tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39265132012-01-10T10:18:38.985-08:00Occasional WordsPoet M.C. Bruce posts occasional poems, off the cuff and fresh, on pretty much any topic.Marknoreply@blogger.comBlogger1161100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-69545014487381927632012-01-10T10:17:00.000-08:002012-01-10T10:18:38.993-08:00No Where FastBut somewheresomehowI am goingto be going.I can't tell youI don't wantto tell youwhere.And it's notlike it mattersanyway.Does it?No.IDidn'tThinkso.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-22218010483151081672010-02-17T11:39:00.000-08:002010-02-17T11:41:05.184-08:00Ash WednesdayYou may take the asheson your foreheadto signify your penancethis day each year.You may take the ashesand mumble a blessingand think of the thousandtimes each day you falter.You may take the ashesgritty and oily on your foreheadyour fist striking your heartmea culpa, mea culpa.You may take the asheseven if not in a state of grace,even if not especially penitenteven if not a Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-63938848647698311932009-09-15T17:07:00.000-07:002009-09-15T17:09:51.787-07:00Minute HandMy triumph as a childwas to watch the clockand catch the minute handmoving.Because I believedthat time appearedon the clock faceonly when we glanced at it.I would stareat the clockto watch the movementof the big handfeeling, when I caught itthat I had trapped time itselfas it fled from me.These daysI no longer watchthe minute handmy heart no longer interestedin watching time escape.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-80996343199014336982009-08-09T21:31:00.000-07:002009-08-09T21:33:24.891-07:00The Last Roundi guess we're donebecause you haven't repliedto my last messagejust as well.we're done andwell done at that.the cliche which keepsbuzzing my headis two fightersin the last roundtired, one's nosebloody, the otherwith a split lip,sheen of sweatcovering them bothlike a halo, their legsso weary they wobblethrough the lastminute of the fighthanging on to each othertrying to land a final Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-86459233944400002202009-07-01T22:14:00.000-07:002009-07-01T22:16:56.786-07:00Three WishesTake a torch to me,Burn me cleanI have a taste for ashes.Anything can fill emptiness.Oh, come now,God says sighing.You knew about this gameWhen you ante’d up.And the third wishKeep to yourselfFor that deliciousMoment of grace and doubt.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-74864788345699862852009-06-03T10:22:00.000-07:002009-06-03T10:23:49.486-07:00DebrisSometime in the nightover a dark oceanmy heart went missing,the last signalsincomprehensible.In the morningon the back of the blank waterdebris:a torn love seata symphony programa blanket from our bed.And all along the horizona long trailof oil and tearsand heart’s blood.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-67330488949956893612009-05-04T19:51:00.000-07:002009-05-04T19:56:51.024-07:00When I Last Saw MyselfI was wearing one of those wideties, garish colors, and undermy yellow dress shirt I worea t-shirt with a logo on it--I think it said, "Downeyis for Lovers," but it couldhave been something else. I looked pretty fat then,like a seal emerging fromthe brackish waters of a heavilyused harbor, nosing my waythrough the oil-slickened surfacefor small fish floating around the top.IMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-71517128222920778642009-03-14T13:07:00.001-07:002009-03-14T13:07:21.570-07:00This Is To Saywhen you see me nextand I seem insubstantialparts of me incandescenttranslucentit is just becausewhen the heart hollowsthe body loses its graspon what’s left of ruinMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-33662159663221883952009-01-16T12:20:00.001-08:002009-01-16T12:21:45.895-08:00spidermanthe boy jumpson the couchas Japanese animeflickers from the televisionon the wall behind himspiderman leapsfrom building to buildingflat as a dreamno one elsenear the boyas I walk byten at nightwondering to myselfMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-23531077200204420262008-10-25T20:45:00.000-07:002008-10-25T20:48:01.014-07:00Homage to AmyBroken glass balladHigh-heeled switchbladeRazor wire heart Tattoo SonnetContemptous kissHigh class ass Cigarette incenseHeroin angelRehab Juliette Slug of pleasureCrucified in the AgoniesResurrected in song. (Poet's Note: In England the gossip and advice columns are called "Agonies") Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-8471726763148253022008-10-05T22:34:00.000-07:002008-10-05T22:35:01.470-07:00An Apology for Not Showing to the Moonday ReadingI am learningnot to take myselfseriously, and sohave joined the worldwhich never laughedat my jokes or recognizedmy genius. Oh well.I guess I'm normal after alland my poems seemlike a city of the futurefrom a long ago world's fair:all bulbous housesand flying cars; conveyor beltsto transport my shiningmetaphors from monorailto jet pack. The Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-26905069462036899752008-05-26T09:27:00.000-07:002008-05-26T09:30:04.111-07:00Memorial Daywe mire in clichewhat is unthinkablethat a young manbursting with ambitionand glowing with lifecould be uniformedand sent to his deathlong before he made childrenor a mark in the worldall to protect usor, sometimes, justbecause our leadersare too incompetent tomaintain peace.once a year we rememberthem, nameless thousandswho did this for usprecious giftwhich sits nightly at our Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-54134752790090487972008-05-08T15:52:00.000-07:002008-05-08T15:53:42.814-07:00In The Middle of the DayThe clock is my enemyit chimes on the hour"tempis fugit," it sneersand I am powerless to stop it.Another day and anotherand I wait for life to begin.I've done all I can.It's in your hands now, America.