On Sled Dogs and Memory

In sled dog territory, I remember the many times
my mind raced in Leary-like ellipses.
I remember how I used to think.
The years appear through the end of an old paper towel tube,
like the one I’d find my way around the house with as a child.
I know I’m not many days past spring chick,
but already I see the years crumple up in tin foil,
un-recyclable balls of faded patterns.
Memories can be friends, but memories are more present than past.
Was I ever really that optimistic?
Did I wander about on these first two rungs waiting for a net?
I remember an awareness of death’s existence
that adults said did not exist in people my age.
I remember dancing on rules like they were best friends
that sometimes I needed and sometimes I didn’t.
I remember a past that no longer exists
and my memory is more present than past.

The past no longer exists.

My past is an old friend who’s moved on.

The past no longer exists.

Fun With Poetry Magnets

Here are a couple little ditties I found in an old journal. I made them with those refrigerator poetry magnets, and I think I must have been about 18 or 19…

#1
the moment death stares on my
languid smile I will sing again
soaring above the gold void
I will still whisper of beauty
re-calling, deliriously, the
essential language of life
though never showing in time
it was only under the madness
of man’s frantic worship

#2
when will love shine through me
waxing like a full moon in an elaborate
sea of needed dreams
sitting here, wanting you gone
yet near me
I would run after you
but I only look and think

Remember the Moth

Remember the moth-dusted pages,
how did the story begin again…
My mind-built castles, faded apparitions
disguised and surprisingly resistant.
Past becomes a rudder that way.
Do you remember?
We ate the apple, and then,
well, the rest is history

Did I tell you the story about
the blue-kneed girl with a
zipped-up button mouth
fists didn’t beat her down but
she learned to keep her mouth shut nonetheless
and she died trying to figure it out
she choked on anonymity
lost in a selfless haze

my memory mask,
a little heavy around the eyes
I absent-mindedly caress
a shield that protects me from knowing too much

Psychotherapy for Alcoholics

waves of nausea
in a wonton
hedonistic flash
we wash our sorrows
in beers
until they sparkle
till they seem
like routine
kitchen machines.
Having a sorrow
as an everyday guest
is dangerous,
sometimes when the sob
catches
beneath your throat
unsure if your heart is stopping
or your lung is collapsing,
the time seems right
for a diluted night
soothing heart attacks
of tragedy
washing and tending
the sorrows of calamity.