The Seven Dreams of Nebuchadnezzar

Punk Rock

2011-11-08T11:07:00.001-05:00

I got a guitar today
twenty-five bucks for a used Hyundai
maybe now I'll learn how to play
or even find something to say

I've got a red guitar and three chords
where's my truth?

Communication need not war with Nature

2009-02-23T21:23:00.002-05:00

Recruiting, drafting, drilling words
to array them just so
for affect,

they go AWOL, show up drunk
with dirty uniforms or no bullets
and don't have the
desired effect.

Clumsy.
Mediation is clumsy: words get in the way.
Kiss me.
Understand?

Then kiss me again.

Time is better spent doing

2008-09-16T19:55:00.001-04:00

If you knew how much I love you
you would never ask, for
even an index or table of contents
would be many fat volumes long
and I haven't life left
to give a full answer words.

This is pillow talk

2008-06-28T12:54:00.002-04:00

This is pillow talk:
bliss explodes in the darkness, filling it
with hot words. Yes, the words tumble out, yes;
unchecked, spewing beyond control,
intertwining themselves compulsively.
They leave empty what was filled with only
words, having stained the sheets of my notebook.
Not even iambic, not even rhymed,
they are words, poor company for the night.

No joining bodies; only spoken words,
sound and fury: do the syllables mean
when no one hears them? Seductions sound strange
without lover's ear. Were I god, I would
rip you whole from my forehead or my ribs:
in the beginning, and end, was the word.

This is an act

2008-06-27T07:18:00.001-04:00

This is an act, as empty
as breathing
and of as little
consequence:
two bodies
together
in poetry--
not words, symbols,
hieroglyphics or ideograms,
but meaning--
together
in an act
as empty
as breathing.

This is madness

2008-06-25T07:25:00.001-04:00

This is madness:
playing with words,
the infantile ego
knows no bounds;
creation
is creation;
nothing is new.

The passion fades
leaving
marks on a page,
ancient marks, symbols
of ancient thoughts:
in the beginning
was
the word.

This is a word without meaning

2008-06-23T17:13:00.002-04:00

This is a word without meaning: szeretlek,
a temporary insanity,
i-love-you repeats,
echoing,
for days on end
without
proceeding to a language.

Hallucinate the absolute new:
there is no greater love than
language. The vocabulary
of compression
has seven words for snow, but
cannot distinguish
degrees of love:
szeretlek, word without nuance,
suppresses explanations,
adjustments,
degrees,
scruples;
against language,
there is no answer.

This is desire

2008-06-22T10:29:00.002-04:00

This is desire: unspeakable
and full of glory,
hunger
not to be satisfied,
consuming itself
growing full
of glory,
growing stronger,
growing.

The infantile ego
of creation,
unable to tell
even half;
the ego,
full of glory,
such that half
has never yet been told;
the ego
grows
empty
with desire.

This is how we begin to forget

2008-06-21T11:42:00.002-04:00

This is how we begin to forget: day breaks
on the dream; light
fixes words to the page
changing
images
into imperfect
symbol.
Days turn into the past;
symbols represent,
but are not
what they mean.

Marks on a surface,
dreams affixed to the page
fade
with the light;
image turns to symbol,
then to dust
leaving
symbol.

This is how we begin to remember

2008-06-20T19:37:00.002-04:00

This is how we begin to remember:
the imperfect blooms
as daylight after the dream
and coming to mind,
by an effort, are only
insignificant features
in no way dramatic;
images, imperfect:
only words,
sounding
resounding
fading, though
the roots of rhythm remain.

Do not write,
do not write the imperfect,
the enormous novel,
from insignificant features
after the dream.

This is the beginning of poetry

2008-06-19T19:43:00.002-04:00

This is the beginning of poetry: looking at words,
looking at words, looking at words:
images, sounds, all determined
by looking at words
symbols, marks, mute marks sounding
resounding
echoing against the walls of thought.

Poetry is images; poetry is sounds;
poetry is the echo
fading
failing to depict, define,
but conveying, connoting
four notes from a flute
of champaign, half-empty
and abandoned.
Poetry is not a strong affection for
or attachment or devotion to--
the futile vestige of a fatigue,
rather: a tautology,
the fatigue
of language itself.
Poetry is nothing to say: looking at words,
looking at worlds, looking at words...

