will it be from the neck down`
or from the inside out
all at once or minute by minute
the flatirons are pink today
the thin air is warm
when I first laid eyes on
this place
I said to myself
I feel lucky
–your grandmother had this
–yes but she was old
–people survive this
–yes but they are charmed
stopped time
and in that black and white paralysis
that alley I hurry past
the grainy slip I hasten to cover
the midday gloom I soon snap out of
in that frozen moment
I sit stranded
something awful
in stopping the action
action is what it’s about
that the scene will change
train will come
food arrive
morning progress into afternoon
these are the only assurances left
Glossary:
Bone marrow aspiration: A procedure in which a needle is inserted into the center of a bone,
usually the hip, to remove a small amount of bone marrow for microscopic inspection.
one minute lying in bed
say it’s Sunday say it’s snowing
and the calendar is blank
can sleep or not the day
stretches out in all directions
the next minute avalanche
new snow on old
powder slides off ice
and me underneath
liver problems
seizures
mouth sores
anemia
will they mistake me for dead
shoo away the copters
pick up their long probes
call of the dogs and alert the media
bone marrow depression
hair loss
bloody urine
sterility
but I’m here
cleared a space by my mouth
made the swimming motions
taught in survival school
snow is warm
toes are distant
hands closer
don’t give me up for lost
have done
all I could
done what they said to
now it’s your turn
Dear Aimée,
You’ve probably had all the stories and advice
you can take. For what it’s worth, my advice is
don’t let the doctor get away with anything.
Remember, the medical profession has had
about 10,000 years to figure out how people
work and they’re still basically clueless.
•••••••
dear Elise can’t dress myself
one day fine and the next it’s over
one cell has lost its mission
one cell has lost its orders
a serial killer off his rocker
out on parole and lose in my body
oh your poor thing
this tainted thought could put me under
each morning astonished to be here
can’t murder me I’m a mother
starts here wraps under the arm
and everyone needs to see it
cover the mirrors
this isn’t bravery but momentum
dear Elise on the other side already
what people fret about seems insane
already backstage watching your performance
I can see the ropes and pulleys
one day fine and the next it’s over
a serial killer of his rocker
hair in the sink and on the pillow
one cell has lost it’s mission
can’t murder me I’m a mother
taste of mental in my mouth
taste of metal in my mouth
this tainted thought could put me under
envision this room without me
without yourself a world of furniture
each morning astonished to be here
the smallest task too much
dear Elise can’t dress myself
one day fine and the next it’s over
envision this room without me
cover the mirrors
compelled to exhibit my scar
and everyone needs to see it
starts here wraps under the arm
and nobody is immune
I can see the ropes and pulleys
oh you poor thing
this isn’t bravery but momentum
notice my earrings on the bureau
if you squeeze a moment what comes out
without yourself a world of furniture
taste of metal in my mouth
happened so fast didn’t pack a toothbrush
out on parole and lose in my body
what people fret about seems insane
if you squeeze a moment what comes out
this isn’t bravery but momentum
calendar ruffling sheets tearing off
hair in the sink and on the pillow
don’t ask what we’re doing next summer
a serial killer off his rocker
hanging’s much too good for him
dear Elise can’t dress myself
envision this room without me
I can see the ropes and pulleys
dear Elise on the other side already
and everyone needs to see it
happened so fast didn’t pack a toothbrush
taste of metal in my mouth
and nobody is immune
what people fret about seems insane
compelled to exhibit my scar
cover the mirrors
notice my earrings on the bureau
one day fine and the next it’s over
one cell has lost its orders
don’t ask what we’re doing next summer
This disease is not the enemy–it’s the
despair.
a squalid place the land of the living
recently been there so I can tell
they roll their sleeves just so
as if arms will hang there forever
then shoot their cuffs and check the time
the time
can you stand it
a sneaky lot I warn you
know when a stranger is around
smell it maybe that metallic taste
in back of the throat translates
outward to a three-foot radius
tell me I didn’t sham like that
toss my proud head make
filthy jokes at the body’s expense
(immune they think
vaccinated by bad luck all around)
tell me I didn’t sham like that
when I lived
down there among them
Dear Aimée,
Here is California’s most sacred
mountain.
Sending you healing and good
recovery.
