Are they unmaking everything?
Are they tuning the world sitar?
Are they taking an ice pick to being?
Are they enduring freedom in Kandahar?
Sounds, at this distance, like field hollers,
sounds like they’ll be needing CPR.
Sounds like the old complaint of love and dollars.
Sounds like when Coltrane met Ravi Shankar
and the raga met the rag and hearing
became different and you needed CPR
after listening and tearing was tearing
and love was a binary star—
distant bodies eclipsing each other
with versions of gravity and light.
Sounds like someone’s trying to smother
the other—a homicide or a wedding night.
The television derives the half-full hours.
Time exists as mostly what’s to come.
Losing also is ours…
I meant that as a question.
Is I the insomniac’s question?
Are you a dendrite or a dream?
Between oblivion and affection,
which one is fear and which protection?
Are they transitive or in?
Are they process or product?
Are they peeling off the skin?
Are they Paris or the abducted?
They’re reading something after Joyce,
post modern stuff that can be read
but not understood except as voices
rising and falling from the dead.
Do they invent me
as I invent their faces?
I see surveillance gray wasted
with bliss at having thieved identities.
In the AM, when tú turns to usted,
the sun clocks in to overwrite the night
with hues and saturations and the red
hesitates for a second to be incarnate.
Are they unmaking everything?
Morning’s a new bird
stirring against me
out of a quiet nest,
coming to flight—
clean as clear water,
mystery and mountain,
A human brain dissectionThe pictures show how professor Steve Gentleman dissects a brain at the Brain Bank. This research helps scientists to learn more about little-understood and devastating conditions from Parkinson’s disease to Alzheimer’s and multiple sclerosis
In the end there was
a certain grace
splayed on the table
our beloved (pup)
five sedated on
a manual respirator
overdose in wait
not fur its smell
in spite of a final
just minutes before
we arrived for our
nightly visit the ex and I
he from across country
in case of the worst
earlier in the day
recognizing his hide
and seek whistle
paw shake of recognition
cone headed oxygen
tubes stapled to her nose
the ex fearing our last
link too expiring
yes, a certain grace
to release this spirit
from the metal
vet emergency room cages
to sniff her hair
in the last shallow
horror of breath
a stopped baby-like
heart all muscle
and miles of hiking
reduced to toneless
the ominous seriousness
released spirit etherized
in the lingering smell
of the keepsake collar
and blanket on the bed
at my feet where
nightly she tried
to creep up
pawing me still
You make love like the last
snow leopard. Time hunts your shadows.
Your grooves dip a real x of an arc.
I love your shadow. It’s performance on the wall.
Your white hair flocked. It’s old age that makes
you kill for food. You bring a long blank to
bed in, the weight draws out.
You need someone with skill for the excursion.
Ride through the reservoir of sour peaches.
Your name meanders through the grass. Tall
people are in the way. I crowd surf to get to you.
You spill me into the flood. Water rushes out your sides.
You make a mystery of playing political love.
I could kill for you. I’d bring you an eagle stuffed
with finches. It’s pouch growing large and groaning
in your palm. A cliff of umbrellas and memory
shaping your every move.
When a man thinks he is reading the character of another, he is often unconsciously betraying his own.