Poems to the Culture List

taking out the body

2012-01-15T10:52:00.000-05:00

filmy plastic bags
leap up in the wind
against the nursing home
across the street --
some white some gray --
startled by the stiff breeze

on Sunday there is not
the usual parade of ambulances
coming to take the residents
to the hospital, or for dialysis

simultaneously the groundsman
comes out with his wheeled
trashbucket and rake
to pick up the debris
and a short white ambulance
pulls into the drive

takes me a minute to realize
this is not an ambulance
but a foreshortened hearse

two men in bulky black coats
against the chill weather
and white gloves get out

as I watch, the groundsman
snags the limp plastic bags
rakes the trash caught up
against the iron fence

then the hearsemen (morticians?
undertakers?) come out of
the nursing home with a
black wrapped bundle on
their gurney

slow and stately
the whole process takes
less than ten minutes

when Mishima killed himself

2012-01-10T17:00:00.003-05:00

when Mishima killed himself
the department exploded

switchboard lit up
like a Christmas tree

incoming despatches like bomblets
secretaries scurried

Golden Temple groaned
like some enormous music
in whose imagination?

death poem, with splash of blood
masurao, or just
another lost shark

thinkpiece for yearend

2011-12-31T12:38:00.000-05:00

sent away to braincamp
made to ponder
sins of omission and commission
in solitary confinement

no joy in this cell
no symbol
no music of the spheres
mere thought

at irregular intervals
harsh noises on radio earphones
alien screams
in infinitudinous space

no time
the thinkers were wrong
meditation leads to
no enlightenment

thought no proof
of being
merely clicks
of mechanistic synapses

in infinitudinous
black time
no cycle no light
in saecula saeculorum

in the cloud

2011-12-29T09:20:00.000-05:00

in the blue morning sky
two threadlike contrails
parallel perfectly

gradually blur
to feathery laterals

celestial daubs
comprised of digital integers

binary encryption
in the clouds

morning syntax

2011-12-28T07:39:00.001-05:00

purring ambulances
pull in and out of
the nursing home drive
across the street

electric gates beep
revealing the parking lot
to questing insectoid automobiles

and the rolling carts
of garbage drone
their way to the dumpster

aides and nurses hurry in

then it will be time
for the delivery trucks
medical supplies, UPS, FEDEX

traffic on the avenue

this stately procession
every morning, this protocol
outside my window

midwinter

2011-12-23T09:43:00.000-05:00

in midwinter sun
dead flowers
cracked pavements

insert yourself into
Hadron collider
searching for God particle

after several lightyears
of spin
nights shorten
days recover their brio

massacre

2011-12-17T20:57:00.002-05:00

thundering hoofs on the horizon
townspeople flee into the cathedral
barbarians rip down the doors
their horses desecrate the altar

they fling children into the air
and impale them on their cruel spears
rip open women young and old
behead and disembowel the men

years after the massacre
blood still runs from the font
stone ribs open to the wind
buttresses sag like scarecrows

white trolleys, black trees

2011-12-12T13:26:00.000-05:00

trolley is warm today
folks bundled up
refuge from increasingly
wintry air

from my back window white trolleys
go up the hill, sometimes one
after the other, then back down

I count the trolley windows --
more on the side without a rear door
then forget, next morning
need to count again

yes I rely on trolleys
for some stability
in these uncertain times

every morning, reassured,
white trolleys mounting the hill
among black leafless trees

memo from ninth king of hell

2011-12-12T13:22:00.000-05:00

"we have received your application...
processing.... will inform you
of our decision...warmly yours...."

end of year, subscriptions running out

2011-11-20T18:18:00.001-05:00

if a strange woman approached you
saying, with an intense earnestness
"My name is Eve, and you can trust me
implicitly."

how would you react?

just saying, my first reaction
would be extreme distrust

of course context matters

if a strange woman approached me
in church with that line, I'd think
she was nuts,
I'd look around for some deacon
to get her counselling

if in a singles bar, I suppose
this line would be normal, although
not having been in a singles bar
for forty years, if ever,
how would I know?

it's the end of the year,
dark autumn evening
all my magazine subscriptions
are running out

The Atlantic, Harpers, The Economist,
Wired -- Wired wants me to
"stay connected"

of course I didn't pay hard-earned
money for these papers, got them with
excess frequent flyer miles,
which function in part as currency
these days

it was fun for a year,
not having to buy them with real money
good bathroom reading,
reading at solitary meals

but the worlds they explore
are increasingly alien

years ago I forsook TV
in favor of a desktop computer

but little by little
the Mass Media have invaded
my screen

I made the mistake of
"going online"
now Lindsay Lohan pursues me
Ashton Kutcher, Paris Hilton

