Unknown Unknown

the ghosts we know and the ones we don't 
Loren Niemi

What a way to pick a bone!

There are ghosts we know and ghosts we don’t.
Can a ghost be known?

Can’t call a phantom on the phone;
ghost calls YOU, you scream, “Arroint!
“Hence and leave my bones alone!”

My bones are clothed in flesh and skin,
my legs sheathed in denim pants,
but my ghost’s been known

to play peak-a-boo with its own headstone,
the tomb that it already haunts,
within which worms shall gnaw these bones.

That ghost’s a clone
of me—I hear their jeers and taunts.
But I’m praying for an unknown

Spirit to receive me when I’m gone,
bones sifted into dust.
What a way to pick a bone!
Can a ghost be known?

Lost Out Here in the Stars

How can a rock pass light?

I saw a science article about the brain emitting photons.
OK, which cells is it

that shine? Most animals don’t glow at night,
and we abhor the dark mind of a moron,
but a rat’s brain is “literally alight,”

they say, as it goes about its daily fight
for life. Light is presumably emitted in the nucleons
of nerve cells, but which cells is it

that light from YOUR brain causes to ignite
in MINE in happy joy-explosions when the connection
happens? The ancient Greeks believed rays of light

transmitted from the eyes made objects bright,
and that all light came from the Sun
originally. But which Sun is it

of all the myriad suns shining in the night
that makes our neurons fire and lights our crayon?
How can a rock pass light?
OK, which Star is it?

Language of Anxiety

My poems are written in a language of anxiety—

is only my intention loving?—
not aware of any marked impropriety.

Three years ago I opted for sobriety.
Since then I’ve been pumping
out poems that fairly reek of anxiety.

But there’s some dubiety
about my side-of-road—my cloven
tongue flaps all day of lust and impiety.

And I’ve signed up for a variety-
burlesque show under the name of Lovey-Dovey—
believe me, I suffer plenty anxiety

about how I will bear the notoriety
when I get up on the stage and remove my clothing
(but never guilty of any marked impropriety).

It’s just another kind of inebriety—
intoxication’s always a mixed blessing.
I write poems in a language of anxiety—
not meaning to leave a bad mark on society!

BRDTH

Breathe your breath
in and out
to forestall death

Expand your chest
to meet
the sword of death

Flex your gut
and sing your breath
to trumpet death

Dance your breath
Somersault
the horns of death

Blow your breath
right through
the teeth of death

Villanelle death
Work it on out
Only rhyme for death
breath

_____________

life breath 
gasp 
death

expand chest 
stab
death

sing breath
trumpet 
death

somersault breath
horns 
o' death

Blow breath
teeth
o' death

rhyme death
work it on out
death =

breath

___________

Serenity Now!!!

It’s been minutes and I still haven’t achieved serenity.

I guess it was unrealistic
to think I could ever escape my fantasies.

Lying on a sofa in Schenectady,
dreaming about tripping the light fantastic,
it’s been minutes and I still haven’t achieved serenity.

Does one achieve serenity by submitting to gravity?
It doesn’t help to be naturally athletic,
leaping above the ground in shoes of fantasy.

No, best to relax and accept the Mystery,
your best Bible your biometric.
If it’s been minutes and you still haven’t achieved serenity,

you really should consider the possibility
that the problem’s the electric-
al conduction in your heart. Your fantasy-

production won’t end while your blood’s at liberty—
not till you receive the black spot and go apoplectic.
Then will you achieve the desired serenity,
the movie projector shut down—no more phantasy?

Writing and Living

I write poems

while doing

other things.

Poetry is just 

my obsessive talking 

while I live my life.

Does writing 

get in the way 

of living? 

Writing 

instead instead of doing 

my yoga?

I’m writing 

this verse while stepping 

from foot to foot.

In child pose

feeling a breeze

easy to write.

Buying the Bones

I’m not sure what anything means,
and I’m convinced my house is haunted,
but I drove to Groth Music to buy bones—

slick, clicky slats of ebony.
Whenever I feel blue and unwanted
and can’t tell what anything means,

I go ahead and get ready to make the scene
anyway, to run a gauntlet
of grinning, clacking, striking bones.

And the reason I don’t feel so all alone
is, I bought a taco and put salsa on it.
But don’t ask me to explain what it means

that my bones have all been disarranged—
sacks of mixed bones from Pakistan.
I drove to Groth Music to buy bones

because I wanted crazy tunes.
We'll learn how to clack by searching the internet—
which signifies little in the broader scheme,
but I drove to Groth Music to buy bones.

