27/28

i

weather is purely subjective
localized to each their own
jane finds gray skies
a palliative to the soul.

ht

ii

(2.12.10)
thank you
(mr. lincoln)
for freeing slaves
(in a foreign country, but not your own)
for setting loose
your dogs of war
(on the retarded
genteel South)
for drafting
the huddled masses
(to fight a rich man's war)
the Holy War
to Preserve the Union
and Free the Slaves
(and keep the Money
at Home.)

ht

25/26

i
hidden deep with the protective custody of
the complete jane eyre
i found, last night, a photograph
a woman feeding pigeons in William's Park
when i took the photograph (at 17) i thought
sweet, fat old lady feeding pigeons on a bench
"real life reportage"
i caught a pigeon sitting on her hand
her smile behind dark glasses
i never noticed that her sandals
were perfect snowdrift white
that her legs were bare and rather nice
or that she wasn't very old
at all.

ht

ii
i smell diesel
my old perfume
and long
for a home
with sails
and a mast
and a horizon
as vast
as the sea.

ht.


i am finding this project more difficult than i expected. i had forgotten that i have to dig for good poetry, as much as i have to dig for good prose. it requires a few moments of quietude, preferably a cup of tea, and a clean kitchen. i have been posting a quantity of crap poetry of late, leading me to decide that i will continue to write every day but give myself the option of not posting rubbish. in that vein, i will start re-reading all my poetry books. starting with wendell berry.
here's to better poetry. ht.

22/23/24

i.

four crows drinking snow
in the middle of the street
under pregnant skies

ht.

ii.

the sound of running water
trickles through my dreams
brilliant cold
melting snow
in braided rivers
down the drive
off the roof
pelting holes
in red mud
gray snow
and me.

ht

iii.

el nino
you bastard
give me back
the sun.

ht.

20/21

i

too many opinions
on Vampire Weekend
synchopated rhythms
repetitive chorus
remind me
(inexplicably)
of an Eye of Horus
hidden in my treasure box
reminder of a life
long before my own
a little boy i would oneday love
stealing fingers in Cairo
a desert i have never seen
places i have never been
in synchopated rhythms
and repetitive chorus
reminding me
(inexplicably)
of an Eye of Horus.

ht. (2.1.10)

ii

a scrap of song
on infinite loop
chases its tail
through the fabric
of a day
woven in between the threads
(lowland)
of doing and driving
(lowland)
chopping onions, making soup
(lo-owland)
washing dishes, making tea
(they sank him)
between the steady click
of knitting needles
(in the lowland sea)
it plays
again
and again
only the refrain of
the Golden Vanity.

ht. (2.2.10)