Monday, November 23, 2009

Four New Apps


On the bus to fifth
grade, eleven years
old, I couldn’t breathe,
they had to call an
ambulance, put me
on oxygen. My father
arrived, shaking and
crying; “First my mother,
now my son.” I loved
him so much, it didn’t
seem strange that, upon
leaving the hospital,
he returned me to school
in time for math class.


You can only transcribe by dying,
the things you transcribe are dying,

the way you transcribe is dying
by the time you transcribe,

so if you must transcribe,
you must die, or die trying


Times you get bored
with the process, but

worse are times when
words are little deaths,

wrung out like sheets,
draped over hangers,

out in a damp yard on
a cold autumn day, as

wind rises to pin them
to your hopeless breast.


You can take for granted
lots of God-awful garbage
in places deemed important
by fools; this goes for every
thing, including poetry. Why?
Because the world runs (has,
will always) on mediocrity, so
safe, so comforting, like a mug
of hot cocoa on a winter’s night,
or a mediocre simile, people want
others to be mediocre, to be fools,
that’s just the way things go, people
are nothing to write home about, or
(if you are writing to God) nothing to
write about at all, the world is no mystery,
all the mystery is in the night sky, looking up.

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