People say things in their enthusiasm, and you
hear them in your need.
People—snow—the cold—
I forgot how the cold could heal you—
how soothing the snow can be—
I just want to live with true humility—
which somehow the snow falling teaches me—
I used to want to make you see
everything that mattered to me—
now—I just want to
let it be—
a part of—
I was a good looking man
I lived the life of a good looking man
sometimes that meant things—
some things—came easy—
sometimes that meant I was underestimated—
my anger—my fear—my need—my worth—
& sometimes that meant
I thought I had to do more than you
always
yeah sometimes is sometimes always—
& you are sometimes me—
& let it be means letting go—
& humility means be real & go slow—
& once is enough when it’s not even there
& sometimes everybody looks black
& everybody looks white—
& I’ve been a poet all my life
& it still means I have to
prove it—
People say things
from their enthusiasm
and I hear them
with my need
again & again
I miss the ones
I let go—of—
I wanted to be a man
with few regrets & no excuses
but but but but—
when I hear myself say
“my first wife”
it sounds like somebody
else’s life—I never meant
to be that kind of man—
I was this handsome
smart guy with an
eye for nothing that
wasn’t true romance
so how did I end up
alone with past lives
and ex-wives I never
intended to have—
& not even have any
good novels or plays
out of the whole deal—
yet—
yet—
I’m forty-fucking-seven
this ain’t no game—
this is heaven—
yes—
because the man said
“the kingdom of heaven is within”
& what’s coming out of there
is this so
this must be heaven or
the verbal expression
of
[ . . . ]
the other night
after our hike
in the new fallen snow
knee deep in places
across the pond
and up the hill to
the top and beyond
where she showed me
another of her special
places & we paused
to take in the
beauty & surrender to
the silence & the
snow laden trees so
majestic & living hip—
accepting it all—even
their fall which can
only lead to ours—
their meditative presence
one day-long breath
& nightly exhalation
that frees us to breathe
that frees our breath—
the memory of what
that means, of what
that meant, left me
on the verge of tears
when we got back but
only because I felt so
grateful for my kids
& the overwhelming love
I feel for them I have
for them I am for them
no way to compare that
experience with any other
just the reality of the
love saying to myself
I love my children—now
grown—so much—the
world is not enough in
all its awesome calm &
beauty when approached
on days like this in
settings like these to
compare—it goes beyond
the new walls of galaxies
they keep finding out there—
beyond that sense of
wonder & gratitude that
makes us stand & stare
at natural gifts like
trees in winter snow
and the way a movie
star can glow even
in her own home
[ . . . ]
I couldn’t sleep til 3—
& when I woke I could see
the trees & hills we hiked in
out the window of the
room I’m in—& closer in
the biggest pines with
branches longer than this
room the lowest ones sweeping
the snow like edges of their
skirts reminding me of women
I never knew except in my head—
she calls them “the three sisters”
these majestic but sensual pines—
my heart climbs them like a
bird in love every time I look
at them in search of the word
to describe these ecstasies of—
“of”—
[ . . . ]
It’s January & outside there’s
still ten inches of snow but
in here there’s a fly that
just won’t go to sleep or
away—it keeps buzzing
& crashing into the lamp—
why?—why do I feel this
will be the year of more
death—in my family—the
one I grew up with at home
and in the home of my
heart—Barbara Stanwyck—
Ava Gardner—tough broads
who I should have known—
I thought I married one twice—
“tough broads”—but they weren’t
so tough—and they weren’t so
nice—sometimes—and neither
was I—and neither is she—
or you—of who—“whom”—
will too be in the tomb
of memory some day—
I remember thinking
I was just a sexier
Jesus—only it all
depended on my hair—
I’d look in the mirror
and say—hey you look
so good today you better
get out there and share
it—with who?—you—
only you couldn’t bear
what you thought was
conceit and I couldn’t
find that way that some
heroes have of being
full of themselves and
endearing about it—
so then I’d have to
shout it out & turn
into some kind of fool
—a tool of my own
confused emotions tearing
around inside me—up
and down the stairs from
my heart to my head
like a cat you almost
wish dead because you’re
in bed trying to get
your last night of sleep
in the Berkshires and
it won’t let you, so
full of— [ . . . ]
I just don’t have the heart
for it anymore—sometimes
I can’t find myself in any
of it—I don’t mean not
fit I mean not there—as
if my shame & fear have the
power to make me disappear even
from my own memory—see—
I’m back in L.A. again—but
this time it’s a cold wind that’s
blowing the brown air away
today & there’s no way my
life will stay mean to me—
It’s St. Valentine’s day anyway
& I got a date with a stranger
I want to break—for the
first time in my life—there’s