I'm up on their latest divorces
drug problems, plastic surgeries

helpless to resist
I stare at the screen, hypnotized,
in wonder, as the alien worlds
sweep over me

sixtieth birthday

2011-11-16T14:13:00.001-05:00

frequent laughter
at random intervals

like bursts of rain
spread out over decades

like a piece of green jade
carved into a dragon

I opened my mind

2011-11-02T17:22:00.006-05:00

I opened my mind and the Revolution ran through
police on horseback, bareback
bare hooves drumming on my frontal lobes
those drums

shaman drums boosted me up the World Tree
I flew, saw it all from above
mile-high posters of Mao in Hong Kong
and the Seventh Fleet in harbor

in Saigon a girl in ao dai, must have been
just my age -- I was fifteen at the time
wanted me to buy her a drink
playfully unbuttoned my shirt

I opened my mind and the Revolution ran through
smoking on Harlem rooftops
summer of 68
with Michael and Bebop, breathing the ashes
of the spring riots, the King riots
and the military junkies in the methadone clinics
Harlem awash in heroin
thoughtfully provided by the CIA
to cool things down

I opened my mind and the Revolution ran through
summer of 69 on the Lower East Side
lots of acid, hash, good buddies
comrades in arms raising the consciousness
doing exorcisms, see
we thought that by changing OUR minds
we'd change the the thoughts of the Beast

We opened our minds and the Revolution ran through
we thought that by changing OUR minds
we'd change the the thoughts of the Beast

the Beast just laughed, drummed on our frontal lobes
twisted our ganglia for sport

wasted the minds of Little Brother and STP John
they were gone, gone

I was just a kid, but I saw something was wrong
wanted to change the world
I got high and am I glad I did
because I opened my mind and saw the truth

the truth of the Devil System,
world controlled by demonic operators

I opened my mind and the Revolution ran through
just in time, then
I closed my up mind, too much wear and tear
on my frontal lobes

this sympathetic Indian girl,
some kind of kindly witchdoctor
helped me close it down,
get some down time
like forty years,
before I would even consider
opening it up again

FedEx truck

2011-10-25T18:34:00.001-05:00

when the FedEx truck
leaves the Park Pleasant
parking lot, nursing home
across the street,
disappears around the corner
I relax -- no package
today, for me

I hate to miss the FedEx truck
so difficult to arrange
a revisit -- means
I must trudge down Grays Ferry
across the bridge, to retrieve
my books from Japan

so I relax, breathe slowly,
no package today for me

I devote my attention
to the street, the sunset,
the skateboard kids doing
loop the loops, that odd
plopping noise of wood
slapping the pavement

and to the treetops
blinking with the last leaves

no sirens today, though
this morning I woke to
helicopter buzz -- those
copters drone in place
for what seems like hours

later my wife told me
police vans, ambulance
at the SEPTA train stop

she saw what looked like
a body, under a tarp
the cops joking --"Shoulda
put it on the train, send
it downtown"

another death -- suicide?
justifiable homicide?
random shooting? an old
homeless man finally
kicking it in, on the
wet street, station stop
another juncture on
the karmic wheel?

or simple end of the line
any meaning?

night comes down,
another tomorrow
and another,
and maybe the FedEx truck

red exile

2011-10-12T16:31:00.001-05:00

on the red exile's wall
oil paintings
dissolve

she brings you wine
cherries
etc

opens the Book of Matrices
bilingual, retrograde
obscene

her words have no meaning
at first, or
if ever, a language
encoded, it excites you

while you roar outside
in the street
with the crowds, the comrades
marching in step
to phantom rhythms
receding

after (it was the Paris Commune)
in shackles
pondering

in stone prison
or caged
alone

she hovers over the castle
with basket, wine, etc
tosses cherries

in the asylum
you look up and
howl

strange doctors
administer
torture

at times memory
returns -- the red exile
in the corner
painting

shredding day

2011-10-01T14:15:00.003-05:00

kilogram in Paris
losing weight

neutrino in Geneva
exceeds speed of light

galaxies twist, dance,
and collide on Youtube

but on Baltimore Avenue
Choy Wong is still here

Chinese and American
Fried chicken and sandwich

outside the Credit Union
it's shredding day again

every quarter the white truck
from Secured Document Destruction
shows up -- long lines of
poor people bring old bills,
financial receipts, tax returns

I stand in line with my bag
carefully prepared by my wife
papers too sensitive to recycle

