my surgical eye

my surgical eye can see right through you,
can shred your clothes off in a single glance.
my surgical eye can weigh you, measure you,
draw & quarter you, and have sweet, passionate
sex with you all in the time that it takes to blink. my
surgical eye can see you when you’re sleeping.
my surgical eye will bleed right through your nice
white dress. my surgical eye, left and right, only so i
can see so clearly. everyone in the operating room,
stat. everyone in stitches. ha-ha. my surgical eye
will have you in stitches. try not to cry.

Car Crash.

breakddddddddddddddddddddddd0wn.
highwaywreckage,route#9:left:side,upside-under.
medianSTRIPstrip(strip)tumbledover,flatTIRE.
grounded:out;two[wheels]ontheair,live(battery),
gasolineover$3risingRISINGspillingout—
checkEngineLight:flashflashPhotographersTaking
pickturespickingattheWRECKage,vultures
breakdown(brokedown)onthesideoftheroad.
engineExplosion—ExxonSunocoGetty—middle
East,stillSPILLINGouttheSIDE.passenger:side
DOORtwisted(open)smoke-pouring-out.humanity
ofitall.pickturesPickingTICKINGflickingOut—
tireTreads:see-them-by-the-side,“theWayThey
Swerve.”SunocoSunoco,Exxon,Sunoco:License(no)JN
284X.XX—like-Eyes-That-Are-Expired.Tumbled
StumbledOFFthe(road).mayDayJuneJULYor
[ides][of][march].beware(the)BRRRReeeaakKKK-
down.passengerSide[viewmirror]wheelstillSPINNNNnnn
-ing.allUnitsRespond,AllUnits.drunkDriverdrunk?service
+every+3,000+miles=failureToDoSo=(leadsToBreakdown.)
CLEARtheROAD,nothingToSee.necks-are-made-
of-rubber.medianStrip,flipped,tireSpinning:
breaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkdown.

southern sunburn

each of us an artist, he said
as his hands fell to rest beneath
his head. he’s lying on a pillow
of purest gold, and we’re all told
that this will be his dying day. it’s
a priceless picture: it has no price,
it’s not for sale. someone spoke
of southern women, southern women
in the sun, and then his time was done. it
wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad, he’d
led a stunned but somewhat steady
life, and he’d always managed
to banish all his strife. an artist is each
of us: every way, on more days than
not, and the spots we fall into are all
that we’ve got: when life isn’t cold,
it’s much too hot. each and every artist
is one of us: long, tall, and blue, or short,
green, and square: each a flavor, each
an artist in the end. an artist makes a
wager (but never whatsoever a friend):
whether forever is ever an option.
never quite clever enough. sun-studded
toughs sometimes have their say, they’ll
play somewhat rough, and it’s the end
of your day. (oy vey.) each of us an
artist, like a lover, or a painter, or
a listener named louie, each of us
is, each a louie, or a lois, or a
loretta. everyone is someone,
sunburned or submerged in
liquid. scientific studies
are suggestive: they all
suggest it: each
(chacun) of us
(chow fun) is
an artist.

lotus eaters

i.
the rain is sliding down the windows.
only god can hear me now, only the movement
of the water outside in the canal responds
to my continued silence. it has been three weeks.
i walk my days among would-be martyrs with nothing
to hoist up a cross for. i walk among the dead and the
living with equal alacrity, equal familiarity. this is not
my city, which makes it even more an extension of
who i am right now. the world moves slowly about
me, like a rippling tidepool, like a mime. there is
no sound. even in the darkness at night, though,
there is movement: slow, deliberate, smooth. someday
the world will pick up again, but for now it is encased
in jelly. even the gods and the devils feel the effects
of the times: we are the lotus eaters. we are, we are,
we are the lotus eaters. and love has a place, but it’s
a quiet, comfortable place. it’s in our minds as much
as in our hearts, and it’s a slow dance, subdued
yet somehow sacred nonetheless. there will be things
that happen after this, but there is no great rush.

