DROOL

Sounds of Silence

Sarah is breathing. If a metronome were made of cotton, it would be her sleeping beat. The balcony is behind me and the long blue curtains, and below that, cars on the cobblestones, and closed-down shops, and the last dog-walkers of the night. Sarah just whispered something, sounded like "delinquent" or "did he quit". The pipes are dripping water somewhere. Everything is louder in the dark. I want to know about being alone. About relationships. About columns, and their arches, and their strength and their balance. I want to know whether my breath matches my sister's in the night, how the room sounds when no one is listening. Today I heard "The Sounds of Silence" played by an Ecuadorian street musician, in Rome. I recognized the tune as it came up the hill to where we stood over the Forum, looking out over that field of ruins. Carlos sang along in Spanish. I want to know who stole bricks from the Colosseum and where they are now. There are holes in all of the ruins, where bricks used to be, empty little altars, homes for pigeons, cloaks from the rain.

Dear E.K. Daniel,

Why does the universe need a cause or explaination?
How come God can exist without a cause or explaination
and the universe can't?
Eff you,

Ruth.

Mother - rough

She holds the milkman's hours
on her eyelids, five thirty, six o'clock
in the creases of her palm.

Does the early kitchen fog
remind her of Ohio?
Does the pressing coffee remind her
of her father's cream jugs?

A gray damp newspaper
creases under her elbow
and the radio voices glimpse
like birds at the feeder.

She's shaped her windows like his.

TO DO

More like: DOODOO.

Secrets

I can hold my cheeks
and shut my eyes
and be a fog horn.

Packing Tea For David Hall (rev)

Dearest Donald Hall of Kensington, Massachusetts,
I packed your tea today.
I watched every leaf and stem
roll like dirt and stones
from a corroding mountain.
I imagined how they would open in your cup,
and how you would think of words to describe them,
such as "flowering" and "rain-wet".

Mr. Hall, perhaps
my tea would appear
in your poems!

I filled your bags delicately,
all of those hearty Keemuns,
and chest-heaving Yunnans -
What are you doing
drinking such dark teas,
Donald?

I was going to copy down your address
(and I’d be the most gentle stalker)
when I noticed that you are a David,
a painter, a carpenter, a businessman,
a Massachusetts man with no relation to Donald at all.

I imagined you finding tea at your doorstep
in the morning, and brewing it in the late evening,
smeared yellow oil on your cheek,
a hammer in your back pocket,
your briefcase tired and opened.

I hope you find the Christmas cookies
hidden between the pages
of your receipt.

Ode to the Old Ringer (rev)

Title?

There is more than conversation
in Bogart's hand, his cigarette teeth speak
to substance, and his eyes can almost see
the operator’s cheek, that curves
like a wave of sound.

It is no longer
the lattice edged ring,
not the ear against heavy black.
It is not the same grip, or weight.
There's really not much
to hold onto
at all.

There is no pleasure of waiting, anymore
no "expected" call, no magic
in the science of wires, only

Why aren't you answering your phone?

I'm calling you because I'm on the bus
and my phone is in my hand
and I have nothing to say.

Tea Person 2 (rev)

"Just shows you the boss is listening", a shaking referral to the rain and God and our complaints. His teeth are everywhere, leaning in every direction, swinging when he speaks. An unintended force behind his language.

Light is coming between his ear and balding skull, from that place where magicians find quarters, handkerchiefs, rabbits.

He finds the perfect Assam, like a king, pointing, chin up, summoning forth each tin, too fat, too skinny, just right. He smells it tenderly, Sessa, over and over, as I count up his change.

When The Polar Ice Caps Melt

The night is underwater
and the globe doesn't mind,
it is spinning in circles, as usual.

The people are puff-cheeked
and wide-eyed, an ending that is neither
epic or romantic, just a little goofy,
as we doggy paddle toward each other
and attempt to express our last minute love
for one another, that kiss of life - with the violins
and the death-drop background - is impossible.
Any embrace would be too heavy
to float.

Cutting Weight

He sleeps in trash bags.
He runs in them, too.
He's collecting his sweat
in glass jars
and sending them
to his mother.

Thank you for the fat,
I used it, thank you.