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-57792274242699379152008-02-12T22:08:00.000-08:002008-02-12T22:16:02.601-08:00An Unexpected ValentineThere is not enough sorrowor joy in the worldto fill me tonight. My heart,empty but content, longs onlyfor the long miles between usto vanish in a breath, so thatfor even a single night, Icould encircle you with my arms.Oh, my rash darling,when I arrived home, a longday working on the problemsof the sad people of the world,to find a small remembrancefrom you, a brief, Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-42030103091388921472007-12-26T08:58:00.001-08:002007-12-26T09:01:31.196-08:00 Every Year the Times Standard asks for haiku. Here's my outpouring. Last year they put in about 4 of mine, hooray. This year I'm hoping one or two of these passes muster. McKinleyville fieldmuddy track near the airportpaved road, empty lotChristmas night rainBut otherwise all is calm;What would you say now?RefrigeratorHums a late night aria.Heater growls duet.Bill's enclosure Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-44509163013804200292007-11-11T18:53:00.001-08:002007-11-11T19:02:49.864-08:00Veteran's DayThis morning I put on a coatI had not tried for thirty years; drab greenMy name emblazoned on the frontIn blue. My veteran’s dayRemembrance of the man who onceWas proud to place his land above himselfAnd give his youth in foreign homes to blessHis friends and family with gifts too dearTo be left to those of lesser heart. I thoughtOf all the petty grievances which keepMy mind occupiedMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-28327285374700549372007-11-05T17:08:00.000-08:002007-11-05T17:10:17.635-08:00For PearlMy heart is a wandering jew,anchored only in the airsetting down whereever it can resta day or two from the vagariesof passion. I know that tomorrowlove will uproot mebut today I send my tendrilsout as far as I cantrying to reach you, my dear.Always, trying to find where you are hidden.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-49306314813714319332007-10-08T19:28:00.001-07:002007-10-08T19:28:55.237-07:00Why I Write So Few Poems These DaysLife was an animalwild, smelling feralit scratched me during intimatemoments, yowling and crazed.Now it sitsin my windowsilldozing in the pale sundreaming of somethingit can't quite catch.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-13021719240108196892007-08-31T22:23:00.000-07:002007-08-31T22:24:47.941-07:00To My Happily Married Friends,Who Tell Me They're SureI'll "Find Someone Nice."Remember how easilya person standing on shoreshouts instructionsto a drowning man.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-4336950647124198722007-08-06T09:37:00.000-07:002007-08-06T09:46:08.862-07:003 A.m.thinking of you, my father,and the long chanceswe missed again and againwhen I was a childand you would appearand disappear, some legendyou children clung toduring the difficult times,wondering whereyou were, wherewe could beif you would come to get us;the times we spentat your house in Lagunaa glimpse into a worldwhere we would beeternal visitors. Later,when an adult, I forgaveyour Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-40422265015758926682007-07-22T19:02:00.001-07:002007-07-22T19:06:16.673-07:00Sequoia ParkAdam and I walkthrough the old growthredwoods, in the middleof Eureka, a small parkwhere preserved, tall redwoodsa thousand or more years oldlisten to us natterabout politics and musicand other things that won't matterin another thousand yearswhen they finallydecide to fall.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-58130213919498439162007-07-03T10:07:00.000-07:002007-07-03T10:09:53.062-07:00Another Fourthand suddenly we questionthe unquestionablewe disbelievethose who demand our beliefwe divine the ugly truthdug out of the shitpile of politicssuddenly dissentionis patrioticbout damned timeamericabout damned timeMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-54168692130571595312007-06-25T22:37:00.000-07:002007-06-25T22:40:50.280-07:00Ten Monthssince we lastfell into that bedand loved each otherthe night before I leftto come up Northto what I thoughtmy destiny.More rightthan I care to admit, nowI knew then, of course,that you told me whatI needed to hear:you were happy for meyou thought it a good moveyou'd come up yourselfin a few yearsyou said this, layingnext to me, naked,but coveringthat part of your heartyou keep away fromMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-8739989510071012842007-05-19T00:09:00.000-07:002007-05-19T00:15:25.279-07:00Coming Over The Bridge After a long drivefrom Humboldt, the rentaltired and gasping my feet locking upmy eyes tired from the drive. Stopped outside of Garbervillefor going 80 in a 65 zoneI guess the cop was boredand not convinced when I slowedto 70 when I saw him. Now I'm hitting the gratesand the tires complaingrinding alongand I watch the red towers passmy windshield, upon whicha few flying Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-36408269099759961952007-02-10T14:47:00.000-08:002007-02-18T14:43:04.810-08:00Six Kinds of Foolall day I look for youin the shops and cafestrailing your laughterechoing in dim hallwaysI ask for you but no onelooks me in the eye, they knowwhat I know, but whatdo I know?only that your absenceembeds itself into my heartsharp, insistentas if I'd falleninto the bed of thornswhere we first lay.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-69182301533353177352007-01-31T22:25:00.000-08:002007-01-31T22:29:20.437-08:00Wednesday Nightand I have nothing to sayexcept the days continuein their appointed ordernothing out of placeno numbers jumpingout of linehere I am, tick tick tickon the computer, tryingto chase down the museknowing she's mad at mebecause I pay so littleattention to her these days;(women are like that.you can't take themfor granted, or they'llshow you just howinsignificantyou really are to them.)Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-90152616975210819792006-12-20T22:28:00.001-08:002006-12-20T22:28:52.902-08:001.Frost on the rooftopsIcy lawns, ragged, unmowed.Winter's white-haired masque.2.Frog song at eveningDecember moon white and chillBrook muttering low3.Walking after tenMcKinleyville houses darkHoliday lights dimmed.4.Walking to the courtClouds loose with rain, exhaling.Winter tastes of Fall.5.Morning fog settlesDecember along the roadMountain's pearled muffler.6.I don't miss the snowWhen rain Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-13701790522120919752006-12-07T19:39:00.000-08:002006-12-07T19:42:36.596-08:00A Clear Daythe sky the colorof the cat's eye marblesi collected, always lostin the circle;i am walking to courtbriefcase slung over my shouldercase files heavy insidewalking in the clear crisp dayto plead a clientnineteenwho fired a rifle into a trailerand hit no one, luckilybut then told the copseverything because he was drunkand felt guilty for what he'd done.he's pleading todayand then we Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1160634856044984302006-10-11T23:30:00.000-07:002006-10-11T23:34:16.056-07:00Why I am Happygod knows whymaybe the air up herecrisp like an apple,a cleanliness that goes through youmaking you transparentuntethered by gravitymaybe the sight of treesmarching along the hillsidesright down to the highwaythrough the milk fogmilitant, silentmaybe the openness of my housethat greets me with glad expressionat the end of each day,enfolds me like a loverwhispers when the furnace Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1155960737237958592006-08-18T21:11:00.000-07:002006-08-18T21:12:17.246-07:00When It's Finally Over, He Said...and now you are a desertsmiling at me tolerantlyshort answers, your eyesdry and unblinkingand not quite focused here.a deserti am crossing slowlyhot and irritatedand wondering where i leftmy watera desertwhere once flowedlife; something explodedand turned everythingto sandthat grinds the wheelsof our hearts.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1151196263938275762006-06-24T17:40:00.000-07:002006-06-24T17:44:23.953-07:00Surgeryone by one the lightsgo by above your headas you glide throughthe corridor, studyingthe ceiling, the lighthospital gown aroundyour belly, the nurseswheeling you making smalljokes about the turnsstrange, it is, to be pronewaiting for the man to leakthe drug into your veinsthat will ease you into sleep;watching the doctor preparehis scalpel, the nurses busyingthemselves, the Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1150503313179802232006-06-16T17:14:00.000-07:002006-06-16T17:15:13.193-07:00Sunwayfarerstrangersometime friendjune arrivesyou sulkbehind the graytoward julyhere you areas if nothing happenedMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1148104628741977032006-05-19T22:56:00.000-07:002006-05-19T22:57:08.750-07:00My Mother's Nameis Delores, which for yearsI thought meant "lovely," becausethat's what her mother told me.My mom shortened it to"Dee," which I always thoughtwas too pedestrian and ambiguous.Recently, while engaging inmy never-ending struggle withlearning Spanish, I came acrossdolores, turns out it meansto hurt or to be sad. Which fitsmy poor mother perfectly, as shedelights in her sadness, Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1147929117874842112006-05-17T22:11:00.000-07:002006-05-17T22:11:57.886-07:00Passion: A ParableI watched the malespider on its long spindlylegs approach the largerfemale carefully, touchingher slowly, stroking herlong thin body with hisown, then a tangleof legs, the twojoining, the legs wavingin elemental passion.Later, in her weba piece of his leghung sadly, allthat was leftafter nature devouredhim. And I thoughtof how often passiondevoured us, tangledus into Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1145674665889990412006-04-21T19:57:00.000-07:002006-04-21T19:59:20.516-07:00Wreckagebehind me the wreckageof every woman who's evertumbled with metears like acidscarring something irrevocablein front of me the long roaddark, unevensolitudeMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1142754020106483482006-03-18T23:40:00.000-08:002006-03-18T23:40:20.110-08:00Rain DrumRain DrumHere is my thunder stickMy rain drumMy bass tumble in heaven.Here is my thrum thrumMy booming humMy rumbling tum tum tum.Here is my storm rattleMy rain shakerMy fist full of cloud.Here is my Rain DrumMy hum strum thrumMy rumbling tumbling Bum bum bum.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1140460117237476772006-02-20T10:28:00.000-08:002006-02-20T10:28:37.243-08:00So LongSo Longsince I’ll see you again,is how the old expression actuallygoes. So longmeasures the time wekept going at each other,our passion overrulingour common sense. So longdescribed the lengthof the emails you sentaccusing me of all sortsof depravities, only someof them false. Solong tells the exact distancebetween your house and minethat I’d travel each weekhoping for some time with you,Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1139978181600744302006-02-14T20:36:00.000-08:002006-02-14T20:36:21.606-08:00To My Scattered ValeTo My Scattered ValentinesTo the woman done with meFor the last time, and the last timeAgain, this time perhapsShe will mean it, and we won’tMeet after 10 while her childSleeps unaware in the next room.To the woman who boreMy son, who reminds meThat she, too, is withoutA lover. Tonight she looksOver the boy’s homeworkAnd dreams of someone who is not me.To the woman I once thoughtI would marry, Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1138562973706066992006-01-29T11:29:00.000-08:002006-01-29T11:29:33.710-08:00Back to NormalBack to NormalThe ghost pulled openThe pantry and spilledPans and bowls all overThe kitchen floor.Adam came in and said“I’ve been looking forThat metal mixing bowl.”Then left to makeNoise in the kitchen.I’m finally backWith my beloved softwareAnd can make trouble onThe computer.Life is goodAnd only getting betterOr so they say.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1138122466967139402006-01-24T09:04:00.000-08:002006-01-24T09:07:46.976-08:00The the Toad Who Created the Virusthat wounded my computer,there is no curse harsh enoughthat I would not impose on you:my your veins run with smallbiting spiders; may your facebreak out in volcanic hives;may your tiny penis afflict itselfwith small crablike creatureswho pinch and bite constantly;my women run screaming from you(oh, sorry, that probablyalready happens); may small childrenpoint at Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1133940013302523732005-12-06T23:16:00.000-08:002005-12-06T23:20:13.313-08:00I'm not sure I wantthe holidays to comethis year. I'm not readyto bleed snow and hearthose damned carolsdrummed at me constantlyas if some malevolent captainis trying to extract from metroop movements. I refuseto hear another damned Santapretend to laugh when, reallyall they want to do is knock backa whiskey and soda and maybebounce the cute girl in the elf costumeback at Santa's workshop.(Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1129775508625971652005-10-19T19:28:00.000-07:002005-10-19T19:31:48.630-07:00Downtown Santa Anathe women hold the handsof the boys when coming outof the stores, machine gunningSpanish at them; the boyshang like rag dolls, knowingwho's in charge, not liking itbut plotting their revengeto take place in the teen years;women stand in doorwaysmuttering something about"boletas borachas", cheaptickets to somewhere, or about"la cellular," trying to get meto sign up for a cell Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1127881782661200132005-09-27T21:27:00.000-07:002005-09-27T21:29:42.666-07:00Late SeptemberComing out of the courthouseto find a temperate afternoonwasted inside, arguingfor my client's freedom,knowing I would as welldispute with the wind.I drink the late sunlike rum, drunk on the warmthof light on my faceI turn away from the officeand sneak to my carstealing a minute or twofrom my jobto my life.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1123658316917781892005-08-10T00:17:00.000-07:002005-08-10T00:22:22.963-07:00"Write me a poem," she asks,my internet friend who knowsme from my long profile andstrange photos. A poemabout life and children and the searchfor intelligent life in California.But I am not the kind of poetwho can muster an ode to any stray whim, not the manwho can sing love songs to womenI've never met (ScarlettJohannsen excluded). "Write me a poem," she asks,thinking it a trifle, a Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1118895022813486042005-06-15T21:06:00.000-07:002005-06-15T21:10:22.820-07:00Late JuneThe sky grays at morningas if it lost imaginationand energy to burn blue.Schoolchildren suddenlyfind the spring in their stepand laughter in their lungsknowing the burdenof education will liftfor a few hot weeks.I walk because my doctortold me I needed to exerciseto heal my aching back,(I'd been proud that my back,though attached to a big man,has never had problems.But after the boy's Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1117262638776106162005-05-27T23:39:00.000-07:002005-05-27T23:43:58.780-07:00presencei feel you out therein the ether, your linehumming with purpose,your wicked minddrawing another in.i refuse to miss youbecause, really,what did we ever have?a few sessions of surrogatesex, some promises we bothbroke and knew we would,a night or two of dreamingof each other. you know nowi am an old bear and notthe young gods you lingerover with your youngpassion. oh, to be youngagain, i Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1117003061741485482005-05-24T23:33:00.000-07:002005-05-24T23:37:41.746-07:00fat tuesdayat the gym, and I'mstretching, trying notto watch the woman in pinkacross from me, her fluffyblond hair, her milk whitelimbs, as she deadpansthrough her own warmuproutine. I can't help it, I'm thinkingof how she'd look reclinedon a bed of roses, deadpansmile inviting me to tastethe frosting of her cake purethighs; She studiouslyavoids my gaze, I leanover my belly, slowlyshrinking fromMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1115689144522686562005-05-09T18:37:00.000-07:002005-05-09T18:39:04.526-07:00Empire Earth and other Assorted Tragediesfrom the boy's roomthe screams of dying menand burning buildingstells me, he's playingthat damned computer game,the one where you have to conquerthe earth, destroy your enemiesand populate the worldwith people who look and actand believe exactly as you doand no one else. I think the nameof the software is:Election 2008.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1113890609727129272005-04-18T23:00:00.000-07:002005-04-18T23:03:29.726-07:00cutting the cast offthe leg emergeslike a shy wild thingafraid of lightthin and shiveringcovered with dead skinpale in the harshflorescent of the doctor'soffice, the cast crackedlike a dinosaur's eggnow disassembledon the cold floor. The childrubs his legs, scratcheswith mighty reliefbuilding for weeks. X-rayspeer back at usshowing us the break,healing but notyet fully healed. The oldcast is Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1113367084277313932005-04-12T21:29:00.000-07:002005-04-12T21:38:04.276-07:00Wasting Daysand today was a beautthe sun about to burstthe sky that pale bluewe enjoy here in the OCof course, I was strandedat home, waiting for the plumberto come and figure outwhy the shit kept comingback up the toiletwhenever I'd runmy laundry, somethingyou might understandworried me. All the timethe sun mocked me, sayingsomewhere on a golden beacha gorgeous blonde reclinedlovely in form andMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1110870594931178262005-03-14T23:04:00.000-08:002005-03-14T23:09:54.933-08:00jazzplays softly fromthe other room,the boy is sleepinga lullaby of genericsaxophone sweepinghis head into dreamshe's becomea "jazzbeau" lately,enamoured with the soundof Charlie Parker and Miles,of Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller.Where did this changeling come from?When I was his ageI wanted rock and rolland more of it, couldn'tstand country, or muzakor big bands, barelynodded toward Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1103956695638455402004-12-24T22:36:00.000-08:002004-12-24T22:38:15.636-08:00Christmas Eve
for the first time in years
my son is not with me
so I don't have to sneak
all over the house
tonight, wrapping
presents in the bedroom
quietly, trying not to let
the paper crinkle too loudly;
stuffing a few stockings
trying to keep the candy
and small gifts from clanging
against each other;
sweeping the chimney
so that my boy thinks
the other fat guy he believed
brought him Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1101889332992807712004-12-01T01:18:00.000-08:002004-12-01T00:22:12.993-08:00poems I should have written
the man holding his head
in his hands, bowed and crying
at a bus stop, I never knew
for what but I could have
made something up;
the young child who caught
my eye in the next car, she
was about four, one of five
kids in the car, harried
Latino mom driving,
and she impaled me with
a brown-eyed arrow;
the face glimpsed in a window
as I walked to lunch,
her hand on herMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1100590639759570052004-11-15T23:35:00.000-08:002004-11-15T23:37:19.760-08:00my son cleans his room
of all the vestiges
of his childhood: toy
jets and tanks
army men and guns
now go into the storage
or sales box.