A Star Is Born

Mother, give me the sun! Ibsen, Ghosts

They blot out the sun,

poets waving their deaths around like snakes.

It takes one to know one.

The play is done,

the heroine drowned in a lake.

That blots out the sun

for me, because how can we have any fun

when the hero’s a syphilitic rake?

It takes one to know one.

God draws His gun,

and the great Lord of all Snakes,

Satan, blows up the sun.

But the movie goes on

after Bambi’s mother takes

it in the heart. Now I'm the One—

disastrous fate!—the King of Venison,

played by Bradley Cooper in the remake,

shining like the sun

on Lady Gaga. It takes one to know one.

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

So much thinkin’

my brain does!
I don’t need this stinkin’

shadow boxin’.
The Wizard of Oz
was thinkin’

of takin'
a vacation-pause,
‘cause we don’t need no stinkin’

courage—our heart strings
musical as soft-drink straws.
So we’re thinkin’

we should try shrinkin’
down to a toadstool like Alice,
but there’s no stinkin’

way we’re not just fakin’.
Cue the applause
when I quit my thinkin’!
I don’t need no stinkin’!

Write and Die

We must love one another and die. Auden

Wanted to use Write Or Die for this piece. Write Or Die is an app that starts erasing your words when you don't type fast enough.

But I would have had to download it. It is now 11:40, and I can simply say I'll finish by 11:55. If I don't, I'll erase this file.

A guy in the poetry community announced on Facebook last night that he was going to commit suicide.

First he posted the assertion that people who kill themselves are not cowards. I immediately replied: "I agree 100%. The ancient Romans admired suicide."

Then he posted in another message that he had pretty much decided to kill himself now. There were the to-be-expected expostulations. I returned to the other thread and typed, "But please don't YOU kill yourself! :(  

On the other thread, I typed, "Please, don't kill yourself!"

I had to go to bed, so I turned off my phone. Then because I was worried, I turned it back on, even though my wife was on her way, and added: "You were very kind to my friend Nora. You're a kind person. The world needs you."

This morning there wasn't much more, except that someone had "loved" my comment mentioning my friend Nora.

Then I got a strange message from another friend. It was a graphic rendition of an Osho quotation: "Life offers only two things: one is love, another is death - and both are dangerous, because in both you will have to die.

"In love you will have to dissolve yourself. In death also you will have to dissolve yourself.

"Love and death, those are natural phenomena."

Eventually my friend asked how I was, and I said, "Fine, I think. Lots going on, especially music." Then I said, "Thanks for asking, how about you?" and asked if he and George had met with Mike (as Mike had said that they would when he and I had breakfast more than a week ago).

Mike has prostate cancer that's advanced to his spine. We supposedly had a feud, but there's nothing to feud about.

Yes, they did meet. Didn't talk about poetry, but about the suchness of their daily lives.

OK, do I have time to draw a moral from all this?

To the Osho quotation my friend had added: "Eros and Thanatos is NOT always Romeo and Juliet." Hmm, I thought Osho was saying that Eros and Thanatos IS Romeo and Juliet. But I guess I'd agree that Juliet doesn't have to die.

The moral, as I see it - a sad one - is that I can't dissolve myself. There are some who need more love than I can give.

OK, it's 12:10. But I'm not going to erase these words.

Trading Shoes With Sally

          Dry bones in the valley
          Got up and took a little walk
          And the deaf could hear
          And the dumb in that valley could talk.

I danced “Dry Bones in the Valley”
in the dark racquetball court,
thinking of my baby Sally,

Sally in our alley—
she’s like a lemon meringue dessert.
So why did I choose “Dry Bones in the Valley,”

of all songs, to dance with Sally? Alley-
Oop was a cave man—what song did he foot
it to, when he conjured Sally?

Then, I’m a little worried
about footwear—afraid my dogs will start to hurt
if I keep dancing “Dry Bones in the Valley”

barefoot. Google ”girly dancing shoes”!—Surely
I’ll want leather laces and flat soles
and the nude look for a dance-around with Sally.

And if I think this salsa is too flirty,
I’ll just remember when I said the words,
“I danced ‘Dry Bones in the Valley,’
thinking of my baby Sally.” 

My Job Right Now

1.

