Some January Editings

The following are three poems I wrote at the begining of this month which I have revised in a not-so-slight manner. The current plan is to submit them as part of a group of short poems to this chapbook contest. Criticism is, as usual, appreciated.

Too Much To

Buried beneath the subway stop
a light panel cracks shut and
furthers along tragedy, makes up hope.

Now that there is no light panel,
mountains of grit wait grimacing
behind all the shredded wallpaper.

An hour on the Night Owl Bus
(the Broad Street Line, northwards
to Olney and beyond), clamps my eyes.

I dream of impossible resolutions
instead of the usual revolutionary silence.
I dream I will be alone on the bus.

Two Friends

Two friends are waiting
in the cold for me to
show up, to get there.

Deep within some crinkle
of lobes several circuits
prop a friend dead
against the smoking
windshield just as I wake up
from dreams of bombs.

On the side of the ceramic,
a ring of coffee residue
lies open to serve as
reminder—whether
the rings are a blast radius
or excessive exhaust, there
are things worth keeping
from any explanation.

Trance and Writhing

No one has been home,
but the hallway lights
are buzzing in tones,
and the bathroom water
still runs on high—
noise I cannot ignore.

And yet some time,
long ago,
I purchased
this old book.

A Palpable Elysium
by Jonathan Williams.
Paperback—
October 1st, 2002.

It sits on the table
encrusting—there
are trails of wine
and salsa crumbs
that lead to corners.

The thrift store lamps
lead light to the
black cover, toward
the differences
of observation—
the book sits,
thick and stately,
less than a galaxy,
yet more than nothing.

The book is of many
colors—but
I cannot hope
with any of them.

A good level of
guilt rests upon
the tips of the book’s
crisp, new pages—
each one tightened up
with acid free wash.

And the cover’s
white letters
are sharp, like
civilization—
they startle,
are hollow,
and somehow
they are earthly.

Lost fragments
of meaning remain
printed upon
the book’s innards—
we may, at least,
be sure of that,
even though our
fingers tremble.

While sitting upon
this soiled couch,
the book hangs shut,
immobile, impotent—
maybe even slightly dusty.

This book masters
each moment.
It is uncanny,
like a plague.

The rotten eves
we once knew
still claim us.

They grab us
and reach beyond—
past this book,
past all its pages.

They extend to
the house’s
rolling structure.

Monsters
crawled up those
creaking steps
of periphery,
and yet the book
remains untouched—
for shame!
why didn’t we
open it to find
other heroes,
other villains?