Trying to Qualify for the Twenty-Dollar YMCA Discount

      Stack O’ Lee said, “Jailer,

     “Oh Jailer, I can’t sleep.

     “Round my bedside,

     “Billy de Lyons began to creep.”

Four straight days at the Y.

Third day, I did the body pump,

letting me know the reason why

I ever wanted to be a guy

who scans-in eight times a month.

I did four straight days at the Y

at the start of August too—getting high

on endorphins. The Y’s not the dump

it used to be—

a completely new facility, near Fairview and University

(I wonder where they got the funds).

And here I’m doing four straight days at the Y

again at August’s close. I was a sight to see,

skipping up to the hoop in one big jump,

but today I’m being told the reason why—

with chatterings and sweats like Stack O’ Lee

hearing the footsteps of ol’ Billy de Lump!

Four straight days at the Y,

letting me know the reason why.

Les Flammes d’Enfer

It can feel cleansing to slake your ire on someone,

God’s ire slaked on the damned souls in hell.
If you aren’t a righteous person, maybe you can become one.

But whom will you be cleansing? The deaf and dumb
will swear it’s them. And why isn’t it, pray tell?
It still feels cleansing to slake your ire on someone.

You’ll be the first to enter the blessed kingdom—
but not before you fell—
you weren’t a righteous person, but maybe you became one.

Just dance the Creole Waltz with Amédé Ardoin,
or take a gander—why don’t you?—at the Book of Kells
to feel how cleansing it can be to slake your ire on someone.

You can even slake your ire on your sweet honey-bun,
blast them to bits with your hard-rock drill.
Not a righteous person? Well, you just became one!

But burning the damned forever will not cleanse them—
smoldering like glycolysis in your blood cells!
It can feel cleansing to slake your ire on someone.
If you aren’t a righteous person, maybe you can become one.

Where Are the Songs of Spring?

Why do I feel

I’m seeing the impatiens
for the first time—

by the stone
circle and
the clay fish

(bird feeder,
finches and chipmunks,
dark green hosta)?

White, pink,
and red? And the
purple star flowers?

Feral tomatoes
yielding.
Basil gone to seed

by the raspberries.
Compost hole
full.

Wandering Sheep

Standing on the threshold

with your pencil in your hand,
trying to get a toehold.

You brought your full boatload
of crap from places mapped in Rand-
McNally. A mountain on the threshold!

These pastures are patrolled
by hireling trolls who want to grab command
of your big toe so it can’t get a hold;

but might you be so bold
as to scuff your toe on your own pineal gland,
the lintel of the gate into the sheepfold,

bust down with your heels, strongly propel
yourself out of the sand?
Wandering sheep straying too far from the fold,

God loved you so, that they left their gold-
en clime to place their mild demands
upon you—standing on the threshold,
trying to get a toehold.

When Your World Is Washed in Pain

When your world is washed in pain

and there’s nothing you can do to make yourself féel good,
can you simply block an input in your brain?

When you’re circling the drain
and you’re planning to repay your debts in fish food,
when someone else’s pain

is spreading on your own chest like a stain
and you can't have a drink because your wine is blood,
that’s when you block an input in your brain.

What you want is just a steady rain,
a vacant, uneventful interlude.
You can feel the pain

as sheep, counted, on a rolling plain,
a nice, peaceful walk around the neighborhood.
That’s how you block an input in your brain.

But will terror leap the gap? The nagging blame?
The sufferer’s latitude and longitude?
When your world is washed in pain,
can you simply block an input in your brain?

The Cruel Sea Witch

Every morning I feel the itch,

but I don’t want to lose control.
Must avoid the clutches of the cruel Sea Witch!

The Sea Witch is such a bitch!
She has a cupboard full of the souls
of all the fish who’ve felt the itch

to dive down her trenchy ditch
and diamond-mine the coal-black holes
of the thirsty ocean where the witch

lives. She’s blowsy and shrill, and neither scales
nor clothing does she wear. All day she trolls
for curious fishes who may feel the itch—

fishes who’ll soon grow legs, they wish—
but won't escape these brack-y shoals,
their souls owned by the cruel Sea Witch!

Can’t I just flip a toggle-switch:
sexy feet / fishy tail?
Every morning I flip the switch
and jacklight the dingles of the cruel Sea Witch!

Was Shakespeare Someone Else?

True or False? Shakespeare was someone else.

Some think the likeliest candidate was Bacon.
OK, I’m saying: False.

If there's one thing with which we shouldn’t mess,
it's the identity someone has taken.
True or False? Shakespeare was someone else.

There was that snake placed on a breast—its hiss.
There was that crown prince on an isle forsaken.
Nah, forget it: False.

I’ve already started listing women: Beatrice,
Rosalind, Portia; that dragon-
mother, Volumnia; Katherine—whom else?

That very-like-a-whale guy, Polonius;
and Yorik, funny fellow who flung the flagon—
I knew him, Horatio, but I still say: False.

Truly, Shakespeare was no one but themself,
never mind by whom their plays were written.
True or False? Shakespeare was someone else.
Mercutio’s no help!—I still say: False.

