Sunday, September 29, 2019

Moth


attention is nice
but maybe the quietest days
were the best
being slower
watching endless rain
through old windows
it empties my soul
hunting for my glasses
for an hour
gently cursing
these softest distractions
up and down the stairs
over and over
a moth in the night
invisible to myself
and everyone else


Friday, September 27, 2019

Twenty Bucks and a Stone Haiku

the cemetery
a bag blowing past
says THANK YOU

*


visiting Van Gogh

feeling all the people
we didn't

*

as many cracks

as days
a doll’s face

*

autumn morning
somewhere you change color
without me

*


chipped glasses

plates with hairline cracks
not a bad marriage

*


something in you the way

autumn trees
pretend to shiver

*


cool autumn morning

awakened by small feet
racing away

*


children share secrets

clear sap
from an unseen center

*


old porcelain dolls

in the nursing home
every crack speaks

*


autumn leaves

the colors a warning
a celebration

*


autumn leaves

fall on the railroad tracks…
is this a joke?

*

autumn market
different gourds
with the same problems

*


autumn morning

something running fast over
my head wakes me


*


hometown years later

even the creek’s
changed beds

*


groundhog hibernates
our clocks slow down
then reverse

*


the vacant house's

welcome mat
snowflake by snowflake

*


autumn morning

cold finds
a tooth’s crack

*

ANTIQUES store window
autumn leaves reflect
over old metal

*


winter morning

a tree that killed its children
waves at me

*

October schoolbus
autumn leaves board
in a hurry

*


asking what number

snowstorm this is
no one knows

*

autumn morning
the carp turn
slower circles

*


under canal leaves

disgust a century old
wedding ring smolders

*


waking in cold

to write of coldness
warms me

*


autumn crickets

a tempo
tells a story

*


autumn crickets:

imagine dying
without loneliness

*


funeral champagne

tiny bubbles stroke
forgotten places

*

reading obits
an unseen jet rumbles
towards no one’s home

*

in time

the pleasures of time

replace the pleasures
of place

*

my old school
my stomach rumbles
on its stone

*


the kid eating stones

on the playground
is a bird

*

the only thing
weirder than words
what they replace

*


a leaf falls

in the cemetery
a sort of Thank You

*


Van Gogh

freezes the cornfield
before winter

*


Van Gogh's cornfields

just before winter
forever

*


Van Gogh's paintings

lose color every year…
the snakeskins no one finds


*


missing each other

by mere eons
you and God

*


museum room

full of paintings the feeling
we just missed God

*

weather report
from behind icy fingers
on her nipples

*

snowstorm
all the infidelities
need rescheduling

*

Indian summer
an affair that promised to end
shops for skis

*


we visit you
in a cemetery
to talk about debt

*


dead winter

on my dad’s grave a twenty
under a rock

*


winter morning

you wake and your lover
is years away

*


winter morning

all the lovers on this bus
look like boxers

*


winter morning

lost coffees left on buses
tell us their names

*

winter to spring
a bus kiosk’s plexiglas
scratched like home

*

a real home
even the diamond
has scratches

*


autumn light

the clock turns backwards
when we do

*

autumn leaves
I can’t decide
on a collage

*

winter night ocean
still growing colors
in abalone

*

buried love
the night ocean
colors abalone

*


buried love

the night ocean
mothers pearl

*


visiting Van Gogh

feeling all the purple
we aren't

Tuesday, September 24, 2019

Tuesday

The rain was out in the street
making collages. 
People indoors make collages,
and I don't want to think
first world problems
of time like Proust.
 Look at their
hands ripping the ages
out of books which stood
for no one has the permission
to steal my pages

when we were kids
and every library had
at least one gorgon.

Let us paste time down
over other time and see.
The mind likes to see things
just ripped out like that,
the strange contours
of a body discovering
how it is a body,
if never quite why.

