Chinese Figures
let me say the song
that will sing it well
song’s long sound:
cries along the hall
hare in the moon
man on the ground
the doors are wide open
all is context now
•
no thatched cottage
but a beach house on the hill
the rain is heavy
mist all over the roads
cars driving
and in the wrong direction
no footsteps on the landing
none in the house
•
a show place for the sun
everywhere it goes
hot on the water
caught among the rocks
shining up the stairs
the wrong way now
gods on the ground
are changed by our desires
•
sounds like something real
but no one spends attention
we’re overloaded now
every surface known
indecently as well
a culture numbed and stung
by the image it’s become
work it hasn’t done
•
everything’s forever
no changes in the sun
what feels old is triumph
silence begs a hearing
something like a pause
every note is yes
there’s no such thing as none
until you add it up
•
hold me in your hearts
fold me on your tongues
fire’s song, tree’s gone
now the lights are on
silly yet indecent
innocent as well
syllables are able
it’s a tribal day
•
nature makes mistakes
all of them ours
it knows what we have done
before we have conceived it
dust falling modern
on all the neighborhoods
time’s up but keeps on raving
as they drag it from the stage
•
here we are, the world
what is and what has been
how much dark is needed
before we know it well
let me keep this keeping
mu is wood, quang enclosed
enclose them with a bell
soften it with snow
•
sleeping on the run
dreaming of extinction
everyone sleeps alone
on the ice of his choosing
we open the forest door
and the light brims over
all dreamed things are open
no knowledge of the closed
•
the swallows dart quickly
but the owl is heavy
people leave their porches
to watch television
history will remember
eternity came early
blue light in the windows
as far as you can see
•
you don’t feel much
don’t think much either
the little dog hates you
even when it smiles
something in the language
doesn’t know us well
ten kinds of typeface
and not one style
•
not exactly poignant
the price of merchandise
guess we’ll have to find
another culture later
space is too exacting
and time wears plaid
we have lived our lives
according to its plan
Easy
Easy light in the room,
easy chairs, some of them lazy,
and her easy way of walking
like she owes the world nothing.
Some easy music is playing
on the tough side of town,
and that easy way of dancing
could lead to something great,
if for once in your life
you decided to take it easy.
No zig-zag parade,
no puritans walking and stalking.
Easy come, easy go,
the world is easy living.
You read the book in an hour,
and don’t look up a word.
She kisses you easy,
on the lips and heart, too.
Let the easy movement of water
take you under the bridge,
around the next bend,
and all the way out to sea.
The rain falls so easily,
as if it had nothing to lose.
Write what is easy,
sings the novelist in the choir,
the cellist in the zoo,
and old men at the bar.
Easy does it every time,
thinks the lady in her bed,
the bird in its nest—
all the world easy,
and you will be at rest.
I Write Myself
I find myself
by letting go
what I was,
to find a self
not I myself
but the one
passing by.
Writing is
a letting go,
thereby to
read the reader
and be read
in return
by the ones I
soon will be,
surrendering,
being rended by
the mess I make
being born again,
beyond fences,
down wells.
To grow in love
by writing then.
What isn’t is
what could be,
possibility and
murder when
just breathing
would do. I
unknow myself,
become space
and then time.
To write is
to wrong then,
be the cellar
and the star.
The mess is
our precision,
its hunger
the only goal.
To right myself,
I erase myself,
beginning with
my hand. You there
are here then,
the one who’s
always with me,
all the way in.
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