Verse a Day

80s Redux

2003-12-20T17:28:00.000-05:00

Spin me around
Like a record oh like a record.
Not that I'm recycling 80s lyrics
Into a poem, I'd never be that derivative
Oh look, here comes the rain
Again, falling on my head
Like a new emotion.

I mean, the poetic vocabulary is large
But so are the number of people
Using it. Duplications don't have to be intentional.
Don't you forget about me.
Don't don't don't don't.
After all, everybody
Wants to rule the world.

(written today)

More Than Was Good

2003-12-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

He saw more than was good for him.
His head couldn't contain the knowledge
That these years of study,
Hours upon hours behind a writing desk
Interrupted only to brush off
A light coating of dust,
Shaped him into a creature far from human
Or any living thing.

He dug a hole
Deep in front of the house.
It writhed with healthy underground vermin.
He divided himself into differently sized cubes,
For easy storage,
Plopped below ground
And decided to stay.

(written today)

Marcel Considers His Wardrobe Choices for a Chilly Thursday

2003-12-18T17:27:00.000-05:00

underneath my sweater
a line of racing thread,
all blue and fluffy
in the operatic chill

of a november morning
that chewed the top off
a bottle and spit
the cap at the legions
assembled to take me away

swing me away
sonny boy
down at the farm where
i'll spend my summer
and no evil befell
because befelling
can't be abided by such folk
as live here

those who look to the forest
as their means to survival

(written today)

Sound Off

2003-12-17T17:26:00.000-05:00

It needs to resonate with me.
I'm a drumhead
That needs to feel the tap
Before I thrum.

Too many glance at me and command:
"Reverberate!" "Boom!" "Echo!"
But they do not pick up the drumstick.
They do not approach me.

So I wait
For the one
And the time
To crash --

(written today)

Oh Night Divine

2003-12-16T17:26:00.000-05:00

Hear the angel voices,
Leon?
They call me away from this
Spot in the farmland.
I must join my friends in the big city --
Where vodka flows from drinking fountains
And dancing girls skip down
Street made from cigarette cases.

Change shall it bring,
Orville.
For I give myself to the hungry monoliths
Tearing through the creased map's
Flatness.

(written today)

Bizarrely, He

2003-12-15T17:24:00.000-05:00

Bizarrely, the man never mentioned
The roundabout way he came to lead the company,
Or the circumstances beyond his control
That form this world tightening around us.

He blithely dallied,
Sketching portraits of grade-school
Teachers on the cinderblock walls,
Chewing taffy
And humming a tune
He wrote himself.

Give him a pair of wings and a length of fishing line.
Who knows what he'll reel in.

(written today)

Observing at the Athletic Field

2003-12-14T17:24:00.000-05:00

What a strange
Man.
There.
Do you see
Him?
He walks dizzily,
Flops from one foot to
Another.
He
Make me feel
Seasick,
All clammy and peculiar.
My bones
Ache
Underneath the bank
Of white-hot,
Buzzing stadium
Lights.

(written today)

Perfect Circle/Mess

2003-12-13T17:23:00.000-05:00

They all were composed
With the understanding
That the end would
Join up with the beginning

You know, each piece
Would form a neat circle
That would overlap with the other pieces
And their circles too

But roundness has a way
Of messing with people's minds
The circles squiggles
Looked suspiciously oval

Nothing joined perfectly
But instead followed its own path
Meandering, turning, reversing
Making a perfect mess of the map

(written today)

Make It Easy

2003-12-12T17:17:00.000-05:00

Predetermined portraits of ease
Line my study, their faces blank
Lines circulating like a library in heat
Bank cards, medical charts,
Piles of papers handing him over
When the clock hits two
It's all over boys
All over for him
All over for us

Make it easy on yourself, bub,
Okay, none of us wants a scene
With the lights and the drapery,
She bought it off a seedy looking
Toiletries dealer in Minsk
He called me "Mick"
Why, I have no idea

(written today)

The Little Old Ladies

2003-12-11T17:16:00.000-05:00

The little old ladies
Watch everything, have eyes
Everywhere.
They know if you've been bad
Or good. They know
Your shoe size, favorite food,
Brand of skin care lotion.

They collect these facts
In little spiral-bound notebooks.
They have closets full of them.
Every bit of gossip of heresy
From then to now to tomorrow
Safely stored
To prevent mildew
Or forgetting.

(written today)

Writer's Month

2003-12-10T17:15:00.000-05:00

Each night
I would go to that place in my head
Where the idealized people live.

I would take them out,
Play games on the living room carpet --
Make sure the dog didn't run off
With one in her mouth.

The little people protested.
They hated my playtime and stolen words.
But they faded with daylight.

I later transcribed the play,
Keeping count of every word.
The day's documentation boosted the pile
A few sheets higher.

(written today)

Say When

2003-12-09T17:15:00.000-05:00

Too much or not enough.
You decide.
Only you can fill the cup of water or
Ladle out the gravy or
Pile on the fixin's.

Good gravy!
Or bad, it's up to you.
The mind is a terrible thing
To waste on trained monkeys
Or to parrot a monkey's actions.

Ahoy mateys,
Cried the bird.
And he took to the sky
Screeching free will
Into the painted vault
Of the heavens.

(written today)

Unfair Trade

2003-12-08T17:14:00.000-05:00

"In the future," he said, "humans will be replaced with waves of pure sound. We'll realize how silly these cocoons of flesh are. Transcendence? I'll show you transcendence!"

The salesman lied.
Percussive noises
Can't substitute
For a human presence.

They kept me company
The first week,
But the second
They just rattled on.

(written today)

Audiophile

2003-12-07T17:14:00.000-05:00

Perfect stereophonic sound, my friend.
Sit in the sweet spot there,
listen listen listen.
That gorgeous sound swirls round.
You don't know where it comes from,
Why,
It's almost as though the musicians
Play right beside you.

Can you beat it?
Can you top it?
Can any technology in your arsenal
Come close
To these twin speakers
Mounted 5.6 feet apart from each other --
Connected to the very best
Swedish-made turntable?

Despair. Weep. Rend your clothes.
Melt in awe.

(written today)

Really? Goodness Me!

