tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180849462024-03-08T02:52:36.113-05:00Hello Mountains, Goodbye MountainsAndrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-54394692523683868562010-03-24T13:41:00.003-04:002010-03-24T13:43:05.377-04:00AdiosSo I'm shutting the faucet here, figuratively, though the tap dried up a while back. These are the poems of a time that I'm not in any more, so this blog is more like a museum of a happier, sappier time than anything else. Whatever new poems i might write are over at <a href="http://certainlymountains.blogspot.com/">http://certainlymountains.blogspot.com/</a> so check it out if you so desire<br /><br /><br />later onAndrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-51076690161082395522009-10-06T23:52:00.001-04:002009-10-06T23:55:08.974-04:00what is the moon, really?<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><div class="im" style="color: rgb(80, 0, 80); "><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">what is the moon?</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">no one really knows,</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">but I have some ideas.</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p> </p></div><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">maybe it's a felt circle</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">stuck to a woolen blanket</span></p><div class="im" style="color: rgb(80, 0, 80); "><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">or a breath of light</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">the night sky takes</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">swelling with whiteness,</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">and then exhaled.</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">it is the night’s drain</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">the starlight circles.</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">the accretion of the glow</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">given off like pollen</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">from each humming streetlight.</span></span></p><p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">maybe it’s an eye-hole</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">cut in the fabric of the night.</span></span></p><p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">it could be a pearl, I suppose</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">flawed and dusty.</span></span></p><p> </p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">what is the moon?</span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">no one really knows.</span></span></p></div></span>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-82549713095792516742009-07-24T10:53:00.002-04:002009-07-24T10:54:06.329-04:00everythingeverything is not you, recently I’ve noticed<br />because like the dog I raise my head to look<br />whenever something might be you.<br /><br />I look for you mostly in lists these days<br />lists of names, lists of numbers<br />messages left, missed calls, letters received<br /><br />my friend Emily told me this is what she believes<br />that a dog will miss you all the time that you are gone<br />but when you are back, he’ll forget you ever were<br /><br />I could learn to think like that, is what I think<br />it actually makes a lot of sense to me, the forgetting<br />when you’re around, that everything is not you.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-48426973611512935812009-07-16T00:32:00.002-04:002009-07-16T00:35:27.137-04:00two cans and a stringI have been living here now<br />for about one year<br />where there are mountains<br />and rivers<br />(without end)<br />and now everything is green,<br />like it was when I arrived -<br />though I feel sometimes<br />I am only just now<br />really arriving<br /><br />once, then<br />everything was orange (yellow)<br />and people came up<br />in buses<br />from the city you lived in<br /><br />soon though that ended<br />and the trees, bare<br />were revealed as wood<br />hard and grey<br /><br />wind poured through<br />and cold, it was<br />sweaters on,<br />hat on<br /><br />this winter<br />was like no other<br />the diagrams of weather,<br />air thin, but not like before<br />not full of wires<br /><br />combinations of snow,<br />white/grey possibilities<br />those<br />were the mathematics of winter<br />unlike any other winter<br />any other place<br /><br />window panes<br />woven in frost<br /><br />the trees were glass<br />sunlight fastened<br />to their limbs and branches<br /><br />but , slowly though<br />it vanished<br /><br />by then<br />you were further away<br />and I wrote poems<br />about distance<br /><br />they were two cans<br />and a string<br /><br />and came the mud<br />wet black wood<br /><br />some curious softness <br />a down, like pasture<br />green and brown<br />more colors than one<br /><br />everything loosened<br />and I sat by a river<br />as it tumbled over rocks<br /><br />I have been living here now<br />about one year<br />going into the forest, into <br />stores and houses,<br />riding rarely in cars<br />and kneeling in my garden<br />to pick radishes<br /><br />now it’s almost<br />goodbye mountains,<br />hello not mountains<br /><br />but it’s also<br />goodbye distance,<br />hello you.