Singing

Fires So High

Fireflies in the maple trees

and the bamboo and the myrtle

     blink. Seen even in our dark

living room where they float round

          the ceiling as sparks, here,

     there against the cowling,

circling the hearth, flying out

     to the roof, then up higher

          into the hickory like embers

     from flints, like the LEDs

above our heads. They crackle

          into dusk like plane

     indicators or lit swamp gas,

fires so high.

Brunch

She photographs Cupid as he

sits on the curb. His garments

of velvet dyed violet are sewn

with golden thread. His bow

stands as tall as her.

                                      His lone

arrow quivered, he samples

a plate of linguini and sausage.

He's marked the curb with hobo

sign for Good Meals Here: 'Ambrosia.

     Lady seems kind.' —Venus.

Yet he says his name is Rodrigo,

says he was born in Terminal

E at Logan, says he'd like dessert,

now, 'Almond liqueur stewed pears.'

Those Old-Fashioned Lovers

Were seeking their ancient loves

without knowing when or where,

whether that love was inside them,

was hidden in some wood, some stream.

Then as they gazed, it rose behind them.

The water mirrors our thirst,

can force us to rip ourselves apart,

or sacrifice some nameless bore.

See when Theban women burn

incense in Bacchus' shrine,

Cupid doesn't need his spindles.

He strokes our keen ears.

Venus doesn't need a lute.

She pulls at our hearts' threads.

Communion of Saints

I see god Brahma on his throne of lotus,

and all the seers and serpents of light.

Kneeling seems hard, and our shoulders

pulsate. Won't our Lord persuade his

priest to read faster? Now he sings,

comes to the part where the host surges,

where blood makes a brief appearance,

     and all of us remain bowed till

     a wafer crosses the borders

of our selves. Behind him, the altar

transforms, too, to a kitchen table,

     and our parents gather round,

     mimicking us then showering

us with rice and water and salt.

Trees

 

Towers hold bells that shield clappers.

Trees mock towers.

                                    As a boy I climbed

     trees. I even drew my dog up to

     my treehouse. He sat in a bucket

I’d connected to a rope. He was

docile, fearless, yet I didn’t do this

more than once because I can’t be sure

     he enjoyed it much less lacked fear.

Our dominance doesn’t ensure joy

in those we control nor can we expect

their trepidation to cool cause we

     love them: unübererredete.

What we scale sometimes becomes our

     métier, our zeal to conquer heaven.

An Owl

An owl makes its

     nest in a hole

inside a rotten tree

     near a deep brook

where small trout

     feed on midges

when they're there.

     An owl can corral

trout when an eddy

forms even when ice

covers water and shore.

     An owl seems huge

though weighs almost

     nothing unlike trout.

Mein Herz 

As columns that underpin my heart,

     my arteries flow and connect

     my lungs, material of atmosphere.

     Internal contrasts with external.

Lamps atop columns are spaced yards

     apart along the city's arteries

     where cars with hearts and lungs

speed past each other like creatures long

ago when there weren't cars or lights

at night, and people huddled in homes

     afraid of that night, afraid of others'

beating hearts, whose desires quickened

     or extinguished others' breath.

     Eternals contrast with internal.

Vera 

     "My darling plays for no one

but himself" —staunch flow over interiors,

      reverberate like rain on a roof—

"then splits our hearts with mourning."

No grave can hobble her because "Now

     I shall dance!" Perhaps not to his

     songs nor to his headless rhythm

nor to his fingers tapping on that desk

where he's composed regiments of sound

that would've seduced Thracian women

who then cast him hence to those carp

     kissing Hebrus' pebbles, carp who'll

     nibble whatever flesh fish can find

     as he flows onto Lesbos' shores.

Singing

Only with the rhythm of salmon

          slapping at waterfalls

     at noonday can our voices,

alert like some drum major's,

do what the marigold wants:

     to teach us about sad crows'

     songs: 'Shift beak to groom

     only white mites without

an arm or two.' Who can believe

that amongst flung plumes, dots

     of purple like blood on staves

can sprinkle like claret on sand?

Your superstars aren't giants

          jamming for their savings.