2003-12-06T17:13:00.000-05:00

believe the little man behind the brick

Torrid enough to imagine --
But to enact?
Well that just takes the cake.
It also frosts said cake
And decorates it with sprinkles
And rainbow-colored candles.

blanched of sense he compiled a list

This exhuming won't do us any good.
Take out the bits you can use
And leave the rest to me.

until the porpoise grows out its trousers

(written today)

gripes

2003-12-05T17:12:00.000-05:00

i could better myself.
i could not eat meat
and work to improve the world.
i could raise organic crops
and work for progressive causes.
i could drive an electric car.

but it is so much work,
and i am such a slacker.
why can't these options be easy
and convenient?
damn it, i don't want to work
to be good.
i want it to be easy.

at least as easy
as being bad.

(written today)

Another Try

2003-12-04T17:12:00.000-05:00

After deleting
a few feeble attempts
at poems, I write
this instead.

It's not as good, maybe,
but I didn't care
for where the other work
was going. It meandered
along or, worse,
was self-pitying.

I don't have time for that stuff now.

The world rolls on, and I
have to make my place in it.
That's what it comes down to,
and it's not as if everyone
hasn't made the same realization
already.

I fall short sometimes.
We have to learn to accept that
as well. But I pick up and continue on my --
on our --
way.

(written today)

They Say 'Jump'

2003-12-03T17:11:00.000-05:00

That whole thing
Chafes around my ankles.
I try to wrest it free,
Yet the bugger won't budge.

Jump they say, they say
Jump, Bowie sings,
But jumping can hurt
When the body aches
And the options close in like brushfire.

Hey man, that's really something --
The way the sound materializes above your head
And stays, a beautiful little rain cloud
Sprinkling on the perm.

Bound and gagged and trapped
Yet happy to be so.
I'll skip and whistle
As the world contracts.

(written today)

Another Visit

2003-12-02T17:09:00.000-05:00

I tore my way through the grey hills,
The gray skies, the gray faces.
I scurried along the ribbons of gray highway
From one gray outpost to another,
Listening to a gray compact disc spin.

I can spin out no more highway of my own
In this place that once was mine.
I can build no more hills,
I can prop up no more skies.

I can only come to it now with thanks.
I can only look at these grey remains
And recall the orange and gold
And yellow and red
That I once knew.

(written today)

Reacquainting Ourselves

2003-12-01T17:08:00.000-05:00

Let's play a game, Maurice.
Pretend a month passed
And no one noticed.
Not the cops, not the newspapermen,
Not the street cleaners, not the grocery clerks.
Just one day they wake up
And realize 30-31 days have gone,
Spirited away by the calendar.

What would these folks
Do, Maurice?
Some, I imagine, would demand
Investigations, thorough ones
Into this chronological catastrophe.
Others would scarcely notice,
Because we live in a world
Where wacky things happen
As a matter of course.

But still others, Maurice,
Would take a deep breath
And try to make these next months
Count like they never
Could before.

(written today)

A Hold on Me

2003-11-30T14:15:00.000-05:00

Yahoo Serious has a hold on me
Grips my shirt in sweating hands
Begs me to watch his newest movie
His best, he pleads, his best ever
If only
Someone would watch
The damned thing

He will buy me popcorn, he pleads,
And some chocolate-covered peanuts,
He knows they're my favorite
But he won't tell me how he knows that

He projects the movie personally
And pauses it
During the really good scenes
So he can explain the whimsical stunts
In excruciating detail
The best Yahoo Serious ever,
He repeats

I agree
Just so I can leave

(10/23/03, revised today)

Between the Buttons

2003-11-29T17:06:00.000-05:00

My fundamentalist parents made me the
Wreck I am today
Strung out on vodka tonics
And Special K
Listening to the Rolling Stones'
Between the Buttons
Crying
The pillow stains
Great swathes of gray tears

(10/23/03, revised today)

lengthy lengthening

2003-11-28T17:05:00.000-05:00

the long the detailed the languorous line
as stretched as david bowie reclining on a couch
smoking a long and decadent cigarillo
watching you through the haze of his smoke
and extending a pale finger beckoning you to come closer,
closer

and you know that once you reach the end of this line,
once you go to its farthest reaches to david,
there is no going back on your choice

(10/23/03, revised today)

Msg From Stevie N.

2003-11-27T17:04:00.000-05:00

Stevie Nicks wanted me
To relay this message to you:
"My devoted fans,
I am taking a sabbatical to fulfill my duties
As rain goddess to several tribes
In the Amazon rain forest.

"I don't expect the voyage to take long,
But the natives can be unpredictable.
The other band members can take up
The slack when I'm away.
They have their drug habits, though,
So treat them gently.

"Until we meet again, then,
I leave you with the words
Of the goddess Quex'o'lext'll:
'If you see my reflection in the snow-covered hill,
Miserable sinners,
Then a landslide
Will truly bring you down.' "

(10/23/03, revised today)

Ballad for the Special One

2003-11-26T17:04:00.000-05:00

You my baby, girl
Not like those other chances
Fast romances
That vanished,
Yeah vanished
Off into nuthin'.

You been my everything.
No one-night stand,
No that wasn't no plan.
Believe me, girl.

So peel those potatoes
And wash those greens,
You're the prettiest cook
I ever seen.
Oh I ever seen.

Do it, girl.
Stir fry,
Roast.
Broil,
I love that the most.
Just do it, girl.

(10/23/03, revised today)

the music

2003-11-25T17:03:00.000-05:00

the music limps along
to the songs end
lurches to the bar
where old jimmy can perk it up
till the next set
15 minutes now
till it unfurls itself
swaddles and swallows the crowd
wallows in its craziness

its just a job
the music says to me
downing its third rum and coke
some hum along
some flagellate violently
its all the same to me
i just play

(10/23/03, revised today)

The Most Important Meal

2003-11-24T17:03:00.000-05:00

I cook breakfast
Because breakfast is the start
When morning kicks your head
Cracks some eggs,
Squeezes the oranges,
Heats the bacon
To greasy intensity

Slam bam
James Brown is on,
Dancing up a fury on my kitchen floor,
Sweating up a storm,
Introducing his backup dancers
With a wink

He finishes, repairs to the table
And picks up the newspaper, drinks
Some juice and asks when
The rest of the breakfast will be ready

(10/24/03, revised today)

Socked

2003-11-23T17:02:00.000-05:00

Consider the sock.
It is gray.
It is damp.
It has enveloped your foot
For the better part
Of three
Disgusting years.

Consider the sock.
It has frayed.
It has labored for you.
It had warmed and
Comforted you.

Yet --
You toss it aside
So carelessly.

