Two Revisions

Note: Formatting does not carry over to Blogger.

The Originals:

THREE: ROUTINE PRESENCE

(i.)

It happens every evening, or so

I think: I go out for a cigarette and

I watch.

The fountains are still there

and they are something I depend on,

as many poems I have written remind me.

The wind might be noisy or calm,

but my voice is always drawn to the fountains’.

Out there, I end with stubbing out the smoke,

but I don’t remember if I ousted the embers.

I do remember the doors opening with ease

because they are usually propped with stone.

And there is the curl of the fingers off the

smooth painted railings.

And the seat cushions me, sitting

down and admiring my fingers pressed

down against the keyboard, or my lips pressed

into the shallow-cut groove of the water bottle filled

with deep, blood-red (or sunset-red) wine—many

sips worth.

Everything revolves around before.

Before, when outside there was no warmth, only shivers;

before, when there was only a grimace to the stars.

Cars are not driving by out there. Not even one.

Pedestrians on the footpaths of this school are gone.

It’s too late for them, for my routine.

(ii.)

The racing rhythms are heartbeats, questions formed as

I become some exception: what do I except?

what do I accept?

I except and accept knowing the difference or

the importance

between the stillness outdoors and

the stillness indoors and

how the rift, the boundary between the two

is an intoxication.

is life right now as maybe meant to be passed off.

FOUR: WEEK LONG

Every day I sat for hours staring

at a table with the same objects on it.

There was a Polish vocabulary book.

And two ashtrays—one a dome hollowed out

and one a trinity that anyone can place their

smoke into, and watch it burn to the core.

Packets of matches—matchbooks scattered,

the cat gnawed on them when all else is slept.

Glasses and cups used and forgotten were needed to be cleaned out;

they created a stench, but I could handle the next to my bed—

the couch.

There was a remote control for the television,

and a giant lighter with a modified flame, saying:

I am giant, so flick my device and show me to the world!

We smoked bowlpacks and drank forties of malt liquor

because those things were cheap and didn’t require civility.

We looked at the same videos, the same vinyl records,

and the vision showed that the apartment revolved around

how boring it was.

Throw a random Providence hoodlum in there and

he or she might scream. But we never screamed.

Each morning,

the routine suddenly dawned on us in its divine curtain:

Here, we thought,

the abstract is as simple as the concrete;

the smoke rings we blow are still little boxes

controlling the air flow into the cat’s nostrils,

and it’s the same air we inhale daily.

The Revisions:

Routine Presence

(i.)

Every evening I go out for a cigarette and

I watch.

The fountains are always still there,

still something I depend on.

Whether wind is noisy or calm,

my voice is drawn by the water sounds.

Embers are stubbed, doors

opened with ease, stone-propped from earlier.

The curl of fingers paints the

the stairwell’s smooth railings.

Seat cushions, fingers pressed

down against the keyboard,

lips pressed to shallow-cut grooves.

The water bottle: filled

deep with wine, I take many sips

from it.

Everything revolves memory.

Outside without, only shivers:

Before, a grimace to the stars,

footpath pedestrians, the entire school, gone.

It’s too late for them, for my routine.

(ii.)

the racing rhythms are heartbeats,

I become exception: what to except?

to accept?

the stillness outdoors

the stillness indoors and

rifts maybe meant to be passed off—

Week Long

Spring Break 2008

Providence, Rhode Island

(i.)

A table with the same objects on it.

Polish vocabulary book.

Two ashtrays.

Hollowed dome

to forget.

Trinity to wait for

and to watch the smoke.

Packets of cat-gnawed

matchbooks. All else slept.

Creations of stenches. Bed handles.

The couch.

Remote control, television, giant lighter,

giant flame, flicks of skin on metal,

flame shown the world, meet this tobacco.

(ii.)

Smoked bowlpacks,

drank forties.

Looked at video cassettes,

same vinyl records over and over.

Vision showed the apartment,

sometimes: “How boring.”

We cheapened things

and didn’t require much civility.

(iii.)

Yesterday Dawn came onto

us through the divine curtain.

Then simple abstractions.

The concrete;

the rings blown;

little boxes controlling air;

the cat’s twin nostrils.

We inhaled daily

but never screamed.