Cropping Up

The Measure of Man

The measure of man
sounded insufferably into the gaping
range of his captivating powers: the mouth
the evolution of the machine when mechanization
is the gossip of paranoia beyond self-recognition,
when power of knowledge is an imaginary number
the start of a problem to be brought down
by further abstraction: the hurrying instinct
manufactured into space so that
nothing is expected, the old wire tha tholds
trial over the heads of optimists

into space.

_____

A Brave Man in Allergy

I was given twenty-five dollars, for what?
Helping. But my labor isn’t worth that much;
maybe ten dollars or twelve total–
bless my soul for that: five dollars on top
of the seven dollars my sold books’ worth;
it was the pain critiqued that won me
my thirteen over my book and body
collection, the sum of all equal to my heart,
a quarter of a hundred, a quarter of a . . .
and therein lade the problem—I was
reminded to pick up my books after deliverance,
the exchange at my doorway where I read on the floor
and rose to meet Mom’s not unreasonable anecdote,
which I confess is questionable,
of why I should sell online: because
nobody wants to buy used, a man
asked if he could buy a book for a dollar.
The price is inside, He said,
that’s too expensive for me . . . or too much,
was it? And there was the problem, in-
flation in the mouth of May, on
that tarp that she couldn’t even pronounce,
where the books yielded gratitude
in kindness with kindness alone was lost
after an nour of primpring for family movie night
before as I cleaned up the mess left by the old
man, and found them departed to Thor.
They invited several times, though, but I was
regretting only not putting arrows in myself,
despite the clinching wind, its memory.
Someone nice once explained
that our noses run and tear up because our body
doesn’t recognize certain things entering,
that sneezing is another way of saying,
Work is kind only in certain areas,
not just time.

_____

Mother’s Day  

It is true that my memory of things is bad,
but of people it is good, strong, a virtue
of both parents that never forgets either,
especially you on this day of a year
so far good insofar as you remind me
daily of your steadfast tour of the house
cleaning I wish you’d forget that
which possesses you, the wrinkles of clothes,
the creaks of the cabinet, and the dust,
that list of to-do that you call,
in your restricted way, “always cleaning”
that doubles as a salutation and triples
as a reference to morning, noon, and evening . . .
But what about the goodmorning,
the afternoon, and the
goodnight? Here’s to you, Mom,
a salute to the only person that’s held me
before I was born,
and will grace me to honor the same
back when you no longer can hold anything,
no broom, pan, cane, or doorway,
to prove my reply to your asking
one day at the table I stayed too plainly over
home, “Will you guys remember me?”
and in returning me back to youth,
in the tears inside, I remember the day
you told me to be strong (you said,
“Be strong”) and replaced the memory
with your thought, silly as it is,
on my own to-do list.

_____

Joie de vivre 4/17/11
 
So much life I can finally breathe
he same air of . . .

 the wharf I heard was the result
of a dog thrown off land
crying
like my own beside my leg,
wagged
out of control.
One isn’t simply told the truth
when one is going to lay there
and the other conferring ap-
probation undigested as an O.K.
before the big hangup. Things
have alwas been this way I know,
as I knew it, but things change
to follow the incorporated tense
of love: its tensity. But
do not be at remove from me
there is so much we can yet to do
where I’m coming from.
Where there is life surrounding, walls
surrender . . .
 
A friend wo saw me reading Kundera
wrote through the photograph: Life is
everywhere, my friend,
which is true, like so much
of life’s tallies beneath the sill
from where two eyes raven
the life below victorious,
twice as much as I have in mind
when I say, Look! life
manifests . . .

_____

Walking the Dog 5/17/11 2:23PM

The singing of dog at approach of kin, and
hunger, is rough to bear for the owner
who has, trying to keep abreast,
his pet jumping ofr joy at the fenced cousin,
no matter how rampant and large,
but must be on his way so must he
keep him down for fear of conflagration
between the two same beasts meting, as if
for the first time again over,
demotic freedom and enchorial decency
that would spark his interest in the same
street where behind a bush was found
a bowl of dog food, left out,

so that he may begin his work,
once he makes it back.

___

Tired 5/13/11 9:25PM

So tired, I am a fount of inspiration,
myself drowning in this work.
Not a signature to give, not another phrase
of vicarious contrition to inspire,
not an air to affect into any.
You would not know death
at this rate if you had seen it
with your own eyes without mine.
Take my word for it and buckle
down to yourself the wells of others
to spout your own Renaissance,
your reflections in others,
as if you were at bottom of theirs.
But how can the hands impale
light between disembowelment?
across withered life lines
mirrored spposedly, drawing water
belated to the chapped lips,
their eyes well versed in a third voice,
only to leave them dry.

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