ii.
and i’m hungry, and i should probably
eat something, but that would be too much
of a presumption. and i don’t need it, anyway.
i want to drop another two or three pounds, even though
i’m already a bit on the skinny side. i never could
say no to dropping weight. insubstantial:
hide in the woodwork: be left alone. not a bad way
to be. eating, on the other hand; too much work, not worth
the effort half the time. and i think i might have cancer,
every other week, and maybe that’s just the way i
am, the way i gauge my life by. a fatalist, or
something or other. and my brain might not work
very quickly, but it works just fine, thanks. and
there are holes, and i’m well aware of the fact. i’ve
fallen into one or two, you know. it’s not as if
it’s any secret. how many secrets can anyone hope
to hold? and i don’t think we’re all going to heaven,
but i doubt the devil will see us anytime soon, either.
i think i have cancer today, and it’s been an alright life
so far. i can’t really complain.

still love

i still love him, you know.
he who sat on his deathbed
and spoke of stories he’d lived long ago.
he who would never give up on life,
who
kept on being happy when he should have
been crying, while his body was dying.
he, my grandfather, the man who i wish i was more
like. my grandfather was great, and i
wish you would have known him, every
one. if he was a moon, and i was a star,
well then you know how the story goes.
i wish my grandfather, i wish him, i wish him
all the happiness that the afterlife has
to offer.

kingdom for a crown

there are those in this world, dear,
who would not hear of love,
who would throw the masses to the dogs
to give their dog a meal, to put some more
food on the table. if you’re able
to see them for what they are, then count
yourself lucky, and if not
just never allow yourself to be counted
among their growingly greedy numbers.
for you are a kingdom, dearer than
the heavens, and you’re spinning this way
and that, with no idea where you’ll wind up.
there are those who would not see this, or
would not believe. but you are
a kingdom, dearest, and there are still
some of us who would never in our lives
make the sad mistake of trading
a kingdom for a crown.

user, part two (recovery)

she never sees the heavens when she looks up at
the stars, and she feels like a dog, chasing an
endless line of cars. the people, they all pass her by,
on their way to somewhere, living their own sets
of semi-transparent lies. but she isn’t one of them and can’t
begin to pretend, her fate’s her own and she prays
that someday soon she’ll start to mend. and sometimes they
call her, her old friends, but mostly they don’t as she tries to still
her shaking hands.

and they never told her it would be easy, they never
told her much. it’s just another car going down another
blistered road. she watches as the taillights disappear.

here she is, in hell at times, but mostly in between.
there’s nothing much she’d rather be, because
she wouldn’t know what difference it would
mean. so she lives her life like a line drawn by a careless
finger in the sand, and she’s getting better but
she doesn’t even know it anymore, she doesn’t
have a plan.

Original

this is

what are these letters?
what are these words, these images,
except a bunch of lies i’ve put together
to construct a wall around myself, or around
you? where are you, anyway? where do i
fit you into the large, blackened and charred
photo frame that insulates my world
and keeps it comfortable? in this
computerized age what are we when we are
away from the computers that keep us
separated? if it isn’t data what is its
worth? i don’t even truly know
what love is. and you can tell me
that you do, if that’s what you want.
you can try to tell me what this is, you can
tell me anything you want to,
and anything you need to.

here in the twilight

painted photographs of another lifetime,
in blue and green and yellow,
of a world where up is left and down
is “I don’t know.” somewhere
where you wouldn’t be afraid.
somewhere in the twilight.
imagine yourself with everyone
you ever loved, all at once, and all
of your essences blending together in some
kind of impossible existential orgy. everyone you ever
lost, all back where you can find them again.
as the sun is setting, imagine
what it looked like when you were born,
imagine what the sun looked like when it first
rose on the world, or what it will look like
when it sets tomorrow. imagine an endless procession
of sunrises and sunsets, stretching out from the dawn
of time to one day in the future, perhaps sooner perhaps
later, blurring together and then slowing down and spreading
apart.
          now imagine that other world, with its
blues and its greens and its yellows.
imagine it, because it won’t imagine
                                                       itself.
here we are in the twilight, and here is
the sunshine, and here is the rain, and
sometimes it’s hard to tell if the photo
is life or if life is just another photo,
but what you can do is
you can start with the sunrise and then
move on from there.