As a boy,
and as a young man,
I seldom had the guts to do what I most wanted,
which was to make love to girls.
I know there were times when a girl wanted me to.
Once in biology lab, we had to pair up,
and I was brave enough
to ask cute red-haired
Marie
to be my partner. We even went out soon after.
We took her car.
She let me drive.
We drove all over southeast Denver that night.
I don’t know what we did other than drive.
Marie talked a lot.
We must have been drinking something—
beer, I suppose. At one point,
Marie had me drive to the cemetery in Aurora.
We got out in a dark spot. I’m sure
that my job right then was to kiss her and take her clothes off,
but I somehow couldn’t get down to it.
After a while
we took off in the car again.
She kept talking (mockingly) about licking a
strawberry ice cream sundae with a
cherry on top.

2.
(Barcarole)

Now as a poet,
I must be braver than I ever was as a lover—
to sing memory
in the (limping) measures of my verse.
If memory consents.
But I know that memory wants
to be rocked to these lapping strains forever.
I must not
be reticent or shy.
I must not hold back.

December 2013

Biding the Storm

Storm warning just went from orange to red

(I mean the radar on my weather app),
but if I shovel, I just might drop stone-dead.

Then I’ll be the thing that the worms fed
on—that is, when the snow melts off all the crap
in the garden, when the sun is burning red

in spring. I’m told to shovel, but I’d best lie here instead
in my dishabille and take a nap,
because if I shovel I just might drop stone-dead.

And I’m a little stiff, so I’m taking ibupred,
or I just might drive to the Y and swim a lap,
with the storm warning changing from orange to red

and snow drifting visibly beyond my window ledge.
And on the door I hear the storm’s tap-tap,
almost like a rap on the door of the dead.

Well, my live body is lying here in bed,
awakened by a blizzard thunder-clap.
The storm warning just went from orange to red,
but if I shoveled, I’d probably drop dead.

Ode

What one loves—

even in war!
The rest is dross.

One can’t love dross.
Or can one?
What one loves

remains, across
from one, on a chair.
It’s my love

for what's sweet and fair
that salves every loss—
my turtle doves—

my gold so rare.
Eyes of dross.
Diamonds in the rust.

In olive groves
treading more and more
ripeness to the core.
Feet of dross!

No Guts, No Story

Are you risk-averse?

I’m such a weirdo!
Who’ll drive the hearse?

From bad to worse—
just as you feared-o—
(why you’re risk-averse).

You took a whole course
on districts that were cleared of
inhabitants—a hearse

came and took poor Katie Norris.
You couldn’t afford to be a weirdo
in those Skibbereen-y, sex-averse

days of wandering in the forest
wondering what hair-do
would best please the hearse.

But do I have any choice but to cross-dress
when the devil’s got me by the beard-o?
If you’re so risk-averse,
who’ll drive the hearse?

Traveling

A pastiche of the Spanish Roma song “Malageña Salerosa,” the Roma national anthem “Gelem Gelem,” “Pain” by the Romanian Roma poet Choli Darosz Joszef, images from the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, and observations of a performance by the band Bez Ime at the Black Dog Café in St. Paul, MN.

I wish I could

remember. All memory
blocked in the black slate of my
own blind birth. Interrupting the bloody stream of
history.
Back before the war. Before
the rupture. The Pharrajimos.

Recently I
saw an unmistakable
Roma wagon by the side
of the road at the top of Bear Tooth Pass north of
Yellowstone,
two horses grazing nearby,
nuzzling the moist mountain sedge grass.

Roma songs the
most beautiful in the world:
Pretty your eyes, under those
two eyebrows. Under those two eye brows, pretty your
eyes. They want
to look at me, but you won’t
let them. Lovely Malaga rose.

To honor my
red-haired progenitors, my
Iberian blood, and my
two Jewish daughters. Because Carolyn Forché
included
no Roma poets in her
book of witness poems. Because,

while waiting for
the bullets, the Roma would
not stand still above their graves,
but dodged, writhed, and shrieked—or flung themselves into the
pits and played
dead. Hidden under low mounds.
Nameless in fields and woods. Hurtling

down like a stone.
The split on my cheekbone gapes
because of your absence. I am
scattering petals grown out of my run-down flesh
into your
trace, trying to remember
you. Lost. Graceful Malaga rose.

. . .

Black Dog Café.
Three black-haired women on stage.
Silver-glittering eyelids.
The singer with the Doumbek doing the front work,
Natalie,
flanked by fiddler Colleen
and clarinetist Katrina.