(10/11/03, revised today)

Suburbia

2003-11-22T17:01:00.000-05:00

The fiddle player and the chambermaid
Had eight children --

Maggie, the eldest and bossiest.
Peter, the logician.
Gertrude, the dreamer.
Howard, the dope fiend.
Michael, the almost-middle child.
Hilda, the homemaker.
Tilly, the athlete.
Sam, the young femme one.

They lived near other happy families,
Eight of them, in fact --

The Johnsons, who kept to themselves.
The Wilsons, who had a pool.
The Sapersteins, who had a dozen cats.
The Browns, who had many visitors.
The Lyons, who went to church all the time.
The Buckinghams, who had signs in their yard.
The Coynes, who didn't have children.
The Linnells, who played music.

And all the families and children
Had eight hopes --

To appear on the Tonight Show.
To publish a novel of autobiographical fiction.
To invent a new flavor of jam.
To ride every roller coaster.
To host parties for politicians.
To break that pesky drug addiction.
To ask him out, finally.
To love.

(10/31/03, revised today)

So Little

2003-11-21T17:00:00.000-05:00

So few days remain to do all I mean
So little time to see the house again,
Tell the relatives the sappy things they
Must be told.

I rush to make my noises,
Shout against the din
Of forces larger than myself.
Here, look, listen. This is me.

Time unspools forever,
We all know that,
The quality of existing has the infinite
Within it.
Yet we unspool for a day or three,
Make our poses against the walls,
Then mosey on.

(10/31/03, revised today)

Destroyer of Worlds

2003-11-20T16:59:00.000-05:00

The dog devours the high technology
She chews on plastic bags
She rips paper into shreds
She destroys the world

Into a string of ragged
Strips, tied together with
Loose knots, stretching
Across the park and
Tangled in the treetops

She knows exactly what she does,
The world must be destroyed,
Consumed

Spread across infinity
In chewed-up particles
Slimed with spit
Marked by her teeth

(10/31/03, revised today)

My God

2003-11-19T16:59:00.000-05:00

My god is smaller than your god.
My god has two legs, or four, or eight.
My god wants nothing more than a kind word,
A dish of nourishment set aside at night.

My god knows me by name,
Sometimes invites me out for drinks
Or a game of poker with the boys.
My god has made a pass at me,
But I politely declined.

My god calls me up late at night,
Sobs into the telephone.
My god asks me what's it all about,
And why he has to suffer so
When the world is so cruel.

I tell my god to get a grip,
And call me when I'm more awake.

(10/29/03, revised today)

Glory of All

2003-11-18T16:58:00.000-05:00

Every surface,
Every item,
Every speck of grime on the underside
Of my sandal
Sparks the fires of my mind.
They leap
Their little manicdepressive dances,
Cheer on the home team,
And compose songs
That last many minutes.

"Myron, Myron?
Where are you?
Come back to us, Myron.
You can't leave yet."

To understand
Where the toll road ends
And free paths for all begin,
Unlocks heaven's door
For some --
The same who count the lines
Of the ingredients
In every box
Of baking soda.

"Myron? Leave them
Alone now,
You hear?"

(10/29/03, revised today)

How Could They?

2003-11-17T16:58:00.000-05:00

How could they write and think such things?
Why, kitty, I never thought such a thought
In my 87 years.

I sit in this oak rocking chair,
Watching the TV.

Kitty, that young Mr. Ashton should treat
His friends with more respect. "Punk'd" indeed.
My Harold never did that.
Just went to church
And died later on.

I sit at this table,
Look through the yellow Polaroids.

(10/29/03)

From the Garret

2003-11-16T16:57:00.000-05:00

The work
Progresses so
Slowly,
Edward.

It is as
If every
Word
Must be extracted
With mind-numbing precision.

Every once and awhile, true, a great burst of inspiration comes
And the words flow on and on like one of those great rivers
Your tell me flow through the center of the Americas.

But I look back,
Then,
And see the outpouring
As drabble.

I resume
The extractions.

(10/28/03, revised today)

The Basics, Explained

2003-11-15T16:56:00.000-05:00

To condense the facts of the case:
I am not the long-lost brother of J. Edgar Hoover.
I am not the illegitimate child of Werther Von Braun.
I have never played poker on the back of a scantily clad Henry Kissinger.
I have never painted the town red with Janet Reno.

I have preached truth and goodness and beauty
From the hill and dale.
I have written poetry and sung songs of love
Until my voice collapsed in tatters round my ankles.

I have impersonated Judy Garland,
Marilyn Monroe, and the entire cast of Cheers
(Bebe Neuwirth excepted).
So what more do you want,
What more can you want,
From me?

(10/27/03, revised today)

grade-school art

2003-11-14T16:54:00.000-05:00

paintbrush wielded by a third grader
splashing a bloom of color on the heavy tan paper
already crinkled by acid aging the edges
swoop, holler and there you have it:
house, car, dog, doorknob

always the doorknob too,
perhaps drawn in hard-pressed pencil,
a wobbly little orb.

sun floats in the sky
with beaming smile on his face
ready to welcome you to the world
saying hey kid
on this watery mess of a page
happiness reigns supreme

until the rugrat learns to paint dragons
that is

(10/26/03, revised today)

coat of perfection

2003-11-13T16:53:00.000-05:00

that coat of perfection wears off after,
oh, say, a couple of weeks.
for some longer, true.
but maybe it wears off and they
will themselves not to notice
until the patches sear into the eyes
big, flaky, flawed
and that's when the fun starts, boy.
to see how they patch it up.

(10/26/03, revised today)

B-Day

2003-11-12T16:52:00.000-05:00

Elizabeth Cady Stanton
Was born today.

So was I.

They year,
As they say,
Was 1978.

The Georgia peanut farmer
Was president.

Britney Spears was a gleam
In someone's eye.
Michael Jackson was still black.

John Lennon was still alive.

The march of progress,
Eh?

(10/27/03, revised today)

Sales Pitch

2003-11-11T16:50:00.000-05:00

Get yer bucket of prunes right here,
Ladies, gentlemen, kiddies.
They was once juicy plums
But they've had hard lives, yes they have
And time and work and sadness
And the deaths of those to them
Have aged them afore their times.

Thus this delish bucket,
Filled to brimming with sweet dried grief.

Take a chew,
Feel their agony
As a burst of flavor,
Overwhelming.