The collage at night
replaces the dog-eared
lover, a book we were currently
reading, which seems to wonder now
if we would sacrifice it
in this way. For art or some other
abstraction. Just how much
should I trust you,
the book
seems to be saying under
its borrowed breath, as we hold it
close, whisper promises
to protect and preserve
what will slowly die
and only be brought back
to partial life by willful destruction.

What we will not tell it:
it is only certain pieces of you
that I will want and those
for the way they will brush
new-torn strangeness.



Monday, September 23, 2019

Monday

You said yesterday was the first day
of autumn everything. It was not. Today is.
Am I a breeze in your mind
as you are in mine? This window glass
through which I watch you is ancient,
possibly as old as Lincoln's forehead,
making wavy gravy of the landscape.
I wanted to send you some old art
along with its resident silverfish. Autumn
prepares to mount its exhibitions. You know
that usually means sex. Art workers
are usually oversexed and on ghosts.
Ghosts cannot harm us. (I would that
they could.) Today, I asked autumn what
she thinks of you, and it was all under her breath,
like a Ouija board. Just push the planchette
so we can get this over, get into bed.

Sunday, September 22, 2019

Sunday

Each person is a cup of ghosts.
Each person like a spoon in a warmth
you can stir and drink close to sleep.
A white square in the museum is useful.
A black square in the museum is useful.
You mostly stir the way birds do
around the museum. You listen to the grass
move through walls, without seeing.
You say the word Sunday to hear
the shape it takes. Someone blows glass
far away, thinking as of a child
who will be your first reflection?


Thursday, September 12, 2019

Wow! I'm Always Happy When I Find Something Like This...

Sue me, Ironman bro-fans, but Robert Downey Jr. was just fresher back when he was a Democrat.

Dream cast. Wonder if I'll love the movie as much if I watch it again. It's been so many years. Loved it back then. Hope it holds up.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Gum

I wake up in the night, worried about how to get rid of gum. I fear nothing will vaporize gum but a white hot star. I worry about our ignorance. If you put it in a mere earthly incinerator, the wet gum of a mouth will just scream and writhe and turn and pop and then crawl away. Just as Daniel came with a spring in his step out of that Biblical oven. It will lie on the street, charred, and wait for a really low mouth, for little hands to pick it up and pop it in. It might be a child. Or an art dwarf like Lautrec. And if you bury it deep in the earth, it will hold all our cells and spit in those brain-like grooves, and with the weight of all the trash above, pockets will seal over that DNA like amber over 99 million year old ants caught in the act of inter-species fornication. There is no solution. We should have never started with gum. You might swallow it, but then it's going to follow the great Excremental Highway to the sea. Think of all the people who throw their gum into the ocean. Right off cruise ships and PVC rafts made to look like a box of Crayola Crayons.You just know sea cucumbers are mating with our gum at the bottom of the sea. How do you sleep at night?  You probably don't even believe gum has genes, but at the beginning of creation a bunch of water bubbles "got" genes. They had nothing at the beginning. Just a dark dream and a fiction about themselves they told themselves constantly until it became true. The way you can hear gum talking, even when you stop chewing it. So it begins.

