Poemunity — your poem community

Made out under sharp leg knife telephone golden shower boy under pinned under sweat sweet drill drilling broken glass smell faint smell aroma of needle tight bod no more but he kept going the slate eyes fastened on my boots tender touch Bud cop sweet and wet soaking the rub laying there time AM radio bondage songs out of touch brought back hard in the nose in the legs first the socks tight screwing into the ground tight tree phosphorescent beer too much too much a soft boy’s voice beard hair arms legs loose and flowing fast down 18th Street at every corner mouth wet motorcycle cop glasses long to the knees hot and heavy you make me a pleasure machine a pleasure machine in the night you left me on the street to take a leak the dynamite sounds juke box still in my head my head knocked against that wall wet smelling one guy after another too much head hair cut off by your one hand the other leg stretched out body you’ve got it the tender touch in the palm of my hand in the insides of your legs your spell is tying me up in the stomach in the cock your hands keep moving in and out a heart a fist a piece of my heart goes with it and I’ve got you on the list starmaker bright gloves wristwatch try me piece of glass stuck in the heart a needle in my arm you’ve got the power to turn on the gas the electricity playing dead gun smoke your den my ass red tied into the socket dying to get you under my skin liquid popper scat b/m w/s Long Island master looking for expert slave meet at Interstate blacking out blacking one eye eye patch no leg Vietnam veteran marine action pow action muddy boots taken care of ready now to take what you’ve got giving you what’s good for you taking you out on the street you dirty son of a bitch trigger happy in it for the action I never wanted to hear that phone voice again when he said to come drumming in the heart pumping slumping over on the sidewalk moonlight carlight headlight sideview walking down the street in front behind jewelry sounds my ear is in my head smell you robin fly fly robin fly right up to the sky pinned underneath heavy builder shit house rubber slit up the arm try to get away long day at work waiting to get home to my boy make him eat it blonde boy beard man extra money stay for a day in service in the tight bathroom for three days no way zinc gold spray today the gay bars are full the gay bars are full I met him in the hall tall black cowboy no face under the hat sat on his boot ready to shine to shine skin wet ready dogs eyes ready no room two more and keep going until I say

The trouble with paradise is you never want to be away from home. I make what calls me out. All gone before you know it. Words may drop passing color yet seeing you here now are born again, and again. Closing a word in the mouth feels the sound until the tongue can't stay still. To unmask is to go silent. Language makes no promise to communicate. An articulated sound has its own dream in the ear. Her presence in the room gives aroma to the syllables I voice. Now she's ready to draw eros from foreign bodies. It starts by focusing on the sounds beyond hearing, still felt. By she I mean who speaking animate configures. This is the time of alternative obscurities to see through. Through thoroughly, as a word weighs.

for Sitti Khadra, north of Jerusalem My grandmother’s hands recognize grapes, the damp shine of a goat’s new skin. When I was sick they followed me, I woke from the long fever to find them covering my head like cool prayers. My grandmother’s days are made of bread, a round pat-pat and the slow baking. She waits by the oven watching a strange car circle the streets. Maybe it holds her son, lost to America. More often, tourists, who kneel and weep at mysterious shrines. She knows how often mail arrives, how rarely there is a letter. When one comes, she announces it, a miracle, listening to it read again and again in the dim evening light. My grandmother’s voice says nothing can surprise her. Take her the shotgun wound and the crippled baby. She knows the spaces we travel through, the messages we cannot send—our voices are short and would get lost on the journey. Farewell to the husband’s coat, the ones she has loved and nourished, who fly from her like seeds into a deep sky. They will plant themselves. We will all die. My grandmother’s eyes say Allah is everywhere, even in death. When she talks of the orchard and the new olive press, when she tells the stories of Joha and his foolish wisdoms, He is her first thought, what she really thinks of is His name. “Answer, if you hear the words under the words— otherwise it is just a world with a lot of rough edges, difficult to get through, and our pockets full of stones.”