(10/26/03, revised today)

The Crow

2003-11-10T02:16:00.000-05:00

The crow snatches a parasol from the air.
It grabs my watch,
Claws scraping my skin.

It flies in ever-widening circles.

Panic with wings.
"God save my daughter from these times,"
Throwing her off the roof.
The crow rescues

Girl rising again, tears vortices in the wind.

(10/26/03, revised today)

Exercise

2003-11-09T02:16:00.000-05:00

She comes to work every day at 8 a.m.
She takes off her coat and hangs it on the back of her chair.
She starts her computer, checks e-mail for the day.
She puts paper into file folders
And exchanges the file folders with other shes
Who take the papers out of the file folders,
Rearrange them,
And put them in new file folders,
Which are sent to a new set of shes.
Then, lunch.
She spends the afternoon looking out the window
In the employees' lounge,
Still decorated with frayed streamers from the Christmas party.
She sees birds and other buildings and the sky,
The gray view she has watched for years.
She returns to her desk.
She turns off her computer, puts on her coat.
She places an order for chocolate bars from a co-worker's son.
He sells them to send the high school band to Memphis.
She leaves works every day at 5:15 p.m.,
Rides the elevator down
And steps outside.

(9/3/03, revised today)

Where It Changes

2003-11-08T02:15:00.000-05:00

The point where the hallway
Opens up into the courtyard
Everyone you know is there

Deidre with that ferocious tan
Matthew with the perplexed expression he wore
For the last three months
Edgar thumbing through The Lord of the Rings
For his fifth time

Your people waiting
Arguing delving into their sordid selves
Waiting for you
To find them

(10/22/03, revised today)

Bone Blues

2003-11-07T02:15:00.000-05:00

Bones ache
Bones dance
Bones shake
Bones bones bones

My bones told me to fear today
My bones told me to stay away

Bones sing
Bones cry
Bones wait
Bones bones bones

My bones told me dead men lie
My bones told me live men cry

My bones ain't never been to school
My bones don't know a single rule

(10/24/03, 10/25/03, revised today)

For the Young Wizard

2003-11-06T02:14:00.000-05:00

Don't forget, young man,
That as long as you're under my roof
I make the rules.
No turning Uncle Walter into a lizard.
No exploding yourself into rainbow confetti
And materializing in the center of the dinner table.
No attempts to levitate the SUV.
No feelings
That others can snatch
From the air around your head
And crinkle with crude hands
Leaving you alone
And weeping.

(10/15/03, revised today)

Mad Hettie

2003-11-05T02:13:00.000-05:00

Not many are taken into my
confidence, Skippy.
You see, I been around these parts
a long time. A long time.
Longer than anyone who lives here would rightfully
remember. You see,
I forgot how to age.
I don't have a clue
about how to die.

I live
and live
and live and
keep on living.
Why, it's like one of these picture books
I found once by a Mr. Gayman.
A Ned or Neil.
He suspected of folk
such as myself, those who live and live.

But Skippy, we would die,
if we could.
If I could I would leave
this damned place.
Slit my wrists,
Just be done with the mess.
But it's powerful depressing
to not know how. Not be able to.
Just here.

(10/24/03, revised today)

Subway

2003-11-04T02:13:00.000-05:00

Tunnel under the streets
Of Philadelphia
Where the history of rock layers
Bleeds into the abstract.

The trolley car
With loads of
Thumbed-through romance novels
Makes mournful noises.
It eases through the layers
From origin
To destination.

(10/14/03, revised today)

'Tis Unnatural

2003-11-03T02:12:00.000-05:00

Great glass globes
That whistle like tickled panthers
Caught in someone's gullet
As the manor house
Erupts in flames.

The master shouldn't have
Looked at the mistress
In that way.
No, Lord.
That way lie the demons.
Waiting to snatch up Lilly
And her bevy of stuffed companions.

Run, run, run
To the moat, child!
Jump into its chilly embrace,
The only mother
We ever know.

(10/24/03, 10/29/03, revised today)

Hundreds of Times

2003-11-02T02:11:00.000-05:00

He has driven over the bridge
Hundreds of times,
Listened to the same radio shows
Saying subtly different things
Again and again.

Each trip across,
Another filmy layer
To the stack in his head,
A stack of thin plastic sheets
That nudge the ceiling.

He drinks the bottle of soda
In the same way
He has sucked it down his vulgar windpipe
For months now.
The bottles accumulate
In his garden at home,
A glass monolith
That chips and flakes.

That one sheet
That he threw away
The instant it was spat out --
That one sheet
Runs on the road
Behind his car, screaming:
"It dun' have ta be this way.
Let yerself gooooo!"

(10/12/03, revised today)

Chain Reaction

2003-11-01T02:11:00.000-05:00

There's a certain impeccable logic to it all.
You'll admit that,
The look, the sound, the tumbled reaction
In a second.
Some say it's filth, but I'd disagree,
Tell them off.

"Mr. Madison would like to see you now."
"Damnable woman."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"

No use.
It falls or it don't.
Our control?
negligible.
Our lives?
Tangential.

(10/12/03, 10/29/03, revised today)

Unadorned

2003-10-31T02:10:00.000-05:00

I listen to the instrumental track --
The keyboards pound,
Horns blare.
The voice wandered off.
It picks daisies by the drainage pond,
Following itself
To wherever it goes.

I could chase it,
Ensnare the voice with cunning devices and
Bolt it back on.
Yet the keyboards and horns
Have a majesty of their own
Too long covered.

(written today)

Tell Us Something

2003-10-30T02:10:00.000-05:00

Tell us something we haven’t heard before:
The one godhead, the death of ego,
The we don’t want no education brigades
Marching off to pre-purchased bourgeois anarchy,
Push pins purchased at the drugstore
Clothes ripped at JCPenney.

Of course the world is a façade.
Of course we are programmed how to think.
Of course the demon Qualoxeolroth rules the planet.
Of course we don’t care that everything is going to hell.
These things are the givens.

Rage against our cardboard box apartments all we want,
But they’re still paper and we’re still yelling,
Lungs blackened from the effort.
So many constructs to break free from --
But even the breaking free requires a context,
Right?

“I am he
As you are he
As you are me
And we are all together”

That’s about the size of it, Mr. Lennon
So take a bow for that summary.
You still got married and had kids, didn’t you?
Lived in a nice apartment, played records,
Watched the clouds outside your Dakota building window --
The autumn wrapping New York
Like wax paper around a sandwich.