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-39911250017711196572009-07-15T00:18:00.000-04:002009-07-15T00:19:07.418-04:00Luckywalking to the bar<br />I found a penny<br />on the sidewalk<br />heads up,<br />shining <br /><br />I put it in my pocket<br />and wondered if it meant<br />I’d talk to you tonightAndrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-30336620720314119082009-04-08T11:58:00.004-04:002009-04-09T00:00:48.008-04:00untitledon a good day<div>when I get home from work</div><div>the sun has not set all the way</div><div>and light still comes in</div><div><br /></div><div>there is some bread</div><div>in the silver breadbox</div><div>some homemade jam</div><div>and water in the kettle</div><div><br /></div><div>the heat is working well</div><div>i can take off my wool socks</div><div>put on an old record</div><div>slow dance to my desk</div><div><br /></div><div>on a good day</div><div>you might be in any</div><div>number of places</div><div>in the mood to talk</div><div><br /></div><div>if not, I can still smile</div><div>I understand that too</div><div>so I find the words</div><div>you leave behind</div><div><br /></div><div>I read them slowly</div><div>with tea and toast</div><div>listening to an old record</div><div>as the light dims</div><div><br /></div><div>it's slow dance enough,</div><div>for a night like this</div>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-8094263767777178902009-04-01T16:25:00.002-04:002009-04-07T13:59:40.086-04:00untitledthere is something more, here - <div>more than the other half of the bed,</div><div>than the space next to me on the sofa</div><div>at the party I feel uncomfortable at,</div><div>bigger than the frying pan</div><div>being used to make only</div><div>one portion of pancakes</div><div><br /></div><div>the second space in the toothbrush holder,</div><div>room on the bench by the river,</div><div>just instances,</div><div>of something</div><div>more.</div><div><br /></div><div>heavier than the pile of records</div><div>bought with you in mind,</div><div>taller than the shelves</div><div>to hold all our poetry.</div><div><br /></div><div>there is something more, here - </div><div>and for now, I sit with it</div><div>like these mountains</div><div>waiting out the weather</div><div><br /></div><div>dreaming during the day,</div><div>because I never do at night</div>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-21374478562712124782009-01-19T23:56:00.004-05:002009-01-20T13:13:54.410-05:00This is My Plan to Help You Deal With Your Worrying Naturestep one<br />I will arrive presently,<br />with my robin egg suitcase<br />the lavender interior filled<br />basic necessities,<br />sweaters and flannels.<br /><br />You will probably<br />have to collect me<br />at the bus station.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"></span>step two<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"></span>I will put my suitcase in your trunk<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"></span>and completely surround you<br />with my arms<br /><br />totally surrounded,<br />we will go back<br />to your house.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"></span>There is no step three.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-41719807944377305982008-12-17T23:19:00.000-05:002008-12-17T23:20:00.949-05:00This Is a Poem I Wrote, If You Wanted To Know What Was New With Me.let me explain<br />what I mean when I say<br />that I feel these days like I have found my voice,<br />or a voice that could be<br />mine, for now.<br /><br />the way in which these things are said<br />gives me great comfort<br />a feeling of well-being<br />because something is wrong<br />inside my brain<br />that causes me to feel this way.