Choy Wong on the corner
been here as long as I have
or longer -- quarter century

across the street the Firehouse
been here since horses
dashed through the streets
pulling fire wagons

it's been a farmer's market
now a brewhouse and pizza place
acupuncture upstairs
bicycle shop, Satellite cafe

time and space, waves and particles
just don't move that fast here

energy and mass don't bounce around
like rubber balls in relativity chamber

the avenue flows like a muddy river
not in any particular hurry

angels of design

2011-09-19T17:17:00.000-05:00

in the old frame house
seventeen sprites
emerge from the closets,
attic, cracks in door frames
bustling about
invading the quiet
of my boyhood room
the little room with
bed, desk and chair

normally of course
I start up, unleash
my baseball bat, start swinging --
it's a persistent dream
I bash the many spirits
forehand, backhand, yelling
clearing them away
like mammoth insects
till their insane buzz ceases

these seventeen, however,
exhibit a peculiar friendliness
when I go for my bat
they smile, put up a hand
in the mudra of calming
"how delightful" they say
"this old boyhood home"
"many happy memories in
the wood, the walls"

of a sudden my mother appears
I sob, then ashamed
wipe my eyes -- the sprites
smile unceasingly
make themselves at home
in the old stuffed armchair
eyeing the dead furniture
thoughtfully, murmuring with
themselves about possibilities

improvements in decor
flashing color on drear walls
singing low in my little room
as I calm, reflect
this old tomb, how many years
my sarcophagus, might live --
the threatening spirits too
might be transformed, no paranoia
anymore, in this dream

the Mennonite Faust

2011-09-10T12:36:00.004-05:00

behind the barn the Mennonite bishop
has his way with the heifers
buttoning his fly he whispers to each
"You are my Marguerite"

a genetic twist -- the bishop stands
a hand taller than the Mennonite farmers
his sermons baffle and bemuse them
but tantalize the women in the pews

they say he travels beyond the next village
and the next, to the mountains, overseas
he has met famous people -- Schopenhauer,
Nietzche, Don Giovanni, Mephisto

when he returns his eyes blaze
in the hayloft over the restless sows
he tutors the young maidens, whispers
to each "Mein schoenes Fraulein"

they say his learning went to his head
the farmers stand in their boots
in the manure field and mutter
of schemes and ambiguous demonic contracts

finally, by consensus, they decide
to bury him behind the barn
under the faded hex sign onWalpurgisnacht,
at midnight, outside the graveyard

Washington DC late August 2011

2011-08-22T15:02:00.005-05:00

boots of the world crunch
tennis shoes and loafers too
crunch the brown-gravelled
walks on the long Mall

foreigners film their girlfriends
wives and families under blue sky
against the backdrop of
the House of Congress

whited stone stupa, swelling teat
innocent now, or irrelevant
in late August, now the demons
are fled to smaller fiefdoms

approaching the Hirshhorn
Lichtenstein's soaring brushstroke
interrupted by passing bus
full-length mural -- "Mr Sleepy"

out in Rock Creek Park cicadas
croak their antediluvian song
turning the wheel of the seasons
archaic rasp sinks into stones

earth moves, tyrants tremble
crack in the Washington Monument
mountains of despair
into stones of hope

late August early evening

2011-08-13T19:24:00.000-05:00

cicadas rasp and sing
unreasonably cool breeze
stirs the leaves

young lady sits
disconsolate
on a park bench,
then jumps up
animated, giggling
as her lover appears

even the ponderous
black dog, sweaty jowls
slowly raises his head
sniffs the air
like a dying man

as the dark comes
so too do the crickets
harbingers of autumn

good-looking Canadians, late July

2011-07-30T20:05:00.003-05:00

two cops step on the trolley
looking fierce
looking for trouble
they're stereotypes
white, dumb, and brutal
short hair, and know it
proudgazed among
the Negroes

on the lawn of
the Constitution Center
two hundred children
turn up to the sun
in a circle
amplified conch sounds
as one they face left
all in red shirts

in the fresh AC
of the Frankford El
I eye the tourists
ogle young women
or one, turning her
head proudly, in
ragged shorts, thin
legs, profile of a queen

on the Frankford El
good-looking Canadians
infiltrate the city
amazed, with their passports
like children agog
a magic ensemble
no guns, out of breath
massaging wounded minds

dumb dutchman no cellphone

2011-06-24T08:40:00.000-05:00

without a cellphone
I am increasingly
a dumb dutchman
in the big city

when I came here
the metaphor for
lack of suavity
was dutchiness

first thing
I heard them say:
"man, he better go
back up and hoe potatoes
in the Amish country"

now, increasingly
paranoid I think -
what if my trolley stalls
and I'm late for the dentist

what if there's
a family emergency --
they're all trying
madly to reach me

and I'm strolling
along Walnut Street, seemingly
bereft of cares, but in reality
just stupid, and paranoid
without a cellphone

