I want to sip the night
and savour every drop of its mouthful of cold orange juice
I want to drink time
drop by drop and splatter none of it
But for you -
And each day is a shot of unchased tequila
Dopey drunk and slurred at the table
Through the cracks the wind is cold
One cold finger after another.
And where do I lie now, with these cold hands?
Cold on my shoulder, my hips, my lips.
make you better
Where is my power? Not here.
Not even a dad, just a guy
These days just a guy
It's your power.
You wield it everytime you dream in bed
but then you stay too long there
And at night, if the wind creaking outside keeps you up
You lay awake there
Fighting the urge to finally take the blame you so richly deserve.
Clocks have changed
They no longer tick tick tick
Or tick tock
Ours are quartz
They just tock
Tonight there are days between each of them:
Tock - when will my wife be home...
Tock - I'm so behind in work...
Tock - my son's laugh is still in my ears...
And now the tocks - the first at one pitch, the next slightly lower
such that it sounds like a limp
Time gimps along on two different legs
My son moans lightly in the next room asking for a little drink
A car goes by, and a plane...
And I am trapped here between the seconds.
I'll dummy down
ordering my own retreat
Mother, I've lost.
You're only here yourself because I hit the "m" by accident
wish I was a happy accident
instead of the distressed product
of this I am sure:
tomorrow may or may not come
and I go to where the sleepers go
The other night - January 30th 2010, my son and I were sleeping over at my mom's place. Well, not really sleeping because we were sharing a small bed and it was cold and Rainer was thrashing around and it was awful. And there were sounds outside - she has an apartment in down town Glen Cove - strange windy noises caused by anything other than the wind, cars most likely, the sounds drifting miles from the Expressway or some such. And so I tapped a quick poem into my iPhone just as I tried to fall asleep for the hundredth time that night. And then last night, I wrote another one - right before corking off, under the blankets, the lights out except for the glow off the iPhone, and me tapping away.
It seems to me to be a good daily practice... nightly practice. Off we go!
done with it all
with the light to off
the clock to alarm
and to blow out the warm candle to wax
we try and succeed at less these days
now smiles are an achievement
now feeling ok in your own skin for 5 minutes out of 24 hours is
where once we read minds it's now sections of The Times
the night encircles like dark butter
I'm reminded how flimsy it all is
hopes, complaints, plans
it's all bent up
on the floor
and this life is a wool sweater
warm, scratchy, old
the moon alone
if the moon holds me
in his arms just above my windowsill
scattershot air and not much more under my feet
and no compass to me
then who holds me?
No one. No anyone.
no compass to me
thick with clotted leaves
I float out over the roof, the gutters- what a word for me!
the afterimage of the moon I see when I shut my eyes
til it fades to true black
the bodies under the blankets make moraines
the radiator boils like rain
and in the dark I can feel the corners
and the walls I cannot see