in honor of chicory

rising birds, lifting up out of a blue field
illusion of movement--
a still life of sun
on folded and extended wings

welcoming the new driver to, say, an 8-lane freeway

aren't you proud of yourself
the way you can maneuver
accurately, without touching
within this flock

on their 21st cruise

it was after they had secured their cabin
and arranged things in the cabinets and drawers
that she sat down on the bed suddenly, and said
you know what, Jamie?
I wish I were home

note for nation building

instead of they, them
I really want to hear more us
those of us, those among us...

I want the things that unite us
to decorate our shelves

homesick?

on the rippled water
an approaching mast
and the bridge begins to hum
two halves rise, drawing in the air
a non-existent mountain...

seaside on a Tuesday

the ocean is bored without us
lifts a languid hand to slap the beach

wipe your feet

on the door mat do
a little dance

refuge

in the kitchen
she surrounds herself
with things that will obey

amuse

although
our atoms formed together
part of the water, hardly distinguishable
and our energies go over in around--
pass through each other
all the time like ghosts

how is it
we’re enamored of the sharp image
straight edges, solid forms, incised letters
demarcations–eyes, noses, fingers
present and accounted for

and the numbers tally up, agreeing
goals, ends, clearly showing
orderly, marching closer...

Sunday dinner

people greeting people all around

alone, he comes to the restaurant
for the left-over smiles

windy weather, lax

from the seventh floor, by the airport
we watched the airplanes blow towards us
Aeroflot, Emirates, Philippine Air, LAN Peru--
labeled winds

always hungry

I had in mind the dog
but it was only an empty
brown paper shopping bag
looking up at me

cleanup time

when the web of time
joined the dust of time
she gave in and cleaned the cabinet

.


(the dust, on little
rubber bands
bounces right back)

theoretically, from the distance, knowing nothing

so easy, so familiar
pulling back a practiced finger
and the action playing
tiny and so far away
hardly feels like murder

the cries? we've heard these cries before
coming out of our own mouths--
nothing anyone would pay attention to
and we've been dead a long time
to anything but anger

still, we'd take it all back
for pizza and a night at home...

feisty

overheard, stopped at a red light, window down
two graybeards conversing on a bus stop bench
“Now, I don’t wannna have ta kill ya...”

jet (or swine flu, hopefully)

begins with intimation
builds to thunder
which subsides
does not come our way

wording

a landscape tossed by wind
a climate, cool caves beneath the branches
entertainments--spiders, squirrels, birds
the coming and going of its leaves

all this compressed into one word, tree
hardly worth a second glance

(word--at first, supplement to a feeling
then a feeling supplanted)

change yourself for the better?

sure you can learn a few things
give yourself lessons, lectures, sermons
make mental notes, resolutions, conversions
but in life we can only truly be
the way it comes to us