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Logging Time: East by West - West by East After Rauschenberg: A Retrospective
You Who've Come To The Gate
Improvisations
Short Fiction
To This Country
Your Suicide

Marcelo Has Moved

& he's taken his illustrious, his most willing, his ingenious ingénues in crepe & candy-apple-pink & one by one ensconced them upstairs where a wanderer from Turkey or Tibet may, at any time, come & nuzzle & fondle & interrupt their sleep & toy with their transgressions &...& anyone at any time may come & unwrap the wicked Wanda from her revelry & the pixie Precious from her snicker & snooze & when the time is right you too may want to visit Violet & Virginia & titillate a tight valise or probe a puckered synapse or wrestle with Robert the Robber who lurks along the wailing wall & Yes - there is even time for the feint of heart to hearken to the song of the smithy who builds the chains & the executioner who slings the axe & to waltz with the widow in the willowy gown who weeps all night & run with the rude & ruddy runner in purple tights who blows you kisses & will let you nibble her nosh for a petty price & pet her pony for a penny & if  you're specifically meticulous & resourceful there will come a time for the goats to bleat & the roosters to lay & it's then you'll gather your wits & a silver goblet for luck & shake his hand & wish him luck & pack a box & mail yourself to Galveston where a tiger waits & a ship to Barbados & Miss Molly Malone...

Confluence
Astoria, Oregon - November 29, 2002

On the ride north we reminisce about family ties & kids on trial & growing up estranged & how discovery can set us free &  

where three rivers converge there's the constant & submissive sea to welcome & absorb the sludge & sap of continents &

where the monument to Lewis & Clark celebrates challenge & risk we're encouraged to contemplate transcendence & what it takes

to map mountains & lakes from the bow of a birchbark canoe & how the yowl of a hungry Grisly pawing the air in spring might churn the blood &

how some men assume futility but insist on going on & when the time is right accept the Salmon's challenge & swim upstream to spawn & die.

Vermeer in Madrid
March 20, 2003

The house is dark but light through the window tells the time & brings a shine to the young woman's face & to the guitar she strokes &

you'll notice the map of the known world above the table & the lowered eyes of the darker girl who holds an empty glass &

the crafty grin of the man in black who insists on poring more wine & the clown at the window who chuckles & chortles & waggles his tongue &

in the upper room, even darker now, the doctor has come to test their mother's pulse & like the hunter with his bag of game, leaves something to remember;

maybe a pheasant-cock to be plucked or maybe he's come to deliver a letter from an admirer - who can say? But,

after all, it's the painter who has let the fruit fall on the bed & turned the death-mask face-up on the table &

it's the painter with his back turned to us who's studied the girl & her downcast eyes & the pale dog who wanders between them &

it's the painter who chooses when to open the window & where the light will go & how the night will end for the women &

the men who prowl the rooms & look for the book that will tell them & for the glass that will lead them & for the door that will open out & set them free.

Dance I ­ Tango in 4 Parts

The Woman In The Window

wears white & weeps blue tears down her thin cheeks & in her silver hair she’s a nest of chickadees &

around her neck from a silver chain a miniature black cage
where a white cricket lives &

in her heart there’s a hole that has never been filled & in her mouth words she will not speak but

chews them day by day until they are the color of white paste & will be her meal for that night.

The woman in the window cannot find her way in the dark & depends on the moon & the shadows it casts

to make a path for her to come & go & in the day she is motionless in her chair of asphodel & weeds &

looks to the horizon like a pilgrim anticipating a ship or a queen her lost love & when I see her, as I often do,

I wave & she smiles that rare smile & I see her teeth are true & her eyes turn bright as the darkest stars.

This is a story someone is trying to remember
After Valerie & Ed Smallfield

If I can,
I will tell you of the deer dying in the yard & starved pullets
that wander in circles in the snow &
how I need to find the place they scattered my father’s bones &
to hear my mother’s final words.
If I ever can,
I will tell you again of my need to caress my first wife & not be thinking, ‘Would Gloria take me back as I was.’
When I remember,
I might tell you volumes of lies that disguise faces & florid afternoons with wine & sesame cakes & visits from . . . but
chances are slim & the train will leave soon & before I go I wish you well &
warn you of the blizzard that will come in the night (as it will) &
the family that eroded as some do &
the marriage that was doomed & the evil that kids do to one another &
if you remember to tell this story as it was told,
I will send you a letter with a number & a key & when you find what
you are looking for
maybe you will remember me.

In Some Summers Even New York

carries a blanket of gauze like heated skin – all albino. In this city of many colors my uncle cries out in my sleep. He is dying & knows it. He
limps forward to speak & is interrupted by his nephew Bernard who rocks him in his arms & coos a blessing in a voice I’ve never known.
There’s a festival beginning. It’s for the sleepers who have awakened & the embittered who have reluctantly returned to meditate.
He who won’t eat thorns must build a fire of dried dung – heat & stir the pot. She who cooks dead flesh is taken, with a blade, to slit a young throat.
Those who won’t take the hand of a cripple are compelled to & dive with sharks – steal a bait-fish to scale.
When the table is set, someone (I can’t see) chants in a foreign tongue the prayer for peace in the afterlife.
In the end, my uncle dies & a stone is laid in the ground & smaller stones are gathered – a new room is begun.

Passing Through Fog

. . . we leave behind three or four images of ourselves, each one different from the others; we see them through the fog of the past, like portraits of our different ages. -Chateaubriand

If you turn left at the first roundabout & follow the road for a mile you’ll come to the cemetery where she holds court.
There’s a sweetwater spring on the property & a large brown cow in the shed giving milk; the boundaries are clear.
She came first for the body & insisted it be a man’s; dark & lean with a hint of muscle in every move.
Orange for the gown was her next choice but soon was convinced blue might & then it was magenta until yellow & . . .
Her skin may sag but her eyes are bright & she wields her scythe with guts & precision & startles the mob with her wrath.
Will she know you now that the winds have changed & you’re surrounded by empty trucks & an army of talkers?
Be careful what you pack in the night & heft by day; an alligator, two jackals – a monkey with sharp green teeth.
No one will hold you hostage in summer but in the fall there are many who need work; avail yourself of my services.
If you’ve forgotten I’ll remind you & besides, somewhere down the road there’ll be signs to follow; just like the last time.