Boys Made Of Boy. Boys Made Of Sand

Two poems that have taken me to another place altogether:

The laughing gull that flew behind the fencepost

and never came out was the beginning

and then a hand smaller than my hand covered Wisconsin

with a gesture for explanation.

in the afternoon there are pauses between the words

through which commas can grow like daisy fleabane.

A fish with an osprey in its back emerges from the Sound

and nothing can be learned by more analysis.

The book of her hair opens to its binding and I leaf through

the glorious pages of appreciation and that’s not all.

We could not have turned fast enough to catch

light and leftovers from so much of what happened:

the swift figures behind you like a planet’s dark

companion, ships entering and leaving the hall closet

the real and imagined between which is no difference.

-The Totality of Facts

And every part of me is saying Yes.

Long Distance

Astronauts say their dreams are like earth dreams

but the people are floating.

Last night when Frances answered her dream phone

I was down under the pastry layers

of sheet and blue throw. Later she asked did I hear it.

No, I had been orbiting myself,

misreading a box in Carol’s kitchen “cloudless” for cordless.

At night when stars fall on Alabama

water goes granular and steps back, dreams improve us

with their thick pastels, revisits in tints.

Maybe the astronauts called from their cloudless telephones

with new from Long Distance:

Romans invaded Arabia Felix, Columbus discovered Ohio.

Nothing is a difficult subject.
But it’s what I’ve been assigned. Prof. X
likens it to writing about childhood
(absence of nothing)
or the effusion of blue soot
from the hood of the car
that first trip out your body’s limits (sensing
the nothing). She says 17-21 is optimal
for that special feeling.

For his next trick he will ascribe wonderful emotions
to the bottom of this bottle—worm fat off
liquored annoyance. Drink a big dream.
Ask little to nothing of yourself says
Amygdala to the tiny flame inside
my stomach-engine, where God hid
the bullets. Always room for growth
in the wheezing exit-wounds.
What that special feeling was
she never explained.
Imagine it has something to do
with making gorgeous success heaps
of a failed life’s refuse. Angel
replicas from shredded Budweisers.
What about my anecdote about
the woodpecker nesting in our chimney
for six years I ask. Metaphor,
I explain, failed city states.
Surely as he chips away at the years
of soot he’s getting closer
to it than I am.

Normally I’m not very taken by lofty descriptions of dreams in novels, which are just as arcane and filled with babble as they are in real life. In general, I believe that authors should stick the Golden Rule with respect to dreams—don’t tell them, because they are boring as hell. In real life, nobody cares about your dreams, and nobody wants to suffer through five minutes of your inarticulate attempt at explaining them—unless of course, that person is your therapist, and you’ve been financing their condo in San Jose for the past 10 years. That being said, I recently stumbled upon an exception to that rule in John Banville’s The Sea. The Sea tells the story of Morden, a declining man, who after the death of his wife Anna returns to a summer house named the Cedars, one of his old childhood haunts, where he tries to relive his past. Banville, in his beautiful and lofty prose, captures Morden’s grandiose ramblings and vulgar child-like complaints in the same sentence, creating a character whom the reader would love to hate, but can’t. On page 52, at the end of one of Morden’s asides, he describes a short dream, in succinct, profound prose:

“Speaking of typewriters—I did, I mentioned a typewriter a minute ago—last night in a dream, it has just come back to me, I was trying to write my will on a machine that was lacking the word I. The letter I, that is, small and large.”

Yes. That is poetry. I wish Banville wrote the dreams of my friends.

Thought bone run rigid
inkwell dried of its whale blood
the earth before its decision.

There I was
am
standing before
storm of a better tomorrow

promenading dans les bois
like I think I should
like Rousseau or Thoreau would.

Or as my grandmother would,
whose head’s a tumor
of ancient cedars
bark smooth as vellum,
paths below unforked,
untouched by men lost in thought.

I put my hand to the man I’d like to be
his soft ribs, holy shoulders
where wings should have sprung
but never did.

My hand through his holes
and beyond, to the sticky place
where promise coats the air
I vanish.

A million lost chances
like rain falling on a body of water
soft staccato taps, the flash of
a million stadium bulbs before the big game.

But there are no lost chances.
And no regrets after I build
this regret machine,
out of the echo of a voice,
a sparrow’s burnt beak,
three steel hearts.

Emma Pine, beloved grandmother,
I know you’d love to see it.

But can’t. You’re out for a walk.
You stare at the sound of the rain on the lake.
On the water dance all the faces
you’d never come to know,
but whom you’d gladly show
the way out of the forest.

4/30/12

I spend most mornings reading my reflection.
Mirror’s cracked, bountiful spider legs splash across my face.

Don’t know what word I’m looking for.
Crossword canted at its wings dissolves into the porcelain lake.

Words hang, dulled fireworks over the bay’s misunderstanding.

Why do we love four letter words.
Quadrupeds personified, bullwhips with so much weight.

I hate what I love.
Love what I hate.

Fate has drowned us.
We revel in the creation.

Go back to bed boys and girls.
Let the mirror sing before you wake.

