|
|
|
|
|
|
I was afraid the hearse passing would make you sad.
New silver hearses are elegant. I said as much to the undertaker.
When the leaves fell down that Autumn, and some were scarlet, they fell down in one day.
If the hearse was filled with oranges, that would have brought sadness on.
Others, blue, fell later, loose, individual, with the snow.
At the point of winter, light dusting in the encrypted trees,
Never larger than the heart. If the stone could speak if I could speak.
Go far away, not this town. The houses are connected underground.
I love that I can water the daffodils. You see that don’t you?
The moon when it floats atop the oaks. Doesn’t matter how big the heart, the leak is always larger.
That’s interesting. Moonlight heals the trees, in Winter.
Silver water drips into crisscrossed roots, you drink from a hose by the side of the house.
Moving gray, this field. Hidden in branches. Bird, kind of prayer.
Snow, orange & egg. Toppled headstone. Man running with a wing.
Heavily veined, marble. Field moves in & out of the light.
Tree waits forever. Like that. Charred wood, here & there in the drifts.
I know, I know. I am the Buddha’s dog.
|
|
You think Autumn is a grave or bed.
The chocolate mildew scent coming over you, you think that.
The moon illumines the junk in the pond.
Becoming junk itself, you want to understand your life
And believe meaning lies in understanding the metaphor.
In this case: the junk, the light, the pond.
You suspect, in the end, you will understand only symbolism
And this will make you more empty,
But more respectful of Beauty and the tiny truths
That surround it. Notice light floats down
On late flowers and some deer like fine drizzle.
Wouldn’t knowing ruin everything
As love and the idea of God undermine permanency?
In fact, you know, this night will last forever.
|
The point is fatal.
Bird song, this AM, is vulgar, charming, in an old-world way.
No one looked over Icarus’ father’s shoulder: Make me,
I only resemble a creature that flies once or twice.
I may only enter the center of the outer worlds.
I take my lead from my neighbors, whom I conversely love.
The feather shipwrecked in the lake at twilight.
The rake abandoned in the melting green meadow.
If we dial our dead parents we are out of the area.
Love, I am talking about. Hidden in the lines of prayer.
Mean to meant. If not, love, tenderness.
How we hold a tiny frog like a flame which blisters our forefinger.
I swim in the upside down firs of the pond to The Mother.
But I think it is away from god.
It is easier to feed the birds than to actually eat the bread oneself.
From the pond: There is no boat, that I am certain of.
True, the only one that exists has been overturned on the shore all summer.
The webbed hands hold glass beads and are almost nothing.
The ferns smell like woman. The reeds stir.
I lie beside it in twilight.
Amnesty
Children skating in early January, falling through sky.
Stop by a restaurant, where the chef is sharpening
Knives, lean against wall till (your back cold)
There is no wall (have a cigarette, smoke trailing & trailing).
You follow it. God blows on your gloves. Cat drags an old tulip,
Spraying hard dirt & leaves in the hall. Zero out.
Your ex-girlfriend leans over & kisses you in the coffin.
Today, with the glazed maples, a little white in the moon, I don’t believe I love.
Read the green, luminescent line on the horizon at dusk.
Two clean college kids “for Christ” banged on my door like angry mailmen.
You have the wrong house. I knew right away that was not the smart thing to say.
There are no wrong houses when it comes to Jesus.
I’m Buddhist. Christ accepts everyone.
I am not exactly depressed, just a little sad.
Trace the tattoo on your arm or leg, if you have an idea of what I’m talking about.
When
the earth & snow is apricot for seconds & your dreams fall fast as water
Out the window, wouldn’t you say in the middle of that uncontestable joy, is sorrow,
Like a metal sliver? Wouldn’t you say a sign with a couple letters out
Makes you sad. You could say those women eating snow in a racy manner
Is sad, but you wouldn’t. I can’t explain. I follow the lovely wild horses
With my eyes. They become lost in the shadow of mountain & then, darkness.
I love the way that happens. But who can be certain, when it comes to imagery.
My parents slathered my wounds, as a child, with milk & ink.
I hate milk, even now. I did not write until I loved the world,
Where things change quietly.
Snow lands on the roof like coins from far away.
Birds, further back, for sure.
A woman waits nude
In the next room
With a candle.
I don’t think she waits for me.
I have chosen to be alone.
The cats fall
At my feet like mad slaves,
Try to whirl on their heads
With sexual energy.
It doesn’t matter what I wear
For the journey, it will always
Be the same coat of twenty years
& a bullet-proof vest.
The woman now is on her haunches,
Her outstretched arm (look at the muscular vein)
Holds a small, crumpled American flag.
The light is striped over her,
In which particles of dust & darkness shake.
Do I understand Beautiful?
Half of what I understand is here.
Editors Note: The particularity of line spacing in Mr. Gontarek's poetry is intentional.