<br /><br />I have images still,<br />and know about the crumpled flyer<br />for the happy hour special<br />with the chewing gun wadded inside its folds<br />resting between two rails<br />on the gutter <br />grate<br />in the lamp-light that hums <br />loud enough to hear from one block away<br /><br />it is impossible<br />that I have forgotten<br />the sound of the water as it moves under the rocks<br />and over the rocks<br />past low hanging trees<br />bowing down to dip their branches in<br />and cool their trunks<br /><br />all of this remains,<br />but it is like<br />a tightly wound box now<br />and it is harder to find space<br />for such large piecesAndrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-7287035297373066622008-12-16T14:20:00.002-05:002008-12-16T14:22:14.793-05:00From the Weapons Department of My HeartI am writing a completely new poem now<br />and it is unlike any that you have read<br />for a number of reasons including<br />but not limited to the fact that<br />upon reading this poem you have fallen<br />hopelessly in love with me.<br /><br />Apparently it was all a question<br />of intention, the force of willpower<br />and my poem is stretched like a skin<br />across the drum-head, and you<br />getting close enough to read it<br />are surprised when I burst through.<br /><br />Having taken up in both hands now<br />every sweet thing I would have told you<br />since the moment that we met,<br />I have loaded this poem like a cannon,<br />and surely when the fuse reaches the<br />emotions it will explode outwards<br />and leave a hole in your chest,<br />with the light shining through<br />where your heart used to be.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-30836338472554342512008-12-16T14:15:00.001-05:002008-12-16T14:15:53.730-05:00A Relatively Short Poem About a Long Distancewhat is this new softness, as fingertips search<br />for the seam between then and here.<br /><br />Dense and wooded, the distance between us, farther than<br />the most distant mountain I can see from my rooftop.<br /><br />I cannot imagine how we have arrived here, me<br />who can imagine anything, and you, of whom I’ve dreamed.<br /><br />Can you hope for an opening of the earth, like a sinkhole<br />that closes itself, bringing your house next to mine?<br /><br />Then of course we would be neighbors, and you would be<br />the girl next door, and I? Silly boy, frozen in my yard.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-39453537213432414532008-11-05T21:18:00.000-05:002008-11-05T21:19:08.108-05:00Romantical PastoralMy deep concern for you is like a river<br />and my continuing admiration is like a canoe<br />on that river.<br />In that canoe are two men, and <br />they are my fears about success.<br />Each of these men has a new pack of cigarettes, <br />they are forty of my character flaws.<br />On the banks of the river are many<br />Low hanging trees, which are weighted with my doubts.<br />In one of these trees is a small bird<br />Representing our hopes for the future.<br />The worm in the stomach of this bird<br />Is your sordid past.<br />There are seven rocks in a pile<br />By an upturned stump<br />A few feet from the tree with the bird<br />And this arrangement of objects<br />Has all the qualities of my ability<br />To make strangers feel at ease.<br />Less than a mile from the river is a cabin<br />That stands in for financial security.<br />There is the sound of banjo music coming<br />From an unspecified place between the cabin<br />And the riverbank and it represents<br />Your preferences in bed.<br />Beneath the water there is a variety of aquatic life<br />Known also as possibility.<br />These are just a few of the ways<br />In which my deep concern for you<br />Is like a river.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-54791330872845839592008-10-21T14:56:00.001-04:002008-10-21T14:56:55.630-04:00Yellow.Somewhere in America, this afternoon<br />there is someone who believes<br />in the pure wonder of possibility,<br />seeing the yellow leaves around white trees<br />through the fogged window.<br /><br />There is something on the mountains<br />either fog or smoke, between us<br />you who believes and I<br />who knows.<br /><br />Recently I have fallen in love with demolition,<br />the smoke rises from the earth and separates.<br />It has proven everything to me<br />about forgetting, and how we can.<br /><br />Every length of time that is possible,<br />less then the time I have been alive –<br />I have lived them all.<br /><br />At twenty-two years old,<br />in between my day job and<br />the parts I save for you, and you, and you<br />I am a person and a poet<br />always knowing how to say words<br />when I am quiet,<br />what to say when I can’t find how.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-5864775971662068812008-10-11T12:06:00.001-04:002008-10-11T12:06:18.046-04:00The Most Dangerous GameThe most dangerous game I think<br />is not what you’d expect<br />it is in fact monopoly, played by men with knives<br />and bad intentions.