Natalie singing.
A small girl—about four—is
dancing near the stage. Lithe feet.
Brown smock bobbing. Gesturing arms beside her black
hair. She falls
when the band switches to a
kopanitsa, but gets back up,

feet expressing
the complicated pattern.
I worry she’ll hurt herself
on the monitor speaker.  I worry she’ll
be trampled
by the moving dance line. I
worry she’s been abandoned here.

Gelem Gelem,
composed after the Nazi
murderers changed uniforms
and the Roma got their own flag to wave: red wheel
traveling
the long roads. O travelers,
where are you traveling from?

I had a big
family once, but the black troopers
murdered them. Theresia’s twins
Rolanda and Rita taken away from her
and sterilized.
Wagons torched and toppled. Wheels
smashed. Horses, riders sprayed with fire.

You always shoot
the adults first. The children
can’t feel mental pain? Not tall
enough to receive the bullets, holding on to
their mothers’ skirts,
tumbling after into the
dusty pits and buried alive.

I already
know, you have faded into
my past. Between my lips I
bear the arch of your moon-face, building you into
myself. To
the brink of the grave. The soft
white silk of your grass-hair hurts me.

. . .

Open the white
gates, O God of travelers.
You see my people moving.
Come down and ride with us, lucky travelers. Come
riders. The
time is now.—Dark eyes, dark skin.
Beautiful like a dark-skinned grape.

Natalie sings

the verses in a hard, shrill
alto. Clarinet notes like
sparks from a forge. O Romale, O Chavale.
But I look
toward the stage, blink my eyes, and
the little gypsy girl is gone.

April-August, 2014

The Honey Jar

I can sit in my chair,

hideous as it is.
I can take my popped balloon out of the jar.

My chair is a far
berth from Mycenae
and the Trojan War.

But there’s a fair prospect from here—
two windows, a dresser, a cat-tree.
What more

is there to wish for? I share
songs, like “Hide You in the Blood of Je-
sus,” or “When I Wake to Sleep No More.”

I can lie on my bed of rest and snore,
I can let the dead lie where they lie.
I can wake up and sit in my chair. But nary a day

goes by when I don’t think of you, my dear—
the sky
keeps us in touch from where you are
to my seat here in my chair.

Deep-Sea Fishing

Expectant writing state—

like I’m just starting my lunch—
finding out what’s on my plate.

My plate is flat,
unlike an ocean trough
like the Mariana Trench

lying along the Philippine tectonic plate.
(Well, there’s a mild stench,
but I think that’s just some beans

I ate.) OK, I’m First Mate
on a ship hovering over the clenched
fin of a shark, denizen of the abysmal plain.

Dolphins scud and whales breach,
but nothing more to be heard or seen
than the wavy shapes in the sea’s speech.

The ship rocks as my pen writes
the story of my mind in a winch—
my expectant writing state—
finding out what’s in the net.

Living Dear in Bel Air

Carpe the fuck out of this diem!

Should I be embarrassed

to be so absorbed in my mixed-
up sensations and affairs?

My family gave me this pair of
carpe diem sox—
tossed there on a chair.

Whatever feels sexiest
feels forbidden, you know—like I don’t dare
show my box of rocks—

whatever I really care
about, relax
into when I’ve taken my

shoes off.... But I can take off or put on my pair
of carpe-diem sox
any time I want to and declare

there’s
a tingle in my solar
plex!

A regular
carpe-diem-sox
cathexis!

But does prophylax-
is happen the moment the shutter
clicks on the face

of whomever’s
right there
in front, next

to us when we can’t afford
to live in Bel Air?
It’s a sun-flare!

It’s a light year!
It’s au revoir!
It’s now or nev-air!!!

It’s
mostly 
about sex.

Mandolove

Holding my pen like a plectrum,

faux-tortoiseshell twixt finger and thumb,
my hand a strong connection.

I reckon the function
of a plectrum is to cluck
like a chicken, but it also plucks

at the junction
of air and ŌM,
thrumming a breath connection,

whether election or reflection,
fate or skipping stone,
when I wield my pen like a plectrum.

And the outcome of a chicken
is to be a plucked hen,
a chicken-feather confection—

the whole caboodle lifted on a fulcrum
of picked and fermented corn,
when my pen strikes like a plectrum—
sweet doodlection!