Clark Park, early June

2011-06-08T12:03:00.003-05:00

you wake from dreams of Parisian brothels

fearsome raucous honking in the street

but strolling across the park

no demonic autos, it's Canada geese

they darken the sky in precise formations

prettier than F-16 fighter-bombers

wings rain down Arctic cool, north winds

not devil bomblets or napalm

grass just mown, sweet morning air

for all the world like golf course in suburbs

complete with a deep sand bunker -- The Bowl

dust lain down with dew for the moment

then a taxi explodes, fireball fills the air

like the flower burning in the day

flashback to Dali's Paris Taxi, how surreal

though the artist's was full of seaweed, dripping

apocalypse for an instant, than back to reality

parents walking young children to school

old people drinking coffee outside at Greenline

the 34 trolley waltzing in time

apocalypse has its attractions --

grand Parisian brothels aflame with desire --

but the honking is sky-pasted geese, not demons

Reality -- for the moment let it be

Philly skyline

2011-05-20T12:50:00.000-05:00

Philly skyline through light rain
spring green, from Septa bus
across the Schuylkill in late May

on the further shore red tents
and blue -- colorful yurts await
boatrace -- this is the big one

bus survey -- four electronic
devices, users with restless
thumbs, four reading books

two newspapers, the rest
like me, gazing meditatively
Philly skyline through light rain

the mountains come to you

2011-05-03T14:31:00.000-05:00

you don't go to the mountains
the mountains come to you

gradually, as the
mists shift

or abruptly,
thunderhead breaks open
an epiphany

saxophones --
Bette Midler wails --
"let's do it here"

and the Cascades
rush over Port Susan Bay
thundering, a flash

"our names are not Baker,
Pilchuck, or Stanley

"our names are Unfathomed,
Ineffable, Dread"

you don't go to the mountains
the mountains come to you
slowly or of a sudden
at the time of their own choosing
in their own season--
let's do it here

death rattle

2011-04-23T07:50:00.001-05:00

strangers arrive at your door
ring the bell, expressing condolences
demand to be admitted
claiming to be long-lost cousins

bewildered, you let them in
and immediately wish you hadn't
they sit around your living room
yakking, wanting to use the bathroom

death, or rather its reception
is a chessboard, a complex game
the black pieces are rage
the white pieces are grief

you shuffle the pawns, kings
and queens around the board
looking for a pattern, or a solution
to an elegant and insoluble problem

odd socks

2011-04-03T17:37:00.002-05:00

odd socks, you notice
glancing down at your ankles
the trolley crests the hill
no time to go home and change

stone flowers

2011-03-25T13:16:00.000-05:00

spring passes by
en route to Narberth
and the outermost suburbs

while in Philly
Corinthian columns waver
in the breeze

sharp-shadowed in the sun
sculpted flowerlets
waft down, transforming

magical pink flowers
float down to trees
with green upstretched arms

hawk

2011-03-17T17:10:00.000-05:00

now that glaciers have receded
spring laid down its lines
cold stone of heavy sorrow
rolled off your shoulders

the Cooper's hawk outside
in the oak, a little tattered
but proud, its predatory lust
ominous, defiant, loud

one thousand cigarettes

2011-03-05T14:48:00.000-05:00

one thousand cigarettes on your lips
one thousand wisps of sacrificial smoke
rising on the esoteric homa altar
to one thousand tantric gods and goddesses

this mighty pantheon of memory
of tastes, scenarios, initiations
French Caribbean to Shinto shrines
in Tokyo, Bombay, points in between

some forgotten, or strayed
goddesses of night, tropical dawns,
sidereal beclouded sunsets
awakening to bejeweled insights

or staggering, neon flashing
eyes bedazzled down long night alleys
then the dead ashes, twisted muscles
far along the dead road to anhedonia

on seeing Michael Tilson Thomas conduct Bernstein

2011-02-12T23:06:00.000-05:00

young Mennonite ladies
appropriately coiffed
if no longer bonnetted
toss pomegranates
into the declining sun
they strive to be as
bohemian as their sisters
in downtown New York

brows furrowed,
determined,
they parse the twelve tones
in the work of the late
Leonard Bernstein
striving to understand jazz
they like the Beatles
and appreciate the work
of the Black Panthers
or would have if they'd
been alive
in the decade of
Revolution

apple-cheeked and cornfed
these Mennonite gals
farmer's daughters
have come to the Big Apple
that's alright
it's alright
and if they endure
another hundred years
then their daughters too
might learn how to suffer
and be as cool
as their grandmas

