A row,
your interrogator face and
walk therapy.
Too cold for massages and too
dry
for rain.
Your excuses pile up;
my excuses pile up.
We’ve finished with this city
before we’ve started.
Sometimes I think about
other girls.
Sometimes
I dream of places
where it rains
more.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Bukowski, obliteration, Portland, snow, Zen
A man has to have snow
to write great things.
His soul must be still, white,
unmoving,
must cover over every part of his existence
like a great snowy blanket.
Like the icy, unforgiving fingers of the Muse.
On snowy days, I’ve heard
not even the wind
moves, afraid of disturbing the poetic stillness.
Even the writers who never had snow
were great snowy figures apt to chill readers to the bone
with white expanses of clarity,
cooped up like children on a snow day
in L.A., in the deep South,
on a beach in Mexico.
Great words
obliterate.
Snow obliterates.
May snow
or great words come
to obliterate
me.
Filed under: poems | Tags: abandonment, Camus, death, fallenness, Heidegger, Nietzsche, Orpheus, philosophy, Portland, San José, the Columbia, The fall, the Willamette
The Columbia has abandoned us,
the Willamette, too; and the Guadalupe; and
San Jose. And Portland. We’re
abandoned into history. We’re run aground on
a little island,
but it isn’t really a little island — it’s
a sea monster.
Verily.
The sea monster doesn’t want to drink tea
with us; it doesn’t want
to play tennis. In fact the sea monster seems to have no
interest in anything about us, what we do or whatever happiness we’ve managed
to scrape together in this small insignificance we call existence.
In fact the sea monster seems to want us for
lunch. This sea
monster is life.
Heidegger said
we’ve been abandoned into the world.
We’ve fallen
into it.
Does this sound familiar?
We’re falling together.
I smell the concrete
who knows how far down.
“La chute” Camus called it. “The fall.”
I can’t even turn my head to look.
It
doesn’t matter.
You are here
and
it’s wonderful.
We were told the Northwest is a big foolish beast,
no sea monster: a Cerberus
for we sweet Orpheuses
to blanket with sound.
We’ll smile as we play
our lyres. We’ll sing in
harsh voices.
We’ll pluck the breath from each other’s chests
while there’s still breath left to draw.
We’ll live breathless.
Au bout de soufflé.
Is there concrete below?
Has the war started?
I don’t care.
I’m happiest when I’m with you.
You wrote in a little card,
“Coup dedans là. Tout sera OK.“
Hang in there. All will be OK.
Come sea monsters. Come Cerberus. Come fools.
Come fall.
