Martian Interlude

For two or three days
you could not remember a thing.
You carried a mirror everywhere.
The bluish doubt, still there,
unexamined.

You thought about water too much.
So many contexts.
That you had left.
There had been a baptism.
The water was hard and cold.
The bridge shone and shook.

The radio in your head was maroon,
a motorola, smaller than a lunch box,
that flipped open in the front.
The front cover became an antenna.
The handle on top flexed
like a watch band.
A question grew then.
How could anything so large
reside inside.
But you were the one who
heard yourself say,
 "come in."

Years later your brother found
the radio in his inventory.
He laughed over the tubes and
the big batteries that had powered
it at the gulf shore and the shimmering,
scooped-out,  private lake
owned by Germans.
The radio was a reminder,
like the boomerang,
of something you had put out there
because you wanted to.
So this was a history?
It will fit nowhere unless
you set it down.
"Land," they said,
"you must land now."

Crossing Nottingham

                                      In memory of Boo

The machinery was swift, unforgiving
There was no reprieve, no stay.

I stood on the lawn searching
the gray pavement for your paths.
But you were too light to leave any.
If I pulled up this hard road
and attenuated my instruments,
would I see the tracings
of your passagings there
in the exposed earth?
Take this way the markings would say.

Before you  was not a path.
After, an impression that keeps after me.
You picked yourself up
and put yourself down.
Over and over.

There is no report on you,
just the hard facts of memory
inside the soft, silent way
you negotiated yourself
through the still light
and the tumbling darkness.

Mood

Interior weather moving through,
a color not seen,
muting.

Always framed for something,
set up to take the fall,
it awakens as transcription,
as the blue diamond on
someone else's forehead,
as advantage taken
of the immobile, immutable.

It burns down in its holder,
smoke then smell then
just soft grey sift.

Only in sleep is it read back.
Somewhere the slight motions of
an otherwise still stenographer
capture and release,
ready to repeat as needed
repeat as needed.

Out of what it comes
is not clear
but what is noticed
is you are
its conformity.

The Long Count

Sometime during the 13th b'ak'tun
Jack Dempsey floored Gene Tunney.
The long count...

There is nothing left to bet on
but what time it is.

I drive my car through a time zone.
My phone lets me know.

Someone is reading endless magazines.
My phone lets me know.

I have the death app now.
I miss my quiet immortality.
The long count...

She said de Chardin's noosphere
is not just full of knowledge.
It must have experience too.
Wouldn't it?

Are we at war?
My phone lights up.
Traffic fatalities today...
Worldwide or local?
Choose.

Transport me to that place
where everything is opening,
where I am standing
on the horizon
and I know it.

The Conditions

The conditions showed up with briefcases.
They looked like average guys,
laughing and bumping each other
while they acted like they were talking.
Briefcases clicked and out came
parts of a bigger thing.
The parts formed a box
that I found myself inside.
"Inside?"  I questioned.
"No,  just resting,"  the conditions responded.
Time passed and I received layers of help.
An image arose of a pineapple upside down cake
that made me so hungry

I missed the cake metaphor.
"No matter,"  I said
as the cake slide out of perspective.
Entertainment arrived,
brightly colored hand knitted forms
that appeared to be partially finished,
or unraveling.
"No matter,"  I said
as I wrapped one around my head.
Finally word came of what was
happening outside the box.
At first I was so happy
for the word
that I didn't notice
it was one word
repeated over and over.
I asked for a sentence
but accepted silence.
"No matter,"  I said
as I saved the word.
The light changed in the box.
I noticed a bowl of
blue opinions by my feet.
I chewed on one while
pondering my word.
A pit was all that was left.
"No matter,"  I said
as I sucked on the pit.
Eventually it softened
and split in two.
I stopped sucking and
noticed where I was.
I remembered the sharpie
in my shirt pocket.
There was just enough light
to draw a conclusion in the box side.
I exited.
The conditions were nowhere to be found.

Louise Gluck

Celestial Music

I have a friend who still believes in heaven.
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God.
She thinks someone listens in heaven.
On earth she's unusually competent.
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.

We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it.
I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes.
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out
According to nature. For my sake she intervened
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down
Across the road.

My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me
To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person-

In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We're walking
On the same road, except it's winter now;
She's telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music:
Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing.
Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees
Like brides leaping to a great height-
Then I'm afraid for her; I see her
Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth-

In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set;
From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall.
It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact
That we're at ease with death, with solitude.
My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn't move.
She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image
Capable of life apart from her.
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition
Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air
Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering-
It's this stillness we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.
~Louise Gluck

Make Water Change World

for cold fusion

There is no elegant answer.
Better living through chemistry
arrived by coach, spitting blood,
cocking a suspecting eye at
the trying times of magic.

