They say it's a story
By starting with
Such a line
But I can't help
To think that maybe
That's a lie
It happened
So it should be
Once upon a time
Though maybe it
All is made up
Perhaps we aren't
Even here
The people you meet
The memories you've had
That is truly
I want to sleep
My thoughts however...
Why can't they stop?
Why do they keep repeating?
Why do I have to remember?
In the end I'm still awake,
Begging them to cease.
The goals and plans we made?
When we were together?
Those shouldn't matter anymore.
The promises we made?
Only to break them?
Those shouldn't matter anymore.
The compliments we gave each other?
Only to find out our true selves?
Those shouldn't matter anymore.
Even though we're now mean to each other,
We now have our own separate ways.
That shouldn't matter.
Yet why do I care?
Why do you care?
Why does it matter?
His name was Tim McKay,
And he seldom had anything to say.
But he came to the club regularly
And listened to all our discussions.
He'd nod his head and smile,
And give us a toothy-giggly grin,
And he always seemed to understand.
Tim has gone on now.
And we all miss him down at the club.
We used to sit and talk to Tim for hours.
Some woman
Somewhere
Who almost
Nobody knows
Knows more than
Almost anyone is aware
She must exist
In small towns
On unlikely streets
Or next door
to your memory
Which childhood friend's mother
Was she
Wiser than your own
Some lady that you would recall
In unfamiliar kitchens making jello
I swing up the highway towards Accotane,
where a new brand of gas is to be named today.
The birds singing outside my window can't keep up
with the sound of a cassette in the darkened hallway.
Stars crash down against my windshield
at the rate of one per minute; many I don't see.
The head is splitting but I'm amnesiac;
each morning finds me in a different bed,
the same room, sheets a little duller brown.
The compulsion to meet my fate by collision
with a silver screen drives me on, selective
and uncertain, judging the curvature of the earth each moment
for a clue to the incidence of grit in my cornea.
A companion, more sensitive to the guttering drain
Memory
mother of the Muses:
"I remember, I remember", that
was my father
"and when you are older"
holding on/to words
for fear of losing his mind,
--meaning words
" you'll be
sorry one day"
But I was on
a roller coaster and
the rides on the house. The question mark
was too far out for me
nor did those jewels
arrayed along the shelves
Time's wings
have turned
into
scattered feathers
letters
forgotten
unwritten
the grass
now green
with rain
drops this
year's
flowers
against the
window.sight
changed eyes
these thoughts
compound the brain
those lost beginnings
taunting from obscurity:
wail wail of the cold blue note
coating the rough-edge balance
sun laughing on your face
and the pidgeon who sits all day all day
the pidgeon who sits all day
going barefoot forward through
manic eyes on the totem pole
slicing images the hand
and the feet that walk all day all day
the feet that walk all day
hungry head in a maze of light
floating away from the hump
Many years ago
the sea in the picture
the days vast
vague
partial
mid sports
as never were
the leaves' tide
floats autumn
a time
the foreground
so clear
wicker chair
the individual
woman in it
a hat some
winter takes a break everybody has the london flu
takes it easy so why not him our backyard is an
icebox turned on defrost. through all pores drips
melts runs how vulgar can you get. as snow dis-
appears old garbage reappears and i read
" a nest is a bird's house "
i've known this for a long time people have told
me for a long time it is such an old story in
fact i hesitate to repeat it. nests are places of
intimacy designated by an attraction. there does
not exist an intimacy that is repellent. its being
is well being. and memory is a wardrobe with the
presence of lavender the history of the seasons
enters. what dreams are reserved for us if we re-
call the land of tranquility. memories come crowd-
The fire doors
open out going down
hinged at the left
to the outside frame.
In the intricacy of the stacks,
tier on tier,
turning always right
it was possible
for a man
to remain unnoticed.
incurved
the frame's vault
the door's metal
the hand opens
in the gesture
of closing