no one I really want to take
out tonight—I’d like to
just spend it at home—
alone—writing this poem
and reading it—I hope that’s
not a sign of—
[ . . . ]
& lo, he went into the
valley of death, the desert
of loneliness, where the people
were old & nurtured a deep
and cranky bitterness & hurt
like a child alone in the world
& he said things in his enthusiasm
& they heard him with their
need to be left alone & right—
& in the night it was cold
but in the day the light was old
& the tones were deep with the
memory of the world created
alone with itself & the tones
of creation that immortalized
death as if it was her child
but when she smiled it was
an old lady on her toes as
though she still could dance
& then she did and it enhanced
this valley with a meaning
no one could have thought of
except her & for 20 years
every Friday, Saturday &
Monday nights her aging
city high bred body took
flight on the stage she
had created & with all
her might she transformed
the thoughts inside their
graying heads to visions that
the lives they fled were
richer than they had remembered—
& he too felt transformed
as though his mistakes were
signs of an awkward grace
this place entranced & made
light of—
[ . . . ]
“of” is the barometer of
my trust in you in all
this—& I do trust you—
obviously—how else explain
me still playing this poetry
game—going on fifty—
with all expectation of fame
behind me—
sort of
[ . . . ]
night of the living airports—
Kennedy to LaGuardia for
another missed connection
that was 3 hours late but
once we were in the air in
this “flying crate” that
held only a handful of us
stuffed together like eggs in
a cardboard carton & I still
felt great sitting behind the
pilots watching their instruments
glow in the night especially
the altimeter on the far right
spinning as we climbed to the
right height for the bulk of
the flight & then spinning
wildly the other way as we
descended into Albany where
my “little girl” now 22 waited
with her “beau” as my sisters
still used to say when I was
a kid sort of kidding with
that term from another day
the way my mother & grand-
mother did with them when
they’d tease about it being
“Thursday” & how that was
“beau night” & they didn’t
have a date & therefore would
grow up to be old maids who
everybody knew just sit
& wait for the “beau” who
never comes like in that Katherine
Anne Porter story my friend
directed once for PBS where
I didn’t play the “beau” although
she told me I had eyes that
would glow through the screen &
make this character work in
ways no other man could—but—
we’ve all heard stuff like that
& wondered why we ended up
without the fate those compliments
led us to believe was our right,
like my sisters did when they
finally went out on “beau
night” & caught the guy of their
dream, or maybe someone else’s
so they wouldn’t end up old
maids like Dustin Hoffman
almost did in “Tootsie”—& me
here in the Ramada Inn in
Bennington Vermont not too
far from where I began this
“poem” in Monterey, Mass where
she & he are getting ready to drive
over tonight to hear my daughter
sing for us in ways that
have had her “depressed” for
days out of fear she won’t
get the “feelings” right the
way her instructors have
taught her to & pointed
out to her when she
doesn’t—& I’m here
trying to think of something
I can do to make it
easier for her besides laying
in bed writing down what’s
going on in my head in
ways that tie it all
together with the theme
of—
[ . . . ]
she called to say she
was thinking about her
mother all day & really
sad she wasn’t there to
see her “triumph”—well,
that’s my word—she was
just sorry her mother
couldn’t live to hear
her sing for an audience
that loved it—& I heard
the sadness of my own
heart—in my daughter’s—
& I don’t know what to
do or say to make it
go away—she says
she finally feels like an
“adult” now—& I guess
that means I must be
too—this way
we have of—
[ . . . ]
& then tonight there was a fight
between two women like the old days
on the street only this was a poet &
her one time friend while mine
stayed behind & I couldn’t stop
thinking about all these beautiful
“Black” women & the ways they wake
me up to the full spectrum of
possibilities—oh shit I wish I
still played horn—I taught my
cousin after I taught myself—
a way to make 50 more cents a
week on top of the money from
my paper route—I already played
trumpet & piano & sang & I
knew I was gonna go down
as the best, the baddest,
the most def, the saint of
music that told the truth—
I see how it turned out
so far—no saint—but
now & then in touch with
an angel inside—not the
angel of truth—too elusive
& perfect for most of us—
but not the angel of fear
either—or of lust or of
hesitation or of bluff or
of anger or hype or of meanness
& pride & ego & judgment—
not even the angel of
love, as much as I try—
or of grief or relief or even
rhyme—no,—but maybe
in time the angel of—
“of”
“The whole struggle is to squeeze into that public record some tiny essence of the perpetual inner melody.”
—Henry Miller (Plexus)
some tiny essence
of