Institutional Memory

The Drive Home

They drove the Haldol home, neat.

Deft plunge into your writhing muscle,

clenched tethered animal drenched and driven

mad

beneath my hands

A sharp tang of metal in the mouth, we shared

great gulps of air

made rank with fear, a tincture of shit

at war

with the high gloss of sour sweat swelling the sides

of our sealed tin can

Hurtling west running the lights driving you home

under low spelter skies

slashing teeth biting down

on round boneyard howls  

heard down a drain pipe our free hands a beat behind

your upturned feet churning

in sacred dance,

freedom

perhaps, bestowed as rain from the gods

pouring through the shattered moon roof

Home,

home at last.

We pierced the circle drive

and trailed you inside, borne along

by wordless monks  

flashing

the sign of the cross

in four-point restraint

your eyes rolling back

as you received the blessed sacrament.

Mom's house, Dad's house

Long Division

In dreams we yearn for transport, true enough

I suppose and

Yet,

awake or not I ferried you

across

swift waters,

a Ferryman with aspirations.

Dreaming, you were conveyed

from shore to shore

roiled by mighty rivers,

swept away again and again your world

receding to a single chafing pea

concealed beneath the mattress

of your childhood bed.

Equations dream of perfect quotients,

if they sleep at all.

I carried you

over wild rivers of

imperfect arithmetic.

Thin Ice

A History Of The North Country

I linger on the blowing passage that

drifts whorls of snow across crisp swept pages,

great heaving shoulders poised on the thin cusp

at the white margins, finger floating down the

flawless powdered face lacing through stands of

towering words their branches thrusting high

into the blue vault frantically combing  

a rising ocean of carbon for a path

back over mirror ice and hushed cushioned

floors of boreal forest, locked away

in sedimentary pages, ancient  

runes set to thaw and seep before my eyes.

game of cricket

Evening Descends

Your high flutey rasp nowhere

but everywhere, touching off

a methodical elimination

of plausible explanations,

seemed integral at first to the

plot of the police procedural

unfolding on the screen

at least until an abrupt

change of scenery demanded

a certain degree of fidelity

to continuity leaving only the sudden

flare of the infernal purring motor

idling eternally in my head

as the likely source of the

rhythmic bowing,

a minute punch-drunk

cellist madly torturing

the scales until you gave yourself

away; black carapace, bullet

hole through the blue rug,

lone note in a John Cage piece

captured and released into

the gathering darkness

of the backyard, the emptied

husks of my cupped hands

extended in sustained

applause.  

No surprise

We Are The Forty-Seven Percent

Surprised?  The way we're surprised when morning

follows night, at fuzz on a peach, the sea seeks

the moon, coffee keeps us up, lions eat

their kill, hens lay eggs, eggs beget chickens,

pencils go dull, fox sox box, sourdough

rises, stocks fall, the dog's wet nose, morning

dew, money talks, glass cracks, the haunting past,

Ellington swings, the knuckleball breaks, our

dad’s face in the mirror, mesmerizing

screens, bee's make honey, wine from grapes, the stroke

of a brush, the turn of a phrase, a well

turned leg, thirst and hunger, doubt and fear, am

I surprised?  The way I’m surprised when we

ignore the past, bow down to magic, see

Black or White, fall prey to fear; the prowling

mob bays for blood, bestows the crown of blame.