skyhorse dance

2011-02-09T09:31:00.000-05:00

I dance infrequently
not for frivolous reasons
but in times of trouble
I step the "Paces of Wu"
or "The Crane's Beak"

when infernal skyhorses
thunder down from Jupiter
on Kamchatka corridor
into Siberia, on their way
to the nether regions

then I dance furiously
to stymie the onslaught
of demons

black dogs

2011-01-31T11:34:00.000-05:00

frozen smoke on the hill
ascending and descending

everyday now in the park
it's like "Hunters in the Snow"
black figures on a white background

and the black dogs
can't shake them

nice shoes

2011-01-22T12:47:00.000-05:00

my hair's getting gray, I'm older now
beginning to bald, though in
a distinguished way

my famous profile not as sharp
as it was in my twenties
when the teenaged girls all shrieked
and swooned

and I've put on a few pounds
since then

I've considered plastic surgery
of course, and liposuction
but hey, that's just not me
I'm so genuine, like organic

and I don't go out posing
with Louis Vuitton handbags
like Sean Connery
just for the big bucks

but I will say this --
I've got nice shoes
shoes of distinction

now I don't buy my shoes
at Savile Row, don't have those fine
alligator shoes --
never been into all that
conspicuous consumption

but when I stroll down Baltimore Avenue
the young ladies slow down
their fancy automobiles,
roll down the windows and scream
"Man, I just love those shoes!"

sophisticated gentlemen pause
just for a second, and make that
little bow, glancing wordlessly at my shoes

the suave young hipsters with
that pink hair all stare, and rave
"Hey, nice shoes, dude!"
I acknowledge their homage
with a discreet nod

what they don't know
is that I buy all my shoes
at the second hand stores
on Forty-fifth street

cull through the leftovers
for that distinct, bebop look

now I don't have closets and closets
full of shoes, like Imelda Marcos
after all, I'm still a penniless hippie
as I was in my youth

but I must say, I have got
those cool shoes

once I was in London
on a cold day
this gold-plated Bentley was going by
window rolled down --
it was the Queen of England

"Young man, those are simply
adorable shoes -- I want some
just like them!"

Now when the Queen of England
expresses such a wish
it's really more of a command

so I stopped right there
out in front of Buckingham Palace
removed my shoes
and presented them to the Queen

and she drove on
you might wonder whether
I caught the frostbite
but of course I always

carry a spare pair of hippie shoes
in my rucksack
I sat down on the curb right there
and pulled them on

hadn't gone more than a few steps
when Helen Mirren strolled by
"Man, those are nice shoes!"

she took me right home
for a nice hot bath
and a hot cup of tea

I'm not bragging or anything
it's just how I roll
I may be getting older now
balding in a distinguished way

some folks sneer at the sixties
tell you rock and roll has faded away
but I just want to tell you
that that hippie style is here to stay

you may not be rich
you may not even be especially
good-looking, with warts and a squint

but if you've got those soulful
shoes, I'm here to tell you
you will never get the blues

you will have all the fine women
you can handle, and at the end of the day
a hot cup of tea, and a good night's sleep
and sweet sweet dreams

I sold my soul to a big-breasted girl

hurt durations

the augur

2011-01-18T13:26:00.000-05:00

over the fortress birds wheel and dive
omens of this, presages of that

crows alight on dead trees -- you count --
seventeen, a prime number, consult the book

water deep in the stones, no danger of thirst
but provisions are scant, corn meal is rationed

at night the enemy simper behind makeshift bailiwicks
at noon a dead silence, broken only by crows

a messenger slips through enemy lines, good news
"General Brautigan on his way! with 200 horse!"

a messenger slips through enemy lines,
ragged, parched -- "No hope! Surrounded on all sides!"

"Give me a drink before I die!"
he expires on the stone steps, with moist lips

attendants salt his corpse against the dread future
all shudder to think it may come to that

over the fortress crows and vultures wheel and dive
alight on dead trees with death in their eyes

count the black birds -- thirty-nine now
signifying what? good omen or ill? consult the books

Tucson

2011-01-11T12:35:00.000-05:00

cold sinks into itself
preserving every crystalline
historical moment
waiting its return

get ready for another night
of broken glass
with a distinctly Amerikan twist
it's coming, oh yeah, it's coming

more singing in the cuckoo's nest
the lone gunman
takes heed
lock and load, patriots

always the lone gunman
always nuts
odd how his targets
are always blacks, liberals, Jews

or John Lennon --

no conspiracy here

move along now,

nothing to see

no conspiracy that is

unless you consider

Amerikan society one vast

conspiratorial swamp

like Dallas on the verge

of Kennedy's visit or Amerika

in 1968 --so many lone gunmen

so many preposterous guns

odd how Amerika fosters

so many lone gunmen,

always nuts, out of context

killing blacks, gays, liberals, and Jews

or John Lennon --

no conspiracy here

move along now,

nothing to see

Yannick!

