i

a poem isn't a vow or commitment. distance
from the physical element must be maintained.
it's Holy ground, consecrated by longing and
desire. desecrated, it dissolves as ancient
papyrus contaminated by touch.

excavation revealing the unknown only
prompts deeper digging through cavernous
sand and soil. discovery never makes
whole the desire for more or satisfies the need
but spreads like cholera to the next muse.

containment means sacrifice; quarantine the cost.
i speak truth, and this poem is museum of proof.

~

ii

is it as beautiful as you imagined
it to be? a game you cannot lose
on a ground you cannot tread. we
are not immortalized by what we
do but by what others choose to
keep. will this be with you when
the decrepity of years steal your
memory? when you demand to
know where the poem has gone?
why did it leave? you'll reach into
the darkest recess of regret and
remember only one small puppy
you had sometime in your life.
you'll check your bottom drawer
and the box in your closet that
contains something old but not the
poem. so you'll try to remember if
you buried it outside of your old house.
the one where your mom grew up as
a girl. you can't remember a name
but you can't forget the poem.

your essence is being undressed
by my paint. you're a work in
progress, just like this verse,
which will never leave you without
a step. my dear, this is how we
give; by accepting a faulty
memory. this is how we
survive; we find keys to
something we don't know we own
and are uncertain if we can drive. it's
that uncertainty that keeps us alive
until we know. and this is how
you love; you open yourself
to receive the poem as it is
knowing the words will be
always be yours.

iii

the silence between us can seem awkward
but it's perfectly at home during the birth of the poem.
there is a necessity for walls; believe that.

my thoughts are tires over gravel that can't slow down
for adjectives or verbs except for the verse.
take this sentence and swallow it hard.
feel the space in you close. here, we can take turns;
your silence for the words after they're born.

you should understand this by now because
we've spent a lot of time recognizing tone: train
wreck months; gnawing clocks; enormous rooms.

look, baby, despite the lack of intimacy between us
this moment, we know what is real. it's not great
expectations either of us feel. it's what will be left after
our graves are moved for the parking spaces.
it's this. nothing more. this in front of you. see?

.................................................. ...you in the poem
.................................................. ...the poem in me.

iv.

mornings are important to
the poem. sometimes it has
to struggle toward Monday and
the house has to be cleaned. it
hardly has time to think of you.
it needs bagels for strength and
caffeine for the tangled mess
of words, strewn about like bottles
and cans of cigar butts. the
air is stale.

it will unearth suitcases full of
past. read history books
written on cracked luggage tags.
it will want to stop because its
allergies are flaring. the flotsam
and jetsam of the mess is getting
in the way of the poem. it becomes
impatient and contemplates
whiskey and a cigarette mid-
afternoon.

it will discover more crumpled
passports from missed flights;
pages of dark-marrowed words
pointing to the cellar of the travel
agency. it wonders if it's still
asleep. it will not like this. it will
be indignant. angry. withdrawn.

the shattered syntax must be rebuilt
one word at a time. it feels betrayed
until it finally takes out the trash, raids
the cellar and empties its contents by
the roots, before fixing you dinner
and moving onto the next verse.

v

i.

Not everything feels safe, the arms of the poem especially.
It takes a great deal of trust sitting in the passenger's seat
of the verse. There is no time for Scrabble or Hungry Hungry
Hippos: we'll lose.

The poet isn't licensed to drive anymore than the muse. If we
try we'll both get lost and constantly fight. Driving the poem
would be something like misreading a foreign road sign
because it contained a green arrow pointing left but a red
notice under it (we don't understand) that means "go the
opposite way the arrow points"). We'll get it half-right at best;
become over-confident and stop listening to the poem's voice.

ii.

We'll find our self lost and you'll refuse to stop and ask
directions at a dilapidated country store with the faded sign
swinging from one hook like shredded curtain through broken
glass. We won't agree on anything. I'll ask why you won't stop
and ask for help. You'll say "It doesn't appear safe. Look,
the concrete is cracked". I'll say, "but isn't it dirt?" You'll say
"the poodle on the porch looks mean". I'll say, "but isn't it a
parrot?" You'll explain that it was a circus poodle trained to
sit upright on a perch and peck like a bird.
I'll say, "oh..." (while looking back).

