“The present is the form of all life.” —Godard, Alphaville
You decide not to let it go, then you do;
The past is full of minivans.
Go down then, to the sea,
Ye who are fragile & clumsy
’Til the day no wretched songs
Shall soothe your feet. On that day, wipe
That grimace off your cheek.
Innocence isn’t spring-loaded,
You know. Try not to part
With love’s perfect example. The seasons
Hold sway over the
Language of the bees;
Only goes south
When the moon isn’t viable
Anymore, but intrinsic to flowers
& Moves keenly through the shapes
Of apples & dead bees
Until June is no more wicked
Than vagrant noon in you.
Distance harbors occult notation
Culled from windows no one leaves
When there is a door to give part-way
That moves with a singular
Ease— where past & present seem
To bleed into one another
& Our odd ways of knowing & thinking
About them, as we move toward
Toward the moon or its paramour, who flutters
& Shimmers briefly in silvered light—
Not a dry light of autumnal decay
But a glow that kisses the available strangeness
With a pleasant ease.
We are forced in this way to leave our normal
Lives & the accumulations they
To be ourselves, perhaps dishonestly
While also being enjambed with a kind of furtive
Exaltation, like something
Folded into dream
That we may move away from now, in doubt
At the very revelation
Of some dystopian unrest
We’d already come to believe.
Some Prior Vocals
What are you, just a list of clouds
In panic at the anterior
Or in another country
Yet to be denuded?
We made the salad with chard, crushed
Lentils, sprigs of amethyst &
Thistle. One crisis leads
To another, I
Know— or to the panderings
Of metered readers
Holidays in the Hinterlands
Crushed velvet toupees.
Look here, you defrocked
Night minister, hovering
On a bender— baby, don’t get
Hooked on my
Anniversary Sinatra cover band
If you meet your maître
D’ in a pompadour downsized
By reckless infected greeting card carriers
Who sure know how to whistle.
But the season’s over, & we never flew
To the Serengeti for a photo-
Op with well-known hot-tubbers.
Sometimes a rutabaga
Is just a word. Let me in, Jim—
I’ve got something to spill on you.
Tidy as France is
When pushed over to one side. If you bother
The picnickers, they just might burst
Or fill you with terrible pop song ideas
In the cool, cool, cool of the day
Or something else that’s gone astray.
Chalk it up to a dozen rainy Sundays
& A vital impulse to not squander
What the dead now leave behind.