he has discovered music
and the army toys seem
a bit childish to him now.
and suddenly I realize
that if George and Barbara
had bought W a guitar
maybe we'd be in a whole
different place right now.
Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1100246931961366252004-11-12T01:05:00.000-08:002004-11-12T00:08:51.960-08:00normal
we say, as if
the election were something
new, as if the whole
world teetered in the balance.
turns out, it didn't.
the black boxes
won again. the aliens
picked the president
again, according to the weekly
world news, where you can
trust the source as deeply
as Fox news, and all
the commentators are saying
"why are the democrats
so feeble?" "why are the republicans
so powerful?" Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1097980917697374332004-10-16T19:39:00.000-07:002004-10-16T19:41:57.696-07:00drumming
my son discovered
last year that his hands
have an animal inside
which runs and runs
but never quite catches
prey or is caught
by preditor; a continuous
roll and punch
that comes through
the bone, past the flesh
and into the skin
of the drumhead
as now, he rolls
on the toms a rockslide
which stumbles like thunder
and sings like a sinister
bird, its wings outstreched
small furry Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1096871040699094052004-10-03T23:21:00.000-07:002004-10-03T23:24:00.700-07:00if I was a dog
i'm not sure i'd subscribe
to the program of smelling
butts and drinking from
toilets. think i'd pass
on smelling poop and licking
ill-defined substances on
the grass. i'd probably
like the barking and the jumping
and the insatiable sex
drive when the female
was in heat; the lack
of dating etiquette
and the total spontaneous
gesture of relieving myself
wherever the need Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1095664492937059092004-09-20T01:10:00.000-07:002004-09-20T00:14:52.936-07:00once more with feeling
or, if you prefer, without.
perhaps you could hum
a small tune while doing
this thing, which has become
a task for you, though I
still seem to enjoy it as much
as when I was a teenager.
maybe the lack of emotion
comes from the belief that the world
is spinning into entropy
and soon all the energy
in the world will be sopped
up like egg yolk on toast
and it will all come Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1095233050344114852004-09-15T01:18:00.000-07:002004-09-15T00:24:10.346-07:00restless
for years he slept
in a house on fire
his life disarrayed
as if after a hurricane
his lovers disentangled
as if being removed from a wreck.
"something's not right,"
he would say, with the insouciance
of a man being devoured
slowly by a wild beast.
"wonder if I should do something,"
he would say, with the calm
of a captain standing the deck
of a ship nine tenths in the water.
"Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1093328375608887882004-08-23T23:15:00.000-07:002004-08-23T23:19:35.610-07:00IHOP
thirty minutes to closing time
the waitress brings my bill
smiles nervously, hoping
that I'm not one of those fools
who sits all night scribbling
in the black notebook on the table,
hoping that the muse will somehow
descend upon me between
the bacon and pancakes. I see
others winding up their conversations
putting on their coats, saying
their "see you laters", while I
contemplate Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1092720675398417692004-08-16T22:27:00.000-07:002004-08-16T22:31:15.396-07:00losing ground
I lunge out of the car
in my tired shirt and tie
briefcase in the back
after visiting a client
the inmates call "Justice B"
because he loves to
argue the law.
I pick up my son
from surf camp, he bounds
toward me full of electricity
after riding the ocean
all day, feeling the casual
power of its back.
The surfers sit with clipboards
talking about the classes.
Surfers with Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1091606441014180712004-08-04T00:57:00.000-07:002004-08-04T01:00:41.013-07:00
Blood Pressure
"your blood pressure
is too high. I will want
you on medication,"
my doctor says, with
the same relish I reserve
for telling clients they
have to do state prison
time because they did
something felony stupid.
used to be my blood pressure
was low, lower than normal
and doctors said I should
be dead or something. At last
I am ahead of the game:
140 over 98. Whatever
that Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1091081542513222412004-07-28T23:05:00.000-07:002004-07-28T23:12:22.513-07:00surrender
so I'm driving home
from a soccer meeting,
something mundane and hopelessly
middle class, having spent
my Wednesday night talking
about scrimmages and practices
and losing a good player to the draft
and other mundanities
which in six months will mean
absolutely nothing
and in two years
will be completely gone
from memory
and I spent all Wednesday night
doing this
and the people are Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1090046614106302582004-07-16T23:41:00.000-07:002004-07-16T23:43:34.106-07:00Dancing
the young woman
barefoot, spins
her arms waving
her long blond hair catching
the darkness around her
as the band plays
something bland with a beat
she spins, every so often
a small vision of skin
between her short blouse
and baggy jeans
taut belly, small of back
reminding me that i
have little left
to lose
Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1087539917840829282004-06-17T23:21:00.000-07:002004-06-17T23:25:17.840-07:00Morning Blessing
the air damp
and chill, around
the track middle aged
asian women walk
the cinder and talk
in languages
of clicks and stops.
