Those who don't dwell
have a way about them. They're funny and walk like wings
into the winds. Dwell means clay in the brain,
the past changing shapes with too much thinking -
to get it right. At fever-house
the weathervane is rusted into place
but the chimney sways in a dream -
all those heat waves
and drifting smoke.
Hailed by the hand stuck waving from optimism,
the healthy jut their chins into circumstance - persistent
punch-drunk fighters who can't say enough, who don't hear
the bell. They keep going all the way to repeat
on the boom box -
they throw their memories into the feast
after the funeral
when a liquored relation breaks a glass while dancing.
Isn't he funny! Isn't he the road back to work.
Where a foot-high helper
spent the night
there's a compression and
voice of mine
partly buried in powder snow:
a quartz-like tower beside the wall
where pipe vents furnace.
One night my son
shaping air without precision
before the fireplace, but I see it,
the ice elf in his manic hands. He believes me
when I tell him
it doesn't leave tracks
when the body runs away.
His small hands are God, his talk behind them is God.
This immortality will live two more years,
maybe three. Yet I believe too, angry
with innocence and angry at it.
I live in a family tightly packed
within a living room of worn furniture.
We watch TV at night. We sit in the air of light bulbs
and enjoy our smiles.
The hippie Christ adds dimension above the fireplace
with His soft beige shirt.
Late Afternoon at Kolac's
the Sun is Remade
Drink tall beer and spill it
dripping from your chin, shining
on polyester -
and dump sugar into the coffee. Glare
on the window is band-light,
and notes kicked up from the dirt street
are the gold tuba's
brontosaurian reach. Three fat old guys
making music, those
unremarkable shades of grey
who'd been hiding under their skins,
are planes of blue shale now,
ageless with fossils. Irony
is bad taste.
Like magic bullets
for a disease that used to be terminal,
balls of sun
hail from the accordion, a purity post
beyond. Where! Where have they gone,
our tedium and pain. The dumb drums
frame the saving.