2011-01-06T23:16:00.000-05:00

clap like you're in church
or if you don't go to church
clap like you're in the subway
mad, drunk, ecstatic
or if you don't ride the subway
clap like you're in Toronto in the snow
freezing, watching Lady Gaga bite
the head off of Santa Claus
but clap, dammit, clap
it's a full house for once
and there's a new guy in town

or the sirens are daring you onto the rocks
again, this time for real
flutes, horns, and those old ululuations
rousing your premillennial primitive desire
daring you to finally leap over the rail
down into those willowy, bosomy sopranos
or more likely
down into some medieval hell

dream censor

2011-01-03T12:19:00.002-05:00

this year's dream journal
began with a bang
this year, I said, I'll really do it
record each night's dreams
upon awaking

this has been tried before,
incidentally
fragments of dream journals
earnestly undertaken
litter my hard drive

the first night's output
was good, the second night's
impressive

this morning I noticed
I was editing my dreams
as I went along -- nothing drastic
you couldn't really call it
censorship

but the editor in me
interfered with the flow of
consciousness -- I paused,
considered, then rewrote

then there was the part
I could not bring myself
to put down on paper,
or rather the screen --
too ridiculous -- not that
even my wife, nor my shrink
for that matter would be
reading it

but the dream was just dumb
and embarrassing
OK -- skip that one,
I reasoned -- just a fragment,
not really a major dream narrative

so from the fourth day
I'll record only the major
dream narrative
of the night before, the major dream
the one that reads like a story

a narrative -- at least in my mind
the night before, or if not then,
the story I record upon waking

brown leaves, New Year

2011-01-01T13:20:00.003-05:00

down the street
in the neighborhood
gem of a park
I've watched twenty-five years
come and go, more or less

this New Year's Day
hackneyed black boughs
painted against the snow
haiku-like

but an oak tree still unaccountably
bears up
its withered brown leaves
and I wonder
why I've never noticed
this tree before -- the sole tree
with branches not entirely barren and bereft

must be my age, or the oak's,
whose leaves shudder a bit in
the slight breeze, this
sunny New Year's Day

this year I'll have the thrill of
watching for something fresh,
after twenty-five years
a novel phenomenon --
shriveled brown leaves pushed
off into space
as fresh green blades take
their place

hurt durations -- poems 2009-2010

2010-12-07T10:57:00.000-05:00

hurt durations

poems 2009-2010

ross bender

hurt durations

Miss Catatonia

2010-11-11T16:18:00.001-05:00

tell me again, Miss Catatonia
hybrid beast with face of woman
body of leopard, tail of snake
where did you lodge the memories?

she sighs under the Western Mountains
down the eternal river, where
the visual pleasures are vivid
commensurate with those of the ear

where traces of the nocturnal visits
infinitely recede among the jagged peaks
the mist of her tangible embraces
echos down the dry wadis, resounds

you beg for music as she flies by
the feathered chariot drawn by winged horses
she smiles and grants you music
ancient music -- flute, zither, sheng

then dismembers your body
shackles your bones to the steel wheels
rolling down the inebriate track
rolling and pitching on the drunken river

now, or someday, you will learn
to have no more questions, or to abandon
the memories. They reside somewhere
under the Western Mountains. enough

theatre

2010-11-06T21:18:00.000-05:00

you, with an untutored nose

for the refined

the audience hurling catcalls

idiot children sprawl at ringside

the stage revolving

with their tongues

in each others' ears

berate the actors, scream

"is it over yet?!"

tempting, just begging the thespians

to step off the stage

smack em upside the head

the theatre teaches us manners

and patience

"is it over yet?"

wondering "is it art?"

maybe a brawl, still

as you stagger drunkenly

into the chilly night

Baltimore Avenue revives you,

lightbulbs, lightbulbs

the Gold Standard bustles

with riotous crowds

everybody sipping sherry

and toking blunts

trolley rumbling down in slo mo

slo mo

"is it over yet?"

elevator

2010-10-23T21:28:00.002-05:00

the elevator stops abruptly
at the eighth floor
you stumble off

first door on the left
the little room with desk,
chair and bed

but the lock is undone
full of young people laughing
beds stretch off to infinity

window open over the park
down where maples bleed red
whiff of autumnal incense

they give you the baton
applaud, tell you to smile
you try, but it's hard

still stiff, the medication
as usual, and then
the stage fright

but you begin to conduct
the movement comes
of itself, slowly at first

the ceiling heightens, more beds
a fountain now, and crews
shift stage sets in bright colors

you bend, and wave the baton
cheers, more laughter,
that girl winks, stage whispers -- "Smile!"

