Thursday, July 1, 2010

on the make

if man makes to deny
death he’s a continent
governed by an island
and all that water
and then what—
jimmy rollins goes yard
in chicago
as if to say for us all
i miss you like crazy
to whatever dies in us
every morning
the walk-off replayed forever
i can’t get over
how cool to flip
the bat like that—
it’s time to leave
the bar for the sake
of my hands
which, opened, smell
of tacos & potsmoke
as what to make suddenly’s
the question of walking
home in the heat that
eats you        little bits
of family in a voice
spat toward the future
from trees of teeball
practice          those
sycamores across
the street making me
count the many weeks
since a coffee w/ you
that died in me
across a little round table
an eye broken like
a halfdollar as you
listened for what
it’s worth against
the tottering situation
of things      the world
going by      embarrassing
like haiku     flew off
the sill         are you seeing
any one       my dumb
prayer of to-do list
groceries crossed out
on back of a poem
in shirt pocket
the dog on my heart
knowing i know
it is god
cares less and less
the city is quiet
which means we lost
its talk growing slowly
as nice strangers
in no real direction
       no telling
       no telling how it all
turns out               even after
all those good times
all those good times gone
down the sink
you don’t clean
any more
the fight is the dream
says lauren
in a poem that ends
it’s summer   it’s summer
       wrapped up
       wrapped up
i'm happy and tough
and sad so easy
      sad so easy