<br />These men were released <br />from one hundred institutions<br />just only yesterday in fact that one is still<br />wearing his gray jumpsuit<br />which gives him a measure of order the others lack<br />except of course they are all holding knives.<br />You are exempt from seeing<br />All the knives they are holding<br />For the purposes of this game<br />in order to make it interesting<br />and also because part of playing<br />the most dangerous game<br />I think is that you don’t know<br />you are.<br />The advantage of that is<br />without the nervous tension,<br />knife-based mostly,<br />you’ll probably win this game of monopoly<br />in which case the knives may or may not<br />become an issue.<br />Emotions run high<br />In hidden-knife monopoly<br />For reasons known and unknown<br />but it doesn’t change the price of hotels<br />or the fact that you’ll trade the Electric Company<br />for Reading Railroad,<br />and that consistency should afford you<br />a measure of peace in an otherwise<br />wildly dangerous, albeit secretly,<br />game at least <br />as far as you’re concerned.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-76577689950098199232008-10-11T12:05:00.001-04:002008-10-11T12:05:21.614-04:00Poem for Wang WeiLiving alone now in my bare rooms in Onion-River valley, <br />Waiting for a visitor at my green gate who never arrives.<br /><br />Sitting by my window I watch as the forest changes colors,<br />each morning more and more of the trees have gone yellow.<br /><br />I drink cold tea all day long and read old master Wang Wei<br />wondering at similarities between our rivers and mountains.<br /><br />Service has brought me to this wild valley, between peaks<br />I think it funny that the old master had it quite the opposite.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-67515713699530824522008-10-11T12:03:00.001-04:002008-10-11T12:03:42.653-04:00I Have Been To Las VegasI have been to Las Vegas<br />And on the whole, it was not a good experience.<br />But all the red dirt and plastic<br />Helped me to get to know America<br />In the way you can only get to know someone<br />Making love in a car, someone you normally<br />Limit your love-making with to a bed.<br />Faced with new difficulties,<br />Creative problem solving is required,<br />And you bear witness while trying<br />To get your pants off.<br /><br />These parked cars and driving cars<br />Everywhere now and they leave that out<br />When they talk lovingly about the past<br />That there were cars parked on the streets<br />Back then as well, maybe fewer but equally<br />Insidious.<br /><br />Once they were all machines, metal beasts<br />We could understand, it was like riding a horse<br />Or riding inside a horse I suppose, <br />But less bloody – the point is the <br />Muscles were mechanical<br />And everybody could relate.<br /><br />Now we have digital cars, I think<br />And the thing about them is<br />Everything in unobservable, <br />All quiet on the western front.<br />You put in a quarter and they go,<br />And fuck man they go.<br /><br />Somewhere in America children are howling<br />At the moon and breathing the dirt kicked up<br />By passing south-east Asian cars speeding <br />Through the noonish, electric nighttime<br />And it’s all our fault.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-35559859880078044732008-08-07T12:17:00.001-04:002008-08-07T12:17:30.858-04:00second train songTrain-Song # 2 08/05/08<br /><br />Rectangles of corn standing stick straight beside the train tracks,<br />green mourners watching the procession as it rolls out of town.<br />The river, red with dirt from between the rows of drowning crops<br />drowns its banks and falls with a wet flop under the tracks<br />snail-sliming its red way off into the horizon that changes always.<br /><br />The dark green of trees, soggy and smeared, is like a paper chain,<br />a fence of men in damp green raincoats holding hands and frowning.<br />They guards the distance from the train, whose whistle finds the cracks<br />and slips through the wall of trees and homes and telephone poles<br />howling out towards the mountains to the east across the grassy space.<br /><br />At every station the train grinds to a halt, like cold sandpaper from the shed<br />dragged across waterlogged wood brought in by the tides of an ocean<br />so far from here that no familiar gulls circle down to compete<br />With the local pigeons for brown cores of apples and white crusts of bread.<br /><br />Beside these tracks only the homes of the poor sit now, alone and tired<br />leaning this way and that, sinking down to meet the ground that buckles<br />and cracks the boards of the porch, pulling the sheds into their terrible slouch.