celestial music
fountains rise in stereo
colors, you dance

and now the white horse
plods up the ramp, pauses
wings sprout

jumping astride,
you drop the baton
soar out the window

fly, leaving the little room
behind, heaving with
sighs, laughter, and cheers

genetics

2010-10-17T20:15:00.001-05:00

my grandmother taught me
Chinese checkers
by lamplight

what skill I have at chess comes
from my father, since my mother
wanted me to play only Scrabble

games of spacial orientation
bounded squares, triangles
strategy and letters

what my ancestors neglected to
teach me was low cunning, stealth
greed and numbers

so my play has always lacked
hard edges, the will to crush
an opponent, raw glee at winning

thus my appetite for chess died
at puberty

as I age, my memories
of what Grandmother taught
in the old farmhouse
clock ticking
take on a golden glow

golden turret

2010-10-15T07:08:00.000-05:00

she sings again
in her golden turret
many allelulias

the rain chips down
now dancing
now marching acidic

she pulls babies
from the dark raging sky

weaves them into
glimmering coherent
tapestries

Das Rheingold

2010-10-08T20:37:00.001-05:00

when the trolley cars run backward
and the subway runs with blood
and the moon is torn to pieces
and the Danube fills with mud
with sludge of rusting color
like the vomit of the dwarves
who toil for gold and money
who fish from Stygian wharves
when the Rhine itself turns unclean
with its leprous raging glow
metallic poisons spurting
from demonic menstrual flow
behold -- the Nordic gods are coming
verdrehte and perverse
with lust and greed and anger
to destroy at last the earth

neuroscience of clouds

2010-09-19T19:03:00.002-05:00

glancing out the window at dusk
you see a puff of white cloud
but despite what the latest
neuroscientific research may show
as the dark ripens the sky reveals
not a cloud but a moon moving
towards the full

postmodern culture take two

2010-09-18T11:24:00.002-05:00

the Chinese girl
and her elder mitochandrial sisters
billions and billions of them
prepare sumptuous food for
the proud barbarian youth with deep eyes
high nose and beard who
made confident by sex and publication
looks contemptuously through his mail
and reads the reviews which
written from a postmodern angle
completely miss the point

same path

2010-09-15T08:09:00.000-05:00

in walking this morning
a yellow leaf hits the ground suddenly
reminds me I've been treading
this same path over twenty years
same hexagonal gray stones
the red rectangular bricks laid
at crazy angles

religious music

2010-09-10T13:02:00.001-05:00

religious music quavers
on autumn breeze
briskly nudges clouds along again
after the long dog days
out of the late summer doldrums

old cathedral

2010-09-05T19:44:00.000-05:00

of five clerestory windows
in the afternoon sun
three are blind eyes already

two, cracked, sparkle
ivy sucks at the lead frames
while I struggle to find words
adequate for this dismal obituary

postmodern culture

2010-09-04T08:50:00.002-05:00

the Chinese girl
and her elder sister
prepare food for
the barbarian youth who
made confident by sex
and publication
looks through his mail
and reads the reviews which
written from a postmodern angle
completely miss the point

still life with cicadas

2010-08-31T14:58:00.001-05:00

two purple eggplants
and a brown hard-boiled egg
on the white kitchen counter while
outside a lone woodpecker drums
on a broken limb and cicadas
buzz, reaching a crescendo
at the end of summer

night train

2010-08-23T10:39:00.000-05:00

onto the opposite platform at night
the escalator disgorges a young woman
with a seeing-eye dog and rollerbag

alone on the night platform
without hesitation she follows her dog
into the traincoach door standing open

while above the moon begins
its rise, full, and as my train
slowly pulls out I feel anxious, forlorn

for a moment like a child
returning home late at night
after a long journey to the south

IKEA catalog

2010-08-14T13:11:00.001-05:00

she sits in the bathtub all day
reading the tea leaves and
minor prophets

I huddle next to the
air conditioner and peruse
the IKEA catalog conjuring
a desperate fantasy of
elegance, let's decorate this
old shoebox! if only

while the bad news rolls in
the radio, perched on the
old gas stove, interference
from how many wireless gadgets

down in the slumtrodden streets
zombies plan their midnight attacks
it's like the end of the British Empire
all over again -- Ireland, Krishnapur,
Burma and Singapore

ancient empires rise and tumble
in waves in my bathtub in the kitchen
rout, rally, rout
and the dollar goes
steadily down while cicadas hum
in the beaten trees

old Presbyterian church, 52nd and Chester

2010-08-04T10:43:00.000-05:00

ruined cathedral falling down
broken spires, leaded window panes
cracked and dissolving
and the whole elegant monstrosity
drab-wrapped without success against
the rain and mightier elements

this leaky church proclaims
Presbyterian glory a mere century
ago, and Calvin's eternal folly
as doctrines shift, moods change
whole peoples flee, and waves of
mammon wash in and out
like tides and mock the stone house
that Calvin built in the city