breakdown is a david

david is a breakdown a shakedown
a quakeout a suther asunder a cover
a dead redrover blackfall flown flown a
way a why is a, is a who said what who said he
said he rolled out of bed bumped his head-
case on the ceiling feeling empty feeling
shakey shake quake downout in onside
in a breakdown breakin brokeup given give a david is
david is he is a madmutt stop needs a stopcop
dropper downbreak upbroke taking stone, stones
to the casehead fallred a way a fly a flown a flew
a way a fly a flew a flown, is a, is a david.

moment of encounter

i saw a deer and the deer saw me,
one eye open and staring in my direction
as two hearts hesitated in alien chests.
i was driving my car toward home, and
the deer was idling, eating some grass.
its home may have been anywhere at all.
two hearts thumped at the exact same moment
in the time-toughened chambers of two
bodies, each alone among the millions
which comprised each of their own
separate and distinct species. i saw
the deer, and the deer saw me,
and i kept driving, and i can only
suppose that the deer
kept standing there, eating.

the [ups] & [downs] of a life which is lived

when a life is truly lively,
there’s no telling what.
no how, when, why.
ups are inverted instantly
into the most abysmal
downs, dismal and depressing,
only to turn back around
and around again. life,
when fed full of love, is:

   —a set of interlocking wheels and cogs,
      in which one small widget is slowing,
      soon to stop;
   —indescribable and inexplicable;
   —the eyes of the one who is loved, spying someone
      else;
   —unbending, unbowed.

we are holding a hungry
tiger by its tail, trying to calm it with the
clumsiest of our
utterances. we are
artless and pushing
for perfection. we
are hopeless yet full
of nothing else. we
are human, whatever
that means. we are
here, and that is what
we must learn to deal with.

truest

when not aware. i wish i knew all the similar-
ities we share with inanimate objects. i want to know what makes
my microwave feel pain. want to know
what makes it smile. or, say, those things which we
keep closest contact to. a belt, a sock, an undershirt.
do they feel each
rise and fall of our sinusoidal emotional motions?
is another person any different from another object.
a matter of the level of abstraction. if something creates heat
is it not alive? if there was some definable, describable
difference between warmth, feeling, and wisdom. but when cold
nothing else even enters into the picture. so what difference
could there be.
the truest form of life. most condensed. heat.
we are more complicated and therefore more diluted, less
alive. a life, so transient, and an inanimate, eternal, if not for life.
still don’t know the difference. time of the plastics: bring it on.
age of the aluminums. no difference. quieter if anything,
at least at first. noise always comes later, later in life.
given a choice to be inanimate: me: i just don’t know.
what of them: would they choose: say a simple punctuation,
a colon: would it want something more, or less, from life?
i don’t presume to know. if you do then you would be a liar,
but what’s keeping you? not i, for i am one too at times.
we each play every role, each lifetime or two. next time i’d
like to be a toaster.

The Jew I Save

By Sidney Boyarin
December 1991

From Ur I walked with Abraham
and knew the knife withheld at Mt. Moriah.

Thus my covenant was born,
My Bond given and my suffering fated
I was not chosen to attain power, to master nations,
To accumulate wealth for its own sake,
But to give inspiration to all who see,
To aspire to realization of the divine in all.

In Sura gray beards pondered
And left the lesson that to be chosen
Is exultation, the reward of the covenant.
I ask, “But why the suffering, the almost unbearable pain of centuries?”
I hear the answer, “So you can know.”

“So I can know?” I ask. YES.
KNOW! The eighth day cry is only the beginning.
And the Song of Songs not the glory,
And glory not the goal.

Israel seek not thy dimension
In widening flat parameters.
Your might can only be a light that leads the nations
In ever ascending roads to Peace
And Hillel’s rules carry all ever higher
With hopes and hearts uplifted.

Thus I see my peculiar fix –
A mix – of pain and work.
And exultation maybe:
Yet this I choose. A Jew to be.

