ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 3

BE DIGITAL
and believe what falls between your fingers...


DAYLIGHT FARM SUPPLY
wet lawns along the river...


ASKING FOR HELP
the one I want...


BYE BYE
to be commanded to sit down...


HEAVEN AND HELL
Understand me: I was the boy...


MY FACE IN THE MIRROR
what have you done...


MESSAGE
there is a line...


ALERT
televangelists and...


ANNOUNCEMENT
the modern boat is sinking!...


NO MISTAKES
understand me: I am the musician...


FINDING
my eyes if I should lose them...


LOVE POEM
sh! the poet is sleeping...


AFTER
the crowd without its beggar...


AGAINST IMMORTALITY
I don't want to live forever...


ADJUST
At last the flow of water has changed:...


PROTESTANT MEMORY
to keep myself from crying...


DOWNPOUR
the cats come in...


RELIGIOUS SCENE
on the wall of the steakhouse...


ON MY CARPET
he calls it his...


APPEAL
your honors...


SONG OF CONFESSION
my heart a poisoned well...


DRIVING
the black femur...


INTERSECTION
the corner of lost memory...


FIRST COLD DAY
in the back yard...


THEFT OF A LINE FROM SIMIC
dark night...


EXAMINATION
reading the heart's...


ABSURD
to say...


NEVER COMPLETE
bowing like a long-necked bird...


AS HE SHIFTS THEM
In the back pew of...


untitled
this poetry...


END OF THE EIGHTIES
the story takes...


12/31/91
outside in...


IN A CAR
we're in California...


MORNING INCIDENT
Getting up to let the cat in I felt myself growing weak,...


untitled
you wiped out...


4/3/92
a dream...


FAILING TO RECOGNIZE
even as it occurred...


ROCK PAINTING
the dance I did...


REFUSING TO UNDERSTAND
what comes from the dog's mouth...


NIGHTWORK
the secret government...


ODE TO THE FRIENDS OF POETRY
the friends of poetry...


LOCATION
rights and privileges...


SENSE OF AN ENDING
the last breath I...

3x5 SNAPSHOT

Five Buzzards on the lawn, all related to me. The black clothing
of the one in the middle hides all but her inscrutable face. 
Salome. Of the men, one is Doc, one is Alpha, one is John, one 
is Moses, who made popcorn for his people on the square in 
Wakarusa every Saturday. The town band playing, farmers selling 
from their wagons, children running screaming to and from the 
store with the soda fountain in back. It is full summer. A tree 
massy with leaves towers behind them, a dirt road runs nearby 
with more trees behind it thick enough to close off the horizon. 
The grass is worn where they stand, and there is a low white 
railing marking the edge of something--a parking area? a field 
where chldren play? a lot deeded to a church for a graveyard? It 
is a summer day. The weather is fine. They have survived one 
century and stand sturdily in the next. They are there on 
another day of the absence of those many who were old when they 
were young and tried to explain the exact mix of sternness and 
gentleness necessary for life. It is only a photograph, not 
reality, the present moment. But they know that, photography or 
not, any moment of the moments we've had can come back, that 
they all continue just because they once were, even if the 
snapshot is lost, the people long gone, no one to remember, no 
story to tell.