Stone

     Stuck in the cave, philosophers'

only freedom came from mushrooms'

magic making shadows on the wall

     into glamours, illusions hiding

     from apprentices as myriad

automatic brooms or Hermès scarves.

Think the philosophers stone came

from that cave? Reddish like the clay

               god breathed into to

          make Adam? Yet terracotta

can't change to gold or grant eternity.

     For every alchemist who belongs

to dawn then dusk, another lies inside

          the temporal, still outside heaven.

Zither 

Is it true that you saw Eurydice

among them?     —Adonis

His tub of water frozen, his dressing

room mirror cracked, abandoned by him,

     are his notes now mist or is he fog? 

Have we tagged his melody? Have we

sunken his star in cement? Have we

torn his face and plastered it on posters?

     Affixed it on jelly jars? Sharpened

          his teeth then made masks of him

     for children to wear on Halloween?

          Didn't he sell enough notes for us?

Our ears, drawn down by gold bangles,

ceased to listen. Weren't there boats

          against these banks that bent to

     salvage him, to restring his zither?

Untuned 

Beasts gone wild who take gardens

for pasture…     —Ibn Faraj

          Rivers border this city composed

     of flatted thirds like minor voices

spread along the horizon. Can't sun

shade as well as lightening? Until our toes

sift through the desert, beasts will ferry us

to new springs where fronds seem dazed

by our tone. Unless sound disappears

     with moonrise like flowers folding

     at sunset? Between the first interval

     and the last, in a city with no balconies,

no homes with guitars, no guts for strings,

even our days lack harmony with night.

No charts for these violins with no bows.

Why hasn't our path transposed this music?

Sinner 

Sunosun who asks for no recompense,

blind me to my faults. Don't reveal me

as I am. Don't light my need for gold,

for duck to savor, for claret to comfort

me in my guilt. I deny those I have

injured, hope they will never find me.

Hence I remain in the black, secluded,

avoid human contact. Only my

brother and sister in limbo listen

to my queries, to my prayers at matins,

and they hover like hummingbirds

around a font of honey. Have I lured

them? Unlike David? Birds flew to him,

sang with him morning and evening.

David Fights the Philistines 

     That night, David slumped to the royal

pavilion, parched though he drank water, 

unable to quench his need for the Spring

                    captured by his enemy.

     His guards chafed at David's need:

          They carry a pitcher, scale enemies'

walls, dodge a sentry, traverse the camp. 

His guards discover this Spring, draw

from it, and bring the full pitcher to David. 

          David, though feverish, reckoned

                         that that water

     was alike to blood, danger to his Soul. 

David surmounted his suffering, scorned

his thirst, made the water a libation to God. 

Spells 

               for Yul Brynner

"As it is written, so shall it be" will

     breathe miracles on the fly?

     Et cetera, et cetera can't sacrifice

peace to appease god. How can blood

shield one from world courts or opinion?

Whatever Moses did or Daniel thought

with his dazzling mind, both trembled

     before god yet believed unbelievers

might kill them. But dreams, spells spoke

     of heaven's powers to protect them

or at least guide their escape from death?

     Earth magic versus blood magic differs

little for god who formed Adam from clots

     of blood, breathed, "Become a people."

The Sound of Jazz 

"You couldn't yet read or write," the angel 

     says. "So I fastened a hoop of gold 

around your neck to record your prayers." 

Someone else tells Lady's story, steals 

her voice, her phrases, listens to applause, 

beckons her 'family' to come near 

for awards. 

                       The feed breaks into four, 

five, then seven screens all broadcasting 

her image —Smile for them, sing as though 

     their hearts lie around you like river 

rocks you could stumble over, throbbing. 

     Lester's riffs really hit, then Hentoff, 

in the control room, hears— "Love will make 

     you do things that you know is wrong."

Clear Lake

A search for a word like crocus

     Can seem like something

          I rehearse as I

Stop searching for the most

Correct word, emptiness

Overtakes the space for search,

Somewhat —unlike drowsiness 

When sequences of thought can

Imagine a skit, a film, an aire—

Here my senses work —unlike how

     A clear lake can be momentary,

In meditation, this lake spreads, 

And I stall onto the lake,

          And I fall into the clear lake.