<br /><br />Burnt orange flashes of rust and decay mark the walls and doors now<br />of these houses once new and straight, standing square beside the tracks<br />and built from the wood of the trees that stand beside the corn plants.<br />Houses filled with people, fed by the corn, who watched the trains go by.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-85012049541411447762008-07-12T02:34:00.000-04:002008-07-12T02:35:01.391-04:00Train Song.The window slides along the landscape<br />Like a lost man dragging a picture frame<br />Across the green heart of the north east<br /><br />I am sitting, facing backwards<br />And as a result I can only think about<br />What has happened.<br /><br />Tomorrow there might be loud discussions,<br />I might go and buy pots and pans.<br />I might sleep in all day.<br /><br />I can’t decide, it’s not my decision.<br /><br />But wait, there’s more:<br /><br />Two nights ago I confessed a love<br />And was ashamed.<br />Last night I was ashamed.<br />Today I am ashamed.<br />I might be ashamed tomorrow,<br />I can’t decide.<br />It’s not my decision.<br /><br />But wait, there’s more:<br /><br />There is a blonde girl on the train, but she is no help.<br />There are two boys on the train, but they are no help.<br />The train and its tracks help me some,<br />With the space they put between my shame and me.<br /><br />That is the space sadness fills, but there is only so much sadness.<br />It will be stretched thin and there will be space for happiness.<br /><br />But wait, there’s more:<br /><br />There are spaces between the trees outside the window.<br />Maybe there are trees between the spaces, and sadness only between the spaces.<br /><br />I have called her three times.<br />Maybe she is with another man.<br />Maybe she is crying.<br />I don’t want that, but I can’t help thinking about it.<br />I will call her again before I am done writing.<br /><br />But wait, there’s more:<br />I have seen one thousand houses and I will see one thousand more.<br />None of them are my house, none of them are her house.<br /><br />But wait, there’s more:<br /><br />I am a man with a face of great concern.<br />I am a picture of shame in a steel frame,<br />Shooting across the green heart of the northeast.<br /><br />It is a traveling exhibit,<br />The fastest in history.<br /><br />But wait, there’s more:<br /><br />When I go to sleep they will build a museum around me.<br />It will be all the explanation I can manage.<br />They will build it next to the other ones,<br />Whose frames are now empty,<br />Because I am on permanent loan.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-77024449915523496852008-06-27T03:02:00.000-04:002008-06-27T03:03:23.450-04:00In Response to a Promptlike a still life in motion<br />or: a clock, if you prefer<br />its case, so perfectly still<br />surrounds the whirring<br />each and every little part<br />some of them are animals,<br />the rest vegetables (fruit)<br />or minerals, stone solid <br />points, and around them<br />the flesh things spin,<br />though only fine oscillation.<br />Somewhere between<br />An instance and an instant<br />you’ve trained your eyes,<br />ears, nose, mouth, heart.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-50169780126325336502008-04-25T01:35:00.000-04:002008-04-25T01:37:00.911-04:00and last one tonight.Morton’s Fork<br /><br />This is the way in which I proceed.<br />This much madness is too much madness, I think.<br />Thinking this, I am here about the revolution.<br />Because I am here about the revolution, <br />and building a small cabin<br />I have found a reason to write a comprehensive almanac.<br />When I am not here about the revolution,<br />and I am not building a small cabin,<br />I am writing a comprehensive almanac.<br />The almanac includes or doesn’t include a section on each subject.<br />When I write my comprehensive almanac,<br />either thinking or not thinking about madness<br />and the amounts of madness there are and aren’t,<br />but not building a small cabin,<br />though perhaps thinking or not thinking<br />about building a small cabin,<br />I write a section in the almanac on each subject.<br />In or not in each section I include or don’t include<br />a section that is either about or not about each subject.<br />When I am or am not writing or not writing a section about each subject<br />or not about each thing I am building or not building a small cabin.<br />When I am building or not building a small cabin,<br />while I am thinking or not thinking about whether this much madness<br />is or isn’t too much madness,<br />and I am writing or not writing a comprehensive almanac,<br />I am always or not always thinking about the revolution,<br />or not the revolution.<br />In this way I proceed.