Live-poem

I live-poemed the first half of the France-Honduras game tonight.

noisetumbling

bodies in pain, turfrolling

roundkickers everywherebouncing, polegate the focus

aiming and kneepumping, aircatching

orangegleam footboats, sunshiny grassstompers

sweatcanvas chocolate and mocha, plainpink, scratchypeach, old orange

climb, jump, one ballpusher rolls up the other's worldbearing broadness

ouch and crouch, always a legbending tripfooting

pause

hugepeople closeups but no, draw away, tinymen all-colors

dancing the stripemarble down, down the greenfuzz

beephonking, peopleroars, dull, dull, constant

now again pain, downman the body wrongbending

crowdshovers scary a muddleheap

braverunners on, on, pretzeltwist kickbodies shufflerun brightfoots

oh boxfilling shoes, upspraying grassdivot mudlets

crosspatterns, twistsprinting

multiman millipede

pain again, flatbacking ballsplatting

huddledman curlrounding, upbouncing now again

play, always playbodies

closeface now, dripnose and eyeferocious,

ballrocket straightflight, hugballman falling the wrongside

clinch, clench, happymans eachdancing lookat-us lookat-us

yellowbright scarewarner, leftbodies rightbodies

and - done.

manwalkers legs, legs, legs slowtromping now.

Birthday ghazal for Michel

I think, after all, I must like you a little. I follow you!

From the glorious coasts to the towns you belittle, I follow you.

All those airplanes we've caught by a hair, by a prayer.

All those leases we've signed with a jot and a tittle: I follow you.

You have thought that I'm guilty of not enough caring.

Here, love, is my perfect acquittal: I follow you.

Houses, walk-ups, and rentals. More boxes, more movers.

Together in zigzags. Is that noncommittal? I follow you.

Here we are in this crazy-paint treehouse, amor

Slowly finding some kind of routine that we whittle. I follow you.

We're looking for things we have lost or we've wished for.

We're mellowing, softening, things that were brittle. I follow you.

In the ground a fragment of glass - ghazal

In the ground a fragment of glass, curved, blue, like a cup

In the mirror an angle of cheek I can see right through, like a cup

In the heat looking anywhere, everywhere, breathing

Reaching for sky, air, ice, like a prayer that flew, like a cup

On the wall a thick flat blue Madonna and child

He ignoring her white round breast, firm and new, like a cup

In my thirst crooking hands to catch trickles of anything wet

To capture the least hint of lingering dew, like a cup

Everywhere I look are the bowl-shaped curves, mocking drought

Collecting and pooling my bitter dry kisses for you, like a cup.

On the balcony there is a yearning bloom - ghazal

On the balcony there is a yearning bloom, bright yellow.
It is watching the sun and deflecting the gloom, bright yellow.

You came home hot and dry from the day, footsore and dusty
Found the flower that beckoned you through the room, bright yellow.

A drink for you and a drink for the potted plant on the railing
Boom, the leaves perked up and the flower: boom boom, bright yellow!

A pot and a stem and a spiral of buds in waiting
Where this flowerhead wilts there the next will resume, bright yellow.

Swirling reds on the floor and the blues on the wall fan into the dusk.
But again you look up with a smile. Va-voom: bright yellow!

Hot - slant sonnet circlet

Fighting the heat I am fighting my self-creature, legs brain skin.

Skin-sticky, tired, snap-ready, no body here but me to lay into.

Into the evening open-mouthed, breeze-waiting. The day my undoing.

Undoing the doing of cool unflappable me. Undoing me.

Me in pieces, in crazy, in wanting you all gone pronto.

Pronto you skitter-scatter, empty is all there is here now. Hot.

Hot room after room, me fighting me fighting me fighting.

***

Fighting the dead slow air I am breathing alone. Losing.

Losing the wait, losing my snap-together cool.

Cool is a memory gone flat, melting. Kissing what I was.

Was one piece. Was think-alone, stand-up-straight, watch out scary!

Scary the falling apart. Now alone. Empty hot cavern rooms.

Rooms for chasing the gone-away air-breeze here, there.

There is no me left. There is only the fighting.

The island of slow-burn treadmill worry - ghazal

I have these awful habits to unlearn (not yet)

You send solicitations that I spurn: not yet!

I am on the island of slow-burn treadmill worry

I will return I will return I will return not yet

The kind rowboats circle, shouting Strawberries!

Books! Dance parties! They peddle and churn. Not yet.

Backache, deadlines. Checklists shop-lists do-lists

Self self self. Can't you hear my stern "not yet"?

I am the island, we are locked we are closed.

Rowboats go away! Bridges, bridges, burn! // Not yet!

The sweet rebellion has not freed these shores.

When will I clasp and not just yearn? Not yet.

People

People

"and no one is much,
and everyone should know that we share that."
*
from “Hanging Out with Girls” by Hannah Gamble

-------

no one is much and the heat of the night presses in after the winter

no one is much and I welcome the interruption, seven billion

no one is much and the numbers keep climbing
seven with one blow, buzzing buzzing I want the light off no matter what

no one is much, you will find me far up a tree in spite of my fear
shorts under my dress of course, Mommy said so when climbing

small small small. no one is much. but no one can talk up a storm
the noise in the quiethouse buzzing, buzzing I want the light off.

no one is much. the world in a tight hot clutch, surrounding
no one is much. the feathery touch compounding
no one is much. the voices drone on, flute and warble, pound bang
oh the voices, the beautiful -

no one is much.