Penance 

When remembering where I sit,

My mind gives footage I've seen

Before, and when I try to feel

More deeply into these scenes,

I can't tell whether it's a TV

Show or a window into a room,

Then I sense a shutter clacking.

Sores rise where my body starts 

Aching at the points where I sit.

I gasp because I carry voids

As penance inside me, breathe

So my breath fills me but doesn't.

Yet wisps curl into the voids, hide

The gloom that underlies it all.

West Palm 

West of Miami —alligator alley —Naples,

then north of there, Fort Myers —Deion

     Sanders' crib. East of Fort Myers

     lies West Palm. In between Miami

     and West Palm grows Hollywood.

     All have palms —but no chirality.

So no East Palm in Estero, or in Naples

     below? No army, navy, or air base

surrounds Fort Myers? Just as no sound

stages collect in Hollywood, no volcano

     threatens Naples? None of these have

you, Calusa. Gone —East, West, North, 

     and South of you, gone —none of you,

though seashells and shaking palms stay.

Pollex

When the dye hits

cells distort then firm

to an image stilled

on your slide.

Now what happens

billions of times

weekly? The cells drop

away as fragments 

of apoptotic bodies

dispelled by urges

within or without

that call caspases

who lack remorse:

Thumb opposed.

Harney

Were we talking about Isherwood

or Auden or Spender whom I met

in '74 and asked to sign my journal 

which I no longer have though Fern

painted a faire glade on its cover

all blues with purple blooms floating 

against green background but no

figures from life anywhere on it.

Good breeding I suspected you had,

and Cathy took to you immediately 

as a friend for you had no inclinations 

except maybe a violent streak when you

confronted Replogle on that York River

beach where we all got smoked —ptah.

Replogle 

Maybe you argued about Auden of whom

you knew or knew him? But he'd just died.

So maybe you clobbered one of us. I can't

remember. How you became Lennon's

publicist you explained once later, and I

also can't remember that, but. You were so

handsome unlike the rest of us —hicks

to the core —yet thinking maybe we could

connect with those rich and famous poets

like Levine or Levertov —unknowing, yes,

that we already had among us future

knights of the keyboard like Baroody

and Bram and Stover and Perrow, et al—

Je te remercie —you, in my mind's eye.

Gravy Dream

          Dream you must from birth

          and before. For if you believe

you reincarnate you may dream

          into an octopus whose arms

have suckers that taste, or dream into

          an herring, or into an elephant

whose forehead can press your chest

till it's lights out all over your world.

Then into mallard or mucus or mamba

that sees a finger as something to seize

till you wheeze a new world for to see

then breathe into respironics that seem

     to fail everyone. So thank you for all

     that, for all that's grave in this world.

Bones

     When I washed dishes

at Ling King Inn, I learned

to dice onions, bone chicken,

fold wonton, roast red pork,

steam rice, boil then stir fry

     ramen, sprout mung

beans, mince shrimp balls,

     buy Hennessy and Lucky

Strikes for James Chan, wipe

     water spots off flatware

by using hot tea, and slice

carrots diagonally for sweet

and sour sauce. After I die,

only my bones will remember.

Swill

     When I washed dishes

     at Dutch Pantry, George

and Minnie Pearl taught me

to broil steaks, prep salad mix,

fry apple fritters, French fries,

and shrimp, clean the deep fat

fryer, eat jalapenos from the jar,

mop the dining rooms, scrub

     toilets and sinks, wash pots,

brick the griddle, arrange the hot

     table, sort silverware, wipe

walk-in down, and empty trash.

Mr. Bodo had me reserve guests'

leftovers for the sheriff's hogs.

Window

     When I washed dishes

at Lorenzo's Pizza, I also helped

set up the grand opening.

Larry taught me that you need

a huge window between dining

room and kitchen if "You're gonna

     throw pizzas for your public!"

He made his money as a steel

worker in Youngstown then built

pizza places in Miami, Lauderdale,

Orlando, and Titusville. He showed

me his Grossmutti's pizza sauce

recipe and how to use a Hobart

     mixer to make pizza dough.