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-13151076583343716122008-04-25T01:34:00.001-04:002008-04-25T01:34:53.560-04:00Saw my first concert there.Jones Beach State Park<br /><br />The grey wooden walkway floats damply over the grasping fingers of salt water:<br />Its pilings silent, clogged with must and clamped heavily with marine life.<br /><br />The music is questionable: the question is immaterial <br />Over the roar of the sea: there is only the occasional gull.<br /><br />What aren’t they thinking, sitting alone or in twos and threes?<br />Each one contains one bird-brain, and two hollow-boned wings.<br /><br />Without any guidepost I would pace down the pier<br />Dividing up all the debris: some flotsam and some jetsam.<br /><br />This uneasy and tired night, settled firmly over the sea-side landscape<br />A space reaching to be filled, like interlocking parts of a whole portrait.<br /><br />Some darkness is like a winter, thin and full of wires<br />And the lights reflect on the surfaces of the water, moving back and forth.<br /><br />Three flags wildly flapping and clapping loudly in the midnight breeze: <br />I am casually rolling home wearing a garland of garbage and leaves <br /><br />The pavement along side the pier, cracked and holding back <br />The earth’s final cataclysmic stretch outwards towards the stars.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-43878791428231578132008-04-25T01:33:00.000-04:002008-04-25T01:34:14.095-04:00A listA List of Things That Cannot Be Described in Words<br /><br />1. The taste of peanut butter.<br /><br />2. The feeling of laying awake in bed on a weekday morning.<br /><br />3. The sound of the D string on an acoustic guitar.<br /><br />4. Wind that blows the front of your flannel shirt open and cools your hair.<br /><br />5. The interior of pancakes.<br /><br />6. The first instant of sexual intercourse.<br /><br />7. Snow on the soles of bare feet.<br /><br />8. Pine resin between your thumb and index finger.<br /><br />9. The smell of bacon in a hallway.<br /><br />10. The smell of old paperback books.<br /><br />11. Soup in the moustache.<br /><br />12. Headache.<br /><br />13. The cold side of the pillow<br /><br />14. The moment of inevitability between the trip and the fall.<br /><br />15. Vomiting.<br /><br />16. Just the lips (and the tip of the nose) in an icy creek.<br /><br />17. Owing money all around.<br /><br />18. The smell of grass.<br /><br />19. Rock and Roll.<br /><br />20. A pink sunset through grey windows on a yellow day.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-9188009526328091762007-10-17T23:35:00.000-04:002007-10-17T23:36:35.631-04:00SailorsAll along the concrete sea wall the tide breaks restlessly in measured frenzy<br />Sensing its domination of earth is approaching and coveting its destination<br /><br />The rude boardwalk floats damply over the grasping fingers of salt water<br />Its pilings silent, clogged with must and clamped heavily with a fertile scent<br /><br />On every bench some child’s hero sleeps off their fearless traipses sonorously<br />Their cacophony beneath the throaty moans of fog-rich air frosted with salt<br /><br />Everything lost on the other shore journeys here with purposeless determination<br />And rejoined with its waterlogged brethren assaults the sea wall on the downbeats.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-46953359117606138782007-10-17T20:17:00.000-04:002007-10-17T20:18:04.646-04:00Burialdown beside the road-edge I waited, sitting in the yellow of the sun<br />I divided that yellow from the green beneath me, under my hands.<br /><br />Smoothing it all out, pushing the wrinkles off this American lawn <br />when it is ready I will rest my head, and I will pull it up over me<br /><br />How many things, neither yours nor mine, are still slumbering here<br />where there are no traces of melody, only damp persistent rhythm<br /><br />in the somnolent mounds of this country there remains for all days<br />an entire America, which was long ago discovered and forgotten.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18084946.post-14301312662707610222007-10-16T22:47:00.001-04:002007-10-16T22:47:28.007-04:00Flotsam/JetsamThe music is questionable: the question is immaterial<br />Over the roar of the sea: there is only the occasional gull.<br /><br />A raw squawk breaks time: I have forgotten some memory<br />That frightens me: it is possible to erase anything, then.<br /><br />Without any guidepost: I walk up and down the strand<br />Dividing up all the debris: some flotsam and some jetsam.<br /><br />Time recedes all around me: soon it rushes back to my feet<br />Though: this certain ebb and flow dissolves the footprints.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07240968790725306839noreply@blogger.com0