coming to rest on the gritty rear-windshield and rear-view mirrors.
8. Drive past Johnson City. Monitor the slight rise and fall of morning low temperatures, from 40F to 38F to 34F and back.
9. See the frost in low-laying pastures.
10. Drive through Fredericksburg and enjoy the absence of traffic.
11. See the morning light on young undulating live oaks.
12. Note the calmness of Harper on a Saturday morning and wonder what it's like to reside in Harper on a Saturday morning.
13. Pull onto a country road and relieve myself on a thicket of aguarita growing along a barbed-wire fence.
14. Glide along 290 as it hands itself off to I-10, a single cell travelling from vein to artery.
15. Hear the hum of wheels and engine at 80 mph.
16. See the live oaks taper, see the prominent ashe juniper, rusty with drought.
17. See the flashing light of the state trooper and engage in a brief argument about my use of cruise control and the impossibility of my exceeding the speed limit.
18. Receive a warning ticket.
19. Stop at a rest area and watch a weary Mexican woman work a mop over grimy tiles.
20. Enjoy the small victory of clearing the towns of Sonora and Ozona.
21. See the hills give way to small mesas, then to buttes and larger mesas dotted with wind turbines.
22. Gas and coffee up in Fort Stockton. Return Chris May's phone call while standing at the pump.
23. Jump from artery to vein again and see the Trans-Pecos ahead.
24. Listen to Symbols in the Architecture by History At Our Disposal while ascending into Alpine.
25. See the jagged caldera between Alpine and Marfa.
26. Quickly glance from the highway to the angular Oligocene leftover, asphalt to rhyolite, asphalt to rhyolite.
27. Pull into Marfa with urgency and spend too much time in a gas station restroom, doing my business while men come and go in groups, laughing and cajoling one another in spanish or spanglish.
28. Drive down the descending highway, from grassland to mountain foothills.
29. See the highway give way to dirt and gravel. Vein to capillary.
30. See the Chisos loom high to my left while the car shudders over the washboard road.
31. Cross several dry creek beds while wishing the car had higher clearance as it grinds its underside against stone.
32. Take pause to admire the view from several different points. Take it in like medicine.
33. Arrive at the turn-off and make a couple more nervous crossings across dry creek beds.
34. Arrive at the hot springs and walk into the office.
35. Receive a tour of the place. Find the woman giving the tour to be astonishingly attractive for someone two decades my senior.
35. Unload belongings into a lovely adobe cabin.
36. Change into swimsuit.
37. Soak in warm spring water and take delight in the afternoon sunlight against cottonwood leaves.
38. Converse with fascinating strangers from Alaska and Oregon.
39. Witness the setting sun and the onset of stars.
40. Wonder when I will take extended residence in the desert again.

The Saddest Words, Austin, TX 2010

The saddest words,
you wrote them . I imagine a wrinkled hand
aged with arthritis, as mine will be,
still writing,
of regrets and skins you touched and loved.
We sit sometimes in the moonlight,
remember the days past our wedding,
the evening sun at midnight, waking
us from sleep,
the heat
of Mexico.
The saddest words.
The moon rose yellow and we loved
as much as we could find,
each town, every face, the nights and days,
the saddest words.

The Same Day

Christmas, Long Island, NY (2010)

What--
but the words escape me.
Oh poetry, and winter night.
The Christmas lights like memory,
the thrill of once, of hope.
In the sky, the stars, the same stars.
In the air, the smell, the same smell.
In my life, the day, the same day.
Yet, what--
it all escapes me,
this empty,
to find me old, without--
The snow falls for days and we waste
our time.

Words to Songs Recorded In Argyle, TX 8/13-14/2011

1.
Before all is said and done
Don't forget to call the dogs
and piss on the fire

Make amends, call your lovers,
call your friends. The curtain's closing.
Mend the fray.

2.
Fair weatherer
on the sidelines of my erring
this view is curious
fair weatherer, don't stray

too much for casual conversation
do I tread the road unsoundly?
You've every opportunity
to leave me where you never found me, so...

leave me where you never found me
no, don't leave

Fair weatherer
given to your brief amusement
but when amusement gets to wearing thin
you turn around and walk away, again

to leave me where you never found me
leave me where you never found me
just leave
no, don't leave.

3.
Innocent bystander
sink me from the deep end
save me from my last breath
lay me in the light
nurse me back to function
feed me what you've gathered
keep me in your wishes
and send me off to fight.

4.
Send me back from where I came
dying rock and brittlebush
like arid wind from kitchen oven
lazy, hostile dusk 'till dawn
never thought I'd see the day
from air too thick to work our brains
send me back from where I came
down the dime and West awhile
light like familiar song
burning off that crowded verdance...
What could possibly go wrong?

5.
No more Goodtime Charlie,
we squeeze the blood from stone.
Do you suppose, by chance,
we overstayed the dance?
We overstayed our welcome here?

To hand ourselves to our demons
to bathe in lard and poison
each wavering desire
is fuel to stoke the furnace
fuel to burn ourselves.

Let's burn ourselves, here.

Colorado Desert, Southern California (2004)

Brown barren highway like a ruler stretched across this empty dust,
we drive fast.

Windows open,
air tunnels through our hair and necks.
Brown fingers hold the wheel.
I heave breaths into the desert, hoping to participate.
There's more life here than you think.

If we were alone, lonely desert,
drifting.

I Pushed Through A Long, Narrow Street

I push through a long, narrow street.
Several houses have garage doors open.
All of the men in those garages look the same.

Disregard.

I walk down a main thoroughfare.
A large truck barrells past
and leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Disregard.

I sink my eyes into uniform lights,
as far as my vision will allow.
Above me, a timeless wink.

