(9 line poem written in 9 minutes at SPIT open mic)

What happens when you take apart a radio? You get pieces of a radio and no music.
Me

He found it half-buried in the sand.
It looked like an old argument.
It still glowed green when he
plugged it in and for a moment
all was well.

But its static ate at talk
like ocean surf eats sand yet
unpleasant so many
short staccato bursts from
gulls claiming turf clamoring
for that broken receiver revealed by
undertow.

His wife said it's broken.

To fix it
he plants transistors
in his brow furrows tongue between
teeth tip out of mouth the
chance of rain concentrate ear perks
for the sound of unfurling first sprouts
the year it takes the earth to exhale.

His wife can tell
his scent has changed replaced by
the tang of hot wiring above his eyes a
range of antennae move when he is not
speaking he never speaks now nor
goes to field or shore anymore his eyes
centerscreen dots
of an old TV

a night arrives-
he dies starven eyes blinded with tears
his widow unscrews his head and throws
it from the window to shatter among
the thyme. Just enough peace for one
last night in his arms. 

The next morning her garden is filled
with radio towers, red lights
wink at her from the clouds.

Her foot upon a first strut-
hand upon a stanchion-
she does not climb but turns
and stumbles over
a hill to
sit
where

they used to
listen
to
the
sea.

Topic provided by Miles Budimir was: “2nd law of thermodynamics (entropy, etc…)”

Writing time: 47 minutes.

Discarded ideas: empiricism/mysticism, using wryneck form

Kept ideas: catalog, light tone with serious topic

I shall fall off a cliff and die
and like a blind dog falling off the same cliff,
my son will die, and his son;
from that same cliff until, one day, that
fucking cliff will fall off itself.

its crumbs shall crumble into themselves
until the earth becomes a peppery dust
that makes the sun sneeze; blown away. 

The waning moon will wonder
what it did deserve this. 

                                yea verily,
and the sun shall use the last
fingernail crescent of the moon for a
toothpick before going nova.

Eventually,
the empty wake of space will lap against itself
for a bit, and at that ceasing; here,
after the end of time, and not since before the beginning
of time, for the second time,
it may be quiet enough to think.

It is neither the flag that moves, nor the wind that moves. It is your mind that moves.

Zen Koan

she is drunk as the moon
shining above her arms bracket
face she is wayward
with some beat some hit
forgotten forgot to pull up and
pull down her too small tube
dress breast ass right on that
line drive to lizard hindbrain
the crowd slows surround conversation
strays away to gaze and she knows
they watch her

        (don't watch her!
         watch them
         watch her)

men stare and women
glare here and there a squint
or licked lip a thumb running
down the sweat of glass
fingers press to table
cigarette pull and arched eyebrow
it is not silent but would be
but for that beat that hook
she the bait they
want to take

and so when the night died
and nobody told us
and when we weren't looking
                        the moon
stumbled behind some buildings to
                        sleep it off
                        having
                        observed the measure
                                      of our desire

[I]f it concerns anything not in our control, be prepared to say that it is nothing to you.

- Epictetus, The Enchiridion as translated by Elizabeth Carter

O, yes I saw how you said
what you said to him. That
flirt to fuck and sweet hip
shook once. I gave a glower.
Tense mute brow a bent
soot streak. In silence,
the mind accretes a heap
of imagined infidelities.

Though we entangle. Become
the roaring fire gullet the
frenzy wrangle the
clutch [[g][r]]asp torrent.
Mantises!
You in the shower and
I should be in with but I'm
reading texts on your phone or
scouring your email my
skull a black iron set by the
stove innocuous until
you touch it.
                               Some books say:
                               "To be possess is to hold, occupy
                               or reside in, without regard to
                               ownership." "It does not belong
                               to you." "Repent, therefore, of this
                               thy wickedness."
The way I stood over
those many women, still,
with silent loom, tangent
phrase, fear beyond
the closed door more than me.
but not for long, long ago, no longer.

                               Nor now allow all freedom, no
                               eye-heat adrenaline-
                               hand snap-tongue withering.
                               Morph yet not to bud a peach
                               but die to whitefly. Seed-
                               germ split to, spilt upon,
                               spit on, ground down to ground

                   for growth
                   unlikely.   Every alley a false Buddha. Our
                               spoons have long handles. We cannot
                               feed ourselves,
                                               but we could
                                               feed each other.
           Learn to speak
                                O,
           muzzled ox, or starve
           with food upon your back.

This poem has been simmering for nearly a year now, and the day that inspired it will always be special to me. I was very concerned that it not be mawkish or cliché. I’m still not convinced I made it work, and I think it could still use some polish, especially clarification of subjects & objects. Since it has been simmering so long, I figure I’d better publish it before I never publish it. Thanks to Steve Goldberg & Milenko Budimir for the workshop help.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling

My mom gave me a framed version of this poem on my 16th birthday. I wasn’t a man then, so I didn’t really understand it. Later, when I thought I understood it, I disagreed with it on all points. It sat in the closet in my old room until I turned 30, at which time my mom gave it to me again. I flipped it over and on the back was the note she’d written my for my 16th birthday, the note she’d written for my 30th, and the handwritten poem my Grandma wrote for me on my 16th. Reading “If” at 30 is yet again a different experience. Now I feel like I understand it; now I strive for these listed virtues.

Now it hangs in my son’s room, and I hope as he grows that he will feel the same ways I’ve felt about it over the years.