i stretch
on the wet grass
pulling my old leg
up and toward
my belly, hoping
i do this right
and don't wrench
any stray tendon.
my body slow
and stiff and complaining
of being up so early
and out of bed, i
begin pushing myself
around the track, only
a Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1087023349855611912004-06-11T23:51:00.000-07:002004-06-11T23:55:49.856-07:00Mice
My son brought the first
mouse into my house as
food for his damned snake;
the mouse was too big
and chased the snake around
the cage. The second mouse
came the next night, the snake
wasn't hungry and the mouse
and the snake lay down together.
God loved that mouse,
so I kept it, put the two
in a cage, hoping they
were both the same sex.
I was wrong.
Now we have three mice
in the bottom Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1086157962216486882004-06-01T23:28:00.000-07:002004-06-01T23:32:42.216-07:00Waiting for Dynamite
because these days I wander
through like a guest, not wanting
to use the good towells or make
rude sounds at the table
when they ask me to say grace
I don't open with a joke
about God, the rabbi & the priest
but instead bow my head as if
I really knew how to do this. God
does not laugh at me, rarely
pays attention to me, though considering
what he put even minor prophetsMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1083470778767440582004-05-01T21:06:00.000-07:002004-05-01T21:10:32.640-07:00Moving Day
"I'm not going to give him
my address, I don't care
what the court says," the woman
replies, weary, defiant,
terrified beneath it all.
She brushes a strand
of hair from her eyes
and watches her four
year old boy run toward
the water where the fish
peer relentlessly back
at him. "I'll show that judge
the police reports of all
the times he came over
and tried to get into my house,"Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1082183277353424772004-04-16T23:27:00.000-07:002004-04-16T23:31:51.280-07:00The Hills of San Francisco
"Why does San Francisco
have so many hills?" Adam asks
as we climb one toward Ghirardelli.
"It gives the town charm,"
I reply, only a little out of breath.
"Why can't they just
chop the hills down,"
says the pragmatist,
eleven years old.
To him, it's easy:
You slice through
the stubborn dirt
making everything
smooth and easy to walk.
His faith in technology
is Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1081068300229038382004-04-04T00:45:00.000-08:002004-04-04T00:48:36.750-08:0091 Freeway, 4:30 a.m.
I'm coming back
from consoling a friend,
her tears acid on her face
cutting deeply into her.
A child custody problem,
something that burned in her
all night, handing her four
year old son for an overnight
visit to an alcoholic father.
I held her, rubbed her back
ran my fingers through her hair,
told her it would be all right.
We lay in the bed with
her child, fully Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1079939629589493162004-03-21T23:13:00.000-08:002004-03-21T23:17:09.326-08:00Dandelions
They poke their ragged heads
above the rough grass in early spring,
waving their flag brazenly
in the mild unsuspecting sun.
They come to take the land
from the indigenous grass,
from the rye and St. Augustine
from the green that belongs.
And I, I am the commando
charged with rooting out
this conspiracy of weeds,
who raise their tufted heads
and spread their white seed
all over theMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1077858143487450762004-02-26T21:02:00.000-08:002004-02-26T21:05:11.496-08:00The Terrorists have Won
oh i could give you
chapter and verse
about the vanishing
of our buffalo rights
or how it seems
anyone who says anything
against anyone
is an unpatriotic slug
or how the whole
goddamned thing is fixed
and we are living
under the shadow of
orange alert, constant
alerts to keep us
off balance, to keep
the reptile-hearted
men who churn terror
for their own ends
over and Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1076214818592612442004-02-07T20:33:00.000-08:002004-02-07T20:36:00.936-08:00Unsociable
my son is in the other room
watching tv, i hear
those foolish cartoon
voices, anchored to no
reality but somehow
mired anyway
i am on the computer,
talking to my beta fish
wondering what i can say
to the child in the other
room, who wants
me to sit in there, watch
the cartoons with him
sit on the couch, his head
in my lap, his arm
carelessly thrown
across my thigh.
i keep Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1075574618956210352004-01-31T10:43:00.000-08:002004-01-31T10:45:51.390-08:00Mistakes
Maybe the trouble
comes from wanting
to find something
eternal and noble
and universal and
endearing
maybe these poems need
to relax,
realize that life
is neither eternal nor noble
but only aggrivating
crazy and, sometimes
sweet and calm.
Oh, you idiot poet,
write a poem about your
tennis shoes, or the sand rocks
your son throws at the other kids
during recess;
write about the longMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1074536951674891922004-01-19T10:29:00.000-08:002004-01-19T10:31:08.420-08:00Cartel Reading, January, 2004
She stands on the rim of darkness
and reads to us, her calm
words belying
the hard terror of life
the savage chance of the everyday
the darkness that follows her.
She stands on the rim of darkness
and reads to us, walking
without looking along the cliff's
face, her words thrown to
the wind in defiance, fear
pushing her but not stopping her.