If I could begin anything I’d say stop asking forgiveness, especially theirs which was always the fault mentioned in your condition. Nettles could be feathers the moment they brush your ankle. At the same time: floods, earthquakes, the various slaveries hunchbacked near the fence to catch your glance. What is it to say that among the hired boats we carried our bodies well, cracked jokes, left the gaps in our lives and not the page? This far to learn the boat does not touch the water! And if this is goodbye, it is a light nowhere near believing and I am happy and it is all right to make a distance of a nearness, to say, ‘Boat, I have left you behind. Boat, I am with you.’

Pushing off on her back out Into the fishpond’s cold Archaic glitter, my naked wife Could not have guessed how High she rode into the noon Sky, a brightened polestar Gliding out between nothing And nothing, between a sun- Lit vacancy and its ancient, Reflected, weightless Hour unrippling back From the sedges. The just- Cut grasses fumed around her Like gasoline, a few Spent bees dozed above The compost, and in my arms The steady thrum of the mower Carried on, though I’d Shut it off to sit down And watch: but so fond of her, The water parted to take Her back from that aimless Sky, where light- Headed and slippery as a star She turtled under the still Simmering Indian summer To startle the sunfish At the margins—then punctured Back with a blow-frog’s gasp, An amazed stranger Conjured into the world By a willow shadow Spread out on the grass Like an extravagant Old World gesture no One believes in anymore. On that stalled shore she climbed Back out among the cool And slightly washed- Out leaves to towel off, Put on her clothes, and shake Her hair out in no time Which slips off into the past, Or future, into nothing But the pure unburnished hum- Drum of that moment, that place, From which we turned away Eventually and went back to work.

It hides its edges in speed, it has no edges. Plus every time he thinks he knows it close enough, can discriminate centripetal force from what gets sheared straight off, direction changes: through stunned space the blade snaps back, turtles into its handle and starts over spinning the other way. All along the chopped-up sidewalk (the need to keep breaking what we make to keep making) the concrete saw plunges and resurfaces, precise as a skull; it glints against the small smoke of its own work.

Next to the screen door work boots dry in the sun. Salt lines map the leather and laces droop like the arms of a new-hire waiting to punch out. The shoe hangs open like the sigh of someone too tired to speak a mouth that can almost breathe. A tear in the leather reveals a shiny steel toe a glimpse of the promise of safety the promise of steel and the years to come.

I thought of happiness, how it is woven Out of the silence in the empty house each day And how it is not sudden and it is not given But is creation itself like the growth of a tree. No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark Another circle is growing in the expanding ring. No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark, But the tree is lifted by this inward work And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering. So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours And strikes its roots deep in the house alone: The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors, White curtains softly and continually blown As the free air moves quietly about the room; A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall— These are the dear familiar gods of home, And here the work of faith can best be done, The growing tree is green and musical. For what is happiness but growth in peace, The timeless sense of time when furniture Has stood a life's span in a single place, And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir The shining leaves of present happiness? No one has heard thought or listened to a mind, But where people have lived in inwardness The air is charged with blessing and does bless; Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.

To be poor and raise skinny children. To own nothing but skinny clothing. Skinny food falls in between cracks. Friends cannot visit your skinny home. They cannot fit through the door. Your skinny thoughts evaporate into the day or the night that you cannot see with your tiny eyes. God sticks you with the smallest pins and your blood, the red is diluted. Imagine a tiny hole, the other side of which is a fat world and how lost you would feel. Of course, I’m speaking to myself. How lost I would feel, and how dangerous.

This fastening, unfastening, and heaving— this is our life. Whose life is it improving? It topples some. Some others it will toughen. Work is the safest way to fail, and often the simplest way to love a son or daughter. We come. We carp. We’re fired. We worry later. That man is strange. His calipers are shiny. His hands are black. For lunch he brings baloney, and, offered coffee, answers, “Thank you, no.” That man, with nothing evil left to do and two small skills to stir some interest up, fits in the curtained corner of a shop. The best part of our life is disappearing into the john to sneak a smoke, or staring at screaming non-stop mills, our eyes unfocused, or standing judging whose sick joke is sickest. Yet nothing you could do could break our silence. We are a check. Do not expect a balance. That is a wrathful man becoming older, a nobody like us, turned mortgage holder. We stay until the bell. That man will stay ten minutes more, so no one can complain. Each day, by then, he’s done exactly ten. Ten what, exactly, no one here can say.