moans, whistles

aren't you proud of yourself
the way you can maneuver within this flock

rising birds, lifting up out of a blue field
illusion of movement--
a still life of sun
on folded and extended wings

it was after they had secured their cabin
after they arranged things in the cabinets and drawers
that she sat down on the bed suddenly, and said
you know what, Jamie?
I wish I were home

on the rippled water
an approaching mast
and the bridge begins to hum
two halves rise, drawing in the air
a non-existent mountain

the ocean is bored without us
lifts a languid hand to slap the beach

the nuthatch is the first to greet you
in airy rooms with rocks and pines

bushtit shadows
size of the manzanita’s leaves--
tiniest of insistent fans

landscapes gyrate while the swift stands still
mid-air dining, women wafting in on a wing

flock of pigeons on its rounds
in chapped air

pigeons, with their whole body
praise to the hawk

angels, egret-winged

overgrown, wingless cranes
brontosaurus, since renamed

a place in every poem
where the words release
take leave of reason
flutter and fly

in the kitchen
she surrounds herself
with things that will obey

although
our atoms all formed together
part of the water, hardly distinguishable
from each other
and we, our energies, go over in around
pass through each other
all the time, like ghosts

how is it
we’re enamored of the sharp image
incised letters, straight edges, solid forms
demarcations–eyes, noses, fingers
all present and accounted for

and the numbers tally up, agreeing
goals, ends, clearly showing
orderly, marching closer...

people greeting people all around

coming to the restaurant alone
for the left-over smiles

from the seventh floor near the airport
we watched the airplanes blow towards us
Aeroflot, Emirates, Philippine Air, LAN Peru--
labeled winds

I had in mind the dog
but it was only
an empty brown paper shopping bag
looking up at me

when (and not until)
the web of time
joined the dust of time
she cleaned the cabinet

(the dust, on little
rubber bands, bounces back)

so easy, so familiar
pulling back a practiced finger
and the action playing
tiny and so far away
hardly feels like murder

the cries? we've heard these cries before
coming out of our own mouths--
nothing anyone would pay attention to
and we've been dead a long time
to anything but anger

still, we'd take it all back
for pizza and a night at home...

overheard, stopped at a red light, window down
two graybeards conversing on a bus stop bench
“Now, I don’t wannna have ta kill you...”

begins with intimation
builds to thunder
which subsides
does not come our way

a landscape tossed by wind
a climate--caves beneath the branches
entertainments--spiders, squirrels, birds
the coming and going of its leaves

all this compressed into one word, tree
hardly worth a second glance

(word--at first, supplement to a feeling
then a feeling supplanted)

sure you can learn a few things
give yourself lessons, lectures, sermons
make mental notes, resolutions, conversions
but in life we can only truly be
the way it comes to us

it’s just good feng shui--
suspend some wind chimes in the canyon
the river, the railroad, the freeway and the wind
are blowing through town through opposite doors

she came to us alone
we showed her
how to match herself against the others
wear herself publicly
like a badge
a flag
billboard propped up
by a tired little angel

one number is pretty much like any other

stored on slanted shelves, they slip off

from a child I learned
it's ok to be easily hurt
it's ok not to understand
it's ok not to want what others want you to want

from a dog,
bark sometimes
don't let just anyone come near

from the cat,
disobedience does not kill you
("Come here." "No, thanks.")

the cat gallops past to play
I chase her under the dining table
her legs distinguishable from all the rest

at peace--she’s not a burden to her family--
they’ve sold her into slavery--

on bare ground with her one leg
her hands weave the rhythm of her days
she had hopes, but they are dead
nobody wants me now, she said

doing what you're told
to get it over with
so you can get back to what you came for

suppose we really did
love one another
what would that look like?

snow with a bite--
dunes, knife edge
in dagger formation
gnashing under your shoes

...standing on some foreign threshold
the fear, a fur on my back

where is that gold-paved road
the stone lions, the iron door
who has the formula?

where the dwarf to lead me
through this wind-torn landscape
shreds still flapping from the bones of trees...

I watch myself
trying to flee a terrible dream...

*

from the door
the view was wide, wide!
it seemed that this is where fulfilment lay
and greatness
and slipping of the yoke
one step...

so why was my heart racing?

it was grey, and cold
I was alone
it seemed a violent wind had blown
the air away

this freedom felt too much like dying

the door had gotten very small
but I knew I must get in

when I make a statement and you negate it
and I restate my statement, softening my stance
I’m not bowing to pressure
I’m restating my original position
refined for accuracy

droehnen--
logs in a log house repeating
everything you say

gazing balls
purple plastic windmills
yellow wagon, red petunias
terrier with a serious underbite
snarling & snorting

the bay area is hiding from the fact
that it is a very hot summer

as the temperature climbs, the fog piles on the hills
ready to wash over us in the night
neither does it settle on the ground, but floats, protective layer
between us and the sun

I peered out the front window last night (where it is never really dark)
and saw it--caught the fog in full retreat, draining back to sea
tomorrow will be a very hot day

"Human development is more like reverse metamorphosis than simple growth, with babies as exploratory, bright butterflies while the adults are caterpillars, inching along their narrower paths."

http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20327191.700-from-butterfly-to-caterpillar-how-children-grow-up.html?page=2

she was short
and such a long, wrinkled neck
no makeup and an old coat

by the spell of her presence and her art
one word came to mind that would not leave–
genuine

now I ask you
where is the word
that stays the hand on the gun

which word is it
that will save the whale from extinction

that we gave the Indians we could not keep

find me the word
that stops the war

that takes a rogue government out of power...

the city may be all about buying things

tanker truck
up the hill at full speed
swinging its trailer

(trucks we built so as not to burden
any more beasts)

Shut up! The position of knower is already taken

whenever you say what you really mean
red hot material oozes from a crack
a blackened fingernail grows between two continents

matadors, unnecessary heroes