Next spring I am every dead thing
Glass, conceits, hot in the frozen tundra, a tincture like heraldry
Next season brilliant-edged, sound like music,
the clicking of bitter sweet gum tree by the woodpecker’s beak.
Atop, the net of unworn leaves
Some of them childish ones
some woven in the cap of their parents
above others: Maple, Ginko Biloba,
Pretend more than a few resembled
Were things askance,
like green sloths at the mercy of the wicked
Who could undermine their age.
Elongated crumpled edges,
In the Fall held dominion
brittled by the elements: air, sea, rain,
an Exodus crackled by acorns, wicked, shell-horned,
crept along at mercy, elemental:
Pools of leaves lay below
askance. on top of the gaping gullet of forests,
pandered the shift for impartial light.
Homeless boats of emigrant…
The evil of the identity politic
Is the cool glen of a river
Darkly, whale like shimmer,
Cold is the element of fear
The fall blue jay migration
Dazzles the botany of buildings
For the moment there is all: mystic,
Color blue, monarchs like lions mane
everywhere, I am here accepting my fate
In the outer regions of an idea,
The sound I hear I mistake, how
Like the ferry to an island far from shore
Is not the identity politic I fear.
Maine Sabine Seagull, Machias
were all visitors back then.
We held commune. Gulls carried
the scent of fried-smelling, off Machias,
resort, 1777 patriots in between canon-ball banking
coasts, siting up north in New Brunswick, hold-outs.
Rough-sounding, wearied, packed vans now tortoise-
Rimmed doctors pass the old saw-mill factories,
smell of saline seaweed, bunkers sardine-canning
factory, the gulls were patrons
Of the symphony. Do they speak French?
The caws in the parking lot
the riff to a music of the sea, pole-to-pole, historical
naval bond ghosts to board, wood planks
dipping wings one week to the next in fog,
forged inhabitants write a postcard
to Old England, we have wings, Sabine gulls,
fight the sooty shearwater out on the topography
the black dark waves on the shelf scrawled with the words
a spaceship can see: we are all on our way back
To an unassailable place we own.
Returning- Bryant Park
The waxy leaved begonias
are all in full bloom.
In the sunshine they glisten like water.
An American Redstart
has been zip-lining between the London Planes.
A Grey Catbird with chunks of feather missing was hiding
by the birdbath.
The beehives in the northwest corner, named Nectar and Ambrosia,
are humming and a Northern Waterthrush was chicken-walking underneath.
Leaves (n.) eats, shoots, leaves, a grammar of exclusion; encouraging shady behavior
This net of leaves has woven the weave of unworn trees.
The leaves are askance,
a gullet gaping at the intricate elongated older ones.
A faint pooling panders the spotty light.
The leaves pick up the swell of homelessness,
They are joints joisted by which the atmosphere can blister the ozone away.
You seem shady — a blanched limb willing
Held the palm of younger ones, healed.
A reunion with stragglers, I am not the hulk, green,
betrayed by mother’s reunion with wind;
Grudges I do not hold, but only the swell of…
Landscape (n): much like a pastel (or paisley?) monotone
The submissive land is a swash of monotone:
Cobwebs off rusty fences,
Agonized seed pods thud their dry heat.
The decades long church bell
Now-a slow pumping.
In truth the tense chorus of robins
Release the maple swelling.
Buddy: (v.) a careless incantation, authenticity
Then, buddy comes along.
Give me: Dog ripping leg on gravel road,
Give me: to and fro, wolf on fire trail confirmed by valley.
Pitiful aching me, I hear dogs
travel in packs at night.
Someone dares: I hear undomesticated baying at the inanimate horizon.
Dogs plunder the uninhabited landscape: tree, scree, star
like hounds on the trail of a hare,
or tear a shrew from its hole, or macerate in innards,
or like an Orca flip a seal pup,
head-over-heals in the moonlight.
Buddy, black lab,
You proudly returns home, gangster-like, sporting, raging along the avenue,
jaw clenched over a wet mouse.
no one master home to greet you.
Buddy, listen up, predatory dogs
only mate at night and are not to be seen.
Buddy, you are unfamiliar to the familiar townsfolk they will tell you to turn down your music or call the authorities.
Buddy, you are ludicrous, but being basically, the mayor of the wilderness,
you are an irregular visitor.
Buddy: (adj.) free, unchained
Buddy each time I have come here,
you have wandered to the place where
you are here: a killer, drinking from local waterholes, unseemly and descending to fight against incipient injustice
Buddy, we believed you, we wished you were here,
like a superhero, laughing in the face of pets within at windows.
Buddy, the torn up mounds of earth north of town in the back of the gymnasium carry your smell like blood and werewolf, like wanderlust, like ephemera men only touched the surface of.
Buddy: (n.) an end-scene, an impossibility
Buddy, it’s getting late our reconnaissance mission has hit an impasse our other halves are waiting. They will think we are cheating.
I saw you once. At an impasse,
Gambling with risk,
There has to be more to this, you asked, red-eyed and still serene .
No. Buddy. I will not forget your name.
You and I are some kind of undead, kicked out with the other half, those smelling of skunk and quarry.
Buddy I’m happy I met you. …
Father warned me don’t dive deep: if I owned a quaint little nest-infested barn,
I would sit all day, white on white rimmed nocturnal disks
writing spiritual poems, like the Barn Owl or just like a Ghost,
to involve her, O Eros, come at me fool, I do my grief at night
this is just like the opposite of fuel and entropy, in me sits a mud jar of empathy,
and that is like the opposite of vulture, the sharp screech of hatred.
After the second divorce, my father returned in Spanish, a terrible leap
into the privacy of darkness, Psyche, I set out to spread my wings and transgress…
In Maine: Killdeer
We pig-roasted and pretended
to be natives. Tiki-torches
and broad Latinate plants seduced
the flies that pretended to be bees,
for fear, or fear of losing humility.
Intrepid inflammatory thoughts
occurred to the youngest one.
The intellectual offered, “it was
a family, depending
on what you meant.”
Hold on, dear, hold on
the Irish man shouted
from the Cape after he charted
a boat into the vacuity
of some churned up Cod
near the giant plan of Boston.
A long-legged Killdeer sprinted
illustriously down a valley
of farms. The new old car
down a Wal-mart.
Piping Plover: Combing New-Symbolist
The strangest thing of all, or Pessoa would claim,
Is that there is no hidden meaning,
That the symbolic branch of the Sour Gum Tree
Near the Hempstead railroad station — is just that
A branch — cragged, dark, trite, overwhelming.
It is vague like the thing described to be the Targus
That descends from Spain to Portugal
Roaring but a diminished thing compared to
The communal stream, the shepherd knows
He could be baptized by it, washer-women cleansing spirit
The dunes of Montauk before the storm
Glistening with a solitary piping plover, pale and…