She stands on the rimMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1073242969509518232004-01-04T11:02:00.000-08:002004-01-04T11:04:26.890-08:00Lotto, $71 million
So it's time to dream
of walking onto the job
telling the boss you've
found something better
to do, buy all the secretaries
roses and walk out
trailing $100 bills...
as you get into your
brand new mercedes
with the slinky blonde
driving for you, all the better
for you to open bottles
of your favorite weakness
and spill them merrily
along the road...
tipping the cop $100 as Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1072339925637092402003-12-25T00:12:00.000-08:002003-12-25T00:13:29.123-08:00Christmas Day
A minute into Christmas
and I'm already behind,
my son's stocking
needing to be filled
with sugar and cards
and all sorts of things
to empty his brain
and fill his belly.
I'm not listening for reindeer
so much as his feet
by the door, saying
"I can't sleep."
Poor child, he no longer
believes in Santa,
thinks this is all a big put up
will accept presents but
the magic, he says, Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1071127634475217532003-12-10T23:27:00.000-08:002003-12-10T23:28:19.390-08:00Proportional
It seems like the more
the stores pump decorations
into the aisles earlier each
year, the less
lights go up in the neighborhood.
I think it's the passive aggressive
society we're raising, the way
they say, shove it
up your chimney, Sears
Target, et al, for cramming
the holidays down our throats
till we choke on cranberried
bullshit. Faces get grimmer
in December, the eyes of Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1070433023741029602003-12-02T22:30:00.000-08:002003-12-02T22:31:18.076-08:00Toshiro
My little fighting fish
imprisoned in his hexagonal
tank, separated from
the other fish, who he'd
fight and kill, he moves
with vicious grace, his purple
fin and dorsal flowing like
a samauri robe as he
rises again and again
looking for bloodworms.
We named him after
Toshiro Mifune, the great
Japanese Samauri actor
and at night when I'm
clicking on these keys I swear
I can hear him
Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1068883955012577862003-11-15T00:12:00.000-08:002003-11-15T00:13:04.890-08:00A Week Being Sick
and I'm still in slo-mo
moving at the speed of light
after dark, dragging
my sorry carcass through
the day, hoping for
five o'clock when I
can drag my sorry carcass
home and sit on the couch
watching TV.
To me, this is a little death,
every minute wasted watching
TV and feeling tired,
is a preview of the afterlife
underground, where you waste
eternity wondering
what's on next.
Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1066111507490419022003-10-13T23:05:00.000-07:002003-10-13T23:05:07.613-07:00Yard Sale
no, that's only a dollar
twenty five cents for that poster.
No, I won't take twenty cents. I don't have change.
That? That's worth three hundred
bills, but I'll let you have it for forty.
Too much? Okay. Make an offer.
Ten? ARe you kidding?
For all this? Ten bucks.
No, I won't take nine.
All right, fuck you, nine it is.
I'm just trying to clear out
the goddamned garage.
I Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1065670905252084162003-10-08T20:41:00.000-07:002003-10-08T20:41:44.810-07:00Wondering Where the New Poems Are
because they sure don't
launch themselves at me
suicidally as they once did
when I first started to write again
and felt the muse's hand
lightly on my shoulder
then under my shirt, then
going lower, making me
rush to finish the poem before
I exploded. Perhaps this
explains where she's got to.
Women don't like it
when you rush, even if
you're rushing so Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1065288870850484652003-10-04T10:34:00.000-07:002003-10-04T10:34:30.470-07:00Why You Should Be Careful About What You Write
then she said to me,
you'd rather fuck
a swimsuit model
than a real woman,
i know, she said,
because i read it
in your on-line poem
and if that's what you want
then you can have her
i hope the glossy paper
she's printed on
doesn't cause you
too much pain
and i said,
that was just a poem
and she said
the women aren't real
the poems are.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1064132372111564982003-09-21T01:19:00.000-07:002003-09-21T01:19:32.030-07:00Swimsuit Model
She leans toward me
half smile on her face
breasts peeping from
the pastel blue and green
bikini she's ready
to slip out of
on a beach towel
on some beach
far from the click click
of my keyboard
as I gaze at her
and wonder
how lovely she is,
how far from reality
how delicious the thought
that such women even exist.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1063783173320039502003-09-17T00:19:00.000-07:002003-09-17T00:19:33.230-07:00This Is Just To Say
that despite its best efforts
this life thing hasn't quite
ground me to meal yet
that despite long disappointment
I still find the time
to put in my hours of hope
that despite the line
of women who would parse me
into small chopped cilantro
I am somehow still able
to believe that love
waits for me down
some dark boulevard,
some beleaguered homestead
some undiscovered heartMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1063520853242851722003-09-13T23:27:00.000-07:002003-09-13T23:27:33.193-07:00Solitaire
we all kill our hours
in our own way. My poison
of choice the electronic
bits and pieces that
illuminate the sacred deck,
the queen of spades on
the king of diamonds, the
long search for the ace,
the disappointment of the two.
This is my meditation,
this is my refuge
from the madness of
the clients screaming at me
desperate for miracles,
the child who needs
so much from this old Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1062671773844402172003-09-04T03:36:00.000-07:002003-09-04T03:36:13.836-07:00Awake at 3 a.m.
who knows why?
things knock at my head
insistently, as if
I could do something about them now:
Hey, you have a prelim
in the morning; hey,
what about getting
the poetry journal out;
hey, what about that woman
who smiled at you today,
wasn't she something?
What about your boy
angry at you today
because you made a mistake
in coaching his team
and made him look foolish
and confusedMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1060747268704695712003-08-12T21:01:00.000-07:002003-08-12T21:01:08.496-07:00An Afternoon on the Lake
My son and I paddle the woeful
little boat which we've rented
for twenty dollars. The current
fights us, the small waves
lapping into the boat, weighing
us down, so that we have to
bail with our feet. The sun
slices through us, the lake
angry that we've come out
so far. My son and I paddle
madly, our legs bursting
with pain, my back clinched
and ready to explode.
We Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1060238535883474632003-08-06T23:42:00.000-07:002003-08-06T23:42:15.746-07:00Kids Under the Trees
Early August, the kids
under the trees for shade
after a morning playing soccer.
I walk to find my son's
jersey, which he threw off
in the heat
dragonflies wobbling
across the empty field
emerald and purple
this poem has no purpose
it merely struck me as a piece
of eternity as I walked
in the bright sun, kids
under the trees, dragonflies
all around me.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-1057451584572727942003-07-05T17:33:00.000-07:002003-07-05T17:33:04.483-07:005th of July
and it's still hot
scent of gunpowder
drifting lazily
through the lawned
streets and the dark
backyards, now stiff
with barbecue sauce
stains and black scars
where last night
stars were captured,
spun on the concrete,
made to sing.Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-956610302003-06-14T07:32:00.000-07:002003-06-14T07:32:08.736-07:00To the Powers That Be
Who axed my little reading,
my cry into the night
in which I invited others
afflicted with my illness
of poetry and hope
to come together, hoping
our voices would combine
and break through the bland
darkness that envelops
the cold minds of people
who passed by, sometimes quickly
as if the poetry would contaminate
them, sometimes laughing
as if the poetry could not speak
to Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-953606392003-06-05T23:52:00.000-07:002003-06-05T23:52:14.286-07:00To My Restless Child, Who Can't Sleep
but won't tell me why,
except to say that he tries
to close his eyes and the pictures
are running too fast in his head;
or to say that he tries
to think of good things
but other things keep nagging
at him;
or to say that he tries
but his body doesn't want
to shut down yet,
the most interesting part
of the day still ahead;
I want to tell him that
there'll Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-941379202003-05-10T23:19:00.000-07:002003-05-10T23:19:21.613-07:00To My Mother, Who Ran Away From Home
of course, you were in your late 30s
and we were grown and out
of the house, whatever house
we had landed in; I wonder
why you had to put so many
hundreds of miles between us all;
now, of course, you're 72
and you feel the sting
of the long miles between us,
the long nights where the phone
never rings, the letters
that don't come as often
as they did when IMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-935726782003-04-30T20:26:00.000-07:002003-04-30T20:26:05.060-07:00To My Child, Roller Blading in the Dark
I should get you now
and bring you in
and wash your hair
and make you sit
in front of the television
and get ready for bed.
Tomorrow is school
and more spelling
and a few math problems
as well as the problems
in the playground.
The ones you tell me about
of the kids calling your friends
unkind names, and how
you stand up for them, even
if it means you Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-932289782003-04-25T01:04:00.000-07:002003-04-25T01:04:10.193-07:00This Is Not An Apology
Except I keep thinking of how
you were up to your ass
in snapping reptiles when I
sort of exited stage right
not giving you the courtesy
of a kiss-off;
Except I keep thinking of how
you were fighting off a vicious
ex who stalked your every
move, and needed some
compassion and support,
and all I did was complain;
Except I keep thinking of how
you were down to your last Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-923426002003-04-09T22:53:00.000-07:002003-04-09T22:53:07.966-07:00Dancing in the Streets
The television shows Iraqis
dancing in the streets and shouting
"Thank you, Bush,"
Just as a week ago it showed
them dancing and waving
pictures of Saddam
after they'd shot down
an American helicopter.
Maybe these were different Iraqis.
Or maybe they just wait
for a chance to dance
Like John Travolta
In Saturday Night Fever,
walking down the street with that paint canMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-915944222003-03-29T00:28:00.000-08:002003-03-29T00:28:37.950-08:00Here We Are Again
Playing the ages old game
of throwing the rock
and waiting for the rock
to be thrown back
of swinging with the club
and ducking the club swung back
of hurling the lightning
and hoping the lightning
doesn't return
we call ourselves liberators
because "invaders" is bad spin
but in the end
our troops chomping at the bit
to begin the war
as if it were the Superbowl,
in the endMarknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-908429052003-03-16T23:21:00.000-08:002003-03-16T23:21:50.810-08:00Rain
Splotches of it paste
themselves to the windshield
as I drive the five freeway
toward Valencia. My son
sits in the passenger seat,
listening to his favorite
pop group's CD over
and over again, as relentless
as the drops smearing themselves
on my windshield, small soldiers
attacking the line only to meet
obliteration and obscurity as I
drive through toward night. "Do
you think it'll Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-906304822003-03-12T20:32:00.000-08:002003-03-12T20:32:05.340-08:00Same Old Same Old
In which the poet remarks
that the world must be getting
old, because it keeps
repeating itself
repeating itself
repeating itself
and cackles, as if
that hoary old joke
was a proper substitute
for wit and depth.
Oh well, they can't
shoot you for writing
a bad poem, at least until
certain sections of
the Homeland Security Bill
take effect. Until then
I'll be right here
Marknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3926513.post-896338852003-02-24T02:08:00.000-08:002003-02-24T02:08:10.873-08:00Diagnosis
"You still writing poetry?"
they ask, with the same
tone you'd ask someone if
he still had VD or was still
haunting men's bathrooms
in seedy public parks.
"You still writing poems?"
they ask, in a shamed voice
as if I were hiding the blow
in my desk drawer, right under
the notebook where I write
those poems about the gray
minded fucks I work with,
the pallid souls whoseMarknoreply@blogger.com