Looking at the Moon with Declan

On the ferryboat
Looking at the moon

There it is
In the sky

And, he immediately notes
On the water

A great smear
That has eluded the painters
Of the world

It is not the moon
May not be real

An effect
So irresistable
So integral
To this moment

It mesmerizes the darting eyes
Of my son
In my arms
At the rail
On the deck

The reflection
Is what he sees
Right after he sees the moon
And he says so:

'The moon...
...And the moon in the water?'

Good to Have Work

Good to have work
in this day n' age
& my God, by midweek
that's just enough for a foothold

Trucks & trains & the dark
& the cold & the smell of gas
& these thoughts of you

A shudder when I think of
what I can't help

Up again & onward
a toolkit inside
made of flesh
& the magic that set it in motion

Distractions on my shoulders
running on poisons

These various triumphs
Are perfectly brief

Away out here
there's a simple,
deep affection
for you
that lives in me

& cannot be destroyed
by my mouth
or the cares of the world

<.......>

I forget what it's called.

It's like waiting, but without the implication of inconvenience.

It's being empty. Without expectation, and so, free.

It's standing on two feet, with the full powers of the breath. Spine straight.

It's trusting in the meantime. Leaning on its arms.

It's the bus coming but not yet.

It's another opportunity to imagine entire realms at work, at rest...

...The concerns of whole populations...

...The joy of certain thousands...

...The sun rising somewhere else, over creatures awakening to the same old miracle.

A million transformer hums, singing with jet engines, the wind in various corners, a million chanting souls, and what else?

Kettles, horns, bowls, bells, anything.

The Cigarette

The Cigarette works against my whole thing lately, which is to be with my breath, to inhabit it.

For days after even one, it's all a little too tight for me to enter. And it ain't the smoke, it's the shit that was in the smoke, makin' the old boy jumpy.

Facing everything like normal, only the metronome swings faster and the balloon is made of thicker stuff.

Sitting inside the breath, sharing it now with addiction.

In the Underground Parking Garage, Engine Off

There is so much peace and joy
In the time between things
The things we think are the things
We are here for
The defining moments
The great contests
The big shows
Peak time

Yes, great stores of peace and joy
Off-peak, in the vast spaces of
What we once called the mundane
A slackening of every muscle,
An echo for every beat of the heart.
Nothing to win or lose
Rolling out the carpet just because.

Everything strictly low-falutin'
Not a single big hairy deal in sight

What The Bullets Are Talking About

Tasting flesh,
Shattering bone
Drawing blood
Drilling sweetbreads
Going deep
Living alone

Some, of course,
Won't talk,
Preferring action.

Yes, Wednesday

Air is still
on the platform
and there is a heck of a lot
of freshly-washed hair smell
OK

Moon is just waning

And in the traincar
there's a girl
with the millennial endless
personal-dream-up-ahead look in her eyes
like in airline commercials

but hers is real-seeming
honest-to-goodness.

In the black window
there I am
inspectin' myself
with lifted skeptical brow

Could I affect such a look?
Or does it have to come naturally?

I can make it happen behind my eyelids
with my breath for sure
hard to show it to the world without thinking.

Ummmmmmmmmm

Whole different kind
of woman hunkers down
facing me

Talking to somebody
behind a free daily
some body inside or by way of
headset
cord-mounted microphone
furrows in the brow
conspiratorial mumbling
emanating from the backpage
Ford Motor Co. Ad
employee pricing for good

Lady
End call
Lower paper
Flip to
Sudoku

Mmmmmmmmmm

Ah yes, there's the lake
Opposite window side
Gonna try
To gaze vaguely into the personal dream
A way out there