(written today)

Give the People What They Want

2003-10-29T02:09:00.000-05:00

The number of visitors
Spiked two weeks ago.
I watched them flock in,
Stack their carts with valuables,
Toss mountains of moolah at the cashiers.

But the numbers now
Drop by some 40.
Many don't exist, the newspapers
Insist on telling me.
They live on in your head,
Nowhere else.

I steal a car from the parking lot,
Drive to the chemical plant outside of town.
The money flies into the air.
I release it all, I release you,
I release myself.

(written today)

Intelligence Service

2003-10-28T02:09:00.000-05:00

We know what kind of a man you are.
Don't try to hide yourself from us.
Our spies are everywhere.
They peek at you while you bake bread.
They follow you to the laundromat.
They have even bought you a drink.
We must know every scrap of information
We can dislodge about you.
We have interviewed those close to you.
We have grilled your grandmother.
We have admonished your aunt.
We have interrogated your instructors.

The information weaves together
Until we see you,
The real you,
The you
You try to hard.
We take that portrait
Showing each sordid detail
And slip it in a file folder
For later.

(written today)

Four

2003-10-27T02:08:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I was best at age 4.
Conscious, not yet drilled by school,
Aware but not comprehending much.
I would run downstairs
Before the family awoke,
Blast my record player.

I sat in my cartoon underwear,
Looked at the cream wallpaper,
Looked outside at the rain,
Uniting and dividing on the window.
All was well, and all would be well
Forever, then.

(written today)

Down Deep

2003-10-26T02:08:00.000-05:00

The blackness
Of the afternoon mood
Pounded me
Into a me-shaped hole
Deep beneath the earth
Where I thrashed the soil
Annoyed ants and earthworms
Muttered dark threats
About those who don't
Can't come through
When I need them
So desperately
-- But you are young and foolish
And your medicine has gone missing
You tell me, and you hit the nail in the board
For so I am and so my feelings are
And so the medicine has
Down so low
I can no longer
Think to rise
Again

(written today)

Poems about Poems

2003-10-25T02:07:00.000-04:00

Poems about poems
Nearly always suck.
Except that Pinsky one
That everyone knows, and even it
Has worn out a bit.

But I here I go again,
Writing another poem
About poems
With the only thought in my mind how little
Such poems mean to anyone.

These poems eat themselves,
In the manner of the circular snake,
Revolving until
Hypnotized writers and readers
Agree they see something
Of import.

(written today)

No More

2003-10-24T02:07:00.000-04:00

No more poems about that.
It means too much to be written about,
Carelessly tossed into print
And thrown outside the apartment
Into boiling streams
Of information.

The poems will stay
With me,
Beside me,
Inside my head.
They will remain
With those who stand beside me
As the hours press.

Let me tell you nothing,
Which means the world.

(written today)

another crazy book two

2003-10-23T02:06:00.000-04:00

the bulbous man
peers through the driver's-side window
scares me half to
death as i buckle my seat belt
eyes glazed wide open
head cocked to one side

he grew up from that ashen soil
waited at that spot
for years a plantling
under the florida sunlight
until he burst into fermented bloom
after midnight
he was hanging all out

and we both existed
you know
solely to meet at that time
him shaking
his fist at the little white car
at two scared boys
racing away

(written today)

Quaint Lines

2003-10-22T02:06:00.000-04:00

Dry scratchy poems
Without a hint of juice inside
Stretched thin and tight as a drumhead

Hit one
Hear that hollow sound
No blood no bone no guts
No bleeding gristle

Elegant resonance
That taps eardrums politely
With hat in hand

(written today)

End of Show

2003-10-21T02:04:00.000-04:00

Race to leave the stage.
Small vacuum opens where he was,
Snatch of "Rhapsody In Blue,"
The evening ends.

He hops into the private bus,
Eyes blank, facing forward.
Hours to go tonight.
Bumps and sirens and confusion.

Night irrigating wheat fields,
Black trickles of moisture on plaid.
He taps and hums and whistles,
Music hopeless to catch him.

(First stanza written 10/20/03 and revised today; stanzas two and three written today)

what noone mentions

2003-10-20T02:03:00.000-04:00

what noone mentions to you when you start is that it doesnt stop

at least not in the way it used to when you were in elementary school and you would sniffle and stay home for a day the bedclothes your temple for an eternity underneath reading the world

for the gates open the hats fly up the doves released the bulls run and there you go off to chicago to london to zanyville the boxes checked the years fill up the champagne corks dry

and that's the way it is you know the cookie crumbles the shits and giggles all running and heavens knows the stop well when you learn to stop again thats a real stop

(written today)

These Things

2003-10-19T02:02:00.000-04:00

His curves
His words
His warmth
His homemade blanket
Wrapped around me

His eyes
His touch
His laugh
His body
Folded into my own

These things I do not tell
To anyone,
For who wants to hear
Of joy
Or comfort
Or faith
In these evil times

(10/15/03, revised today)

Repeat

2003-10-18T02:02:00.000-04:00

This will all turn up again
in some anthology
or bundle of musty magazines
in Aunt Belinda’s basement.
We’ll look in surprise,
remembering how this
meant the world to us
for three weeks in February
the year we were 14, 15 and 18.
We’ll turn the pages,
giggle, light a joint
and let the smoke carry us back
to when this was the world
and nothing else
mattered.

(10/15/03, revised today)

the garter's curious adventures continue with a stopover in madagascar and madame pomfrey's exquisite shop

2003-10-17T02:01:00.000-04:00

the problem is not with
A lack of choices
(or it is so seldom the problem
we needn’t give it mind)
but instead with too many of them
a multiplicity of options that
paralyzes us into bemused
inaction.

we confuse
(and by saying we
of course i mean myself)
the careful consideration
of this buffet of choices
with the choosing itself
until the opportunity to make the
choice fades and the buffet
rots uneaten

(written today)

beauty beside

2003-10-16T02:00:00.000-04:00

he had such tired eyes
that sagged in their hope
across from me burning
self-immolation on the rocks

he drank and looked
and said words that
settled on my shoulders
repeated him for days

he pointed at the picture on the wall
of the famous dead drunk beautiful poet
he took my shoulders
his tired eyes smoldered

as the street outside faded away

(written today)

Street

2003-10-15T01:59:00.000-04:00

When the blinds
On the window
Open --

The world slams
Into your gut.

