12.04.2010
11.07.2010
11.01.2010
10.08.2010
maybe never now
the blue range
floats upon the sound
quiet from this vantage
like piles of crumpled leather
strewn and foreshortened
atop a landscape of planer frost
gaps in the hovering cloud cover
soft and lumpy and low
cast a juxtaposition of shards
of angular light
moving patiently across
peak to slope to peak
light highlights that which I forgot
was green and growing as I am
cells self-replicating in silence
in forgotten perpetuity
in forgotten perpetuity
were the blankets of conifers
losing all original self to time as I have but
still marked recognizable by a code unseen
there is no now now
only the projection of just what was
just witnessed by the narrows of our senses
as the fragments of light continue to move
away from where they registered
in the moment after a moment ago
9.29.2010
3000 (4828 km)
in the absence of light
to know hardness just below
riding two wheels is flight soundless to the wind
i tore down off-broadway
as if my day warranted exodus
past homes preparing for rest where
there were a few porch lights accompanied
only by the flickering red and white
of those on the flats
other riders took with me a bold hard line
on the grid and towards the bright glazed tower spires
reflecting twice their stature in the sheltered bay
i knew from a newborn memory was there
a glass shard in an arboreal vastness
i am three thousand miles from home
(perhaps soon just four more blocks)
and the tug pull of old losing ground to
the new has commenced
with sadness the space between
my two homes will never fold
to know hardness just below
riding two wheels is flight soundless to the wind
i tore down off-broadway
as if my day warranted exodus
past homes preparing for rest where
there were a few porch lights accompanied
only by the flickering red and white
of those on the flats
other riders took with me a bold hard line
on the grid and towards the bright glazed tower spires
reflecting twice their stature in the sheltered bay
i knew from a newborn memory was there
a glass shard in an arboreal vastness
i am three thousand miles from home
(perhaps soon just four more blocks)
and the tug pull of old losing ground to
the new has commenced
with sadness the space between
my two homes will never fold
9.21.2010
9.18.2010
pittsburgh
our city was a rare beautiful that time of year
freezing rain shrouded our ancient hilltops
from view for days but that day
held only a patient cerulean sky
i took the long way that night
after the hue faded so
i might witness the remaining sunset burn
and its crisp cast igniting halos above everything
as if it all bore a presumed magnificence
i would rather call than write you
to let you know how seeing you
would have made my tomorrow perfect
but my absent patience brought me whole
instead across town to zulema street then
just as the sky went urban starless black
people as in new york cop shows
during segues between scenes
were out on their concrete walkups
loitering as if time was no matter and
as if the weather had turned gold for good
as i locked my bicycle to your front stoop and
dialed your framingham number still new to me
7.14.2010
5.26.2010
flowers mister
moving the dead air like an uninterrupted chorus of heavy wake
vehicles roll their black soles over bleached asphalt grit
all day and all night and find pauses for breath
dictated only by amber to red
---
mister sits upon one overturned bucket
an interruption in the pattern of others
right-sided and filled with cut flowers bright
and fresh beneath their plastic wrap
and unknowing of the exhaust unseen from
ancient petroleum plants and bits of synthetic rubber
---
he sits between the scissor blades of traffic
waiting patiently for those breaths
to deal in pedals and pollen
pure and moist
---
he inhales tobacco smoke
as if to match the unseen carbon grime
up in his clothing fibers with
his darkened lungs
---
his math is tight
hard hands wring
posture wilts slightly
with each passing green and no empty buckets
---
the flower death began in the land of windmills and levees
but still for another day live here amidst the choked air
and the impermeable ground and the vehicles who
feign the good life with chromed plastic
---
mister is a ruse of make-believe
a spirit sent to shed anonymous light upon that
which is the fading paradox
vehicles roll their black soles over bleached asphalt grit
all day and all night and find pauses for breath
dictated only by amber to red
---
mister sits upon one overturned bucket
an interruption in the pattern of others
right-sided and filled with cut flowers bright
and fresh beneath their plastic wrap
and unknowing of the exhaust unseen from
ancient petroleum plants and bits of synthetic rubber
---
he sits between the scissor blades of traffic
waiting patiently for those breaths
to deal in pedals and pollen
pure and moist
---
he inhales tobacco smoke
as if to match the unseen carbon grime
up in his clothing fibers with
his darkened lungs
---
his math is tight
hard hands wring
posture wilts slightly
with each passing green and no empty buckets
---
the flower death began in the land of windmills and levees
but still for another day live here amidst the choked air
and the impermeable ground and the vehicles who
feign the good life with chromed plastic
---
mister is a ruse of make-believe
a spirit sent to shed anonymous light upon that
which is the fading paradox
5.10.2010
5.04.2010
On Tue, May 4, 2010 at 4:11 PM, Bartley, Clarence wrote:
He said he wanted to look at it later in the day.