Queen Victoria in my bathtub

2010-07-31T08:40:00.003-05:00

Queen Victoria squats in my
deep clawfoot bathtub
sloshing tepid water onto
her fat breasts, splashing my
decorator braided rugs on the
newly varnished floors

she appeared without invitation
at a party a week ago,
asked "May I use your bathroom?"
"Of course," I replied, thinking
she merely wanted to
do her business

but now she's installed herself
ordering in pizza and barrels of
moo goo gai pan
her appetites know no limits
nor do her progeny

I'm trapped -- how does one ask
the Empress of India of
the British Raj to get out
of one's bathroom? politely, or even
otherwise --

there's no help
in the etiquette manuals
and if I called the sheriff to
begin eviction proceedings
no doubt he'd laugh in my face

memory pool

2010-07-29T11:48:00.000-05:00

hoofbeats on the maidan before
marble shrine
venerable Empress, lofty
far off in time
jut-hipped, many-bodied, omnipresent
eternally fecund
in the pool on campus
this morning, awesome
engulfing, embracing

Amos in Goshen

2010-07-21T08:41:00.001-05:00

when they carried me down to this country

as a child, already the rites

were martial and harsh and the music was perverse

I sensed as only a child can sense that something

was rotten -- the lust for meat things

the thrill of acquisitiveness

the joy of beggaring your neighbor

orgasmic survival of the fittest

this terrifying fiendish swamp

whose creed was ultimate selfishness

whose blood was running money -- ah then

I discovered Ginsberg and it all made sense

how long ago? how long ago?

yet nothing has changed

drear mental concrete walls

big-mouth TV swallowing infants whole

brick ugly factory of Goshen High School

Kolymsky Heights of the mind

Siberia was hell and Stalin put me there

a phalanx of Nixons and fascist redneck principals

(some argue no equivalence of physical and mental suffering, but how quantify?)

how quantify torture? I've been

in maximum security lockdown since 1960

they got my number coming over the border

when they carried me down, an innocent, a naif

the next year they blew up Cuba

they shot a Kennedy, then another and crucified King

lathered naked Asian girls with jellied napalm

how to quantify terror?

they locked me up because I knew too much

here and there in shackles and restraints

here and there in screaming ugliness

chemical dungeons and junked Coney Islands of the mind

today I was rereading Howl, and Rexroth,

the whole boatload of sensitive useless old Beats

and it all made sense again, a cogent analysis

but times have changed and nothing has changed

dharma bums and queers and Quakers

immolated themselves at the Pentagon

I saw the monks flaming in the streets in Saigon

like the flower burning in the day

the moneychangers have set up

in the temple again -- no surprise

Moloch wants you for America's unending wars

flower children resist! but the Hoosiers beat you down

(Savio told us to throw ourselves on the wheel but really! dude! how many times?)

how many times can the children jump in the river

break self on wheel of karma, dharma, what the hell

it stinks here, no joy in this cell, no solution here

and Goshen the genetic chemical restraint

bashes my head against its grey and stupefied walls

lacklove and vicious, cancer-production center of the world

DNA Mennonite straitjacket, inquisitors, they watch you

in the Anabaptist panopticon -- what will the neighbors think?

you tried to escape and you failed

brain police locked you up and brought you back

thorazine, haldol, mellaril, and the beat goes on

you killed yourself and they dragged you back from the dead

to be a zombie in Goshen, a useful cart horse for the bourgeoisie

but the light breaks, thrill codes blaze in the skylights

now Pegasus in yoke sprouts wings!

let's all fly away to the further shore and make love

for Babylon is fallen and America is damned

crows at high noon

2010-07-19T10:56:00.002-05:00

since the lightning tore through the city
last month, and the thunders ripped up
trees in the sacred grove in a microburst
of savagery, upended great oaks

the crows have come to torment me
their raucous mockery begins at high noon
in the height of summer, they alight
like mad dogs on the sickened limbs

twisted helpless boughs askew
day after day, bones portrude through
flesh, and die slowly like a body
on a crucifix, lifeless leaves wither

and the crows come to torment me
in this high season of despondency
intense sunlight withers my spirit
death croak where once pretty birds sang

I invite you to follow me on my blog

2010-07-15T12:49:00.001-05:00