Thursday, September 5, 2019

Van Gogh's Long Drive Home Haiku



cops in darkness
drive and smile
at other cops

*

if a tree falls
in the forest…
fireflies

*

sunflowers…
all the faces
born to travel

*

night cops in cars
wait for darkness
to well up

*

complaining about
carbon footprints he swats
a bee with newspaper

*

slow down your walk
until it’s lovemaking
air your partner

*

watching waves
on the beach
in a cup

*

morning fog
the old zinc bucket
behind everything

*

spring rain
the graffiti of dead boys
looks new again

*

the funeral
only the dead man
knows everyone

*

night beach
ancient female
thunder

*

all night
dark waves crash saying
she  she  she

*

leaving the gym
still dark
inside my body

*

even your eyelids
taste her
crashing morning waves

*

3 a.m. gym
a few satyrs
frown at each other

*

August street
children and flies
bug a dead cat

*

Christmas snow
cats glower
at carolers

*

naked cop
without his gun
feels naked

*

making the best
of a bad century
Mae West

*

everyone sees
the rain fall but no one
sees it rise

*

no longer calling
the last crickets
listen

*

all the past days–
are they tight sardines
or gone clouds

*

sardine tin–
death makes
strange bedfellows

*

old man
staring at a tin of sardines
remembers an orgy

*

long drive home
headlights narrow
his feeling

*

an apple
so perfect
my hunger fades

*

dark river
chuckles on stone steps
all night long

*

old men piss
slow at racetrack urinals
dreaming of speed

*

night horsetrack
the odds of everything
hide in a fog

*

young soldiers dead…
on a battlefield crows jingle
their good luck charms

*

rehab clinic
at dawn the erections
dream of home

*

too tired to explain
he gets another tattoo
instead

*

in the bar
he lets his tattoos
do all the work

*

bar’s alpha
even his arm cast
collects phone numbers

*

breeze in night’s screen door:
he watches dark willows
change clothes like women

*

after the crash
his shoes stayed on the back porch
all winter

*

small wings
in the candle wax
summer night

*

summer night
the kitchen’s cricket
getting closer

*

kitchen-trapped cricket
pretends not to care
he’s dateless

*

some dates
just end badly   a cricket
in a kitchen

*

be gentle
with our kitchen’s cricket
the dateless wonder

*

summer crickets
under the stars
dateless wonders

*

night fishing
a cigarette glows
twice

*

the best part
of being a cricket
you’re never lost

*

horny crickets
all night tell
absolutely anyone

*

Sunday dawn
crickets who struck out
finally shut up

*

he sprays his mom’s
favorite perfume on her ashes
before guests

*

my dead mother
atomizing
in my memory

*

summer hookup
she makes love to his tattoos
not him

*

watching sparrows
not knowing
what i am

*

a tugboat
far below this hill
slowly pulls my mind

*

freezing night
a far dog barks
at lowness

*

a loon’s cry…
dead friends
listen through me

*

deep ocean
dreamless sharks
made of time

*

no one left
she talks
to the house

*

morning fog
freshens the graveyard
behind town

*

deer in the yard
a ninety-year-old
raps on the glass

*

a psych textbook
titled YOUR PROJECTIONS
ABOUT THE MOON

*

she comes home
from the library
younger with grass stains

*

a man jumps
from a bridge some birds
briefly join him

*

we talk
behind its back
the childless apple

*

dawn branches
a bunch of birds call bullshit
on night

*

night auction
more chairs
than his funeral

*

flea market
checking each link
in a stranger’s necklace

*

balloons trapped
in a hospital room
barely breathing

*

husband to husband–
all the picture frames
she gives away

*

rain on the roof
a story fainter
every year

*

polite smiles
people give milk glass
as they pass

*

deep under
the alphabet
the animals

*

the only one
children love in a graveyard
the snowman

*

we pass the cemetery
and think
no porch light

*

August cicadas
our ice cream
shedding its skin

*

after feeding pigeons
she feeds the coworkers
on Ambien

*
separate beds
separate checkbooks
same young lover

*

swimming in
the dead neighbor’s pool
her moonlight’s nicer

*

breaking up
still, they smile that their bed
has a limp

*

autumn sunlight
even the leaves know
they’re toast

*

in your sleep
you talk to years
without their skin

*

not a total loss:
Gettysburg
National Park

*

your death too
is the leaves
changing color

*

hating the world so
while he’s held in warm arms,
her lover the chihuahua

*

such angelic carving
a big bed goes traveling
divorce by divorce

*

ginkgo leaves
things won’t say
how old they are

*

after a week
of constant snow
expect mice

*

some words can squeeze
through holes much smaller
than themselves

*

the things
mice must think about holes
squeezing through!