(10/14/03, revised today)

Opening Credits

2003-10-14T01:58:00.000-04:00

Watching the opening credits
Of a sitcom
As I write.
Faces, angular music, colors,
Too many clanging words.

Words flattened
By steamroller
Into thin strips,
Scraped up by the morning cleaners,
Tossed into the rubbish bin.

Malnourished children,
Caverns in their cheeks,
Pull them out
And feast
As they've never feasted before.

(10/12/03, revised today)

This Week

2003-10-13T01:58:00.000-04:00

(A cut-and-paste poem)

How low is too low for jeans?
Said the joker the thief.
Find dozens of adorable baby costumes

weatheredbeatenandsad

Where the roses grow.
Off-air, he was a lonely man
With a habit of beating the elderly

achingsobbingandwaiting

With an elderberry cane, topped with a brass fist.
Extreme obesity balloons in adults
Who float away

dancingtwirlingandforgetful

On the summer breeze
As Frank snaps and sings,
And celebs litter the enemy list.

(Written today. Thanks to msn.com and msnbc.com for some of the text assembled in this poem.)

In the Office

2003-10-12T01:57:00.000-04:00

How can you accuse me, Daniel,
Of saying these horrid, noxious
Things about the Pope?

Who in their bloody right mind
Would say such horrid, noxious
Things? Like the Pope is actually
Married to Elvis and living in Vermont?

Why, it's rubbish, Daniel,
And I shan't have you spreading it around
The office.

The workplace is not a place
To talk about Elvis and the Pope,
Certainly not living together as a married couple.
I don't mean to say bad
Things about the poofters,
But I'm sure the King of Rock and Roll
Ain't one.
Fairly sure.

The point is, Daniel,
We're all pros here. We love to laugh,
But sometimes it just crosses a line.

(written today)

Girl Talk

2003-10-11T01:57:00.000-04:00

The girls talk about marriage again,
Crazed intensity glazing their faces
As they tick through the list of things --
Gowns, food, locations, music, honeymoons --
That will make it the happiest day of their lives.

Not at all like the day they found their first job
Or met the man they're engaged to
Or left home for good
Or any of the other events
Stitched into their chronologies.

Because, I suppose,
God will be watching this day
From his hammock up in the sky
And he's a hard one to please, is God,
Without a $6,000 wedding dress.

(10/10/03, revised today)

the sleepy

2003-10-10T01:53:00.000-04:00

the sleepy hugs you up against
its ample bosoms
flower sackcloth housedress
and sez sweety don't leave
your mama sleepy cuz i'm here for you
oh yes i am sweety

its hair covered hand reaches
over your mouth
and you sink into musk scented dreams
as it says sweety
i didn't want to do that
but it's late and you're so tired

(written today)

Committee Meeting

2003-10-09T13:04:00.000-04:00

What isn't made clear
In all of these reports,
General,
Is the role you played
In the development and testing
Of the Tri-Kor project.

I have here a signed affidavit
From a Mr. Tom Peterman.
Are you familiar with that name
General?
I suspected as much.

Mr. Peterman alleges
That you and other top government officials,
Over a period of four years
Developed a "super soldier,"
Through genetic tests
On living subjects.

This "super soldier"
Did not perform
As you expected, did he,
General?
According to the affidavit,
He escaped from the holding tank
And ran off into the woods
Surrounding the testing facility.

Those in the nearby town
Of Juniper Falls
Reported seeing a man,
The size of a house,
Lurching through the streets
Late at night.

Taking this all into consideration,
General,
I don't see how this committee
Has any other option but --
What's that noise?
Henderson, tell them to quiet --

Oh my God!
What is that -- that --
Breaking through the wall
As though it was tissue paper!
General,
Duck!
Run!

(written today)

Urban Legend

2003-10-08T13:03:00.000-04:00

Lemmings don't
Rush off the sides of rocky cliffs
To kill themselves in mass numbers.
Some filmmakers from an entertainment company
Staged the whole affair
In the mid-1960s
And created an untruth.

They conjured up a little illness,
A bit of misrepresentation
That shivers into fact
After years spend wandering a quarter-mile
Outside our consciousness.

What do the Lemmings do instead?
Perhaps they have a whiskey and soda,
Put up their feet
And read the afternoon paper
(For the obituaries,
Of course.)

(written today)

The End Times in Bulgaria

2003-10-07T13:02:00.000-04:00

Such an old-fashioned name
He had, I say to Franz.

Franz nods
The bit of tinfoil atop his body
That he insists we all
Call a head.

Life in Bulgaria
During the end times
Grates on one's nerves.

Aunt Patty screamed down the hallway,
Body covered in red demon lizards.

It was then I knew Broadway
Was the only place for me.

(written today)

At the Drugstore

2003-10-06T13:00:00.000-04:00

The woman ringing up my purchases
At the drugstore a couple of blocks away,
Looks at the man behind me.
She says she knows him
From when they both worked at Mr. Swanson's place.

He wears an orange shirt
With embroidered tags
That says he works for an air conditioning installation company.
He hasn't shaved since Friday.

He nods
As she rattles about how old Mr. Swanson
Kicked the bucked last year,
And how young Mr. Swanson
Won't quit the drinking.
She quit two years ago, she tells me parenthetically,
And now she's working here
Just three miles away.

The man says yeah,
Yeah and yup.
He knows, he agrees.
It's great to see her again,
If he could just remember who she was.

She puts my soda,
Peanut butter cups,
And extra chunky Macadamia nut cookies
Into a plastic bag.

I drive back to the apartment,
Walk the Eskimo dog,
Play a video game that involves
Driving futuristic cars strikingly fast,
Kiss the boyfriend goodnight,
And sleep.

(9/4/03, revised today)

Mask

2003-10-05T12:59:00.000-04:00

The matte grey
Screen of a face
On which we project ourselves --
Drips off
The television display,
Splashes
On the tile.

Underneath the screen --
We're preoccupied with the
Underneath,
Aren't we?
The layers must exist,
We figure.
For surface without underneath
Is bland
Flatness.

Underneath that grey face, then --
Nothing.

(10/2/03, revised today)

Scattered Stanzas

2003-10-04T12:58:00.000-04:00

When the weariness arrives
It greets your blood
With hearty handshakes
And proffered business cards.

Fragments sticking up
From the earth,
Shards of ideas
glittering but cracked
Into the tiniest pieces
You can imagine.

