rambling buttons

  the button has evolved into 

a noiseless vacuum for sound 

spilling out unconscionable 

silent lies           twisted in fabricated knots

                         clinging to the pasts of the

                         world    they are in nameless

   ways a detailed map

of the future rot of post-

cyber-space frontiers

the plastic encased        forests of the afterlife

                                     conceptual landscape 

                                     forbidden in un-digitized 

                                     scripts  

   the button has been transformed

by formidable lies arranged by

present visions of mankind

wrapped in napkins and placed

rather lovingly in the trashcans

of the once bountiful regions

formerly known as the silicon 

west.

Heavy

 the last episode of a particular chapter 

                               translated

I buried it

in the remains of the backyard

under the violet sky

as the moon looked down

disparagingly 

                       I tried not to picture its eyes

glowing against my back

I tore my hands at the digging

I cut the ground with my tears

I placed a stone upon its head

as the moon fell behind the collapsed roof

as the rising clouds peered up

I took out my hands

I drew a corpse 

into their rusted breath

uncertainly

 I wonder when times moves across the trees

dragging the clouds I wonder what will become 

of the hours it takes to erase the grass I wonder

what will be built upon those memories we have

almost forgotten I wonder how the glass will break

down and becoming sand I wonder what will the plants

be like that take my place

time to write a poem about covid and false memories of the past

 you could swim at the far end of the tent.     at 4am the temperature was steadily

falling toward the floor.    it would be hours until the sun rose about the spires 

that stood in for the trees of our past.     there were no sounds that could be made

into car engines.     you said it yourself      we are truly alone.

 

     there was nothing beyond the lake but the wreck of the next several years.

they reminded me of the isolation I had grown to know in the past.     where we

were going would we would need to swim.    downriver. we only had left one 

change of clothes.

 

the seasons worked in reverse until they were children again.     when the world 

would be faded at the edges with the liminal fragrances of the cathode tubes.

something haunting and safe.    to scare their shadows into abeyance again.

 

     to find what was lost they plunged their faces in.     they bit and tore at the veins

 

we drank until there was nothing

 

you wept for any thing else left.

on purpose

I am upstairs

looking like the leaves

falling from those trees

I can see outside the window

the motion of branches 

blowing in the wind

draws my attention

to puddles of red and yellow

in the street

 

a ups driver navigates 

a gray circle of concrete

the dead end turn

the bleak future straight ahead

he doesn't touch a single leaf

Prediction

marked automatically;

    life passing within four walls

a leaky faucet of time

the overgrowth of yard

before the window

effortless and green

a million sown fields of pokeweed

glowing pink for a moment

in the stillborn sunrise

it's partly cloudy today

I am superimposed over this reality

there is rain in every imaginary forecast

time is a summer storm

before the window pane

the blackberries of july will become the winter's snow 

before I am gone

No new hires

drawing a crooked line to

                          this current dream

the face of nondescript mall

escalator to rolls

                            the floor i meet is not

the one

              recalled

i haven't been making the walls

of the memory

the vision is not waiting here for my return

only confusion of time

a lost place         a wretched belief

Peanuts

music   played like end credits

          eight years 

ago         reminded of cracked pavement

broad street

Newark    caramelized peanuts

     searching for 50c 

to make the down

                              payment

to continue to the river's edge

 to soak my brain away in the stream

barbed

barbs dig into my leg

they make a funny sound when i walk,      no,

an interesting sound

                                  enough so that i won't

remove them   

                      enough so that they'll slowly pierce

deeper into the skin

                                 buried there & 

                                                      enough so that

when i recall their presence

i'll allow them to feed on my flesh

consuming my life     leaving my memory

for dead.

another one about mud

there might be people
still using it   
                     oh, nevermind
the rubber mat
over the doorstep

it's only there to cultivate
the mud
              that has no stench
only color
the color of decayed potential

a steady drain on battery life
the slow decline
                           of bolt and latch
sink of boot and shoe
never to meet what is
                                   hidden
beneath.

