Detritus
astonishment beauty pleasure sea nights chimaeras black smoke of days steeped in teasel drenched in rain winter's honey cornfields of Earth long trains passing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ night ends in blueberries and white lilies. the flutter of doves takes me to ancient desert places. lines of ink on paper quiver, almost alive, almost meaningful. the sun is Mars-orange in distant pines. I retreat with the deer into the opium of shadows. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ avocados ripen in an antique dish. a thousand lilies flare up like a religious vision. the day is far away from anything. I run my hands along infinity, water chimes on ferns, death is near, the air is sweet with goldfinches. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ like some burned out old astronaut and an alien poet sharing an ultimate moment with cups of rocket-coffee to cover the many galaxies of meaning we, too, meet, like clouds, at this moment of writing on Saturday afternoon once as infinite as morning shadows at the edge of expectation ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ insane streets where the river breathes diesel fumes a dog barks out its tortured melancholy pavements hallucinate me give me my stark lusts, in watercolor dawns the moon long gone to some stoned eternal past where I feast on dates, heavy coffee, patchouli breasts and hair falling from a silhouette in a dream into the broken heart of the town where nighthawks call like the dead from centuries ago who sit forever listening to the drone of cicadas at dusk ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ hills boil over into a river of burlap and wax. giant gutter roaches appear, ancient, iconic. I dream of cocaine, white thighs, vodka kisses, and the cool grace of snow on palms in the violent ruby silence of sunsets as nighthawks weave their spells into a breeze of vetch and berry and the gold moon is swallowed in diesel smoke. another excursion into the day is pointless, so I go, since life itself is the exotic other ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ it is getting dark, it is starting to rain. there is the smell of bread, a rush of dark wings beneath the eaves. I am increasingly partial to unfinished phrases, half-images, ghost sentences buried between shadows of ink. the absolute coherence of the fragment. outside, on a lawn, the day crosses into evening. a swirl of birds, smokelike. a conversation brings back ruby and sundew moments from long ago; the river's titanium glitter, starpoints behind heat lightning; rabbits of stone. lace curtains; violet; a marble cup. honeycomb, snow, bamboo, winestained and poem-mad. at night the waters of the bay were silveryblack. towers rose, polished grey, into a cobalt sky. at first light, the glowing faces of Victorians. a cool and salty air. sometimes I think of San Francisco. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ morning's velvet. the gold ink of yesterday's scrawls already lost in the archives of sleep and the next excavated word. rose-petal dawn. as if her lips. no one ever kissed my knees before; she said. and this nightsong of tires on wet pavement. red neon of insane eros. then, hours later, the killdeer cries of empty lots. pigeons haunt me under bridges as I haunt women under their skirts. I look up from the black water of ditches into the beauty of dusk. a cold grey autumn all I ask for. drunkenness beyond drunkenness. getting dark; starting to rain. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ smoke of old nights. fingers twined with leaves and fingers. fires of dawn inside me burning down days and poems existence and survival to these aging eyes in an empty mirror. foghorns in the brain, whiskey flashbacks, taste of black cigarettes and flesh at the edge of evening; ink of pure sky, the astronaut's forgotten name snow and grasses on graves. the murmured velvet of the river's throat. the sound of cats fucking deep in city blocks. a sentence written in a dream, the rising moon of sweet caresses in the pink split of a pear. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I cling to a breath to a leafy moment the streets silent in lamplight after rain the robins seem a million miles away now the sound of fire in my head won't stop I go out for another walk along the creek as the saxophonist blows yet another suicide note into the empty darkness of the parking garage ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the smells of rain, leaves, exhaust, dark Columbian and Chinese take-out all mingle into the single image of a book I'll never write a book the color of wet neon luminous grey muted chrome and clouds the color of old lead pipes a book in which old men walk the streets like sticks chasing stupid dreams back and forth, back and forth in decrepit rooms filled with the invisible fetishes of a lifetime ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ lingering kiss of the night's fog along the river the past opens like thighs there is no room in the moment for this ink, this paper I follow the poem's drift like the moon over wet streets to the brink of absence ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ leaves dying early on drunken paths to autumn bitter taste of ghost and old lust no Paris streetcorners no Belgian canals only these shadows of dissolving images a red dress a glass of whiskey the glow of night fog around her impossible body ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ somber clouds gashed with pink give way to ether-blue finches twitter their fool heads off trees turn to colorless dust Sunday moves on into senile droolings light seems to die where it lands as I dream of poems made of next to nothing and my brain screams out like a thousand black paintings