A six-point wood torch of fused green fire
Burns in the sun on the stones. Bright tree,
We would like to ask you if you mean,
Which is what we do, like it or not,
What we have to do to code for you.
We could claim you stand for what we say.
We could dance in a crowd of rare nouns
To try to catch the way your guise flares
On this hot day, late in what we’d term
Spring, which we doubt means a thing to you,
This trap, this threat to your best traits, drought
At the same time as the year’s long days.
What you’ll make of this light will come down
To how long the drought lasts and how deep
Your tap root goes. We share that with you,
At least—we can’t say, we have no way
To know how deep our own source words go.
We want to be what you are. We want,
In our lines, to catch and to call out
What you do. How calm and how not still.
Tuesday, June 8, 2021
Right up to the Lip
Heads Eat Their Dead
As if we had made
What we said, we are
Proud, small words in troops
Formed not for war but
For the siege of life
That makes and eats us.
We want to take it,
To hold the walled towns
Of cells, to call down
Stars to look at us.
We are mere words who
Have no clue how signs
Like us came to be,
Nor how we got here,
Fierce, as you can see.
Just One More Poem to Waste
If you need it,
Need to do it
To live, you say,
It’s not a waste.
Oh, and since when
Was life not waste,
Not built on waste,
Not vents for waste?
Life’s waste
Is fuel you can’t
Make use of, waste
For you, of you,
Thus fuel for lives
Who can use it.
To have life, you
Need to waste it.
Wolf’s Milk
Time is not rare. Time is not just
Lost in math and found in poems.
Time is the most used noun you use.
Pop songs die to try to rhyme it.
Wolf’s milk is rare. Wolf’s milk’s the kind
Of phrase you find in texts on slime
Molds and their folk nouns, if you are
The kind to like texts on slime molds
And/or folk nouns. Odds are you aren’t,
Or odds are you aren’t if you aren’t
The kind to read this kind of poem.
Of course. And aren’t you sick of time?
All those sad rhymes that chime with mine.
Molds have more to yield—what they are,
What they look like to your eyes, how
They die by lot to save the few
At the cost of most of the lot.
Slime molds can solve a lot of loss
Through teams, and teams are how you, too,
Win and lose. You, slime, all this time.
How to Be Good
To be good, you do what you want
Done to you, or think that you do.
To be good, you do what you want
To do to you, or you try to.
To be good, you each check on you,
With this you, with that you, to see,
Or more to the point, to show off,
At least to show you, yes you’re good,
In this or that way, this or that
Act, debt, touch, god, vote, march, or gift.
You will not be forced out, you will
Not be shunned, not be loathed by you—
You can still feel proud, you have
Not failed, not brought shame, not you—
To get told, at least to feel seen,
By one or more of you, as good
As that one is good. You’re so good,
You tell a child. You want to be
Told, too. It’s a small hit, a rush,
A life check, a pat on the back,
On the head, in the head, in thoughts—
You’re good, you’re still good, it’s all good.
And So It Shall Be for All Time
Those who know their pasts
Best have the best chance
To guess well what’s next.
That’s all there’s to it—
Truth, faith, math, the rest.
Tea leaves may not work.
Notes on rain and death
May work well. Keep count
And learn to work counts.
It’s still art, at best.
At best, you can learn
How good is your guess,
Can prep for what fails,
Learn when to be bold
And when to hold back,
When to go all in,
When to hedge your bets.
At best, you’ll be wrong
A bit less and less.
If you want to claim
You know a true thing,
A thing that stays true,
A truth that binds all,
Stick to what can’t be
Known and write a poem.
Nurse Tales
Oh, so long gone,
And time runs back.
You think it can’t,
But it does that.
Time’s all your past,
The parts well gone,
Now freed to move
Through words and thoughts.
If you’ve a mind,
You have the time
To run past back
And forth, so long
As it’s gone but
For a mind—yours
And ours, who nursed
All time for you.