Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Day 7 (because no one needs to read Day 6's poem)

Thought Experiment

Delinquent dinner, pesto mozzarella. I believe I have gone to the edge of the film, the firmament and gone back. This is in prose only because it has to be. Because the hour, the slow molasses of the bulge of my eyes, digs into the rock of the brick house, the plaster moulding and the possibility of hornets in the bright day of sunlight coming. I have visited the time. I have been ill. I have rested and sat up late, like now, and weasled away a good enough try. Have you taken the pill yet? Has spring bottled its smile and then opened it like a fire cracker or a buzzing rocket? Where does the question mark lay when it tires of figuring itself in the air? I am almost certain it is too late. I am almost certain that, in the moment when the lily pad, like an outstretched calla lily, bursts into tears--and it will only do this because of the morning dew in combination with the pellets of water careening into it from above--the sun will wake up again and feel its right arm flex, then its left. And it will be spring again. And there won't be any sirens, any longer.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Day 5

The Ground Round

Finally, in the effort and effrontery, in the wake of ceremony
and lack luster buster, thistle and thin, butt of the joke
pickled quick, tickly wind: lift up the mouth and freeze the thought
lock the effort in the colon: preface to the period,
a jocund moment—where is the flyer, where is the youth
of the mind, the minute difference between the infant
and the toddler, the spring magnolia and the flower-petaled
sidewalk—it is easily hide-able, a hyphen’d myth
the disappearance of it is inside the between-space, the figured
circle, the ouroborus of space and minutiae: have you seen
the figure of it standing on the snout of the rock in
the midst of thought—be bigger than thickness, round like
a boast at midmorning, fingering the tingle between finger
and thumb. I am gorgeous in the morning. I am a felt feeling.
I rub the patterns of the index and lines of excitement wave
frequently out of my mouth. I believe they are sentences.
I believe they have rounded the corners and gone into the world.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Day 3/4

Sound Poem (33)
Passover, Night 1

Platter as a sound: trussed and spooned, three
syllables of meats, vegetables: what would be pickled
what would carrots amount to at a single
notice. I am careful to ring my finger around
the glasses, design wings and floating careful
things that composite like jellied candies
this meal this laughter like a clarified soup
beautiful the smell of pleasure and
ruffling conversation: a choice of two kinds of kid
and the questions of a child, of a child
of a child, of a child: all of these are the rolling
clicks and clatters and the ones that hang
above waving at us and calling us justice.

Sound Poem (34)

Delivered again like the previous. This time faster. This time
I am searching for memories. This time pick
me up higher I am the child I am the wonder, fuller:
the crook of my arm the infant yawn sound
like the back of a chair parting the air behind.
What beyond this: the crinkling of body of face little
arm like new plant and almond skin
pin me to this one pin me to this thin wonder
something newer is to come. To feel her:
to breathe breath of expectation, lemon in water.
How like a tail this all feels. How like balance
in water: a ripple, once central, nothing single.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

30/30 2015: Day 1

Facing It
after Yusef Komunyaaka

I look into the bulge of my wife's belly:

there is no reflection, though there is one
inside: this pregnancy, this moon
with face and arms and kicking
in it, shifts me. I cannot
let it go: it shifts me. I turn--
I am contained. I turn once more--
still contained. I am flesh. Inside is flesh.
My wife brushes her hair back,
licks the tips of her mouth
and her eyes are stone fires, golden
brown. She is my teacher, she shows
me how to hold myself, to hold
the belly. How we hold each other
like leaf in wind. How we
need to clasp against the other
to prop us up when one
chooses to fall.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

This is in Antonia Torres Aguero

Hay una falla en el centro
una fruta podrida al fondo del canasto
un rostro quemado por los agentes del horror
un rastro que supura bajo las vendas.

Hay un error en todo esto.
Una piedra en el engranaje
un mecanismo desaceitado.

Son objetos, cartas, llaves perdidas bajo la alfombra
basura, quebradas que esconden cuerpos bajo la cal.

No hay sagrado corazón que redima.
No hay oración que enmiende ni explique.

Hay un pinchazo por donde se cuela el aliento
un desastre por donde hace agua la embarcación.

Hay una grieta
una trizadura en el centro

Allí chorrea la comprensión
el alquitrán ardiente de la palabra

Monday, December 9, 2013

Love Poem to Hannah

Pie and your countenance on my birthday, your hand slightly bristling
from the contrast of cold inside the bathroom against the heat of your body temperature
after sitting next to an open oven for so long, listening
to the flames wrought and cinder and caress and singe and melt.
It is almost glistening to think of how you will look at me
after I take one bite, after I will taste the apple that you’ve baked for me
inside a crust so luscious with butter my stomach ache will sing gravely and loudly
of the benefits and drawbacks of sugar--it will be glorious: you
will be glorious. You with your simple hair that leans back and forth
when you tilt your head forward and back, kissing me with
the eyes of your tongue, that bright red lipstick I love,
you are my birthday present. The crescent of your laugh, the chatter you bring
to the table and the bedroom, a sudden and gentle touch
on my shoulder that bewilders then calms then huddles everything close.
Do you bring this much into the world as you give? Bake crusts
that envelope an apple like organ music? The hair on your sweater twists
and falls onto the carpet every single day. I’ve seen pieces of it twirl,

curls of butter on a hot pan called air. What other pieces of you can I steal for myself tomorrow?


Grief like cloves mistaken for honey, like a
ship inside of a bottle, like bottled molasses,
like the sudden sharp knife of February,
like December, like March in mud season, like seasons
like the rapid vaporization of liquid iron
that seeps into the vein that marches on like militaries,
like militaries, like edges of quilts that
stack upon the smallness of the body of you,
like a million and one bricks smoldered onto one shoulder,
like one shoulder, like one initial tatooed
onto your eye, like an eye, like the iris that quivers
like cadavers when the morgue shakes with rage,
like the numbers of millions that moan
into the mouth of slavery, like mouths, like the mouths of babes,
like the equivocation in the voice
when language is underdeveloped, like unfathomable
illnesses that scratch at the belly
at the rocks that empty out onto the toes
like broken windows, broken books, broken doorbells
unanswered mail, cacophonies that
do not dispel the sadness, the road that elegies walk on,
the yellow and dusty dirt that etches
an ink mark down the troughs of muscles
on the bodies of crying mothers, like blue and blackness,
like the emptying out of rivers, like the movement
of time on the body, like grown arms
and legs and lips and speech, like a pencil
or bell that both echo like footsteps.
In the ecology of personal suffering, the world
passes by like a bi-plane, turns and gyrates and gives and gives,
thirsty like a philanthropist for its giving.
There is love and there is the hand that trembles like piano wire when the hammer strikes it, there is memory faded and there is memory that is a permanency, grafted onto the skin, a kindness like a beautiful body. Once I woke
and thought you had gained your body,
but if that were true, your hands would not be whispers
nor your whispers and smile drips of water on the edges of my eye.
This grief like a cushion I rest on, like a bread I dig into when I am thirsty,
edges away, returns and leaves.
There is no distinct reason why a memory is like a caged crocodile,
but there it is: silent, motionless, mouth
agape, breathing.