The long spring day,
its mists rising,
before I know it
has turned to
twilight,
and the heart that crowds my chest
hurts me so
I
moan
like the mountain thrushes.
Then from the mountains
where our
great Lord,
a god aloof,
is pleased to wander,
a wind comes
blowing,
and as I stand alone,
morning and night,
it turns back my
sleeve
and I think how auspicious
is that one word "back"!
Back where her gun is.
I call
myself a man of spirit,
but on this journey,
grass for a pillow,
my
thoughts keep going back—
no way to stop them—
and like the fires that
burn
when fishergirls of Ami Bay
boil down their salt,
these memories
burn
deep within my heart.
Of their 50 caliber butts.
Because the winds across
the mountain
blow without cease,
each night in sleep unfailingly
I
think with longing
of my love back home.
With her clenched cheeks
firing again and again.
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Panda Sex with Charles Buk...err .... I'm Lion!
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The Man in the Moon

- The Yankees have had a traumatic four days.
- Actually five days.
- That terrible crash with Thurman Munson.
- To go through all that agony,
- And then today,
- You and I along with the rest of the team
- Flew to Canton for the services,
- And the family...
- Very upset.
- You know, it might,
- It might sound a little corny.
- But we have the most beautiful full moon tonight.
- And the crowd,
- Enjoying whatever is going on right now.
- They say it might sound corny,
- But to me it's like some kind of a,
- Like an omen.
- Both the moon and Thurman Munson,
- Both ascending up into heaven.
- I just can't get it out of my mind.
- I just saw the full moon,
- And it just reminded me of Thurman Munson,
- And that's it.
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