The Vine Wraps Itself

The vine wraps itself around my arm blades
Whitman liked to call leaves poke through
my toes Iʻve taken apart the word sedentary
and found 27 wordlings infants swaddled in neat
rectangles of paper torn from the word of the day
calendar each morning if only this were stillness
of the revolutionary steel spindle sort thoughts
ebb and flow far too much and the FedEx man
is on a first name basis if I were to tug myself
awake what then this collective uncertainty
has subsumed itself into my dreams a sign
surely that this isnʻt going away soon and the body
politic will have difficulty absorbing the impediment
although my core belief in the existence of higher
power without name without end amen lends itself
to the theory of absorption absolution by absorption
absolute with all the requisite chanting and madness
they say the first day of autumn came and went
this week which means itʻs still fall
in the vernacular my teaʻs still hot
the morning filled with tradwinds determined
to pass through and leave nothing behind
yes yes things are still open or closed
some lines some waiting the getting and spending
rich with disparities I heard a landlord
shot his tenantʻs dog to get him to leave
you wonʻt find the word leave in sedentary
but you will find rent at this point
I am looking up the name of this climbing twisting
manifestation of life force the green fuse
on fire in the crook of my elbow pushing
pulling in the name of the green tide of late
growth after the fires of summer tugging
entwining it is nature holding on to my arm
I grab a pen with my free hand grateful
for a soft kiss inside this embrace write
an awkward love poem as dawn breaks

Closed

My worst closed until further notice experience was Altamira
from Santander where we waited three days to get in the country
after militant Basques assassinated a general through blistering
heat on empty roads in one end of Madrid and out the other
all the way to Seville to create the felt covered wine red stage
for the acquisition of Sandeman Port all the while Altamira
was on my mind first I got Montezuma’s Revenge then my
partner who laid low in a hotel back in Santander while I
took the 20 foot scenery lorry winding through the countryside
to the site where years before a little girl had stumbled upon
the entrance to the cave Bison Papa! she shouted I so wanted
to see what she saw but a dark green steel door said otherwise
leaving me to seek out the tourist shop and buy books and cards
about the cave and its paintings poor compensation for being
denied entrance hungry for something to make up for the injustice
I took a branch of eucalyptus from the cave’s locale eucalyptus
that came alive with the scent of compassion in the lorry
and stayed with me till its oils finally dried out an ocean
and a continent later the depths of the cave would have to wait
although my imagination stayed on heedless on the ferry home
I looked out at the cold mean waters of the Bay of Biscay
but something in me had woken up and lingered there
in northern Spain I don’t know why I felt so pulled
to that place to the memory of painting images of animals
underground how one bison’s bulk emerged from the surface
of the ceiling! I saw in photographs how formations
suggested shapes of creatures to the artists’ minds
we can say they were seers bringing their light
to the subterranean passageways that gave up
their walls and canopies in ways that long
preceded Plato’s Allegory I can’t say “this
is what we do” I can only say “this is what
a few of us do” and we would do well
to listen and learn for we are too bound up
in the snares of those who hunt and trap
our desires only to sell our own souls
on the marketplace I like to think I was
good with the closed door that I understood
enough is enough that my breath alone
would decay further the work once hidden
for thousands of years not everything should be
plain understood so I went home and now
they’re grown the seeds of my imagination
come to life and my wife who waited
well perhaps she’s there what’s a lifetime
pass when you’ve passed from this life?
Nothing’s closed to her now while my imagination
is still out there hungry to be allowed in

Open

After last night’s rain all the doors still open
air cooler glad I moved those forty pound bags
of salt under cover I see there’s a good breeze
outside high branches of avocado cedar bamboo
palm lift twist wave I reach for the cup
that breaks the fast night cut short but I
waited till dawn anyway in this alchemy
of remorse and intention arose seeking
that dark cattleya in the next room itself dark
why is the house so reluctant to give up
the night I turned on the light and lifted
the orchid higher so I could see the fiesta
deep inside her unfurled petticoats
Rioja red I look to her this morning
in these strange times so many of us
hunkered down if we’re wise denied
our incidental encounters I turn to this
flower the heavy buds I brought indoors
in days fat with secrecy and now she’s
unfolding her petals calmly slowly
whole days get born then die her leaves
battered and bruised I regret the neglect
suffered there in the orchid shack
too much water and the long reach
of the sun and yet she blooms and
I will deliver my gratitude for her to you