Everyday the rush to class
filled by downed blacker than black
coffee; two cigarettes—four cigarettes
ash glittering post-apocalyptic in the wake.

Sun darts between heavy clouds
folds itself into two distinct rays
blinds me, I drive faster
joy found, a shortcut through the mall

my drug of choice. Past dozens of minivans
bain of our existence, bain of their existence
the early workers who prepare their nest
to lay down with the swarm.

Speeding 60 through the parking lot
peeking past each row
mindful of the accident I seek
chance of error—the freedom pill.

Accelerating, braking towards one’s end
finessing gears, tricking them and
everyone else into this is my life.
Let me live it.

4/24/12

you forgot me at the thicket—junction of: was and to be
what future does our memory have

the trunks of cedar pander to worn eyes, the grease in your marrow
the breath never taken

the archer’s hand frozen at his quiver of laughter—reveal yourself pretender,
come face me pretender

taker of all sacred, make worship of these bagged and broken eyes
teach forgiveness to the living

bless the story left untold because its teller was caught in its rib
pretender come face me

face the hands adjoined with light and holy scraps
take what is not yours nor will ever be

but consider those cold nights spent
watching supped up Fords chase themselves at the Speedway

consider how we’ve always tried to outpace fear
always coming back upon it, consider

the circular track that doubles in our jowls,
the recursive stars that can’t escape their own light

consider the race cars and helicopters produced of old Bud cans
that hanged in Grandfather’s den

consider his usage of davenport and bureau and remember how
those words crossed cultures and decades

how he left some words in Korea, “brotherly” “compassion” “sanity”
how he lost a whole dialect, the memory of cornfields

burning in his eyes, how he lost her, bright spot of his life,
how he lost us, how we grew into stalks of never there

too hip and busy for him, how he lost his daughter and how his son
never returned his calls

consider me pretender, forever chasing myself on the track,
catch up to me, as I know you will,
I’ll watch for you in the rearview, as he spins out across the warm concrete,
finishing last.

4/27/12

reading while walking
off-center in the high nodding sun,
I came upon you.

secretive in your orchard of scattered papers,
books by obscure authors, moody self-disclosures.

after small talk but before you revealed your inner-workings
you showed me the watch he gave you.

an Omega Seamaster capable of traveling miles
below the Pacific, of holding rhythm far into the unbearable silence.

every word is unendurable, every memory designed to ruin itself.
yet the watch dives deeper, demystifying leaps of coral,
making finite the trembling schools of tuna,
putting an end order to immortality.

how old was he when he passed?
I asked but you did not hear.
you held your ear to the watch and hummed its song.
I could not make out the words he spoke to you.

4/27/12

What a strange concept, death.
especially to the undead,
to the lilly waiting for the hum of an insect
that never comes.
While we’re on the subject,
stay, clear your hands of ash,
forget failed creations.
Children, would-be pilots,
wouldn’t be winners,
the boys with hands of lace
who wither in the ocean’s wind,
chasing some far-off kite,
the impossible dream of completion.
We are never done.
Everyday the kettle boils over on the stove
and we’re here still,
anxiously awaiting our own arrival,
yet it never comes—that cherubic moment
forever postponed by rain,
missed calls, mother’s dying
and her own son forgot to call,
studying his teeth in the skin of youth,
boy caught in his own rain
his angelfire and quicksilver tongue,
we’re drifting far off into the sea
our captain drunk, hellbent
he says he knows where to find shore,
yet the maps are of another world,
they don’t even contain oceans,
only faded words, the first sentence of the story.

it’s a truism to say that one learns from one’s mistakes, and yet, it’s the only way I’ve ever learned. My first quarter at college, I was a mess. I hadn’t been in an academic setting for at least a year. In French class I’d freeze up when the professor called on me. Madame George, with her penetrating Parisian stare, seemed to be looking straight through me, to the other side, laying in wait for a mistake. And mistakes were made—all of the time. I’d mix up verbs, say things like “je vais de Seattle” when I meant “je viens de Seattle”, and would return to a sort of proto-pronunciation, reminiscent of grade school, when I was hardly able to pronounce my first language. Every day, upon returning home defeated, I’d replay those embarrassing scenes, stinging in shame. With perfect lucidity I’d obsess over my errors, grimacing at each fowl recall. Nearly the whole quarter passed like that, a vicious cycle of self-hatred caused by the same sorts of mistakes that everyone in my French class was making. While the mistakes were common, I can say with near certainty that I was the only one going home and obsessing over them; the others, as far as I could tell, slept it off and started each day anew, ready to embrace their linguistic gaffes.Then, one day, I went to class, a million pounds lighter. I didn’t need to take myself so seriously, I thought. This is what happens when you learn, you make mistakes. That day, whatever day it was, I was suddenly unable to shut-up. I’d chime in during lecture, my pronunciation still horrible, but with a new confidence in my voice. Everyone noticed. I no longer feared speaking, and I no longer felt shame when I’d mispronounce a word or mix up verbs, the two things that I continue to do to this day. I’d go home and continue to practice, and I got better. It seemed that more than anything else, ego and pride were the true blocks to my growth, not a lack of intelligence or incompetence in language acquisition. Knowing this was the secret. I soon applied this to every subject I took, I’d shout out wrong answers in English or Philosophy, get corrected by the prof, and move on. I got the best grades of my life. Sometimes, in French, my prof would literally laugh at me, but in an endearing way, a way that signaled that she knew I could handle it. More than any other instinct, pride and ego are our tyrannical rulers. They keep us from growing. They keep us from raising our hands. They keep us from pursuing partners. They keep us in the shadows ourselves, in the recesses of our self-critical minds, the worst places to be. Once we realize that they are not assets but blocks to our growth, we should immediately drop them, and make some mistakes.