I know he was working from home, and I think had to take his wife to the Dr.
We are definitely looking for help, so I think we will be calling you hopefully soon.
I'm slammed with work.
Maybe we can go to dinner Friday and watch the game.
4.17.2010
4.15.2010
2.24.2010
gentle hour
these times i awake before you
before you have the chance to
draw back the curtains
heavy hung
to rally more sleep
i step out from my dreams to anticipate you
warmth unmatched by a late spring sun
keeps you tucked
to the neck under the down
and embalmed like a princess
eternally awaiting her king
and likely dreaming
for such
i push back thoughts fighting to
gain the day
to savor waking
slowly and without sound you softly blink
in the late morning
like a newborn pleasured by her arrival
i watch
envying your mother
for having witnessed your eyes'
first moments
but i will take the here
and try to cradle you just so
before you have the chance to
draw back the curtains
heavy hung
to rally more sleep
i step out from my dreams to anticipate you
warmth unmatched by a late spring sun
keeps you tucked
to the neck under the down
and embalmed like a princess
eternally awaiting her king
and likely dreaming
for such
i push back thoughts fighting to
gain the day
to savor waking
slowly and without sound you softly blink
in the late morning
like a newborn pleasured by her arrival
i watch
envying your mother
for having witnessed your eyes'
first moments
but i will take the here
and try to cradle you just so
1.29.2010
1.28.2010
1.21.2010
of spring tomorrow
no matter the fall
or volume of snow to feign our minds
into a belief of the clean white slate
the geisha mask of clean white beauty
melts inevitably.
spring opens the door for winter and
careless refuse randomly strewn
yellow and brittled by enduring yesterday sun
waterlogged by snowmelt
again finds our periphery
and presents itself as new.
within the ninety-three million miles
of space between space
of real estate without speculators
an open house would be
of no use:
we are one lot of wayward property
with a heated core fighting the cooling
crust where we too are fighting
sometimes loving.
still we can boast nostalgia
and speak of that
skinnydipping swimming hole of young dad of
grandma's jarred quince jam pectin of
old growth wood tremendously patient of
that night sky and its dusting of white sand
to remind you that somewhere
our future is already our past
and somewhere snow has yet to exist.
or volume of snow to feign our minds
into a belief of the clean white slate
the geisha mask of clean white beauty
melts inevitably.
spring opens the door for winter and
careless refuse randomly strewn
yellow and brittled by enduring yesterday sun
waterlogged by snowmelt
again finds our periphery
and presents itself as new.
within the ninety-three million miles
of space between space
of real estate without speculators
an open house would be
of no use:
we are one lot of wayward property
with a heated core fighting the cooling
crust where we too are fighting
sometimes loving.
still we can boast nostalgia
and speak of that
skinnydipping swimming hole of young dad of
grandma's jarred quince jam pectin of
old growth wood tremendously patient of
that night sky and its dusting of white sand
to remind you that somewhere
our future is already our past
and somewhere snow has yet to exist.
1.17.2010
"Haiti, land of blue sea and green hills, white fishing boats on the sea, and the hidden huts of peasants in the tall mountains. People strong, midnight black. Proud women whose arms bear burdens, whose backs are very straight. Children naked as nature. Nights full of stars, throbbing with Congo drums. At the capital lovely ladies ambergold, mulatto politicians, warehouses full of champagne, banks full of money. A surge of black peasants who live on the land, and the foam of the cultured elite in Port-au-Prince who live on the peasants.
Port-au-Prince, city of squalid huts, unattractive sheds and shops near the water front, but charming villas on the slopes that rise behind the port. A presidential palace gleaming white among palm trees with the green hills for a backdrop. A park where bands play at night. An enormous open-air market.
'Ba moi cinq cob,' children beg of tourists in the street. Cinq cob means a nickel. They speak a patois French. The upper classes, educated abroad, speak the language of Paris. But I met none of the upper-class Haitians."
Port-au-Prince, city of squalid huts, unattractive sheds and shops near the water front, but charming villas on the slopes that rise behind the port. A presidential palace gleaming white among palm trees with the green hills for a backdrop. A park where bands play at night. An enormous open-air market.
'Ba moi cinq cob,' children beg of tourists in the street. Cinq cob means a nickel. They speak a patois French. The upper classes, educated abroad, speak the language of Paris. But I met none of the upper-class Haitians."
- Langston Hughes, 1956
I Wonder as I Wander
I Wonder as I Wander
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