And our best love under this
full moon.
hammers and saws
men shouting
on the edge of a canyon
fault left in the earthquake’s wake
laundry hung in the sun
who would do such a thing
one misstep and
one miscalculation and
a ball thrown too far and
must be corruption
land is cheap at the edge
cliffside heights
lemming acres
who would do such a thing
on the precipice
death in your pocket
short trip to the other side
where is this place and why is it so important
that I should be here?
BULLETIN OF THE HEMLOCK SOCIETY
Question: Is cyanide a good means of self-deliverance from a terminal illness?
Answer: Although cyanide in substantial quantities is a sure way of death we do
not recommend it. The dying might be extremely painful.
What would you have done with forty years?
What does anyone do?
••••••
Dear Aimée,
Sometimes we’ve got to do a
little dying–-
rearrange the body furniture–-
to live more fully.
Spirit instructed me to send
these to you.
Even with wax in my ears I
know
who to listen to.
Something putrid in the blood
An unforgivable lapse in my angels’
attention? So the calendar
collapses, flattens–-no more mountain
of abundant blissful
mornings–- maybe not a single day.
Each day
memory of blood
recedes. It’s that blissful
amnesia of sleep–- just me and my angels
jousting a newborn mountain,
ruffling the copious calendar.
Spiteful calendar.
Skinflint day.
You got a mountain
of heartache, little lady, and your blood–-
well, just say it’s up to the angels
now… Remember blissful?
Not blissful ignorance, blissful
bliss, the human brute with a bursting calendar.
To hell with plaster angels.
Detonate a cartridge of day–
light at them, the blood–
less eunuchs. A solid mountain,
a holiday weekend, a mountain
of mail–-cast my lit with these. Blissful
friends, whose blood
has not yet betrayed you, the calendar
is finite, as is the day.
Wake up dopey angels!
And be watchful–-the angels
want for company, the mountain
is a hologram, the day
just a notion, a blissful
mirage. Your cunning cat calendar
is out for fresh blood.
When the angels
are sated, they flock to their mountain.
A new day.
Dear Aimée,
We are sticking with you, praying
daily for you and thinking of you
throughout out routines and the
mundane/sacramental moments of
our days with a love that will not let
you go.
The Language of Stones
Languid Bones
Anguish of One
Off Anger Goes
A Gate of Hell Opens
The Grid Unknown
Age the Land
Heal Change Hands
Rage of Halos
Agate of Eels
A Fog of Edges
Feel Notes and Tones
Change Ate Tongues
Go After and Tell
The Language of Stones
I know I’ve had a life
scar my twins came out of
pills pumped out of my stomach
watercolors painted while tripping
papers I wrote in college
Secret Service grabs my notebook
rolling around in the desert
sheet music I practiced and practiced
speech I gave with loud applause
presents I got and those I gave
my silk shawl my velvet cape
teaching song to my campers
wheezing a green inhaler in my hand
drunk and singing on top of the piano
that’s me with my shirt off at Watkins Glen
me fighting a rapist on Brook Street
in Providence on Chapel Hill
in Berkely and Boulder
at the Fontainebleau too young to notice
on the Vineyard broke into a beach house
in Munich thrown out of the hostel
on South Main thrown out of the campground
in Telluride under a waterfall
in Paris merlot for breakfast
in Savannah and Santa Fe
at the wheel and at the keyboard
see these letters all written by me
more at peace with the end
than with the beginning
dreading children’s adolescence
not dragging out my own
imagine both of us old still married
crossing the Ponte Vecchio
holding on for dear life
furtively watching for signs of fatigue
when did this shift take place
at the continental divide you piss
and suddenly it goes to the Pacific
not back the other way
just where is that point
•••••
Children offer access to the tragic;
to the great dark that stands outside our windows,
and in the urgency of their needs bestow significance; their fragile
lives veer toward the dangerous margins … beyond the narrow
path we have learned to tread.
get well soon mom
be well soon
your a great mom mom
Plastic hammers and styrofoam slingshots
harmless renderings of tools and weapons
lessons to be driven to
shoes outgrown bought outgrown again
your time moves faster than mine
your needs multiply and manifest
while mine dwindle diminish disappear
Because I am always trying to ensure my children’s safety, keeping a vigil, I’m
paralyzed. I couldn’t respond to a fresh crisis if it arose, because I’m still tending
the old one. Even if I buy the safest car, my children are sometimes pedestrians. As
I watch over the in illness, new viruses mutate. The task is impossible because
control is impossible, even in the present. And the present is gone before I can type the word Now.