When you cannot hold the word,
You must be held up.
For we cannot keep within ourselves
Every sustaining secret.

(10/2/03, revised today)

And All That

2003-10-03T12:57:00.000-04:00

"And all that,"
I told Roger as we rode
In his beat-up VW Bug
Down Venice Avenue,
"Is why I should be on the city council.
This town needs leadership
And I'm the one who should provide it."

He turned to me,
Which was unnerving
Given he was driving.
"Snap out of it man,"
He told me.
"Think of your friends,
Your family members.
They want you to remain
CEO of the Amalgamated Dowel Co.
You have a responsibility."

I had to admit,
Roger had a point.
As much as I wanted to lead,
Dowel rods hold my heart
In their splintery little hands.

(written today)

the everlasting awoke

2003-10-02T12:56:00.000-04:00

on mast to cut the foam
into he from mast
he to the ship's unwieldy rodham
she whipped a guitar serenade
mangled for the vocalized

another of the dog
his coat to the hotel he built
for feeeeeeeeeel slouched one
rain to another
the leash

"how do I know?"
he asked the downpour.
"no no told the pink, shiny covered dirt."
clitellum then bill
in acid this plain on her face.
be around and remember to floss

william clinton naked
draped the great ship
it through clinton's hair
"heavens!" exclaimed
and himself tumbled deck
and jumbled
hillary clinton up,
bedecked, though out acoustic
to her man

"crazy...crazy feelin'"
so she writhed was painful
but voice only --

she astonished an earthworm crazy
from rain man
brown door he lived with muffy
pete dexter

god
one and one
and with glinting Hillary.
she liquefied
dousing pained and washed

the we can see
the how my post
or see and curtains into strata
that at ambition
until

(9/17, 9/18/03, revised today)

Before the Cold

2003-10-01T12:54:00.000-04:00

No strangers these
Who stopped to ask my name.
One tarred, one feathered,
One useless as can be.

"words words words
words words words"

TEar IT aPArt
RIp It
inTo TiNY PIecEs

"words words words
words words words"

One scrawled remark
Is all that Mr. Boone requires --
But let the moulded volumes rest.
I think it best, don't you?

TeLL ThEm teLL theM
BurSt THEIr EarDRUms WiTH
clATTERing

(written today)

Walking the Dog

2003-09-30T12:53:00.000-04:00

The dog bounces
As though springs
Came from her paws.

Every noise, every scent, every person,
Every car, every plant, every puddle,
Every suggestion of an event she can't see
But just knows is happening close by --

Powers those springs.
Sends her into the air
Winding up above the roofs.

(written today)

take a chance

2003-09-29T12:52:00.000-04:00

throw a handful of pennies in the air
see how they roll and scatter on the ground

heads up heads down
all hands on deck
prescribe the coronation
for the doctor’s twisted daughter
a case of wasted nerves

a gift of wilted pansies
and a whispering door hinge

(written today)

cuddly brigade

2003-09-28T12:51:00.000-04:00

stuffed toys march and assemble
they know my number theyve known it
for longer than i guessed
they surround me pink fluffy walls
that pulse with stuffing life
stacked childhood prison cubes that chorus
taunts and jeers that cover me
a sticky gauze that wraps and traps me
to the floor here where i sit
covered alone

(9/16/03, revised today)

Schlub

2003-09-27T12:49:00.000-04:00

Schlub that I am,
I ignored the warning signs.
I played viola every night
For a major symphony orchestra
Conducted by some fellow with frizzy hair.

How did that happen?
First thing I knew,
I was practicing scales.
Then I learned some elementary pieces.
I suppose I had
What they call a knack.

But all I wanted was a Pepsi
And some Doritos,
For God's sake.

(9/16/03, revised today)

Walk and See

2003-09-26T12:49:00.000-04:00

Today I will watch it end,
Like the rush of life
From a picked flower
That leaves it wilted and stale.

Today we will understand
Its repercussions,
Hidden like afternoon smoke
Masked by a rain-sodden sky.

Today, you will watch it begin,
Like some snake
By the night water
Uncoiling and sliding in.

(written today)

Poem for Nighttime

2003-09-25T12:47:00.000-04:00

A few lines as the evening wraps itself
Around my shoulders and drapes
Down to my feet.

Keys splatter like raindrops
Of rubbery ink, words pooling
Together on the pavement.

Words stagger and carouse,
Drunk on themselves, gibbering
Streams and lakes and oceans of lines

Until I drown beneath their weight.

(written today)

estelle getty images

2003-09-24T12:47:00.000-04:00

i fuss through the pages obsessed
for the words keep coming keep coming they
overwhelm &
exhaust &
delight &
torment &
mean everything
except what one wants them to

the lost lines cant be caught & fly into
the telephone lines comingling with
calls &
letters &
instant messages &
ap news alerts &
all a bundle
of communication & fervor

(9/20, 9/22/03, revised today)

Sit Right Down

2003-09-23T12:46:00.000-04:00

Brew me up a pot of black coffee, Mildred.
I've got a story to tell you
And I have to stay awake for it.

Pour yourself a cup too. You'll need it.
Why, Mildred, this story will turn your hair white
By the time I'm done.

No one ever told me a story like this.
You can count on it. Why, the way it starts
And ends -- But I'm ahead of myself.

People say I do that, Mildred.
They say, Clancy, you always steam ahead
And leave us grasping for meaning.

No, it properly starts with the obvious.
I mean, the obvious is all around us,
So that's where everything starts,

For if something doesn't start, why then,
I think we'd both agree, Mildred,
It never happens at all.

(9/20, 9/21, 9/22/03, revised today)

Toast

2003-09-22T12:45:00.000-04:00

I've known him since he was a boy.
Just a pipsqueak.
He used to ask me, "Uncle Vernon,
Will I ever be as tall as you?"

I chuckled and kicked him.
Because children
Need teaching about bosses and employees.
Now, a gnat like he -- he was an underling.
That's right. While I,
The magisterial and all-round mature one
Was properly the supervisor.

It's all past now though.
Like the seas and sands and melted glass
That flow through the oasis and desert of life --
We are but brief spins on the merry-go-round
Rolling through space like a giant hula-hoop.

But what I meant to say, what I meant to cast out and reel in --
No. Wait. Please.

(9/20, 9/21/03, revised today)

Disgruntled Lexicographer

2003-09-21T12:45:00.000-04:00

Tell me again
Why this volume
Is so bleedin' important.
Just a letter
Like all the others.
Who needs it.
Who care about it.
Who will read
The damned thing
In years hence.

