Wall Street mothers stay home learn more.
The shadow looking sharp above the floor.
The musical event of the season 3.5 billion
Life thought to have arisen on Twitter like
Facebook in the same crater where it lasted
thousands of years.
Life not designed to answer that question.
But the planet is plausible. A professor said
microbes plopped, you could easily get
a lake, the thing just seems Earthlike—
frigid, arid, bombarded.
After it cooled it was wetter.
It was soaking wet.
Not so much water as sulfuric acid.
Two mudstones named John appear to have
swept down from the walls.
Curiosity could have served as food.
There were microbial organisms around.
I think they would have liked that in Tucson.
In caves signs of life line up, cold and arid,
What does it mean.
We’re all thinking solid evidence destroyed
by radiation could work.
Words excised from webpage: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/10/science/space/on-mars-an-ancient-lake-and-perhaps-life.html?_r=0
Always there is that one beside you
no matter the gray evening with its
piercing stars or the silent road, an
invitation to abide or go,
it is what’s made for you that’s not you,
the thing past you in looking glasses,
unseen quests and all unspoken poems,
parent of the street’s cacophony
the mess of executed thought, one
with your inside face, mysterious
to you still as collapsing stars or
water bears or even the water
that washes you or fills your cup, as
promising as all forgotten things.
You see “pain sisters” and feel a minor
elation, relief as if what will now
be revealed is a special order of
operatives managing the routes pain
travels, tricking pain perhaps into
circumnavigating the center in you
where you are holding out with only
a rag and a butter knife to defend
yourself. But pain travels its own tricky
path, arrives but never really leaves,
from time to time relents to let you see
its absence only signals its return
with fresh armies and replenished
supplies to fortify its occupation,
to pull up the bridge over its moat,
to shut that twittering outside about
who feels pain, how pain feels, how they
feel about having pain as if it’s
something one has when anyone who knows
can tell you that pain goes inside you and
locks the door, makes you its little cake,
burning up your life to clear a way to
the cupped edge of its inside world.
image: “The Burning,” http://publicdomainreview.org/2013/04/17/illustrations-from-a-victorian-book-on-magic-1897/
When death stopped by the room was ready—
the dark with its luminescent sonar,
the tedium of equipment, its scrawl and bell,
forced breathing like a turn signal still on
when you forgot to turn, sounding like tires
on patchy road, or like an ocean outside
a closed door, the sound of saying taken
from you, the sound you swam beneath already
far away from us, leaving, gone.
Just the week before you joked about more
elegant transmutations, that breathy
speech saying you wished to be encrypted
for retrieval at some better future date or
aged in a barrel and sipped neat cold nights or
milled to feed the trees that shade the porch.
We hope you’ve forgiven us for not acting
on such worthy desires—finding you now
each day in places you didn’t even know,
we’ve happily concluded that you
maneuvered past the end there on your own.
image: The Disappearance Explained: http://publicdomainreview.org/2013/04/17/illustrations-from-a-victorian-book-on-magic-1897/
if and if not we between
ways that were not human ways
whispering next door that thundered
lightning that ran blue around the room
nobody would say monkey first
so we were always alone afraid
it lived there more than we did
chewed us up from inside out
how loud must alarm be
before we give it up
how much alarm
the road from there was so straight
and hot it burned up to your brain
we saw each other walking there
and pretended we did not
the loneliest creature
a mate without a mate,
no place to land or launch,
floating, rolling, sailing
from wind to solar wind,
not looking, but listing
toward stormy surfaces,
hanging between pull and
pull away, not sad,
just wandering, a universe
deep dark, that shining thing
far off, all that distance
like loss before you know
it’s loss, like love before
you know it’s love.
You could see where it was shifting
if you looked down, they didn’t want
to look down they said
they said here now
jumping around to demonstrate
to stop all saying.
Shortly after one could have said but didn’t
told you so
such cold satisfaction when all that
dangling and lurching
was going on
and so much more digging and sorting
was left to be done.
we had reached the summit
We moved all together
in a ragged line since
all landscape was precipice
We’d lost all words
for subtle or minute variation
that is to say
there was only undulation
and time and
even less to say only
commenting and captioning and
we got there rather fast.
Marmoset cubicle errata.
combustion and speculation.
But it didn’t matter
that you recognized
soon everyone looked like a friend,
subsequent falling in love.
What a relief
the dismantling of former lives
the only disarray the
increasingly distant past.
Which is just to say
we went toward
whatever drew us and
anywhere we were
In all its vain nudgings and itches,
willful revolutions, flutters, sighs,
the flesh is at its best. But
its muscling throbs and impudent ticks
punish us in our prime.
What is flesh but a purse soft or
stuffed stiff with the coin of desire?
See how it begs the owner’s riffling hand
but finds the robber’s agreeable too?
And what are we but wishes
rimmed with tags of flesh?
The Reservoir at Villa Falconieri, Frascati, Maxfield Parrish. American (1870 - 1966)
The mirror states its own flat case,
recalls when you’re not looking
all the looking it contains,
the blank mind it conjugates,
the eye it’s proxy for.
You wear the empty skin it
puts you in, what you think others think,
the reused canvas, the leftover
little thing you let it make of you.
Even in your dreams it waits for you,
invites you over for photographs
of its vacations and events,
the ones you thought were yours.
If you don’t know me, I’m a river
of light, your spookily attractive
blind date, the man of all moments,
the mother of all mysteries,
the dog that won’t run on command,
the tardy dinner guest and yes
the thief with all your codes.
Between here and here or there and there,
this train never arrives—the dream that you
cannot quite recall makes your day unreal.
Imagine me in your dark corridor,
moving at my lonely cruising speed—
you don’t need me to tell you
as soon as there must be something else,
something is missing.
I am the something that loves
the part of you not merely you
so unlike the little midday god
that busy bee enforcing all the
small taboos, just waiting for you
to break a rule no one knows about
to fling the gates open to shut you out
somewhere where to our surprise
being is a blessing by default,
not the outlaw of the sensible world.
I whiz by so supernaturally fast
you’ll always look for me only where
I’ve recently been, the tiny loose nut
that’s screwed up the beam.
If you want a collision,
I want to escape.
By the time you arrive,
I’ve already paid the bill—there I am
riding away in the rain
in my celestial cab.
How could I not hope
when that was all there was—
at worst or best
(so fine a line)
I ever after knew
that good wasn’t
if I was?
Such a seller’s market
no one bought,
looked and looked,
until things underground
rose up and militated.
It took such a long time
to be over,
and then it was.
Everyone was pretty
and I was way past