The Thing No Longer Howls

In the winter
we eat sharp white cheddar
and drink the sweet cream sherry
we bought at a rural supermarket
in Oklahoma on a roadtrip.
It’s what we do to get us through
the spurning of the sun.
The thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
We sit by white walls
and fireplace fires,
old books
and feel the fibers of sweaters
against our swollen skin.
It’s what we do to forget lovers
who spurned us
and learn to know each other,
learn to grow old,
to somehow have courage as
we become cowards.
The memories of autumn,
the smell of fallen leaves,
the emptying of the streets,
these things seem sweet to us
now.

For
the thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.

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What Westernized Adults Are Waiting For

Cars go by the windows
and Westernized adults
seem depressed
indoors.
They wonder,
is this,
all this,
really a scam,
some sort of sham show
they judge themselves
and others
by.

So the fan turns
on
the ceiling,
the air conditioner hums,
and
they get up to check their email,
then
go back to work tomorrow.

For it is in some other world
where they do not
go
back to work,
but meet other adults
from their
community
to discuss and address
the real problems
actually relevant
in their lives.

For in this other world
they
are not
propaganda bejeweled
dominators and subservients,
obsessed with myth and power,
but rather
objective listeners
and
compassionate actionnaires,
vested in both observant locality
and also relational reality.

And these Westernized adults
realize this other world is

waiting to be built.

Satellite At Night

I watched my shadow on the grass
walk in night.

The lamp cast it sad, human,
and remnant.

Is to be human
to be remnant,
          longing to live on some rock or star,
          burning away in the sky
          with 50 million years behind us?

Do these friendships turn into
satellites,
circling high above
so
we notice our silhouette in distance
on the grass . . .

The Flowers

the-flowers

why can’t we all live in
space stations
on earth?

we can
that is where this is going

all of us as remnants
in boxes together
replicating yesterday and
tomorrow

oh
but surrounded by glass
and
space age metal
and corridors with
lots of clean water flowing
then lots of UV light
like
the wanting of flowers

Winter For The Northern Lake Country

It
will always be the one
I remember

when
she walked out
the door

and I
didn’t follow her curves
into
the rain of
the cold night

or
the lights of the street
fill her eyes
turning the sentiments
of men
into loyal tragic sadness

I watched the mirror
I watched the clock
I failed to watch her leave

then
the winter settled in

and
I bought wool socks
for
the
winter of the northern lake
country

Messenger Messenger Satellite

I trust when the autumn
goes away
with
your feelings
my feelings

past the Italian bakery
the pets in windows
the warmth in coats
and scarves on cold Sunday mornings
when your eyes like
crystals
under the million miles of sun

I see the blue
the new civilizations
the new ways of living
the clean clean consoles
and the white ambient light

I trust the past has melted

I sit in the den

The brush fields of the south
now the purgatory of
northern cities
and messenger messenger
satellites
turning high above

Her Boobs Were By Computer

We were able to talk once

Looking on the street, it
is gone

Someone wanted hugs, did
someone want a hug

The landscape of the moment,
an orange mountain

Has turned to shadow
where the old ones with
leather and wood
kept talking as humans

Yet in the morning
with their children
they hold computers
amongst the silver bridges of
California

We have gone down to the
computer store,

but it is gone now too

Shorn Of Thorns

My home is a heart
not unlike the Aztecs spilled
underneath these same exact stars
relatively speaking
between now and then

My temples are DNA, torment and failure

The vanished scent of Europeans in the
wind

My crystal is the sky receiving its journey
over and over
and racing through time, ignorant time
completely unchanged
uncharged by silicon molecules

unformed again
everything continues

The cacti come and bring a story

The gods stumble to make humans
or
to make the humans human

Their fingers are shorn of thorns upon
our sacred purple night
unlasted
by genetic material memory

We eat the fucking flesh fruit
We gnawl inside our lips
The rooftops are made from burned desert
clay

The days are wasted so very far away

The Earth Of Your Love Does Not Love Redemption

to have come close to your life
on a crag by the sea

dreaming by your hips
your scent of cream

believed in you at midday
on bad days
in imperfect ways

a corridor of wood
in an old building
that is the feeling gone now
of cold coming in
through the windows

to have come close to your soul
with the leaves underfoot
in a forest
a breeze
whispered

“she will not travel naught
into solar incineration.
she will not sing the song of spring.
she will not lift her heart.
you must carry it to your grave
and remember
all the seas of the mediterranean
when walking in the ozarks,
the blues and yellows,
the browns of her hair,
the earth of your love.

she does not love redemption.”

The Air, The Air

I believed in you like the sun.

Magnanimous, significant,
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.

I should have believed in you like air.

Always there, regardless.

That is how I suffocate now,
always there.
That is where you go with me,
always there.

The air.

The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
the window.
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.

The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air.
The air and sun are there.