*

two floors down
a murder
sounds like a dance

*

boy’s first time
and she’s pregnant…
deer taste moonlight

*

a touch
on the shoulder a leaf
in the graveyard

*

it’s raining outside
leaking inside
we’re making love

*

sniffing his shirt
left here years ago
a Golden Fleece is born

*

a swampy new love
she doesn’t check her mailbox
for days

*

animal eyes
in the zoo thinking man
this is a long visit

*

a breakup:
don’t click, call or visit
beloved emptiness

*

her mother’s hand
on the old man’s hand
that painted a rice grain

*

on his grave
we leave a geranium
armpit stank he loved

*

quiet house
cicadas louder
than the t.v. news

*

waking up
worried about bussing
my dream’s plates

*

abandoned orchard
deer thank no one
for cool moonlight

*

the sunflowers
nothing here
is old

*

Arles tour bus
sunflowers on the side
lost faces in windows

*
a small girl
is in love with sunflowers
half her age

*

brushing it off
an aroused firefly
lighting her breast

*

Arles
blue sky
begins to hiss

*

night sky
stars heat up
the sky boils

*

jar of fireflies
on a windowsill Vincent paints
Starry Night

*

U.S. puzzle toy
some wooden states
keep falling out

*

waking to no name
the cream rises
over the milk

*

fireflies
in a paper cup
still warm

*

after a late walk
your foliage
next to mine

*

frog’s splash
then endless commentary
of toads

*

how young they seem–
dust motes turning
in sunbeams

*

streetlight in fog
a bat passes by
dreaming hello



(so that's what's up)

I love folk art.

Why does this remind me of Raymond Pettibon?

If it's under ten bucks and this weird, I can't resist. Father is a what....C.H.U.D.?








Wednesday, September 4, 2019

I Couldn't Resist This Little Trio of Sculptures by a Folk Artist Named Gaines

Gaines? I did like a two second Google search and didn't see anything. But I didn't really care, because the pieces were so charming.

They're miniatures and they remind me of traveling in the family a la Russell Edson. Mom has a bird in the center of her skull; so does junior. Dad is always leveling his head to make sure his mind is okay.

I wish they were larger, but you can't have everything. The boy is missing one of his wings, but I suppose you just make up a story to explain that. They'll be good muses in my writing station upstairs.

They're totally the sort of carvings I'd expect to see in the Visionary Arts Museum. I felt a little twirl in my heart the moment I saw them.






Dorian Hurricane Relief

The Bahamas really took a hit from Dorian. I bet that single digit death toll being given out right now is low. Would be wonderful and miraculous were it not far off the actual number, but unless evacuation efforts were nonpareil, it's most likely way off. And, regardless, entire communities and their resources have vanished. So huge relief is needed.

An article at VOX giving out a few caveats.

And the Times offers this advice.

The Distance from Shep Shapiro to Medardo Rosso

I've been enjoying learning about folk artists lately.

I purchased a little Shep Shapiro sculpture today, largely because it's so creepy as well as sumptuous of surface.

Folk artists are particularly interesting to me when they do weird, sui generis things. Shapiro and his apple carvings would fall into that category. Granted, others have carved faces in apples since time immemorial, and there are those dried apple dolls and little kitchen witches, which I think were originally a Scandinavian tradition. But Shapiro's apple people end up reminding me of Medardo Rosso's sculpture (one of my last visits to New England coincided with a great Rosso show). I suppose it's that epoxy resin technique he brought to the table.

Shep is gone now, since 1993.

If you're looking for an interesting folk artist to collect, Shep Shapiro is a good bet. His pieces go for relatively very little right now on Ebay and similar sites. Yet you can see the prices incrementally edging up and you can see the interest remains strong. Probably because his is an outre art, and the wabi-sabi element in his creations is strong.

I think I wanted this one because the figure looks so evil and will suggest ideas for dark fiction.








Here's another weird Shapiro, face submerged in wax.



And one of Shapiro's girls.