window pane

your starling

dressed in black     jumps off the heavy wall

it doesn't bother to open its

wings    surrounded by the buzz of

wasp and termite     Im the only one that watches

her fall

Yesterdays

I.
in 2011 from the foggy shell
      eyes behind cages of tempered glass
glared out through ragged hair

II.
time is a passing thing
                                     life is not

there was nothing left unsaid

I think of you saying goodbye
resting on my lap

chin against chin

III.
I hope you know
I never wanted

                          to go

draft

in real time
I am watching a fence fall

it will take years
now there is less snow
the wind will pick up
the rain will wither

the cords tying it
to a sinking dead limb
grown on sinking dead roots
will not hold

there will be an end
an inevitable upheaval

the gates will flood
and the ivy will pour through
the forest will overtake
the carcass
the stakes will mold

the sky will be blue

V

Les Boutons D'or

Vines grow up the impression of walls
stucco white and twinkling with beads of light
your eyes of stars and blackest sky kiss the night
the arc of time and the old house of dew alive
your lips reflecting the blossom of endless white bulbs
the trees have been here for hundreds of years
but you and I are here tonight an ocean and see away
from home     brush strokes paint the story of your smile
a memory of many pasts, the canvas over my heart

IV

the Vegetable Alibi

It looked like my rucksack
     in an alleyway
                             but in Gap, France
mildewed green canvas
   hand sewn patches

it slouched against a medieval stonewall

two Provencal cops hitch up their
heavy lead pants
                            interrogating the
owner of the bag about a head of lettuce
in his hands
                    how could he be eating such
valuable produce?
                              was it stolen?
your tattoos were backed by the Cote dAzur

they were here to give you
a hard time     sadly

your lettuce had an alibi
the market next door vouched for your
ownership

the cops tugged on their bullet proof
detective skill, 'don't be here when we get back,'

they said,

                 merci
you pulled sadly at your beard
to the rhythm of their footsteps     hiked
bag onto shoulder
its empty stomach sagging--

    c'est bon c'est bon c'est bon 

--to forage for another stretch of pavement
         in another sunless alley
in this decayed

somewhere

III

the Med. at noon

After eating sardines
at a cafe along the beach--
   
     the salty breath
of the sea
the salty fish scales
     fish bones
old world bones float on

--dip into
gentle rolling waves
a sea somewhat thicker and heavy
after lunch
                  lurching blue waves
saltier than I would have
imagined

II

Alps

What of me is part of this old world?
     sleeping
beside me in the car
                                 my wife
she is growing
    inside her
beside me
                 my son is growing

there is not a piece of me here
these mountains are strangers
they have lost me long ago

my ancestors
divorced you

I go forward through your passes
     they are like scarred tombs
   
 crossing the Alps I see
I am something new

even with your stony ancient glare
you could not know
me

Some poems from France I

Taking a shit

the first thing I did
as an

American in
France

umfiction

I have been sick
for over a week

the news tells me I have coronavirus

CoviD-19 it talks to me
all hours of the day

under order
I am home watching it talk

24 hours a day     I have congestion
that has left my throat and
found its way into
my nasal cavity

MSNBC has me waiting
for chest pain with every cough

when the narrative find me
I will be ready

I have been sick
for over a week

best case scenario
I will be able to blog
about my quarantine
in the new york times

Foreclosure

NOw
          there is no where to go

the clouds reflect our prison
like crumbled
                       aluminum foil

we cannot chew through
this metallic fog
                           the sparks
make lightning of our
teeth
         that chase the squirrels
away
         hidden beneath the earth
the seed is more important
than the disease
                         
                           noW yellow
daffodils droop over rotted
leaves
            coughing into graves
of potted earth
                         there is a distance
unassailable in our future

for the spring cannot
out wait the
rain