Upon Returning Home

winding down Flynn st.
cedars give way to the stars,
drunk, pennies scattered,
long forgotten by their owner
tarnished copper strewn through night.

car is enveloped
in a glassy wool
millions of frogs sound-off
in unison, a sound so large
it drowns out the radio.

wrapped in a thick coat of song
all else falls by the way side
they punctuate seamlessly
those water violins hidden
underneath decaying logs,
louder than thought
louder than God
at the door of a dream,
player pianos mud deep, inshore,
million-eyed the pizzicato
drifts through your open window.

surely the conductors approve of their work.
leaning against the splintered,
cool wood at the pier,

adjusting their bow-ties,
pulling stars taut
rosining the chords
of pitch perfect currents.

what an ample theatre
your car, the place
that never has time,
with its wrappers
dust upon dust on the dash,
what a perfect time
to be unable to hear yourself think
and to be without a word.

Jumping into Puget That Cold October When We Were 16.

what’s to lose.
i’ll take the challenge I take it.
shoot into water
i’ll split
two parts, a crystal
half this broken head
half diamond you never wore
because, allergic.
your skin when wolves were out.
beading and bumping into.
naked in the water
lake split open look the ocean’s mouth
eel grass as combed as teeth
those ships whose stories we stole.

down by the shore
where mother waded in
moon’s sodium light
father stood straight as prayer
who was listening
when you weren’t home?
his footsteps were heavy
he had come from somewhere far underwater
lugged his drunk bones upstairs
sat and laid in his salt
drying until Sunday.

I took the cliff that day
as I would take any day
with respect for fear
and knowing of how to ring salt
from one’s clothes.

silk worm chews and weaves.
chews and weaves white strands.
into the limp body.
illuminated the mulberry leaves cry.
popes augur silk.
check patterns double check them.
everywhere looking for a strand,
goodness.
a christened face barbed in white.

empress dowager takes her tea.
brews her poison.
mulberry spreads through our forbidden city.
I was a silk worm.
on her hand.
as she moved from one web to the next.

a thick loneliness settles upon the town.
talks its way into palm lines
sidewalk grooves.
she has woven silence
into the faces of truckers
the very face of night itself.

drops of sweat
bead on the leaf.
past where I came running.
running from what?
the seamstress ties
my body into knots.
suddenly folded
I’m put back into the dresser.

“From my hands—take this city not made by hands,
my strange, my beautiful brother.

Take it, church by church—all forty times forty churches,
and flying up the roofs, the small pigeons;

And Spassky Gates—and gates, and gates—
where the Orthodox take off their hats;

And the Chapel of Stars—refuge chapel—
where the floor is—polished by tears;

Take the circle of the five cathedrals,
my coal, my soul; the domes wash us in their darkgold,

And on your shoulders, from the red clouds,
the Mother of God will drop her own thin coat,

And you will rise, happened of wonderpowers
—never ashamed you loved me.”

From “Poems for Moscow.” Translated from the Russian by Ilya Kaminsky and Jean Valentine.

4/8/10

In another world this all worked out.
World south of this one, with 2 moons that howl at wolves.
I graduated on time, never fell into myself. So hard.
Music has a physics, a calculus, citizens judge time
according to offbeats, Mozart lived to be 230
to compose a requiem for guitar and glitter pop.

In that world (now I mean the one below this one,
shimmering like Texan mud after a storm)
rivers run backwards everything enamored
of its creation. I go back into mother
lay beady eyed and ready
for birth. Here gravity
flits us up, we bore into the heavens
and space junk. We cannot,
try as we may, be down to earth.

This world I loved but it was not earthly.
This world above, around, inside our blood cells,
inside the yolk of dirt, I love,
but here we love ourselves more
and a kiss is more a communion
with what’s unsaid than an expression of pain.

There I have a partner and there
I keep two pink tarantulas who
sphinx riddle and cast jokes at the damned.
There the absence of politicians
and the burning of bills demands
annual ritual.

Between papers of manuscript,
in a chest drawer of John D.
of Boston, Mass, there is yet
another world.
What characters we are.
There my grandfather hasn’t the time
for cancer. There I never once had the chance
to break your heart. There I longed
the song of longing and it was good.
There everything is almost the same,
except for the immutable details,
the clock a second off,
your mother’s hair a gradation softer,
there I sit and dream of other worlds,
even this world
where nothing worked out.