Quiet Friend, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

Quiet friend of many distances, feel

how your breath still spreads out the space.
In the frames of the dark belfries
let yourself ring. That which preys on you

becomes strong by this nourishment.
Go in and out of metamorphosis.
What is your most suffering experience?
If your drink is bitter, become wine.

In this night of excess,
be the magic at the crossroads of your senses -
their strange encounter, Mind.

And if the mundane has forgotten you,
to the still earth say: I’m running.
To the rushing water say: I am.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 29
Stiller Freund der vielen Fernen, fühle,

wie dein Atem noch den Raum vermehrt.

1m Gebälk der finstern Glockenstühle

lass dich läuten. Das, was an dir zehrt,

wird ein Starkes über dieser Nahrung.

Geh in der Verwandlung aus und ein.

Was ist deine leidendste Erfahrung?

Ist dir Trinken bitter, werde Wein.

Sei in dieser Nacht aus Übermass

Zauberkraft am Kreuzweg deiner Sinne,

ihrer seltsamen Begegnung Sinn.

Und wenn dich das Irdische vergass,

zu der stillen Erde sag: Ich rinne.

Zu dem raschen Wasser sprich: Ich bin.

Pastorale

How bathetic!

Coffee on the redwood porch,
wet leaves on the grass!

Centuries
of poets mentioning
the things in their yards!

The nymphs have
NOT
departed!

Sylvius, the shepherd, here,
getting ready to drive
Phebe to work!

Brown Penny

Gaslight.

Only the moon.
Goodnight.

Uptight.
Some buffoon.
Gaslight.

Star bright.
Call of first loon.
Goodnight.

Polite.
Distracting tune.
Gaslight.

Sleep tight.
One cannot begin it too soon.
Goodnight.

Firelight-
glow, like a Spanish doubloon.
Gaslight.
Goodnight.

Dream Question

Can I or can't I be
both Smerdyakov
and Dempsey the Swede?

Does Time Really Exist, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

Does time really exist, the Catastrophic
that on the quiet peak destroys the castle?
This heart, belonging eternally to the gods,
when does the Demiurge force though it?

Are we really so anxiously the Breaking,
whom fate tests to make sure of us?
Is childhood, the deeps, promised,
in the roots—later—quiet?

Ah, the ghost of the Vanishing,
straight through the guilelessly susceptible
it goes, as if it were a breath.

As those we are, the Driving,
we join in lasting
powers as godly need.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 27
Gibt es wirklich die Zeit, die zcrstörende?

Wann, auf dem ruhenden Berg, zerbricht sie die Burg?

Dieses Herz, das unendlich den Gottern gehörende,

wann vergewaltigts der Demiurg?

Sind wir wirklich so ängstlich Zerbrechliche,

wie das Schicksal uns wahrmachen will?

Ist die Kindheit, die tiefe, versprechliche,

in den Wurzeln - später - still?

Ach, das Gespenst des Vergänglichen,

durch den arglos Empfänglichen

geht es, als wär es ein Rauch.

Als die, die wir sind, als die Treibenden,

getten wir doch bei bleibenden

Kräften als göttlicher Brauch.

The Shears

It’s hard as hell to stick to your guns

when your patience is put to the test,
remembering which atrocities were the big ones.

There was that Nixon-Cambodia fun—
a million killed on behest.
That was one time we totally stuck to our guns!

But it’s between you and me, Bub—who’s the one
to be damned and who to be blessed,
weighing which atrocities were the big ones?

You fed me eggs that gave me the runs,
horned in on my eternal rest,
so I had no choice but to stick to my guns

those days of yore—I was smoking a blunt—
sins I did confess,
never sure which sins were the big ones.

You always made me the fox in the hunt,
so I exited stage-left.
It’s hard as hell to stick to your guns,
remembering which atrocities were the big ones.

The Judgment

1

When you were abused as a child

and you’re always anxious,
it can be irresistible to relax
into booze and sex.
Booze is love to you,
fastening onto you like an incubus,
sucking your life.

2 

Rendition of the end of Goethe’s Faust, Part 1

Margarete at her spinning wheel,
approached by two trolls—
only one of whom is the devil.
You shall live! says Heinrich the troll.
She is judged! says Mephistopheles.
SAVED! speaks the Voice from above.
Her zu mir! says Mephistopheles.

enough already

1

suppose these 

remnants suffice

poet trapped
in a room

feeder-hugging
chipmunk

loud birds
garbage truck

Van Gogh’s remaining hearing after
shearing off his ear

poor painter
only subject himself

2

suppose six
stanzas suffice

multiple buzzing
intensifying-fading

cop ambulance
sirens

some chipmunks
not accounted for

ok who
else

the redwood 
porch

Why Does a Chipmunk Chip?

A chipmunk chips to guard its musk.

It isn’t trying to pick a fight.
It owns no sharp rhinoceros tusk.

A chipmunk chips from dawn till dusk,
trying to get the vibration right,
chucking away to guard its musk.

