POEM A DAY 2020

THE SYLVIA SCHOOL FOR BOYS

Low-lying land

Kids in Tuvalu, they are in second grade
learning about emigration, what it means
to be an emigrant, to be submerged
in a new culture that isn't yours
because your birthright
is underwater
The government is planning
for the expatriation of its
10,000 remaining citizens
refugees fleeing a slow flood
of saltwater irrigation
and long goodbyes

On to February

January nights were made
for lounging on car hoods,
ashing in the old snow
shimmering under fields of stars
feeling contained
in midwinter middle america
Poor January.
It doesn't snow anymore and
everyone's quit cars and smoking.

A Bigger Pot

The desk plant
is getting woody.
It is the first thing
I haven't killed
in years.
Mint, the fish,
vials of sperm,
my marriage,
all wilted under
my black thumb
but this stubborn
succulent
needs a bigger pot.

Any Fool

My shadow self is needy
And dying to be cared for.
She will go to where the otters are
Floating on the calm waters
Out past the breaking waves
Earnestly splashing
She will touch them
And she will want to drown
Oh, but she's the shadow
of a very strong swimmer
and this goddess, supernatural
will make it back to shore just fine.

FOUNDATIONAL LOVE NARRATIVE

get back

EMERALD CITY FUNERAL MARCH

as everything passes

Haiku 2

You left your imprint
Dry saliva on my cheek
I can't stop smiling

January 31 Poem: Last

Started slowly
uncertain and unclear

Managed to make it
half-way

Keep moving on
Light lifted from grey

Now the end is near
and "last" is the final word I hear

Doves

The only sound that day was chickens
Determined clucking sticking to the hillside
Oh, the wind that day, too
Finding spaces between branches  to whistle
It all died down, the whistles, the clucks,
When your corpse slid onto the screen
Dead and somewhat purple
Cheeks caved in as an old chapel
Dedicated to saints we don't pray to anymore
Maybe Julian the Hospitaler
Patron of pilgrims and childless people.
Or Peregrine, probably,
Who prayed his cancer away.
The chickens, the wind,
They know when you need a moment.
And then that dove, on the summit,
Circling my head like a mirage.

I dreamed I was on my pilgrimage.
I left early in the evening
From a Spanish albergue
And there were chickens in my way.
I picked one up and wrapped her in my arms
Her body more fragile than expected
Her trust much easier to earn than I deserved.
I whistled as I walked to the beat of clucking
And I did not think, "I'm glad I am not dead."

PICKUP STICKS

January 30th: Maybe

If You Took Cooking Away From Me

I don't make lists anymore,
every new dish a dawn,
and events the practise
of mirror movements,
synchronous with the ghost
trailed last one,
are we catching up
did we fall behind,
but this too will pass,
everything will be ready,
taste buds fried,
like retinas by the sun.

Safe As Houses

Noise

Passage

Depressed

Elder Argument The Elder

We're all mates here, and yes since we're here by virtue of.

trying a walk

Body abstracted
"the" body, non-
activated body
moving through
a body that is
taught how to move.
Do you know dance?
Not how to or about,
not that. No. Just
do you? I cried
when I saw a body
that knew what
another body would do
if it was younger or
born with grace.
I cried as I do
at sound, at noise
I cried as I do
at fame. I love
to see "the" body
abstracted, "the" body
activated but best of all
a body in another's suit.

Up In The Air

Not knowing, I
just want to sleep
until I do.
So much chaos,
exists between
the lines and within
and as the lines
themselves.

Red tape unfurling
as floating tassels,
as lake waste,
saturated,
in the dark and lonely
water,
that suffers the fool,
until the fool
should suffer no more.

//

Here-ness
Ever ending
Narrows
Closer to a minute
Your likeness
Was too far off
To be handheld
Like mine
I will never again
Be sure

The trouble is in the land

It was a hate hoax
On a curse buried so so deep

But what’s that grin
As wide as victory
Seeing sweetness
With the bitter swallows fading
Out of sight
From the mountain top
That force stronger than gravity
Bending
A troubled land

January 29th Poem: Unearthly Possessions

Structured Play

Set me free in a cube,
with gestures to promote,
I like a trim list,
perked up with promise,
give me strict instructions,
and with the others,
we will surely prove as bread.
With a list I am free,
who wants to rely on whim,
or beginner's luck,
or set those chips tumbling
amidst concerned looks,
from across the baize.
Going by gut is wild
when it works,
but free in a cube,
with a list,
I am free with
the weight of a mistake.

"""

A time before land
Everything got erased
I think I was alive

&&&

What happened to motherhood
Slowly dissolved
From overexposure
Skin touched skin
Again again again again
Once maddeningly sweet
Turned maddening
But still sweet somehow
Beneath that bitter herb, resentment
And the high boil of anger
Here and there
I'm still here

Farts, etc.

