Past Corporate Love

It’s been a while.
I saw you undress in my mind.
Saw your figure so perfect from
distance.
Saw it imperfect in glances
underneath me,
with folds and moles.
Saw the light of the closet
cracked into the darkness of
the bedroom.
Disheveled, unorganized, and
human,
decorporatized for a moment,
like grapes on untended vines,
a vineyard
beyond the reach of the census.
Decorporatized when we lay
with each other
in fire and blood,

smashed
in fire and blood
together
in darkness
where we needed a reaching,
so we reached for the light
enclosed in our cell.

Our ancestors last human
in the restaurants
of the middle class
dreaming the way that
kept them sleeping.

The lights, the lights,
they’re golden around there,
dreaming the way that
kept them sleeping.

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.

Rocka My Soul In The Bosom Of Abraham

What did Abraham do?

He did what all other fathers
since him are striving to do.

Abraham just bought a color TV.

The color TV looks right
with the tones of the air in Brooklyn.

Abraham likes to walk about.

He likes the city at twilight.
The orangeness, those ancient
kinds of
things.

Now Abraham has been watching his TV.

So Abraham goes home to his wife
and her Salisbury dinners
and the cool truths of the evening
news,
but then Abraham has a previous wife
he loves more too.

He imagines her ghost will trail him
through
to his last breaths.

Their son has gone off to college
by the good hills and woods and
fresh air
of rural Pennsylvania.

Three Hundred Fifty Five Million

The waveform people took it.
The form of love between us,
the gravity.
Back to their mansion in the woods,
on a planet
three hundred fifty five million
light years away.
Can you see it leaving in the city?
In every city on the planet,
past the grimey stains
on subway stairs.
The people leaving the cities
to live like the waveform people,
in their woods
three hundred fifty five million
light years away.
Let them walk upon earth and snow
in the winter.

Said the waveform people.
Let them cherish their human
manners.

But the mansion is not there.
Only the blue sky
of the waveform people above.

Suburban House Love

We could be in a kitchen,
someday.
She and I.
A kitchen in a suburban home
in Wisconsin,
someday.
A Saturday afternoon,
for our little boy’s birthday party.
Wood grain cabinetry
and splatter sprayed dry wall.
Light blue balloons,
pink and yellow ones too,
taped to the walls, ceilings,
kitchen appliances, and doorways.
We could be there
with the
fluorescent light
merged with
the sunlight from windows
to warm us and turn our feelings
to goodness.
To know what it’s like to have
relaxed muscles and breath.
To feel cold iced tea move
over our tongues.

Handjob Tyrants Of Hollywood

She will not be perfect.
Her skin will fall and flop.
She talks and talks
and I of course make the mistake
of judging her value by
the changing of her physicality
while granting myself privileges
of mind, lintellect, and earnings.
My breath stales to phlegm
and stinks its sad mature mucosal
isolation of men.
I become known as

the handjob tyrant

and look towards other women,
but as I grow old and my hardons
no longer work
do I have the courage to love her
as she turns into something
beyond time,
eternal, beyond stupid words?
Something my mother told me
as a toddler,

listen to that feeling inside your head

and maybe I’ll still be afraid of.
This poem was not written for the
fashionable young people or the
vainfully rich and egotists
rushing in and out of the stores and
clinics of the City.
This poem was written for the leaves,
grass, and particles
still vassals to the wind,
not the human negrotude
put in place by the ancient Court
of Ine, ingrained in your movies and
television.

From A Spaceport

  
It is a spaceport
where we found love.
With its perimeters, sectors,
and airlocks.
A sky above.
Always some kind of sky above.
Kill me when there is no longer
some kind of sky above.
But we lived there still
with its perimeters, sectors,
and airlocks.
With its imported fruit,
monitored air,
and industrial hangers
bringing in the pollutants
from the men of Earth.
In all that is sick.
In the failure and necessity
of our species
we found love.
We found the one necessity
that still survives
in the words, attention, and
glances of the other.
We found the glances of the
other
and the hum, that one long
hum
of everywhere, every moment,
molecule, and memory.

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 . . .

Quasar Molten, Passing Into Love

  
I wanted to protect
your veins as you lived

They became muddled
and pooled in blood
before me

After the days, the years
I felt them in science

the velocity of gravity
met me in sunshine

it bathed me grandiosely
turned from outer space

and I knew your heart
bleeding there in your
wrists

Certain Voltages

certain-voltages

Remember when our love
was blooming
and the dirty city felt as fresh
as flowers,
when the wars always
orchestrated by men
became faded video footage
from the 20th Century
and Italian grandmas
prepared feasts for destitute
immigrants on their island

Now it is
the lip balm I carry in my
coat
to protect me from the winter
or the leftover Holiday candy
I keep around to spark certain
voltages in my brain and
heart

Now I’d like to throw my cellular
phone into the river
and walk with you
in the Western woods
where the old old spirits are