I Really Will Not Rewrite This Poem

I will not rewrite this poem.

I will rewrite this poem.

I rewrite this poem.

Rewrite this poem.

This poem.

This.

August 11

Children's Book

Took pride in growing up this alligator:
Swim here, my five-inch friend, then to your cage.
And though I loved him then, I knew that later
He'd be too tough to care for in old age.

As week and week went by, he grew until
His thrashing mass (which threw me all about)
Could crawl all walls and slither round to fill
The biggest space I had. Sad day! I threw him out.

My parents don't believe me, and they say:
"How could something so big just get away?"

I think that he's still near, and since he's free
He's found the room for grace in his cold heart.
He's warm-blooded enough to forgive me
And keep me safe, his human counterpart!

August 10

The Big Kids' Table

The big kids walk over. I'm invited.
A few of them ask, at different times during the day
so I know it's not some sort of joke.

I spend the afternoon thinking about it.
When younger, didn't I always want to be cool?
Didn't I always want to be older and distant?
That rarely happened.

Ride in their cars to the school, drive home with them
from work or clubs. The big kids aren't quite so big
after all. They can't be much different from you in the future
and my my my aren't you growing large?

So when the aunts and uncles convalesce
I wear slacks and a nice shirt and a tie
with a bit of my mom's gel on the peak of my hair
and sit quite cramped and uncomforted at their table
with the fork in one hand and the knife in the other
and when I cut a piece of food I switch the knife
with my other hand I pass them over
and replace them to put the food up to my mouth
I spear it and chew it.

They're talking and I listen, and I realize how much
the big kids' table is like all of the other tables I've sat at
when I wasn't quite so young or quite so confident.
This is a real occasion.

The big kids get tired and leave, and I'm finally free
to do things that I can't think of when I'm with them.

August 9

Register this:

It looks like these lightbulbs shine
Brighter than they seem to.
There's a gleam to them
Not apparent if you're used to their kind
Mercurial changes, harsh conditions,
"No one looks good under fluorescents."
No one looks well enough to see
That there's a light, shining, beyond us,
And, through, us and between us,
Or that it leads, back to somewhere.

Recycle that:

These lightbulbs shine
Brighter
There's a gleam
Not apparent
Mercurial, harsh
No one looks good
No one looks well enough
There's a light beyond us
Through us
It leads back to somewhere

August 8

Smooth Skating

Back when I was skating
wore blades on my feet
Dug into my every move
Hurt those I met
When life is too polished
That's because something's worn down
Feel the grain on your face
When you're pushed to the ground
You can skate real fine in a straight line!
But fall over when something goes wrong

August 7

Land Feet

Land feet land feet first. Step one: Then take two.

I walked sensitive and humming to the dynamics

I heard the rain get louder

I saw the sky become brighter.

This image: The roller puts his foot out and falls down

in a graceful arc with a gentle twist onto his bottom.

Sheepish grin. Lambasted by his wife. Sore tonight.

Land feet land feet first.

August 6

Novel

Novel. no vowels: nwl, new vowel.

An emerging sound. Like learning French

where the oo’s and the u’s and the 2’s are different

push your lips out, pull your throat back.

Novel.

(Feel the way she feels.

You built this in one year. You’d let it fall as easily.

Give it a shot or two.

Let’s make this seem like a sequence of events:

Plodding along, cause and effect,

causally affected.)

August 5

Noreastor

Noreastor, or at least enough rain released to be one
Charcoal grill (cooking by someone with far more skill)
was just a minute or two ago under the sun!
Now crouched beneath the porch, my dad, his dad, and me.

Through board gap spots the rain drops occasionally
Splotch, hang on hat fat and heavy. Conversation falls.

August 6

Legalism (Theology)

If poetry was my god, and poems my prayer,

then by god, I was a legalist.

Read back those passion pleas:

words stuck inside the metered lines

each other line forced in to rhymes

and so on.

If poetry was my god, and what I read my doctrine,

then by god, I followed scripture.

Who cares how relevant John Keats

Why write the next Kubla Khan

 Where did I find the time to labor every night?

If poetry was my god, and was angry with me,

it showed me it was real

when it disappeared, as summer faded,

without an answer or a question.

August 4

Summer Days

It’s summer days like these that make those sawmill phrases true,

Sawmill, water wheel, grinding up and down around the round.

It works, reliably.

I try to close the door to the bathroom for some privacy,

But the house is too well-circulated. No doors left unopened by the wind.

It works, reliably.

No hurry, really. Life’s simpler somehow.

August 3

wee ooo

wee ooo, wee ooo, policemen drive

wee ooo, ooo wee, keep you alive

ooo ooo, ooo wee, pulled off the road

ooo wee, ooo wee, this girl’s gonna get towed

There, I wrote that with sirens on the brain.

Blue cruisers cruise by with that plaintive refrain.

You feel safe when the chariots ride by but others

chafe to hear the dry cry.

wee ooo, wee wee.

August 2

You Free Friday?

“You free Friday? Let’s go bike riding.”

So you free Friday, and we go, and by deriding you

I find out you don’t respond well to harassment.

Spokewheels spin around spoke well to you:

Spin it around on me try it out.

Make your self, make yourself a man.

Wheel it away from you.

You free Friday again and the same thing happens.

Nice guys ride with their knees to their chins.

You need to learn how to sit where you’ll win.

August 1