My family tree drops its leaves
around 60, with any luck.
My middle age has brought me
eyes that water in the winter
so lovers tell me not to cry
and I protest that these tears
don't reveal my sadness.
There is an atmosphere
similar to an inner-ring planet
that floats around my stomach
Venus or something gaseous
I choose to hold it in or not
depending on who is near me
whom i want to impress
and how fast i am walking

your life in desserts

I made you the first sweet thing you ever tasted
a butternut squash flan on your first birthday
you rolled it around on your tongue
the amber honey dribbling down your chin
you released the bite from your gummy grip back onto the table
sweets were not your thing

the second summer of your life
I carried you in a sling on my back
through the strawberry fields behind your house
trailed by Yuki and a nagging sense of nostalgia
for every fleeting lilac-scented sun-drenched minute
that summer when your little chest was always sticky and stained with berry juice
and your solid sweaty weight against my back
a counterweight to my heavy boots
anchored me to earth in just the way I needed
grounding me in a time when a deep and unrelenting grief
kept snatching at me
ensnaring me, snagging my joy, threatening to whisk me away
(to where, I don't know)

I picked my way through the path beside the creek
where later you built up a rockpool with Coco
careful to sidestep the poison ivy that swiped at my bare calves
walking until your head began to loll
until your body grew pliable with exhaustion, then sleep
I walked back to the house
and like a circus contortionist performed a near impossible backbend
to lay you out flat on the bed on your back
to slide the sling straps silently smoothly from my sunburnt shoulders
so you might keep sleeping

I would lower my body, heavy with sadness, heavy with June July August heat
onto the cold floor beside your bed
and pet Yuki or skim a book or knit you something
or wait for you to wake

your second birthday was a pancake party
and I showed up with Yuki and a quart jar of sour cherry sauce as big as your head
you learned Yuki's name before mine

and on the first Halloween you partook in (you were two)
we walked hand in hand down the street,
your mom beside us laughing
instructing you to ring the doorbell
to pass all of your candies to me
you alternating between bravely approaching the door shrieking like a screech owl
(your life a devotional to birds of prey, but I believe you were dressed as Peter Pan)
and shyly hiding behind me, pushing me forward to accept the candy
that neither of us wanted

on your third birthday, I didn't see you (you were in New Hampshire),
but your parents had celebrated
an intimate union, a communion, mere weeks earlier
where I made too many cakes, that we ate on the dance floor
by the bonfire
and French toasted at breakfast
and before that, we had baked test cakes together
and you, still not really one for sweets,
would finish applying the frosting
then announce you were off to bed before we'd had a taste

on your fourth birthday, I said I'd make you a cake and
you said let's talk
so we did, via FaceTime, on your papa's phone one night
a blueberry cake with strawberry frosting
NO a strawberry cake with blueberry frosting
and banana whipped cream, could you do that?
(this is a confusing cake, huh?! you said)
I can try, I said
and we frosted it together, double layers, ethereal fluff with lemon
spangled with strawberries and a puckeringly tart blueberry frosting
and you blew out the candles and announced you'd made a wish
and you flushed with bashfulness and delight as we sang to you

and I thought to write in a card, but didn't
how everything and nothing had changed
because now you, you talk and make phone calls and have opinions on cake
and a sister, you have a tiny fresh yawning baby sister
who has your cheeks and your nose
and I still have heavy boots and Yuki
and strawberries and your friendship

Cherubic Hymn

July

nothing good will ever happen again.
On the hood of the car, summer parking lot.
mountains or hills, in the northeast we don't know
the difference.
Waiting for fireworks aware of class maybe, maybe not.
When a Wal-Mart was a Jamesway or an Ames,
nostalgia for older iterations of shit is so
my brand. nothing good will ever happen again.
Summer like graffiti on the New Jersey Turnpike
like the cross between Long Island and the deep, deep woods.
Everyone up here with a vague accent,
Everyone up here has always been here.
Nothing good will ever happen again. Hood of the car,
summer parking lot. In the Northeast hills, New Jersey
turnpike vibes, deep deep woods. We're far away,
up here, with Long Island accents, in the hills,
when a Wal-Mart was a Jamesway or an Ames,
shit, these fireworks will never happen again. nostalgia
for a class that never was. Summer like graffiti on the
New Jersey Turnpike. Mountains or hills, we don't know.
Long Island accent or the deep deep woods? It's vague up here.
Nothing good will ever happen again. My brand
On the hood of the car, waiting for fireworks,
parking lot of Jamesway or an Ames. New Jersey
or the deep, deep hills.

Seaside

My windswept heart
Has adapted to the climate
And become a barrier island
Full of dunes,
Full of dunes.

In Reserve

A foot deep in copper coins
and algae,
I didn't ask to visualise this,
the bank statements,
ironed and clipped in place,
belies the house
and what has drained from within.

Parents learn, children learn,
parents pit against
each other,
innuendo at the sports club,
fists raised,
parents learn, children learn,
what parents will always learn.

Money and what money can
do for you,
dig for gold between the grips
of your sole,
or leave no mess on the porch.

But be proper, for parents are
always learning,
this, and
that there is no age to learn,
and there is no age to learn.

STRIVING

either

January 28th: Weekday Morning

Early rise
greeting the sun
gently
with a half-moon smile

Tracing tiny tip-toe tracks
from the bed to the door

Bending at the waist
to pet the dog with her metronome tail
swishing through the air

Quiet moments
to cherish
on a sleepy weekday morning

Crossword

awkward gifts

it's
like a book about sex
and
how to do it right
cause you seemed like
you wanted help?
am i right?
oh
now it's awkward
huh
just like return it or
throw it away
but
just like
be environmentally friendly about it
okay?

American Education

Looking at a map in fluorescent evening

Gear As Mania

Whittle your life away or not,
but our basement is ours,
for our spirits,
for our objects to address us
should we find them,
to state their case,
should we potter upon them,
and not find their voices,
phased out by your objects,
howling at the strip light,
straining to reconcile,
your lack of care,
lack of interest.

January 27th: Rush

Rapid racing
keep moving forward
feet step "One. Two. Three. Four..."
and they don't stop.

Head pounding
heart pumping
sweat breaking
on
  my
      brow

But no time to catch my breath
even if it's falling from a skyscraper
during the evening rush.

Traffic builds
and the imaginary conveyor belt
moves me along
and I just can't stop.

Even for a
f
    r

a    c
   t
i    o
          n

of a second.

I keep moving
on.