Not I. Oh not I.
I'll be sippin' a glass of beer
At Ernie's and remembering
When I signed away
Everything to you goons.

I'll stagger home addled
Sink into the sheets,
Smelling of dogs and cracker crumbs,
And dream of definitions
As far as we can know.

(9/20/03, revised today)

After Another

2003-09-20T13:42:00.000-04:00

The line that snakes around the side of the building
And down the block, past Mrs. Fitzgerald's house,
Moves like a drunken snake.

Anchors aweigh, my boys,
Comes the singsong chant.
We must make deadline at the post
Or Dr. Murray will have our hides.

The packets drop into the red box
So neatly, layering into strata
That show how time passes --

From the idea of the bewhiskered committee
To the consumptive who puffs with ambition,
Until it falls on the man it must fall on
Who gives decades to give at all.

(written today)

Swirls

2003-09-19T13:41:00.000-04:00

Swirls, curtains, waves,
Circles of dust on the driveway,
Iron curtains rolling up
Into an abbreviation.

We don't see these things
When they happen,
For we are the happening.
We bend the tin wheel
Around the popsicle stick spokes
Of the homemade bicycle
And push it
Down the hill
Toward the city.

(9/16/03, revised today)

The Most Meaningful Poem You Will Ever Read

2003-09-18T13:37:00.000-04:00

William Jefferson Clinton awoke naked,
Draped on the mast of a great clipper ship.
It cut through the waves,
Flinging foam
Into Clinton's chalk hair.

"Heavens!" he exclaimed,
And in doing so
Dislodged himself from the mast.
He tumbled to the ship's deck,
All unwieldy blubber.

Hillary Rodham Clinton strode up,
Bedecked like an ancient colossus.
She whipped out an acoustic guitar
To serenade her mangled man.

"Crazy...crazy for feelin'
So lone-leeee" she vocalized.
Bill writhed in agony.
Not only was the splintery deck painful
But Hillary's voice could only be described as --

When the enraged ghost of Patsy Cline
Faded into view.
She screamed at the evil
Done her song and metamorphosed
Before the astonished Bill and Hill
Into a wrathful earthworm --
All pink and shiny and covered with dirt.

Clitellum glinting in the morning spray
She devoured Hillary.
She then liquefied,
Dousing the pained Bill
In an acid wash.

The moral of this story, friends,
Is as plain as the nose on your face.
Be kind and gentle to those around you
And remember to floss.
Thank you.

(written today)

Another Crazy

2003-09-17T13:37:00.000-04:00

From the sheets of rain
A man stepped,
Holding the leash
Of an absent dog.

His brown coat closed
Like the door to his hotel room
Where he lived with Muffy,
Pete and Dexter.

Snakes. In cages.
He defied folk to find fault,
For he knew they whispered.
He could feeeeeeeeeel it.

He slouched from one
Rain cloud to
Another, gesticulating
With the empty leash.

"How was I to know?"
He bleats to the downpour.
"No one told me.
God. No one told me!"

(written today)

At the Comic Book Shop

2003-09-16T13:36:00.000-04:00

The way the Dynamic Duo
Pestered him
You would think they had never seen
A cartoonist before.

Zounds.

They wanted specifics
About drawing technique
About lighting
About placement of word balloons
About making the masculine physique ripple
In that lush
But not entirely homoerotic way.

Egad.

They drained the cartoonist.
Sweat glazed his face
As they rode away, chuckling,
In that garishly ornamental car
They insisted on driving.

(written 8/31/03, revised today)

Nurse Evans Tells All

2003-09-15T13:36:00.000-04:00

Dr. Howard collected tongue depressors
He found abandoned in his office.
They would turn up
In the oddest places --

Nurse Wilson's purse.
The men's lavatory.
Behind the sofas in the waiting room.
On the roof.

When one was found,
Dr. Howard would grab the depressor,
Run back to his office
And put the depressor in a box.
He wouldn't say a thing.

Each box
Was labeled.
Each label
Had blanks
For where the depressor was found
And its condition --
Mint, very good, good, or fair.

No one knew how many tongue depressors
Dr. Howard had collected
Until he disappeared
Three years ago.

Nurse Wilson and I
Went through his desk drawers
And found the key to a storage locker
On the south side of the city.
We drove there the next day,
Before work.

Inside, boxes
And boxes and boxes and boxes
And still boxes.
Each labeled,
Each with a single tongue depressor inside.
We couldn't count them,
But there must have been hundreds of thousands.
All labeled.
All stacked.
All immaculately clean.

Dr. Howard never came back.
No one ever found him.
We never received a note,
Or flowers, or a box of chocolates.
I wonder why he kept them all --

And who hid them
All around the office.

(written 9/4/03, revised today)

Aunt Marie's Garter and Its Curious Adventures in the Congo

2003-09-14T13:35:00.000-04:00

The things we're most interested in having
Are impossible to give or see
Or measure.
We want to be loved.
We want to know we matter.
We want to know that we're not
(Contrary to all available evidence)
A speck in a gargantuan mechanism.

But who is the giver?
Who has even the power
To give these indefinables?
Perhaps the power rests with us
In recognizing when the gift
Has fallen into our laps
And who dropped it.

(written today)

On the Road

2003-09-13T13:35:00.000-04:00

On the radio,
It thumps.
It shimmies.
It gives a good going over
To the air
Shivering near the speakers.

The words stumble together,
One into the other
A long crazy train of clauses
That track across the country
And sear tattoos into its flesh.

What's the news?
What's the street say?
How about relaying the information
Like a telegraph,
Ons and offs
Repeat.

The context isn't mine to enter
In the car as I drive
Listening to the stations repeat
As I cycle through them
With impatient jabbing index finger.

(written today)

Commencement Address

2003-09-12T13:34:00.000-04:00

My suit is at the dry cleaner's.
My other clothes were stolen
By a pack of wild monkeys
Bound for Eurasia.
My track suit was loaned to Bill Clinton
In 1994,
And I have never seen it since.
Any underthings I own
Are locked in my car,
Along with my keys
And perishable vegetables.
Anyway.
I stand here before you thus,
Naked as a jaybird,
Unconcerned with your judgments,
Confusion roiling my brain.
Take what you will from me
As you fade from my sight.

(written 9/6/03, revised today)