Knight: You’ve tricked and cheated me!
But we’ll meet again and I’ll find a way.
Death: We’ll meet at the inn, and there
we’ll continue playing.
take this rose beauty it will cost me dearly my task is to off the ineffable to explicate
the workings how to comment on the fall while in thin air the scenery a blur as it
goes north and I south ladies and gentlemen I implore you no I admonish you no I
have been sent here to say this or else and we can’t have that
this position has its advantages I can see the ropes and pulleys the next act waiting
to go on the last one ripping off her painful corset but they can’t see me the shoddy
fabric of the curtain the unpaid salary of the maestro the forced laughter of the
planted shills nobody loves the theatre like I do but the illusion has dropped away
and is necessary no more
listen to this I say my old Beatles record read this my childhood favorite read this
my college obsession I want you to remember in case nino rota themes from fellini
old stand-up routines you never heard of the borscht belt your grandparents met
there there’s not much time look at the photos read the subtitles here’s the best part
the transit of Saturn the connection of Neptune and Uranus the waitron landscape
of my glands and lymph the fifth amendment the twenty third psalm the names in
the phonebook the square root of seven the heart of darkness the intolerable light
of noon the words to this song the screams of our mothers the gold standard at
lunchtime the language of stones
Saturday morning walked to the edge I said okay push me off push me off before
we hike left hand ditch before I finish the crossword read Joanne’s new poem push
me off before this peanut butter sandwich this struggle with a rag wool sweater the
phone is ringing should I get it should I will the call be completed push me off
before I drive everyone crazy holding their breaths here you hold mine
Dear Aimée,
Strange late rains this year.
Lots of pollen.
Hang in there.
what I have done
does not bear repeating
where I’ve been we’ll save for later
just say the walls stood fast
the forecast was not good
but that story is for another time
when there are
no fevers to break
wounds to bandage
no other better emergencies to distract
a mother from her own
•••••••
Dear Aimée,
I wish you didn’t have to go through this. I wish you
could choose your adventures rather having them
thrown in your path.
got a canuck healer living
with my picture in his pocket
got a templeful of buddhists
blowing incense in my name
housewife psychic up in longmont
sees my future through the phoneline
someone’s sister in pawtucket
threads my wish into her rosary
virgin-spotting chicana
drops glass beads into the mail
this is no time theology
twenty orthodox rabbis
wait to take my call in brooklyn
fax a prayer into ancient temple wall
scrap of paper hebrew letters
wail on
wail on in name
wail on in prime time
wail on via satellite
handle snakes speak in tongues
entreat buddha bang gongs
candlelit sooty chapel
raise a holy howl in my name
for my name’s sake
moment of silence
thirty second share of off-peak access air
your little daughter
doesn’t know me tell her
I’m a lovely person
tell her I’m your college roommate
or a princess in a burning tower
tell her I’ve got children too
she can bless me in her nightie
after grandma and the cat
whose prayers are heard
and whose aren’t who knows
take no chances
all the tongues of babel loosen
let them loose hallelujah
crystal round my neck
crucifix on my dresser
shaman down in Texas with
an all-night toll free number
cash in your good intentions
put my picture on the altar
read my poems in manning chapel
get my planets alignment
help my chakras to reopen
wail on in my name
my ailing name
novena for my blood count
standing shema
half-built sanctuary
AN ASIDE:
Dear Friends,
Is all this too much for you? Do you tire of my illness, of your duty to remain
concerned, patient, and sympathetic? Do you miss the old me, who was hopeful,
cheerful, and above all, free to show compassion for your troubles?
Your problems annoy me now. They are petty and small-minded, distant from my
own, the scratchy half-heard emanations from a shortwave radio.
I have exited the planet, taken leave of the race as you understand it. And you–-
with your flyaway hair, caddish lover, noisy neighbor and overdrawn account–-
should find solace elsewhere.
could reach for the shaman inside
tape her shoulder as she squats by the fire
she might come around
but there’s a knock at the door
something’s burning on the stove
the woodpile is low
and the mailbox full
could call her now
if only the daily maelstrom
would subside
keeping up saving face buying time
making messes that will
no doubt
need cleaning up
ancient woman teeth worn stumps
resembling me fiercely cries Leap!