At the Hatterie I tried on headware,
looking at my reflection,  waiting a moment.
Different lids for different jars.
Waiting, my mind wandered into the
age of discovery where a cold meal
of contingent sandwich and ale
led to a nap, the nap to
rummaging in a dream, the
dream carrying the occult out
the back door in a small red
leather satchel where a carriage
awaited departure. It was late.
It was a discovery that would
not tolerate the darkness.
I realized I would have to speak
in numbers, reason, elegant formulas, tongues.
All to prove what is.
"What if I can't prove what this is that exists?" I heard myself shout.
The driver leaned down from his perch. "It's all imagination, isn't it!"

Back at the Hatterie I noticed the hat on my head.
A dark brown, floppy fedora.
Someone like me was tapping the source.
Someone was dreaming at the same glass
of water I was holding. Bare-headed,
another philosophical eye.
Nothing in hand.
Likewise the water showed nothing.
Demure, clear.

Leaving Earth

I told you not to go out there
unless you wanted to stay.
Deep in the house, deep in yourself
part of you sits still and part of
you is moving, this way and that.

The train I hear late sounds like
it is moving away to the south,
a long cruising whale sliding
through the night, sounding.

You stand still, that mysterious
extension still swaying.
The sliding glass door hisses and you 
could be on your way to St Louis.
It is a long walk,
probably three hours by train.

But you would be leaving earth
wouldn't you?
Leaving the tea kettle,
the fresh bread, the dog's telemetry,
the children calling you in the evening.
The umpire of whiffle ball, the
referee of 21 in the driveway,
the driveby window's shadow
in the diamond night.

Tonight I hand carried you
across the threshold and you
lived a while here in the kitchen
crunching a bowl of food,
letting me stand there
in your black stream.
Right there at the meeting of noses,
mine scentless, yours so capable,
we touched,  you released me,
and I fell back to earth.
I called out your two names.
The first means where?
the second, come.
Your world can not be my earth,
only a summary of my affection.

Now you are on the corner
of your world   among the
street light shadows of rabbits.
Your darkness fuses with shrubs.
Your breath,  stealth.

The Climate

Sasquatch sits in a tree watching two parties throw fruit pies at each other. Voices rise, a chase ensues. Sasquatch emerges and eats the pies.

Surfacing after Election Day

They stood in the conning tower, bobbing.
Luminescent squid draped the aft, glowing.
"Depth report," he asked, a curious tone.
"Asleep sir," replied the earnest clipboard.
'How long?"
"Since running silent sir."
"Data report."
"One long dream sir."
"Content?"
"An ironing board, eight murmurs, a foxtrot lesson."
They began to roll in the new wind.
"Signifiers?"
"Murmur filters inconclusive. Dance sequence
apparently a learning experience."
"Ironing board?"
"You sir, the board is you."
A gull landed on his shoulder, cocking a bleached head.

Being on Something

Who invented the sock? What is plural?
When I drive a car I see other things.
But I keep driving.
There I sit in the car thinking and looking
and it moves along.
I notice other cars with other people in them.
They too make their cars move.
I have no idea what those people in those cars
may be thinking as their cars move.
They could be thinking about a bowling ball's
hole placement, licorice, non-existent places,
hand held maps, a baby, a headache, turning,
Vikings meeting Indians for the first time.
None of these thoughts are real. Most if not
all have nothing to do with moving the car.
How does the space between cars stay safe?
Everywhere people are doing something else
while staying alive in their cars until I see
a bird, stunned, motionless, hunched on the
twin boundary lines. Ahead is a bright color
that makes me stop and look down to the
side, where the quiet bird sits.  His dark
shining eye looks into my eye as my eye
looks into his. I begin to cry, speculating
that I know something, crying because I
definitely know something.  So still it was
because the car is moving now.
I hear myself say the word generous
in the direction of the bird. And then
the thought is coming toward me that
I have no idea what the word fundamental means.
But still the car moves ahead and turns the corner.

His Speech in Broad Daylight

The crest of a hill, a coat of arms,  a wave.

All electricity must cease

All batteries are void.

The box raised me seven inches

above all others present.

My words were arranged

like written instruction.

Many there were reminded of the

exploded diagrams in model kits.

I asked everyone to hold their own faces.

Some were confused by this.

Others slapped themselves.

I felt the glass pitcher inside me tip.

I steadied the stream until

the lightness ebbed.

My voice was just below

the threshold of a scream.

I was baying in broad daylight.

The moon turned away.

And then like so much burnt cork

I was darkened , hidden away from myself,

from audience.

The plan for me was reduction, sidebar.

The species stood up and yawned.

In the distance I could hear

generators start up again.

Clouds disengaged,

batteries smiled at the sun.