The Relevance Of The Shoreline

[From Jorie Graham “The creeping relevance of the shoreline” in New World]

—

The relevance of the shoreline brings its own edge
I remember this is where you come to fill up again
ocean sounds in the act of replenishing going coming
lines of retreat and advance all in one underfoot
better yet laid down length of spine and best give in
give up give yourself back to whatʻs been emptied out
spilled into the world since you first emerged it’s
a simple act like a cup overflowing at the lip while
above all this the moon’s tug of war with your own
blood stops up all speech though not everyone agrees
sometimes I stand at the edge of the known world
amidst the wreckage of getting and spending ground
down as if it were sand when we say gathering place
this is what we mean it’s what we get leftover
bento containers among the detritus I want to believe
we’ll snap out of it make things good but I feel
outnumbered by ourselves a sense of the sacred
eroded washed up I say less and less anymore
like an old hermit monk poet keep myself to
myself scratch a few words on the walls
of the cave smile when mountains disappear
behind clouds remember the shoreline

Tell Me About A Complicated Man

[“Tell me about a complicated man.” The Odyssey. Trans. by Emily Wilson]

—

Tell me about a complicated man Iʻll tell you
about a woman with no choice but to stay
and stir and plan the man complex the clock
busying its hands the minutes in bed sleeping
stories untold who needs them play the rest
throw out the out of date weeks pass
she stays reads writes deepens her lines heʻs
gone out lives in his head lost something gold
sold heʻs got vision but heʻs lost the key
to the front door recognizes his children
when heʻs out and about hasnʻt formed
a strong opinion in the womb or out of it
passed various tests but couldnʻt could
didnʻt either itʻs not all negative or just
passive a fantasy she watches waits
is this who when is this where I began
where childhood ended I knew a man
not so complicated not so lost inside
himself adventure awaits or so we
are led to believe our local shop a world
I wonder a list of grocers tell me and
Iʻll tell you about a complicated man

It Could Have Happened

[“It could have happened” from “Could Have” in Wislawa Szymborska Poems New and Collected]

—

It could have happened if I hadn’t said anything.
I had a bad feeling. But thought for once make
a stand. She traveled south for an hour and I
didn’t know. Next thing word gets out. By then
I’d made my decision and things were never
the same. I was never one for control but is that
true? Maybe what I really mean is never
one for being out of control. And what I said
well forget it. What she heard was don’t come
when I don’t feel like it. So he felt like it.
And she felt like it. Hey there’s a pattern.
And today on social media I saw his face
how many years later? 53 years? What
am I on about? Oh yes. It could have.
But it didn’t. That’s the other side of every
crossroads, right? We go on our way
with no regrets. This is dangerously close
to what if. What if I’d gotten off the train
at Hiroshima. What if I hadn’t gotten drunk
that night in the orchard. What if I had slept
by myself that night at Butte Creek. That
night. How often under the cover of dark.
How often sex whiskey or a door left banging
in the wind. At the time the mythology
was creating itself while normal people
looked on. At the time the neighbors were
in bed and the streets were empty but
the vision of her in her nightgown out
in the streets under the amber lights or
the time she reached across from the passenger
side and clawed at my face don’t tell me
what we see is ourselves tell me it could
have happened otherwise if I had or

Dolphins At Nishimura

[“Why pretend to remember…” William Carlos Williams Kora in Hell: Improvisations XI]

