8/19 - 8/31 / jeff tweedy's beard #2 / twice ezra pounded / twentyfour / cheating at poetry / thanksgiving (after woody guthrie) / to sing songs / jeff tweedy's beard #1 / then like that now like this / the orange grove / indian summer / sea / a leaf or
{8/19}
Goodbye.
Foothill layers lit up on the Coast Range,
fields shining gold and orange
the cool smells of California
coming in with the breeze -
manure, hay, salt,
sugary pine, fog, bridges.
{8/20}
Pool against an old hoarse tenor who
won only because I scratched on the 8.
{8/21}
Swim, moonlight.
{8/22}
Goodbye.
{8/23}
One cloud grabs the ridge of the Sierras and hoists itself over.
{8/24}
Cold cold water, the hum of mountains,
in the valley under those stars I haven't seen in so long.
{8/25}
Sleep on the flat cold rocks out in the river.
Goodbye.
{8/26}
The wind blows across the canyon right through me, the moon is up--
I wake later in the night and the moon is down.
The rest of the stars come out.
Alone in my sleeping bag, alone like I've never been before,
but happy, so happy as the dusty down-filled center of the universe.
Goodbye.
{8/31}
Maps and geography, loneliness,
togetherness over distance,
philosophies, quantum physics, postcards.
Everything comes in even ebbs.
Goodbye.
You
scratch my shins
like a kitten drunk
on peppermint
Quiltstrangled
by a black-belt master,
each breath is ever-sweeter
once you let go
We
no longer have the energy to be courageous
Let's melt our library cards
This
is one half of a couplet
Rosy red from the light reflecting off the snow
Twenty
three slides by,
speedskating on those sharp
double 'e's,
We
shout "ENJOY!" in the snow
so loud the pilots can hear it--
the
dogs chase us into magic hour,
sun setting there, moon rising over there
the backyard of the world starts
in Stillwater.
Whistle
"World Falls" down Main,
the ice and the cold have won over
at least one Californian,
giddy and big-smiled.
This quilt patch will always be mine
Elliott and I miss the rain down in Africa
The hot air balloons, anche noi, anche noi
Twenty
four settles in
with a firm 'f' like a
bearded old lumberjack.
Sometimes,
things happen which
are so beautiful,
so poetic,
that I feel like I'm
cheating when I write
them down and claim
them as mine;
like reading a book
about gods and tigers
while a fire made of
old piano parts
keeps me warm.
Too easy.
Thanksgiving (after Woody Guthrie)
The amount we owe is all that we have.
We
owe so many people in our lives--
those who send us postcards from the road
those who have pictures of us up on their walls
those who arrive early and stay late
those who have given advice
those who we quote incessantly
those who have been woken up late at night
by the phone and a voice in need
those who call with nothing and everything to say
those who sing songs and spout truths
those who fight back against a world of liars
those who pull the blanket up over our sleeping shoulders
those who have waited for us
those who joke and laugh
those who hold our hands and faces dearly
those who have nudged and pushed us forward
those who keep us safe
those who we see every day
and those we see only infrequently
those who give us hope
those who give us love unconditionally
those
who give and give and give and give
and take nothing in return.
And
what do we owe them?
How do we pay them back?
We owe them the simplest
form of payment
in the world:
thanks.
Because
giving thanks is giving love.
And we define ourselves by the people
we love, the people we thank,
the people we owe.
This
poem is a poem of debt,
a poem of payment.
I'm just here to sing a song.
My accompaniment;
the organ wallow, the willow cello,
the tossed beer bottles midair----
the paper between strings and neck,
the stolen setlist,
the familiar alleyways,
the spotlight, oh, the
marching snare, the ghost of Sam Philips,
a host of heroes named Johnny,
the marching ghosts of a country past?
I'm just here to sing a song.
let me hijack this string for
one simple melody, please,
I'm just here to sing a song,
I'm just here to sing a song,
these songs right here.
no,
i am. no, i am:
a string of cordite singing through the wall,
beating on the ceiling,
singing, “remember the spanish who
remember the dutch, who
remember that
it's a simple irish sentiment;”
a sweet smelling explosion,
a bitter settling,
charcoal, steel,
pedals and petals,
a st. louis apartment fire,
it's a simple irish sentiment.
Mouthfulling
from a bottle of
lambic framboise
beneath the bed, swaddled in mattress pad,
in your father's holey sweater
shrunk too small, like a ghost
shrinkwrapped around your chest and arms.
She stands back up,
brushing the grass
from the knees of
her jeans, leaving behind green imprints of failure bundled with lost lust,
she pushes her chest out proudly, and
pulls back her hair (one wild
and rampantly symbolic wisp clings
to the small space
between her eye and
nose), wraps it together with elastic and
a newspaper bow,
and walks
proudly off the set.
You two were great once, that's what they say,
and now you make for each other like jury duties,
like subatomic particles,
like needless stanza breaks.
A
Spaniard with his mandolin, cariño,
is a gentleman at dawn,
linguist at dark,
Henry James with his letters,
a complete spirit;
a Spaniard with his mandolin, cariño,
is a high flight,
and a beautiful birdlike descent.
Bending
in a field
of green
light-filled trees
hands on her
grass-stained
knees
shirt hiked up
just enough
to show her hips
and the beautiful
small of her back
she almost fades away
as the sun
fails
The sea in the east and the sky in the west.
Two turning bright lights, and the fog rolls in.
I
could tell you about a leaf,
or a friend sitting next to you,
sipping coffee and laughing.
or sunshine and the clouds,
or the strange beauty of mountains and adobe hills—
or the politics of hiding in the grass.
angelic voices swimming in from iceland,
or the feel of rough paper—
or jeff singing with a curled elvis lip.
the third sip of tea,
lingering ten seconds longer.
dancing like you invented the word,
or singing carelessly at the top of your lungs—
or collecting the words of famous friends.
a couplet written nicely,
sleeping in the afternoon.
and with all, you will
always have the same feeling.
for LB
