What I do now
in years to come
will grow up.
Milk drunk young
goes to the bones
to stand us up.
Boy shakes his head
can you read it
yes or toss up?
What you think
about what I think
cracks us up.
Listening to slices
in vinyl laughing
at the first cut.
I pack a bag
to travel where I do
unopened up.
Deeply changeable
snow shoveled
piles up.
What's done now
in years to come
will grow.
end of 2009
in the western half
of america
Day and winter blue in between
not in particular but smiling
cross with me the Sagamore bridge
to a place a land a finger a feeling
to a place that stole and is still stealing
our hearts.
Here can you believe?
yes we can
here can we relax?
yes we can.
Here pleasure brightly pure
is the water striped and sky
spent quick like a franklin
on thick swordfish and drinking
quenched in a place composed
of taking it all in.
Mild and kind in your
favorite season she can be
ass kickin cold when
she feels no feeling.
Cross with me the Sagamore bridge
once across the very last canal
fatal to the fat and lazy
resentful of the temporary
tides of what it takes to survive
in paradise.
Look down upon
the blue and both sides
make a decision
and draw your sword.
Look
jealous of run down
crayons returning
as if they could
start over every
morning erasing
all those dots
you want to be
connected.
Don't be sure
all loves left
in rooms unfilled
tell about only felt
guessed origins
from where which
spritely speculated
the marshes got loose
and dense and then
drained and dry
and chocolate colored
sampled and lit
no light like it
in this room.
Come outside
birds quit here
before we did
novembering
what we used to
be used to
in october
when here was so
busy with birds.
Down the long
from the foot's view
long path longer
than the smell's view
keep going til still
is no more but
become flapping
like nowhere half way
to the bay behind
the museum.
To time travel
take of your shoes
like me abandoned
feel the soles
wash the toes
stand on shells
avoid the organic
stuff that smells
like a map left
in the gloove box
throw it out
into a wave.
Off work
Orion Taurus
seven sisters
punching the clock
never correct
by less than billions
of trips around
doors slamming
making dogs do
what stars cannot -
look up.
This poem was retrieved from old stuff. From 2005.
It is raining
I can hear your drops preaching to me
Falling from upper realm to lower realm
Drops wrapped around all your messages
When one splashes I stop to listen
It is raining but not hard
Can I stop now?
Where is my ground now?
Under me or up ahead
Feeling my feet thumping
I am rounding second
With one eye on the ball
One on third one on home
As quick as an insult
Can I stop now?
It is thundering
You shudder my lungs clean of soot
I breathe it in and shake it loose
By stamping feet or howling
When I can but when I cannot
You thunder me.
Wind is whipping
I have to keep on moving
Me among the millions
Of disrupted scraps of spirit
All directions in their turn
No lighting on sill or porch
No peeking in lit windows
In my ecstatic eddy
The wind whips me silly.
Can I stop now?
Swinging from tree to tree
One eye on each horizon
Dodging every furry fear
Noise enough to hide inside
Can I stop now?
Stars are falling
From the sky you and I recall
Like the change from old to new
All around us orbs of snow alight
Like leaves drifting out of season
All stars fall now.
Now I can stop.
Art Man who will you paint?
anyone out there who looks clenched
are the eyes as cold as you want?
or would you like them screaming
like cold breath in a cold car
on a frozen beach thinking
passion and hell where are they?
Writer Man will you bring out
out from the real that is six inches
deep everywhere all over our country
half a foot frozen in resting
and you need to dig it up to get
what your page sits so still for
deliberate steps turned into Reasons.
Music Man in a basement full of
started pieces and partially redone
pieces in boxes stacks in liquor boxes
never sung outside of your mouth
verses far far too too many to play
dragged out all over the country
hanging in the air frosty.
Picnic
Step from new from
picked peeled baked
from honeyed spiced
and half-swallowed
to paper-thin secrets.
I need to be
at that beyondish
tree you see tower
inside your mind
as a new poem
pulls your trigger.
Like going out
from cooped up
from steel light
to a hole in the head
from grape to wine
and back again.
Did what I was told
couldn't do it without
a mast of fascination
a hull full of hesitations
a cabin where eyelids
could not be sealed.
Falling into that place
where short-sighted
meets far-sighted
it went by before
many times actually
was that supposed to be?
Who is the fisher
of the bare-chested facts
the bottom-feeding hints
who is baiting the hook
that will pull me forward?
Far from death as possible
will you bet your life
bet on our mistake
too impractical to stay
going to take a break.
Miles between nostrils
a glancing blow
the mouthful of babes
hair all chopped off
between ears notes.
In quietude of picnic
I took all the clothes I ever wore
burned them in a dumpster
sacrificial mathematical
what's left is whistling.
Mucha gente se pregunta: ¿Quiénes son los Judíos Mesiánicos? ¿Qué creen? ¿Cómo viven? Este es un reportaje acerca de cómo viven los judíos Mesiánicos en Israel.
Roberto Ayala
Barnstorming
balance requiring lobed silence
taking off greed left apexless
between strings left echoing
my folly
waking and tossing out a dare
day's end before full rising
interestingly tugging at the ear
hysterically
like blossoms in the dark days
shortening and concentrating good
dried and potent in our centers
insensitivity
hymns too fast and too loudly
overwhelmed by piano and organ
amplified in frantic answers
assuredly
firm and artfully thoughtless
the beams in the walls and roof
of the day's sanctuary of conscience
commonly
standing in the doing of holding
heartful conquering of an angry
purpose dug into even hands
dug into even more even heels.
If what I said
was what you expected
then there is no fun
for either of us is there
and we might as well
sing.