—

Why pretend to remember if I learned how
to forgive myself I tried again and opened my
eyes is that cheating I know it slows down
the process if I’m really careful I’ll put it off
forever however when I looked up I saw them
again circling rising arching muscular
glistening from the sun behind me a steady circling
and guess what these are chronicles of now
here and I can’t say never written down but
it doesn’t matter this too shall pass itself
off as yet another relic useless except
to the painfully inquisitive the hungry insatiable
vestigial fingers I understand and hair somewhere
under a fin all else sacrificed to streamlining
no pockets which always struck me as remarkable
for where would I be without them I’ve always
carried something besides my own expanse of skin
what I do remember are the times I’ve forgotten
and the ensuing adventure called being locked out
or unable to pay my way or without means
to write anything down I do this for me you know
not that I don’t care about you it’s just that
all these years have worn off the edges
of responsibility nice and smooth lovely
to touch although that wasn’t the goal just
a soft outcome easy to handle and harmlessly
circling and circling in the waters hungry
to get my teeth into the flesh of remorse

What If Dark Matter

[“…what if dark matter is like space between people…” Tracy K Smith Life on Mars]

__

What if dark matter is like the space between people
intentions looking for a surface of pores to land
a desire melting fast like an ice cube liberated
spinning on the floor beneath you me or another
so soft unwritten disappearing in and out
of focus at least electricity strikes a light
there’s a reaction burning up like love or pain
these circles of life overlap each other I can’t feel
alone anymore my loss is less than shrinking thought
those things I once thought go on without me it’s not
so dark after all our perfect planets collide
or otherwise disrupt each other’s atmospheres
meanwhile another week passes unnoticed
it’s disconcerting is it exodus or migration
these runaway thoughts as if this were nothing
out of the ordinary as if we actually existed
but we died a minute ago everything rolled
tumbled in the gyres we’ll never know
the half of it I’m falling asleep fingertips
heavy on the keyboard I swear
yesterday you came alive for a moment

What’s Being Done That We’re Not Aware Of

[Prompt from Lehua Kawaikapuokalani FB post 8-21-20 (says 2d: the 19th?)]

—

What’s being done that we’re not aware of
what’s new in this what’s slow to fill
the glass that is your life okay I passed it
around waited for the morning breeze
was it that waiting that fell on my eyes was that
the heaviness that kept my feet on the ground
all the way to your place how many times
I look up and get a shock wow how did I
get here who was driving that’s a question
I reach inside find it’s not there I don’t know
who took it these days I think it might
have been me I listen for the sound of the motor
but nothing pulls up outside my door no one
comes these days there’s a distance that grows
inside everything near to me I bought the entire
inventory and didn’t open half of it what
can I do I’ve got tomorrow ahead of me
or so I like to think how can I keep opening
what I didn’t notice about the day before
yesterday the whole house vibrates
but it’s still not for me I can sit tight
clean out one drawer at a time the calendar
is empty and I’ve got nowhere to go so
much I don’t know about you about me I
keep waking up promising to pay attention
this time this minute look at the headlines

My First Marbles

[This is an 11 minute prompt response from the first line of Juliane Okot Bitek (2016) poem “Day 62” from Matthew Ogle’s Pome: poetry delivered daily via email]

—

Unless you believe in the eye of the needle
you wonʻt fit through the door to the next
thought whoever told you the mind is the sky
lied it’s not restricted to atmosphere or outer
layers first we learn to walk then we break
open the nest and later discover the night
learning it’s always there waiting outside
today’s weather patterns rain or shine wind
or the stillness that shrinks everything you’re
too small in the hour of rainfall one breath
you’re over the rooftop I’m talking to you
AKA myself who else? only this morning
remembering the perfect spheres of steel my father
brought home from Portishead the phosphate factory
the train to Bristol the teeth numbing vibrations
of ball bearings in his pocket my first marbles
rising above the dull horizon of linoleum
perfect orbs in his great hands set free
our reflections tumbling and rolling across
a floor busy with 50s faux and matchbox toys
detritus of childhood after the war when everyone
walked through everything that needed building
up again the sky hadn’t drawn open its curtain yet
I had to learn to walk before I saw constellations

White Ginger

if you were on the menu
would I ask the waitress
would she know I like it
sunny side up everything
on it to go or not to go
that’s the big question