written

There is too much going on right now. I can't focus on any one thing, because there are approximately a dozen things going on.

I don't remember what happened the last three years, or I remember it too well, I'm too close to it right now. The world and its habit of sneaking up on me. The decisions I will have to make soon, and whose consequences I will have to live with. The implications in our conversations, which I like. There is very little agency here, mostly just swimming with the current, hoping to make minor adjustments.

Maybe in this light, I look about four years younger than in this picture, or this mirror. Serious talks that we have had; sometimes I am proud of how serious we are capable of being. This may not be cause for celebration, eventually. Sometimes I can get deep into a subject, and forget what was bothering me. Sometimes, the light comes through, and the realization dawns that there was nothing to worry about all along. It goes dark again, but what if everything was OK, light, no sorrows?

This place is so comfortable. Will I be able to live in discomfort? Couldn't we settle down, be old together. Pen and ink, early retirement, happiness and fulfillment of all these designs and schemes.

The hard part comes next.

I guess this new fare hike means that I'll ride my bike

Aspirational Marketing

Goal:

blue leather,

back of a

chauffeured town car

to the salon

Christophe does your bangs

for a [who's counting] grand

or two

Here:

blue leather,

back of a

commuter train seat dilapidated

Girls on their way

to nothing jobs

try to dress the part

doing hair in vaguely oily

mirrored window sheen

in love with love and lousy poetry

Opening Ceremony

Isn't it funny, what you notice?
Her hair falls around her face, short,
not too much cared for.
Skin, in this light, is scarred with blotchy teenage battle-wounds.

Eyes with a magic laugh in them,
that she does not bother to guard from view.
Doesn't shy from looking at you
Doesn't need anything from me, but wants my attention

Full of life,
full of knowing everything
You anticipate her presence in every moment:
She's there,
where she wasn't before

hurry, hurry, hurry, before i go insane

toe-stepping

uncomprehending streetlights
looked askance at a dim,
hazy talk about nothing really [don't you just tend to agree with people]

we three blanketing someone else's car
philosophical after half-a-bottle [only]

she burned me with a cigarette,
And I didn't even notice she was there.

en briques

Koller/Saroyan

Maniac is me
want it now
and perfect
like bricks
one
on top of the
other.

the mason's plight,
ours too:
No thanks
for making what is perfect.
Does his job too well,
dies unhallowed.

intricate machinery of mortar
all that's left
to put to our faceless names

welcome to the working week

Aware

Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze,
Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so
Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze
See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know
I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart;
I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.

-D.H. Lawrence

Mediocre poetry, part who knows of many

Lines in the sand,

Lines for the T

Heavy screeches on the tracks between here and points west:

Newton Lower Falls, Coolidge Corner.

Where are you tonight?

Do you sleep?

Do you dream of Waban, Woodland, Maverick?

I am in all of them,

Waiting for your train to arrive

looking for you

Gangway for foot cycle!

The value of good conversation. Letting go of anger. Giving thanks for blessings. The value of love. Spring and all. Acceleration. Good comedy. Walking for hours on end. Talking and talking and talking. Old friends who come back. Beauty everywhere, beauty mixed with sadness, but so much beauty.

Don't be angry. Don't be sad. We're almost there.

Driving at night on empty roads full of life, singing at the top of your lungs. Burning up inside to see you sometimes.

What a life

semi-tongue-in-cheek

They line up for

McDonald's.

They crave a drink of

Grease.

They crave a glance at their

Death:

The 400-pounder unloaded
from a bench seat by the paramedics.

ditto

He gathered the strength
in his hulking legs
High-school athlete, Saturday star
all triceps and sinew
he prepared for the moment of glory

Muscles tensed, gaze fixed on his object,
He grasped the carton and slung it heavily into the delivery truck

I can only write poems on trains

Things that run and roll
Trains, balls, coins,
Coil around the loop in the tracks,
Fall gracefully through a suspended ring,
Score a point

Help me rush, rush to God-knows-where
Let me see in you things that aren't there
I love you

Haiku pour vous

Magazines here, there

Haphazard piles cresting now

See them all topple!

silly poems are my middle name

The floating yellow apparitions

in the black

Are windows.

Not windows on the darkness in

my soul,

but windows on North Shore houses.

Post-structuralism in roasted potatoes

Christopher Ricks told me:

The biggest difference between poetry

and prose is that the line endings

matter

in poetry.

I love your majesty according to my bond; nor more nor less

Have more than thou showest,
Speak less than thou knowest,
Lend less than thou owest,
Ride more than thou goest,
Learn more than thou trowest,
Set less than thou throwest;
Leave thy drink and thy whore,
And keep in-a-door,
And thou shalt have more
Than two tens to a score.

It's good advice. And every 'est' word is considered a mistake by spellcheck.

Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind?

The brave knife cuts through the rye
Like a cold steel astronaut setting foot on pock-marked Mars.