3 versions of water psychosis

Three Versions of Water Psychosis

I.

On shore of the Pacific at Montana de Oro

Our moon competes with clouds to be seen

I have found the edge of my personality

Waves thrash on rocks black with fervor

Each, a god—deploying into sky as shards

Where moon’s eyes wince drenched

Salt-stung to heave back bashing

Blows that crash in ears as I collapse in

Silence finally from its ardent roars.

II.

On frozen Lake Mendota with a view to the stones

Aghast at sounds that rumble in its depths

Nothing I have ever known, no one ever told

That lakes moan when strong sheets of ice crack

And I have not begun to love as love howls too

Lying flat above the lake’s booms, echoing

Fear to bowels, lasers in war, shaking the

Soul of the lake.  Cries of casualty and end, for

No one comes to the buried stones’ wake.

III.

Rains of summertime unpeel my clothes, I am

A voyeur of skin felt up by warm sky, the two

Squirm over me until they come.  Upstairs,

Zombie lowers body into the bath.  Porpoise

Tight skin bares the rhythm of heart

Candle shimmers prisms of color across

Tears in its flame.  Lowering myself to

Allow the silent caves of ears, let the flood

Waters sweep me beyond home into sea.

For my brother, or if you know San Francisco, for you too

You Have Been Here, Brother

For Wes

You have been here, brother, to this

Chirping black bird dotted park

Its calm lawn littered with the waste

Of poor, depleted in the afternoon

Billowed shadows smoke and quiver as

Crawling buses, shrouded, utter

“Going home now.  I am tired.”

This place among many yields now

In the clean sun white dog-bark hour

Tender organ of the city, donated

Sprawled as a spleen in Italian Town

Bones meshing tissue, tissue to blood

Chinese girl runs curved path through cool

Long beard bum curled upon plaque

What bodies go about in the park

Sad.  Gay.  Immigrant.  Places everyone!

Arching time across the kissing grass

Do you sit with silence, Wes, on that bench?

Have you known tears, beggars, wisdom

Under the tree by St. Peter and Paul’s?

What joy have you uncovered, Wes,

On the lawn in your green moment?

For you have been here, brother, to this

A lady was hit, and Charleton Heston was Moses, varnished dark in the Egyptian sun.

The Promised Land

1.       Around two o’clock, I walk past a store selling plastic items.

2.       There are red buckets, yellow buckets, blue tarps, nylon rope.

3.       I am unwrapping the foil from a melting chocolate bar.

4.       A melon vendor naps in the shadow of his cart.

5.       In the street, a red Dodge Ram brakes, skidding.

6.       A woman, approximately fifty-eight, is caught in its lane.

7.       She is hammered chest-high by the screaming truck.

8.       Her torso appears to hug the contour of the grill.

9.       The truck grips the asphalt finally, casting the woman forward.

10.    She slides on her back, shoulders first, past the plastic store.

11.    Her movement is graceful, as if across a sheet of ice.

12.    It is Good Friday in Poza Rica, Veracruz.

13.    I drop my chocolate bar into my left pants pocket.

14.    The plastic salesman begins dialing the phone.

15.    I watch the first droplet of blood fall from behind her ear.

16.    Her eyes are closed.  She has beautiful, brown skin.

17.    There is an odor of burnt rubber amid the street’s black heat.

18.    “Señora,” I whisper, “todo será bien.”

19.    “Todo será bien, Señora.”

20.    I stroke the soft underneath of her wrist while telling her this.

21.    Ten or twelve people assemble.  One crosses himself.

22.    Someone collects her bag of rice and places it at her head.

23.    A faint siren becomes clear, then blares close.

24.    “Todo será bien,” is all that I can say.

25.    I walk out from the encircled who have gathered here today.

26.    The sun sears the afternoon in a yellow, blinding haze.

27.    Walking until the highway, I become soaked in sweat.

28.    I stop to rest inside a church with doors swung wide open.

29.    Workmen are draping the cross with a sheet.

30.    Swelled feet slip from my shoes to the cool floor.

31.    Their steam makes patterns on the dark green marble.

32.    I sneak bites of cheap chocolate from my pocket.

33.    The Virgin is transferred from a nave to the steps of the altar.

34.    Men move over her with cleaning rags.

35.    Down the highway, I buy a ticket for the movies.

36.    I settle in with Mike & Ike’s to see The Greatest Story Ever Told.

37.    It is the desert, ages past.  Thank God there is air conditioning.

38.    Charlton Heston is Moses, varnished dark in the Egyptian sun.

39.    And he leads his people to the Promised Land.

40.    Into the Promised Land.

An infant. Nose, Sweat, Eyes, Mouth, Ear, Bone, Earth

Nose, Sweat, Eyes, Mouth, Ear, Bone, Earth

I know you are mine by the smell of your scalp

Sweetness of your ear, eternity in your breath

Drips of milk have gone sour at your collar

My hands, whimpering, bury you close
Unglue your hands, moist from clutching

Why do your eyes search at the window

Through thick and winter ginko branched night?

Your gaze is tight, as if you know

Telling myself it is not about me, I must give up

Carry you to the rhythm, overcome aches, time
You are me and I am you, carried by myself

Into your canyon of curves, whispering winds
My own ears would never hear blow

I've gotta go, son, and you'll stay a bit

Beyond the ginko tree, 'til far into the fog
My bones, your bones—shall fissure in the folds of earth

Apis mellifera = European honeybee

Brit Apis mellifera

Rabbi unfurls the book of Hush

At the baby-naming ceremony

New widow, savta, grandmother

Enunciates Hebrew, cool stones

Circulate under a Turkic tent

Mother, father tell their stories

They speak of Larry:  Grandpa

Gone as the baby was conceived

Carving smiles into faces

As bees rise wildly at the hive

Had it been another—gnat or Mayfly

We might have ignored them

Amassing into pulsing swarm

Alive, abuzz, above, alarm

A backyard sort of Passover

Our eyes move widely at the sky

While ears fill full of honeybee

Roaring fear conjoins with calm

As in the time of Abraham:

Thousands whirling in the sun

The boy will smile a sweet mélange

As any cast of shadow finds

Grandfather hiding in his eyes

The swarming mass he’ll never see

But hive of mind hums with the bees

The other 1%

Being Homeless, Poor

A voice crying out in the wilderness

      Without a response

No one hears its cries

      As the hoarse winds roar

A rhythm beats out in the classroom

      Without a thought

No one cares he’s there

      In the daily school bore

A sigh breaths out of the parent

      Without remorse

No one sees the abuse

      Inside the front door

A passion burns out in the artist

      Without composition

No one cared so

      She’ll create no more

A lust runs out between the sheets

      Without fanfare

No one saw the marriage ending

      Each burned to the core

A lady passes out in the alley

      Without hope

No one will miss her

      Being homeless, poor

Sprawled on the floor/parenting

Fathering, 8:21 PM

Bedtime

On hardwood floor

Blankets, legs flung

By heat vent

Sons wrapped in sleep

Photo glows

Same sons bundled

Snow caught with smiles

High in pride

Gods of their snowman

Fatherhood

Can rush us by

When we miss that

Simple kiss

Sprawled on the floor