Though a chipmunk’s musk’s a dry husk
of any horde you’d covet, still day and night
it hankers for some kind of tusk

that it might wield in fields of risk,
putting horny foes to flight.
A chipmunk chips to guard its musk.

But a chipmunk’s not just waving its stick.
No, this charming little wight
feels threatened by some gnarly tusk

that someone else is waving—its task
ever to beat its drum of fate—
rhinoceros, boar, or narwhal tusk.
A chipmunk chips to guard its musk.

Growing Upward

A cow for six beans?
— Stupid Jack!
But the stalk grows upwards.
Jack steals gold.
Jack steals the hen that lays golden eggs.
Jack kills the giant and marries the girl.
No one cares that Jack’s hands
will always stink of giant’s blood.

voice singing from

dove on the powerline
taking wing
pulling a thread of soft cheeps

cabbagy cabbagy in the trees
whatever that noisy
animal is

someone
choosing words
for their sonority

voice singing from
its limited 
viewpoint

poem
without
voice

must be possible
to know or not know
what’s making that peculiar sound

Inexhaustible

Will I ever run out

of tiny poems to write
from my redwood porch?

There are only so many
describable items
in my backyard—

plus the birds that arrive
and depart in a single
wing stroke;

some kind of squawking again—
squirrels in the basswood tree?
sounds like a wheezy duck!—

Jade planters.
Aluminum tray of desert rocks.
The kilowatt-hours clock.

Nothing the same as it was
yesterday, or even seconds ago.
Inexhaustible life!

The Biggest Billy Goat Gruff

Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am

Their teasing doesn’t bother me much.
Some people are just assholes.
Why should I let myself be touched?

I see their touch-
ing smiles everywhere I go. They’re trolls!
But their hypocrisy do’n’t hurt me much.

I hit a homerun in the clutch,
defended my goals.—
Why should I let myself be touched

when all they want to do is smutch
their tarry souls on mine, control
my feelings? But they don't annoy me much!

—Trip, trap, trip, trap! said the bridge.
—Who’s that tripping on my bridge? said the troll?
—Why should I let myself be touched?

said the biggest Billy Goat Gruff. A ledge
appeared, and the goat climbed out of the hole,
after putting the troll out of commission, much!
Why should a billy goat let themselves be touched?

More Deck Ditties

Bird feeder swaying. Red-headed finch, flown off. Chipmunk racing across the lawn. He’s the king of the whole yard! Bully Orpington plucks out neck feathers of the poor Barnvelder. Sad! Can I see chickens off my redwood deck? No, but I remember yesterday seeing Jess’s. In a true haiku, there’s not enough voice to ask a question. Cardinal songs nearby,
asking me if I'll ever get right about my life.

redwood deck

chickadee on railing
same moment
alit and flown

chipmunk croak
heart stroke
felt through the feet

garage-door rowan
has its orange
berries again

go poop Charlie
good boy Chuck
good boy

Writing in the Pinch

We have an inkling of what singing is, and Josephine’s art does not really correspond to it. So is it singing at all? Is it not perhaps just a whistling? Franz Kafka, "Josephine the Mouse Singer"

Writing’s an OK thing to do

(others might choose fishing),
but can I count on it to pull me through?

Time I stayed home with the flu
(poor suffering Christian)
writing was OK to do.

I put down my Winnie the Pooh
and took up whistling,
counting on air to blow me through -

calculating the odds I drew,
what I was risking -
a happy-gambit thing to do?

If not for you, I'd have no clue,
I'd spend my life pissing
up the same rope could pull me through -

words not quite ringing true,
puckered lips a-bussing
bubbly, foamy writing-brew
that, in the pinch, may waft me through.

Poetry Porch

Small cedar deck,
now 
redwood-stained.

Everything I see is stuff
I’ve already mentioned 
in poems—

basswood tree, 
bigger
than my house,

stone garden border, 
lacquered
with sooty-mold,

call of a cardinal, 
unmistakable
jackhammer cheeps,

chimney-ed building on the alley, 
more a carriage house
than a garage!

Yard layout same 
as the landscape of my memory—
well puttered-through.

Sunday Morning

Little cedar

deck stained
redwood.

Robin
joins me
on it.

Thirty years ago
we could have saved
the planet.

The End of the Present

Live in the present moment! I’ve decided—

remedy for my anxiety about death.

I won’t dwell in the past, for sure,
when I looked forward to the future and ignored the present.

In the future, I might finally get a job;
then I might even have a home, with a wife and kids.

Well, that future became the past,
and what do I have to look forward to now?

Death, preeminently—but I don’t want to say the D-word;
that’s why I’ve decided to LIVE in the present.

But how DO I live in the present
when I’m always bombarded with memories and plans?

Is the problem that I’m not conscious of the present moment,
that my thoughts are not present with it?

But when I remember the past, I’m not really IN the past,
but in the present in spite of myself.

Still, the present gets boring when I keep
filling it up with the same memories, moment after moment.

As for the future, it’s the same anxious fretting as always, except
that the end of all my trials keeps approaching.

The end of the present. How CAN the present end
if it’s a single moment?