Disregard.

I cut paths, as guided by others,
but all paths are contained.
I want out.

Phoenix AZ 1991

Drab Of Early Morning Light

Drab of early morning light
before the sun comes bursting
from behind refineries and freeways.

It has been filtered, tenfold
before passing through these dusty windows
and smudged eye glasses,

and yet we both perservere.

Alvin TX 2003

Younger Days

Younger days, o' young days-
bits apart, scramble, find a partner,
self-assemble, self-destruct
(broken clock tries to fix itself).

Random seasons scrambled on Sonora
analyze, things were so acute
looking for a fix, a mechanic,
oh, how things seemed manic...

But couldn't hold a candle
to what was to come.

Flagstaff AZ 1994

Here In The Strata

For one, for all
to count and consider
to discuss the elements
lulls and extremities
where and where not
to whom and what for
at which time.

Did you notice something
above and beyond the clamor
and the range of colors
beyond weight and measure
the unfolding span
and the cycles revealed
but only just so?

The truth ever-present
in a sweep of the eye
and a crane of the neck
below, the visible foundation
mated with light
stark, absolute
giver, receptor.

(both, seething in origins and fates)

Austin TX 2005

Kerry (May 2005) New York, New York

It’s springtime outside, but I can’t see the sun, or the sky for that matter. It could be cloudy, but I know it’s clear because I looked on weather.com before taking my lunch.

I work on the 20th floor of a building with 32 floors. Even from the 20th floor we can’t see the sky. Our windows show us more windows, concrete, glass and roof top decks. I can see cars and other vehicles in the street, but not the sky.

I often wonder, “How high do I have to go just to catch a glimpse?”

There are tall buildings everywhere around me on this tiny, really small, island. We pack ourselves upwards because there’s no room to spread out. If we stood shoulder-to-shoulder I wonder could we fit?

Personal space is something you forget. It’s easy. You have none and so you forget it. I never occupy a sidewalk by myself. I ride the subway with a thousand other bodies. Sometimes I ride the subway with too many other bodies, and we sweat and breathe and stare at nothing until the train stops and we can release our tightened muscles—I’d hate to bump into another body—you really don’t know what some people might do.

You really don’t know what people are capable of doing until you pack them onto an island or a small group of islands. Until you take away the sun with buildings, and take away money from some, and give lots to others, and take away air and space and trees and nature and pack them in together. You don’t know until then what people can do.

I guess I know now and I try hard not to bump into other people’s bodies.
One time the train stopped short and a small Asian girl fell backward into a larger Asian girl. The larger girl said, “What the fuck’s your problem? Jesus!” The smaller Asian girl said, “Sorry,” and kept reading.

One time a burnt out Christian man was preaching on the train. He said, “Our women are whores, look how they dress! In Holland they have orgies and all types of sexual fests and drugs. And here we have men marrying men—how long before America ain’t so beautiful anymore? How long before you turn to Jesus and say ‘Lord help me, I’m a sinner.”

That time I wanted to say something. I made faces at the other passengers and I shook my head and I recorded the preacher on my cell phone, but I never said anything because I know what people are capable of doing.
Another time I saw a healthy man race a pregnant woman for a seat on a train.
He won.

Mostly no one talks on the subway. For so many people in one place, it’s awfully quiet. Sometimes on the elevated train, when I’m going home, people talk on their cell phones. Whenever someone starts talking, everyone watches.

There are different kinds of loud. Manhattan is a shopping mall of voices and money and taxi cabs. Brooklyn is angry rapid Spanish, bass drums, sub-woofers and loud music—sometimes it’s the ice cream truck. We seem to hear that truck day and night. One time we were in our bed at 10 or 11 in the evening and we heard it. We both looked up and smiled.

The girl upstairs wears loud feet all the time. We call her the Geisha and the Hamster because she swish-swashes in slippers, and walks all the livelong day. When we wake it’s glump-glump-glump and when we sleep it’s swish-swish-swash.

She also likes to rearrange her furniture everyday, and often she drops large objects on the floor for long periods of time. We say, “Please try to keep the noise down, we can hear everything you say and do.” She doesn’t respond, but continues moving furniture and restlessly pacing back and forth, back and forth.

We stumbled home late 4 am one time, drunken-making-pizza, heating it in our small ancient oven. 13 feet up the fire alarm pierced the morning air. He tried to break the thing or what have you with our broom, and cursed and cursed while he searched out a ladder to rip it down. I thought it was deserved but we have our other neighbors to think of.

When we come from the sun bleached desert, New York looks more ugly than usual, more ugly even than flying into Heathrow. Late morning and we haven’t slept. We press cold fingers to recently reddened skin. We feel fragile, exposed, thrust back into cold, concrete cynicism. I tell him we should make plans, maybe it will spare us the oncoming depression. He just smiles weakly.

On the subway we watch overlapping buildings, dirtied cement walls, half-naked children, sweaty men and sweaty dogs. I tell him the alleys of New York are beautiful.

In Union Square I watch the world walk by. I’m talking to my sister and watching a busty woman exposing her nipples as she hunches over, reading. And I’m watching an anorexic model, smoking on a bench, beautiful in her skeleton. And I’m watching 13-year-old boys molesting over-sexed young women. And I’m watching all the men watching me. And I’m watching hopeful couples walking their dogs, and Hispanic families marveling at the site of New York City.

And I’m watching all this and yet we’re all eclipsed by buildings and this breathing entity around us and the million other bodies around us. With so many other people around us no one stands out, and in our anonymity we disappear.

I am always on the verge of appearing, and so is she and he and he and she and he and he and she and everyone around me. And yet, I am certain that none of us are here and none of this is real, and none of this ever happened.