You'll explain you're really not thirsty now, that there will
be another store right up the road somewhere. I'll ask, "but
didn't the sign say, 'josjf gut wounf nosluro'?" (which means
"last stop for 82 miles through a tangle of two dozen twisting-
road-canals so better ask directions now, fool")? You'll say,
"yes, it means 'there's a safer store where the concrete isn't
cracked and the poodle doesn't peck right up the road somewhere'".
I'll say, "oh..." (while looking back).

iii.

The poem is rolling its eyes from the backseat now. It
wants to throw on its old trench coat, pull the collar up
so no one will recognize it; get out, hitchhike. It knew this
was a bad idea from the start, like when an engineer does
foreign drugs and designs country roads to resemble two
dozen twisting-canals. He hates tourists who don't study
enough to properly translate because they think
they're so d*mn smart.

The poem wants to ask us if we'd like to know a shortcut to
get home, but knows it would only translate as "sthgor woywory-
whouety?" to us. We'd give each other 'that look' as I
retrieve the Poetry-to-English translation book. It would
be the first time we've agreed in weeks and we think
we're so d*mn smart.

The poem keeps its mouth shut, slinks further down in the
seat and picks up its book. You reconsult the map while
drinking coffee from the thermos because you're thirsty. I
feign support and act like I'm not hungry, while wondering
if I've packed enough changes of clothes to last until we
get there, and if I have appropriate shoes for back-country
roads. I fantasize about service station bathrooms.

The poem is hidden behind the book now, its old raincoat on
with the collar pulled up. I wonder why and try to point this
out but you have more important things on your plate: a
shortcut home through two dozen twisting-road-canals. The
poem coughs and turns the page.

iv.

I'm beginning to feel thinner and rounder through the middle,
like an aggravated egg, until i realize I have to use the ladies'
room. You point out several suitable bushes and I ask what I'm
supposed to use for...you know. You shrug and suggest
leaves. I demand your handkerchief while the indignation swells
thick between us. Decorum is maintained for appearances sake
(after all, we have a guest). The poem's had enough, gets out
to stretch its legs; takes a walk...

v.

I note it gets dark quicker in foreign countries. You nod silently.
It's been hours and I wonder if it's returning as I prepare to sleep
in the back. You wait up all night behind the steering wheel,
wondering if you should've asked.

The poem sleeps in its warm bed, wondering if we're having fun yet.

~

vi.

The poem drained us; pressurized meaning from
marrow, a tsunami of DNA colliding against your
tourist distance; binoculars dangling over the hibiscus
of your shirt, saturating your lie into the mundane of
us before catching the last flight out.

You'll show slides back home. Guests feign under-
standing while checking out the new BBQ instead.
Your melancholy nature of under-current shifts the
patio bricks beneath their feet. You'll stagger toward
the memory of crest while pretending to refill a drink,
when we were face to face in the composition of it;
the instant of discovery destined to be desecrated
by the truth you hid.

It'll freeze until age fails and the thaw reveals the
stink of us. You'll explain, "it's just the past...I mean,
trash" when your wife asks. You'll try to shower but
the odor will linger like a skunk hit by your car. The
distance distracts when a certain word is said and no
one can understand the centuries knotted into the
moment of it.

Guests will complain about the game and lack of beer
in the fridge. You'll laugh, longing for the quiet of
creation instead, just one more second: the coronation
of the muse which enabled you to bear the mystery
of crown verse by atlas verse before a bewildered world;
making you more than just the liar you are.

You'll feel so alone even with wife and children underfoot.
You'll wonder where I've gone, if I've survived or forgiven
you. I'll be in a city eating dinner alone, not thinking twice
because "the tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual
virginity of the soul." I'll smile, recalling only a torrential
blaze of words at some point in my life, and...what poem
was it that pulled me from the fire just in time?

~


(please, no comments. thank you.)