To Find a Garden of Refuge

To find a garden of refuge, well-apportioned,
Sloping sward, vale of trees in olive hue,
North of Hudson River School, stretching
The mind with ritual smoke, a settling down of
Sky horizon mirrored in the line below of
Lavender at field’s furthest margin.
“What need for refuge,” cry the woodcut man,
Pouring his grappa, hunched on his stool,
Feeling the pull to defend his owl’d world of
Filial bonds and patterns of plenty.
“We’ll tell you, señor; though you not
Believe, and mock our sober vision,
We profane a litany of processes that
Knocked us from the former ruts of life,
And onto rockier terrain.”
One of the topiaries has flowered, white
Propped upright with crutch like nerve-
stricken man, wisteria hangs in effusion
And tempts with its secrets of houseguests
That raided the liquor cabinet and spoke in
Raised tones about coverage of the
Venezuela standoff, bumblebees crawling
Over the flagstones in their own drunk-
before-death peristalsis.
We try to avoid the passive voice except
When absolutely sanguinary, but then why
Opt for proper grammar of any kind, vines
Creep up in patterned spiral, noble privet
Crouches thither.
Take the back door off its
Hinges and lay it ‘cross this sawhorse, time
To sand off the old paint, while we tell you
All about Christopher Bronchia, and the Hell’s
Kitchen studio of sleaze, chemical excess,
Sickly cobra caress, when money changes hands
In rooms dingy with indulgences, mortifications.
Years passed there are dues paid, and the garden
Of refuge welcomes you home, blue jays pause
From raiding nests to hail your arrival in
Pointed tones.
But why come here to carpet of green and wind-
Tickled groves, choose solitary meditation, when
Legions of souls of artistic mien drive stakes at
The gates of the wall between territories, one
Fallen to machines that ape our ways, and
The other, us, beating drums and trumpeting up
A rabble screed.
We’ll tell you, poet, we come here to the shadow
Of the north wall, to make a list, things related
By form, by worth in verse, by tender affections
Etched into our trunks, the bark chipped away
With woodpecker diligence. A list could go on,
The flavors and textures impressed on my skin,
Man-made and chance-made objects of increasingly
Menacing description proceed with abandon,
Smuggling scabrous adjectives and verbs in a cringe-
worthy certainty of escape, the greased egress found
With bat-like echolocation.

Until

What do we really take in with the senses?
Stretches of calm between spurts of
Frenzied activity, space contained in
Shifting dimensions of our imagining.
They work out a string theory, but
What does it explain? Kids see clouds
Morph into the forms of dogs or cats or
Clouds, never as life insurance policies.
We’re lulled to complacency by the steady
Splash of fountains in a pond and
Metal roll of freight train, then aroused by
Prick of mosquito bite or a gunshot
In a happy home beyond those trees
We’re alert to having skipped a meal and
Having that pocket of want between
Navel and spine.
Always things to jumpstart
The unsteady motor of the mind, a
Fire hydrant, a heron poised for the kill,
Swallows at dusk quick angular flight until

Reading Allen Ginsberg’s White Shroud in the Shadow of Dodge Hall, Columbia U.

Every time a literary magazine rejects my poems,
I consider it a success…
This place is crawling with Chinese nowadays and
I’m dying to know what they think of
The cave allegory in The Republic

 

It Was No Dream

It was no dream
I really cut up that body and
Buried it in Hefty Bags in the back yard.
The last meal slid under the cell door in a
Tin tray, lots of gravy over the roast beef and
Mashed potatoes. Who was it? A name was given
At the trial, DNA matched, but I forget the name, the
Face. All I remember was fake-brick exterior, and
Overweight commuters who stared too long at me
When they were stopped at traffic lights, park benches
Designed to be uncomfortable for the homeless to
Sleep on. Remember when cars were made of
Materials that rust? Now they drive them-
selves and Ray Kurzweil will live forever
With his consciousness uploaded to a
Computer and what will he do when
He gets an itch on his phantom ass?

A Lone Monarch Beat its Wings

A lone monarch beat its wings in zigzag flight,
Beneath midday sun. Recalling them
In great shimmering clusters at the start or end of
An epic migration on that PBS documentary,
Of all the animal instincts, sexual negotiations
In an insect horde earning my sober, bracing respect.
This one flew alone, above your ashes scattered in
An unkempt lawn. Today you’d be 42, except
You’ll always be 17, come to think of it not a bad
Ending state: your mind never muddied by
University lectures on post-structuralism, never
the humiliation of embarking on adulthood with debts
While fortunate sons with magic lineage
Sweep all aside with the flourish of pen, never had to
Inure yourself one way or another to permanent
Orwellian war and the accompanying patriotic cant
Of foppish Yahoos on far-reaching digital platforms
That never, ever should’ve been entrusted to
Insane societies, never sought distraction or comfort
In hypodermic narco-rush or the arms and flesh
Of whores, never had to doubt all previous logic
And values and assurances upon being informed
We had entered the Anthropocene and even then
Have the pat option to click elsewhere, never had to
Watch decaying brain of mother propel a body
Through the house spitting on the floor and
Shutting all the WWII-era chain-drawn windows
at hot July sundown, stuffy, asphyxiated, coffin house.
But why do I project onto you? Those were all
My highway markers, and no way would they be yours.
You artist! Drawing women with exaggerated asses,
Facing away from the viewer. You never pinned
Butterflies to a board and I doubt you ever would’ve
Read Nabakov. You boiled and bleached the bones
Of dead rodents. A cold, clinical consideration
Of death prepared you for your own,
And I salute you, but I’m leaving
This cluster of dry grass unmowed,
Symbolic shelter for the smaller
Innocent beings of nature.