Now the first light brings sharply etched understanding.
In God’s world I am only a renter,
And the security I pledged for my tenancy
Is the well-being of my generations.
The Jew in me must mark it well.
The Jew in me is the one I save!

a wind upon the cheek

the door opens & death
dances around us &
we feel it creeping up our
skin, its fingers finding their way toward
our throats. for only a moment
the door is open,
or a day, yet in that
darkness we see more than we’ve
ever beheld in the
rest of our lives, all at once,
when suddenly somebody
is gone. we march on,
into a new year, into a new
set of circumstances, with
one less than when we’d begun.
the door is closed now and we each
breathe a sigh of relief, for
we are the ones who are here,
still here for a while, until one
day it must open again,
and it is we who are
summoned to step silently through
to the other side.

late in the year / love after lunch

love in the afternoon, love
after dinner, love as he
is dying. i love him, and
why not. a heart as big as his
would make a killing
on the black market.

question marks, etc.

what happens when your feet grow to fill the shoes
which sounded the footsteps that you feared as a child?
what happens when you hate yourself and love yourself
in equal measure, for the very same reasons? why must everything be
such a goddamn struggle? can no one ever simply be happy?
is this need for controversy universal? and if it weren’t in us,
would we ever have any hope of self-improvement?
do you react in the same way as me to the everyday
bullshit that is thrown at you? do the protons and electrons in your brain
have the same positive and negative charges, the same familiar spin, as those
which are in mine? is there any brain out there which is not in some way
fundamentally fractured? who among us can raise their hand? who among us
can claim to be clean? where is the gold at the end of this rainbow?
why do i feel so sick so often?
where is god? what is love? who are you? what am i? if i push you,
will you fall?

yes I will Yes

inspired by james joyce's ulysses

yes for the beauty of it
understanding the opposite
the light on her face
half hidden shadows and
yes I loved her yes I love her yes
she was young and even if
later if older were we to become
stuck flies stuck
oh just for the beauty just for her beauty
just for loves sake yes
love loves to love oh to love yes
the seedcake the jessamine the opoponax her skin her hair yes
just for the detail yes
she and she now and she forever yes
just for her love
up on the mountain nobody just a mothergoat
no one to see
up in the jessamines yes
love for loves sake oh
yes if she yes
the beauty of yes all from a woman all for
that young one if yes if seedcake if
love loves to yes
mountain alone kissing was kissed
yes I will Yes.

questioning gravity

why water runs away from water,
incomprehensible,
the boundaries of our knowledge;
nothing defined without having
boundaries. edges of the
universe: where are they? why can’t
we see them? if it’s just a mirror,
in one side out the other, in one ear;
why to be waiting; why a brain is linked
to a body, why a one-to-one. when
one is crushed, the other as well, yet when
the other done, not the same. why we yearn,
why we ache, why a consciousness at all.
inanimate object as well, not feel hot,
not feel cold? think it’s not so, think it
does. wish, in any case. waiting, the curse of
the young, the curse of ‘me.’ why does gravity,
why not release, why not now. why can’t
water run uphill, why no sight in dark,
if blind, if blinded, what then. why speech
so much, talking, why don’t words fall
to the ground, driven down by their own
density? release impeccable, all at once,
then nothing after; nothing left. yet think
enough forward motion, inertia, keep going
after initial ascent. powerful feeling.

we breathe

we breathe fire in the nighttime,
and the waking world recoils.
we breathe hatred in our own minds:
we breathe, we breathe, we breathe.
leave it all in balled up sheets,
in sweaty, sodden socks,
leave yourself in a million magazines,
read and discarded, hardly appreciated
at all. let the world
leave its mark on you and be
subsumed, entombed in knowledge
and unable to break away from it.
worry about your job, about your
friends, about your family. let the world
put its leash on you. we breathe in
hope and breathe out frustration. we
breathe in love and breathe out fear.
we breathe in nerves, temptation,
anticipation, sacrifice, stupidity,
and we breathe out
all that we can. we breathe out
as much as possible, trying not
to hold our breath too long. what
we breathe at night, though, that
is what we should strive to be. that
is what is purest. that is who
we already almost are.