Aug 23 2007
I stood at the waters edge
as the white capped surge of the storm
races across the flat edge
of the horizon.
I look away from the
gray fold between
heaven and earth,
knowing it doesn’t end
or begin.
When I finally
slip into the cold water
pushing against steep
green faces,
I am caught by the wind
like a tiny kite,
a plastic toy for the Lake.
I don’t look at the horizon
like Hebrews don’t say the word G#d.
Oct 20 2006
I watched Born into this last night. It is a documentary about the late poet Henry Charles Bukowski Jr.
I sometimes forget how much I really loved this guy. There are times I am sure I would have hated to have him as a friend. But as a poet, what he stood for, what he endured, his courage, and his art, he is the shining example of a poet.
This poem below was not one I had in my collection. He read the poem below during the film and it really struck me. I remember as a young man that this is exactly how I felt about myself and my place in the world.
I think I have gained some perspective and think more benevolently of my fellow man for the most part, but you have to give it to Charles Bukowski for being able to put this to paper. And this to me speaks to an America where people only care about themselves. Everything is down to the bottom line. All that matters is wealth, cars, how big your house is, how big your piece of the pie is. We don’t care about the little guy. We don’t care about things that enhance life. We only care about things that sustain life.
There will always be a need for folks who are able to enhance the meaning of life rather than just sustain it. You have to have something to make the ride worth it. Poetry enhances life, gives meaning to the little things, and clarifies the big things with the one thing that separates us from the baboons with the coconut bikini’s… poetry. Bukowski was one of the best.
The Genius Of The Crowd
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
Jun 20 2006
Tail Wind
While she sits mired in windless doldrums
in the castle of our domesticity,
like Penelope weaving an endless
blanket for our empty wedding bed,
I beat my blades like wings
in quick rythmic loops
to catch the wind.
To paddle downwind
is to sail like shadows of cormorants
before a gale at twelve knots.
The kayak is carried
in the froth of whitecaps,
pushed onward with subtle tilts and leans
sliding forward until released to the next wave.
I know it’s easy to love a tail wind,
everything seems to go your way.
Gichigami glows green and blue
to the edge of the horizon.
Eventually all tailwinds end,
the tail of the kayak
skids along the surface, and
my bow points like a dowsing wand
towards Penelope.
The green and blue turns gunsmoke grey,
the sky darkens, the wind blows the tops of the waves
into blinding spray I catch on my lips.
Each blade digs into Mother Superior
like a steel rod into thickening concrete,
progress slows to four knots.
I find my the love does not diminish
in the great effort spent climbing waves,
nor does it lack joy to knife
each blade deeply past exahaustion,
because every subtle stroke keeps
the bow pointed towards home.
May 23 2006
I used to think that every word out of my mouth was funny, wise, or whimsically beautiful. I used to feel impervious to criticism. Participating in writer’s groups and workshops will steel you for some pretty mean shit. But the idea that you have something worthwhile to say that other people would be interested in reading would necessitate a certain amount of arrogance. But I never looked for validation for what I was doing.
Now I do look for validation from time to time. Ironically as I’ve gotten older it’s been more about the poetics of motion than verbal and written. I used to occasionally seek guidance from peers and professors for my writing.
In general as I look back at the last 5-6 years, I’ve taken myself a bit too seriously, almost to the point where If something isn’t hard to do, or learn, I don’t even care about it. I’m always attempting to break away from the pack, in my own mediocre way. Is it all an attempt to be noticed by Laura? She never cares how many new rolls I can do, or how fast my last race was, or at least she lets me think that to keep me humble.
I love the line in All the Pretty horses, (if you know anything about me, yes I mean the book, and not the movie), where John Grady Cole breaks his wild horse in the pen, and he starts to ride it, almost strutting in front of the stable fence. “Because John Grady loved to ride the horse. In truth he loved to be seen riding the horse. In truth he loved for her to see him riding the horse”.
Mar 09 2006
Often there is a question I want to ask. It lays half formed in my mouth like vapour for days. And the answer, I forget sometimes, is waiting for me without even having voiced the question.
Laura is the question and the answer.
Your FeetWhen I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
Pablo Neruda
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