no title just yet, and a very rough draft...inspired by a line by Major Jackson

Look, I don't want the lions ripped

apart. The mere thought of harshness

garnered from what faces receive

me through the doors and hallways

is old, unused milk I can't open or

throw away just yet. Milk was

once something I loved, it rhapsodied

the four solid eyes of each hour

of the afternoon, it piled, it was snow.

I can't tell now if milk means, moon
or enough; if careful means,

Come and ride bicycles with me, share

my hand as we walk. It is uncertainty

like a claw in the face of much more than that.

Teshuva (brace yrself, it's a long one)

1.

What we've never had is a song

and what we've had is a song.

2.

When I was biking down 16th street,

thinking how to run a half-baked workshop

about forgiveness, I was more wrapped

in thoughts of reproach--blaming myself for

the misdeed of not thinking about this workshop

not putting the time into it, not reading enough,

providing contemporary examples. In the meantime

friends at my apartment drowned in cookie bliss

and, though the wind was thick and pleasant--

a warm towel thrown repeatedly by my face

and bare hands--there was very little calm.

We came to talking about forgiveness,

at the end, at the workshop, lasting and lingering on each one person's

tongue, a salted, unwondrous lick.

3.

Pencils sharpened, I am in

front of everyone

this feels as if a sail wrapped around

I have just tripped on a banana

peel backward falling

feeling and the floating

moment before ripping up the

silence of a silent moment

with an awkward guffaw

as if seeing someone slip

on his own words. Then we

begin to think about forgiveness.

4.

Teshuva, from what I understand, means turning, and not repentance. To repent seems too Christian and overwhelming and doesn't do justice, I feel, to the feelings we feel when we examine ourselves and the mistakes we have made so that we may finally ask for forgiveness. Turning, on the other hand, in which way, into which wind, into whose arms, into what broad field, into whose alliance, into what hand, into which direction. To turn, perhaps, as a wheel, or a chair or table, as a pencil or piece of fruit in the milken sun. Apples dipped in honey, apples dipped and honey, then we wait and turn to forgiveness.

5.

Tell that old man

on Rosh Hashanah to tremble

only on the inside.

Everyone is waiting

for them to matter

though isn't this our day to do it.

He cried while leading--

who by fire, who by water.

I have been singing this

all day long--for what?

A call, forgiveness.

6.

It is difficult to pinpoint

the song in a city

I am familiar with and love--

surprised as I am by these buildings on Porter Street

that were finished

and all that space

like blown glass--I am in love

with the fire set inside a glassblower's

I don't know what it's called, rod,

so incessantly orange

what glows like that on this earth,

not even dark or amber honey has that

distinct glow--

it sings as if it never had a song

to sing. Yet. At this point of the new year,

I am only hoping to be like glass--

there is always an ember

in it, it is still, lit--

just look at its stars

and speckles as it glows.

Eyes

I am afraid to flex my muscles.
Though the wing span
of my arms outstreches my height
I am not gliding on the saddles
of northerly winds
much anymore. In the stable,
the horses sing wheat songs
and nuzzle each other
while memories of
their corralling
lingers as collective memory:
this once, the moon may ride
over the lakes again,
the one with waves that feel oceanic
and belittle the statures of
the men that come to marry in these parts.
I am of course talking of the city,
paper and folded lie lines
above book titles,
the creases of the pillow when your head is rested,
when your breathing becomes
softer--these are the nights like tin.

Golem Event

(1)

With hands awash in the sap of a palm or spruce, or, with the bark of a cyprus, clap over a heavy tin, the many pairs of eyes follow from above.

(2)
Using a ladle and a heavy wooden spoon, gather water and place it upon the front steps of a newborn fruit tree. Wait until the water evaporates.

(3)
Along with millet or the husks of wheat, grind earth into a mortar, spilling some onto the table. The crows outside waiting in anticipation, will add wings to each crumble. Write the truth onto the table.

(4)
The fingers flex and contract over a book of stones.

(5)
Golem, whisper.

Candle Lighting

I lifted a match and we all
started singing, and meant exactly
what it was we said.
There is a candidness here like
a permanent stitch of crochet,
and I am befuddled by it.
I don't mean to say I can't recognize
the need for sincerity, of
passing by geese and giving a nod
to the presence of God's tongue
lapping up the spray of wind
behind their tail feathers landed
so slightly on August grass.
What I am saying is that when I put on my t-shirt
it was for some sense of recognition
a smile, a hand hold, truth
like a key and a lock.

Grass Texts

Last night, I laid down in the parking lot looking up for something that'd fallen. Today it was grass, toes dug in, clouds like pelican wings, a line, and birds in the likeness of a line. Slowly yellowing, walking. Sometimes I think I must have stepped on so much unwanted sidewalk. The gnats create walls. I hate to break them; my mouth is always open.

Chance Composition #1

The bird is in the likeness of a line
where books rescue our purpose.
One, thereby, point:
other vast is dwelling.
Nature is named speaking SPanish,
grass texts,
pelican wings like venom
solidity like wretched expression--
thorn and thistles
exalted sleep--
they know this.