My fall was less than a foot.

Exact Science

Our desire for omniscience plays a role in dampening down our capacity to experience. What would a poll-less world look like?  If we believe the certainty of numbers and continue to refine the certainty why would it be necessary to experience the future event the poll is based on?  In our endless need to know we don't take the time for time.  The poll is a cheat against the intensity of emotion that would be coming.

Pollcat

I observed a Pollcat lounging on a tree branch yesterday. His bright coat looked iridescent in the afternoon sun.  Slowly he turned reddish brown as a cloud passed overhead.  He stood, stretched, and then peed on his rear leg.  I said, "Pollcat, why have you peed on your leg?" At the sound of my voice he turned a decidedly bluish gray.
"I'm marking my territory,"  he said,  as he leaped down and scurried away.

Multiple Regression

In my dream my analyst was listening to me describe a dream I said I'd had a week earlier. In my dream's dream  I broke a raw egg on the head of my dog to make him stop barking. Suddenly my analyst interrupted my story because he wanted to tell me something he'd been keeping from me.

"How is this possible?" I asked. "You're not listening, you're talking."

"Fascinating," said my analyst. "I wanted to tell you I know some things about myself."

"Is this still analysis?"  I wondered out loud.

"Where?" said my analyst.

"By the candle there," I said.

"I see."

I was afraid to go on, not knowing what to dream next. But the dream went on ahead anyway, having gathered the past in a weightless satchel. We like to say a "body" of knowledge. This was a "body" of impressions. The dream felt softly elongated, a long dark sleeveless coat, already buttoned.

from Vermeer

"Passing through walls hurts human beings, they get sick from
it,
but we have no choice.
It’s all one world. Now to the walls.
The walls are a part of you.
One either knows that, or one doesn’t; but it’s the same for
everyone
except for small children. There aren’t any walls for them.

The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
“I am not empty, I am open."
— Tomas Tranströmer, from “Vermeer”, translated by Robert Bly

I love Transtromer. Lifted from a blog http://growing-orbits.tumblr.com/ 

Now/Dwelling

Now there is a clock that tells time
but it is not the way time was told.
Now we use the word "system" to
describe the erotic.
Now the difference between waking
and sleeping is a political issue.
Now the Department of Oneirics
is open for business.
Now travel has been extinguished
like a cigarette.
Now I hold something in my hand
called Guidance. It notices every
thing I do or say. So I review...
Now I am waiting in the rain under
a Halo for transpo.
Now where I want to be comes to me.
Now I realize I have been holding my
eyes in a certain way to receive light.
Now earlier I noticed dark mountains
in the distance.
Now they cast a long shadow across
my backyard.
Now I smell pine here in the foothills.
Now no one has to remember the thoughts
they thought while reading a book.
Now memory is transported to places
along the way. Under stones, the sheen
on water, the hollow of a tree.
Now I pass these places, remembering
others' thoughts.
Now I don't remember.
I just dwell.

Ramble On

In a long and cogent editorial yesterday, George Will came out forcefully in agreement with Mitt Romney's campaign statement that jelly should be applied before the peanut butter in making the national sandwich. Although Will is a crunchy fan and Romney is creamy he said that the basis of Romney's philosophy is firmly in line with his.

Hearing Her Voice

We are descending now,
Gilbert chemistry in hand,

erector dysfunction shining,

all this squirreliness, all this calculus.

We will make it remind us of us.

The moment we see the other will be

the moment of helpless compression.

Alas, we cannot make it.

Nor can we catch a wind sample,

the one that would carry the note from Mother.

The transmission of sound has not landed.

If Mother had learned sign what would she tell us?

Would she smile and with a look of utmost compassion,

transmit, "welcome"?

Or would this emptiness signal a baffling,  gestures

that no logarithmic concern, no amount of sifting

would ever solve? Meanwhile the hopeful screen,

like the court artist, renders a quiet rebus of the unseen.

Noted but not accepted.

Revelation

It was just such a sensation that the president spoke of
on television.
It was not the feeling that comes from the blush of
a bruised finger.
It was not the empathy I felt for the president as he
paused and said "excuse me," like he had lost his
train of thought.

With a key I washed my face in a bright blue hydrant
and brushed my teeth in a park drinking fountain.
Maybe it is like forgetting the name of an actor, where
I will wait for a clue, a pantomime, a cue.

In the middle of the city there is an orchard of apple trees.
I began to pluck one when another fell. I was left motionless,
arm extended.  What I felt reminded me of what the president
was trying to say. I feel close to the president for his having
said that.

There is a curvature to language in just such a way
 as it may appear that we stand on flat land.
Just such a way as the immensity of thought continues
to roll towards us,  rising in such brightness.
Here comes the sun. Right?