but to my sorrow I know
beyond this mountain lies another then another
that even north entire continent
rises up to impede my progress
wise one is huddled close
warming her hands
watching jagged hurdles beyond the high plains
gauging wind conditions and atmospheric pressure
awaiting her time
Cancer is a disease caused by deep resentment held
for a long time until it literally eats away at the body.
how do you know when you’re ready
you don’t
you’re never ready
just take butch cassidy’s hand
get a running start
and yell Shit
as the ground falls away beneath
easy to believe that here
solid swirls rock erodes
canyon winds lift roofs
with no return address
•••••••
this world so remote from the one I grew up in
so alien that leaving it will seem redundant
this is where we go to begin again
there was where we had always been
Pennsylvania Station where we changed for points south
Scribner’s gilded box full of books
the departed Messrs. Constable Wanaker and Simon
our customers bargained in Yiddish
numbers on their arms
we sold them charms for jingling bracelets
Eiffel Tower
Trylon
silver dice from Vegas
birthstone class ring baby tooth
Dear Aimée, Do you remember?
Life continues to amaze and elude me, even at our
age.
Somehow I though certainty would take over with
time.
I’m still married to the same woman, and we have
three daughters.
The kids are great. I love being a dad.
Do you ever think about me?
1971 was several lives ago; our escapades seem
downright dangerous to me now.
These days, it takes only two beers to put me right
out.
Whoever thought we’d both get married, become
parents, and worry?
I’m so glad we ran wild when we still could.
Enclosed is a picture of our house in Buenos Verdes. I
put in that landscaping myself.
Write back, but only if you want to. Bless you.
Music by the dead, for the dead.
The stars you see have long since burned.
The world for which these symphonies and etudes
were written lies buried and arcane–
gilded opera houses razed for parking,
sumptuous ballgowns trussed up in museums.
The past often intrudes without meaning to.
A laughtrack embalms the chuckles of the dead.
That easily-amused audience has all gone home, now
is newly arisen with elbows in our ribs.
It is dangerous to laugh with a ghostly chorus,
to share the lusts of corpses, the mirth of terminal cases
with sandbags above their heads.
Give me the present any day.
This week’s Top Forty and not the last’s,
today’s weather, purged of blind predictions,
with no regret for old selves, vanished times,
or lost songs by the dead musician.
A benevolent Providence…mercifully allowed everything to
deteriorate
during one’s lifetime. The summers got worse, the music noisier
and more
senseless, the buildings uglier, the roads more congested, the
trains slower
and dirtier, governments sillier and the news more depressing.
Solid as a Checker cab,
out of which might emerge some hoyden
with a muff, the sailor in the photo
grabs the nurse and kisses her.
Later, out of the frame, he tied one on
and had some other girl’s
name tattooed along the biceps.
Each letter bobs with the flex.
Here in the old Biltmore,
under the social season’s timepiece,
Wolcott met Benchley for poker,
Garbo stood bored in her boa,
and countless couples kissed,
or though of kissing.
The Biltmore clock ticks under glass now,
in the lobby of an international brokerage house.
Stripped of its content and out of a job.
The war is over.
Helipad on the Flatiron.
Trussed clothing swings from a rack.
The keystone and the arch.
The process was no doubt a merciful one because,
when he came to the end of his allotted span,
the average citizen was quite glad to go.
The carpet was red and the walls eggshell,
mirrors reflection the golden buggies,
carousel horses, Model T’s and fire engines
where we sat. A children’s barber shop resting
in a huge white department store in old New York.
The entrance was bronze, book in the windows,
books inside and along the ceiling on the balconies.
Men wore hats then, and women, gloves.
Trains from Santa Fe and Bangor, sleepers and Pullmans,
private coaches with steamer trunks, unloaded travelers
under the vaulted ceiling. More divine than St. Peter’s,
more teeming than Herald Square.
The week the papers went on strike,
the old Mayor, the Little Flower,
was on the Philco, reading us the comics
so we wouldn’t miss a thing–
Little Orphan Annie, Dondi, The Katzenjammer Kids.
•••••••
SEVEN DREAMS
I’m making a film, sitting high up on a hydraulic lift and peering into a camera. The
scene is poolside and I get so engrossed in capturing the two swimmer that I ‘drive’
the camera, the chair, and myself right into the pool. All I can do is yell, “Did I get
the shot”?
I’m waiting at a railroad station. But I wait for days. Soon it becomes clear that I’m
not sure which train is mine, nor am I sure that I could tell the right one if it did
arrive. It’s my college reunion, and the commemorative gift is little squares of
Providence, about two feet on each side. I buy three, all outside my favorite bar.