This is the beginning of writing

2008-06-18T20:56:00.002-04:00

This is the beginning of writing:
dense,
violent,
indifferent
to the infantile ego
of creation:
marks on a surface.

In the beginning was the word:
this is the beginning of writing,
natural,
free
of distortion or illusion,
yet the poet
finds it hard to speak:
no beginning without words--
indifferent marks on a surface,
language subjugates nature
to illusion.
This
is the beginning of writing.

When you need me most

2008-06-17T22:04:00.003-04:00

When you need me most
do not despair. All you need is here.
I am here with you--can't
you hear me, leaning to whisper in your ear?

I am here, now, in the words
you knew I would say. Let
my words wrap you, hold you safe
in my love, as strong, as lasting
as language.

03.18.08

2008-05-05T20:35:00.001-04:00

If I wrote one thing
that made you gasp
and say "how true"

I would be welcomed
in the heavens
as conversation,

but making you gasp is
a much surer way
to heaven than writing.

03.31.08

2008-04-27T10:59:00.001-04:00

Packing for Italy

It isn't as if we're mounting
an invasion
no, I just want to shoot a few
pictures
in the week or so we're there

so the questions revolve around
what pairs of shoes
how many cameras fit into
a carry-on bag
and picking out something to read.

02.07.08

2008-04-22T21:49:00.002-04:00

I took a picture I thought you would like,
but it didn't turn out as well as I'd
hoped. It doesn't look like anything much;
it isn't really what I thought I saw.

What was I thinking, just wasting my film
in a frenzy of flashing for a shot
that was just an illusion, a trick of
the light only seen in person that night.

If I could show you what you mean to me,
a camera's not what I'd use. Pictures
may be worth a thousand words, but can't say
what I feel: I can't focus fast enough

but on paper, I have time to work out
that all I see is colored by your lens.

10.16.07

2008-04-21T21:48:00.001-04:00

sun always rises
thru the dining room window,
blinding. coffee spills

Dream One

2005-05-24T17:23:00.002-04:00

A hand writ large for all to see
my fate upon the wall:
a tower, greater than my lust,
destined, 'ere done, to fall.

The words, like flames, then disappeared
as is the wont of dreams
in which, although the meaning's clear,
nothing is as it seems.

Dream Two

2005-05-24T17:21:00.001-04:00

I was shot and I was the President of Texas
at eleven; having split an empire
I knelt in the sand
waiting for my accuser to fire.

I was the President of Texas and
I thought my enemies would learn
that if they didn't kill with one shot
I would take my turn.

I was the President of Texas
at eleven; having split an empire
and survived being shot,
to what did I not aspire?

I am the President of Texas;
though grown old, I rule still
an empire stretching from sea to sea
and believe: I always will.

Dream Three

2005-05-24T17:20:00.002-04:00

Putting out the eyes
of a rebellious king
is no different
than putting out the eyes
of a dog.

The man may understand,
but if he does, dignity
binds him
tighter than terror.

He will not flinch as
white metal
pierces and,
like the dog,
steams.

Dream Four

2005-05-24T17:18:00.001-04:00

I will build you a mountain forest
stretching from sea to sea
if you will stay in the desert, my dear,
making mountains with me.

I will build you a city of gold
and upon it, above it all
will I plant a garden of eden
for your pleasure, which will not

fall to the decay of time
but grow grander with the centuries,
becoming, like you, divine.

Dream Five

2005-05-24T17:17:00.001-04:00

One must be a bit presumptuous
to want to rule the world,
and one must have a vision
of better things, unfurled like

a banner or a pennant in the wind,
a tapestry or painting,
a seal or frieze, even,
on parchment or reed—

the record of a dream
of how the world should be,
a vision that includes
one's own immortality.

Dream Six

2005-05-24T17:15:00.002-04:00

I am a tree, tall as any tower
in the desert, bursting with flower
when cut down.

Seven year's rotting pass,
feeding my roots; in them
I am a goat, grazing
through sun and rain.
What does it mean, if not
"I am sane"?

Statues of gold, when built on clay
will crumble and fall
but a name, once recorded
will remain forever a name.

Dream Seven

2005-05-24T17:14:00.001-04:00

I really only have one dream;
what it is, I can't recall.
Tell me, won't you, what it means
and I will place you over all.