We go to a wedding in a seaside town, maybe Newport. But there is a hurricane and
monstrous waves are crashing over the outdoor reception, like some Japanese
horror film. The chairs and tables look like dollhouse furniture. Mike assures me
we’ll be safe and dry under the striped canopy.
Twenty of us are living in a high-ceilinged former ballroom in New York City. It’s
supposed to be a commune, but the place is so choked with beds, stoves, and
people’s belongings, that nobody has any privacy and we can barely move.
I am the only on this bothers.
My brother and I go to San Fransisco. The only hotel is a convent house in an
abandoned shopping center. The place is spare and bare, with high crucifixes all
over.
I move to Boulder and meet my old college boyfriend. He insists he and I have an
eight-year-old daughter, even though I haven’t seen him in 15 years. She does look
like me.
you will be weak but you will have survived
make a canyon between yourself and the past
trust in the dark woods
make use of everyone
how long is someone missed
can’t cry forever
gotta eat sometime
first day back to work
all respect all distance
but then someone makes a crack
and suddenly you’re laughing
how awful
but there it is
things are funny you laugh
and you go on
I don’t know why people are mortal and fated to die.
And I don’t know why people die at the time and in
the way that they do.
You call these choices?
A choice is mustard or mayo,
Tucson or San Diego,
Sedan or wagon.
Which way to suffer
is not a choice,
Balance Due: $896.08
We realize sometimes medical costs can be a financial burden. We are happy to offer you the following payment alternativesL
*a hospital sponsored bank loan
*the ease of paying with Mastercard or Visa
*an approved payment plan
MEMO:
Subject: Time Utilization
Summary: In the light of recent events it will be necessary to conserve time.
Therefore the following chances must be instituted without delay:
*curtail newspaper reading–eliminate twos of three dailies
*children and husband will be encouraged to make their own meals–cold cereal,
eggs and sandwiches are now acceptable dinner items
*screen all phone calls–return only a small percentage of these
*bargain-hunting is forbidden; all items will be purchased when most convenient,
no matter what the price
*tape all desired television programs so the commercials may be deleted
*no personal or household item will be saved for a special occasion–everything is
to be used as desired
*volunteer work shall be terminated immediately–all charities should be
dispatched
*drop all peripheral persons (relatives included) without apology
*there will be no sending of thank-you notes, letters to the editor, Christmas cards
or dinner invitations
*inessential maintenance of person and possessions will either cease or be
contracted out
Thank you for your attention in this matter.
Sincerely,
The Management
back to the upper world
I return as my own older sister
she understands immunity
and its laughable failings
now where has that girl got to
no longer a platypus among humans
the webbing begins to dissolve
can freely move on dry land
those are not eggs hatching but
warm male mammals my children
made peace with the calendar
at least the square marked today
holds a legible notation
no less present than before
as malleable a space as anyone needs
to do what time allows
tempted though to retreat
Santa Fe Florence Vancouver
a place beyond oh you poor thing
a place removed from cursedness
where no surface once held
bloodied gauze and used syringes
where no mirror retains the image
last year at this time some sneak made off with my life
show yourself you coward
come out into the light and face me
and now has shame-faced returned it
ripped and with some pages missing
but intact enough to use
no apology no nothing
He knows he’ll never walk down the street again, never go
into a restaurant or museum. He knows that.
•••••••
that’s me all right
smiling dumbly at the traffic cop
ER doc on new year’s eve
the iced-over trash
that’s me on the left
hair mostly grown back
squinting into the light
will it be from the top down
or from the inside out
will I forget and keep forgetting
or will I remember everything
Paul the cute one
George the quiet one
John
sorry girls he’s married
My Dear Theo,
My work is going very well, I am finding things that I have sought in
vain for years, and feeling this, I am always thinking of that saying of
Delacroix’s that you know, namely that he discovered painting when
he no longer had any breath or teeth left.
a throwaway moment
phone is silent
hungry ghost preoccupied
and when the plot resumes
something has changed
some argument settled
what had been shaky
has found a shoring-up-place
like when a relentless buzzing in your ears
finally lets up
just as you were thinking
of having it looked intp
the quiet is disquieting
the buzz had become your companion
and now the airwaves have all gone silent
so there’s no need
to feverishly twist the dial
waiting to tune into something better
somewhere else