Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Monday, March 31, 2014


71/ Pan considers the word delirium, rolling it about his mouth, realizing never once has he used it in an actual sentence, in a casual phrase.

The Crooked Pony That He Remains

To my surprise, this morning Brendan looked at me, still half asleep, his eyes turned to me; he said with a voice carrying a tone of fear, of insecurity: Daddy don’t go to work. Held him awkwardly: the warmth. The crooked pony that he remains. My child, our boy.
Mom calls to say she is being admitted to the hospital for tests— complaints about chest pains, shoulder aches. I say all the wrong things of course. Worrying even though she tell me not to worry. Compounded emotions.
70/ Pan threads a needle in weak light, repairing the hem of his winter coat. The one which makes him look as an old crow pushing winter. Repairing his shadow.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Mea Culpa

Forgive me if I posted this poem already. Evidence says otherwise.
Poems from another Country

His voice: a train in the distance. Grackle–
call. Rusty screen door. Smoke-filled memory.

I dream of him wearing a coat of flames,
a blue-tipped divine fire burning as a holy

roller, or perhaps as something other,
a saint Christopher set on the car’s dash,

even though the prayers sent out to him
became redacted retroactively—

I shift his form to the gift of poems
from another country, a book unbound,

now, over time unglued, scattered black birds
each page, each illegible word transferred

down to the first wounded kiss in the bar.
His shaking arms. The dark taste of ash on his tongue.

A Mouse Nest

For some unknowable reason, the child threw a minor fit today, —tiredness? —early rebellion? He stamped his feet, shook his fists, refused to acknowledge anything beyond his wants, his immediate cravings.
69/ Pan still reads the morning, printed newspapers, underlining points of view, circling ads, clipping out articles to save with older clippings, in a mouse nest of past material, past resources to perhaps reread, one day.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Knowing the Answer

68/ While brushing his teeth at night, Pan asks himself one of those pseudo-intellectual considerations freshmen in college usually discuss over a joint in renovated apartments small enough for really only one person, decorated with paneled wood and stale brown carpet, with winter outside pelting the windows with sleet and rain and so because we were foolish and reckless, we shared a small cig in the blue shadows, the four of us huddling close, feeling rebellious, defiant, sparking mild danger in our lives, which is when Charlie asked the cliché thought, in all seriousness, trying to be profound, despite the fact he would drop out in another term; Robert laughed at him with a holier-than-thou-sneer, but Charlie persisted:
                    is this even real?
his green eyes turning a glassy tone, so Robert, disgusted, stood up to forage for chips or dry cereal, maybe almonds, and I pretended I didn’t hear the question, avoided the point, I just wanted the warmth of the room to build up, carry me over to one more semester, find a resolution to the irritation building in my gut, my scrawny frame twisting without direction, without poetry, without self—

Yet. Outside, the rain became snow. And Charlie slumped into the couch with Amy, leaving me watching static on the television’s lost signal, rocking softly, hating myself for knowing the answer all along.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The Slow Emergence

67/ Under fossilized eye sockets of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, Pan visualizes the millions of years before, when the lizard giants tread through now absent seas of carbon and oxygen, the excessive gases layered over fern jungles and primeval cedar forests— the time when he was a burgeoning concept of an idea, a calcified fetus, a stone baby hidden underground. When he slept between molten rock and topsoil, waiting for the slow emergence. The long wait for morning.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Recently, Pan finds himself lost in modern progressions,

66/ —lost in the technology upheaval drowning out the old levers and pulleys, the era of numbers and buttons and clicks and hits and digital data shifting along zeros, Arabic numerals, and decimal points— He finds himself compelled to wander with his phone across town, among other commuters locked in their digital lives, meandering through the labyrinth of new telecommunication. A new application. A downloadable life. The Golden Mean projected along cables and airwaves and microwave-transmissions. The Next Big Thing hidden behind the curtain. His body trembles at the possibilities. At possible losses of the once foreseen future. All of the certainties silenced and forgotten. Pan smiles. Modern humanity existing with only the hum of night air motioning across slim curtains— it terrifies.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

The Curiosities

65/ ii. As a joke, he has been known to act out various menageries of creatures, the curiosities, the cumbersome leviathan, or simply a rabid hound, on all fours howling, mouth frothing in frustration, foam in his beard, the body quaking with tremors, with seizures, from every canine motion, his shaking form rolling in the dust, maddened, views of lunacy mirrored, even spilling urine on the carpet, devouring leathery shoes, forgotten sheets of newspapers— all for the attention of one bouncing, sky-blue ball.


65/ i. There are times Pan plays charades with himself, balancing a phrase between his knees, juggling phonetics until he catches the pun slipping between his fingers. A natural acrobat. A Greek tumbler in cherry-red tights, focused on the contortions of a given moment, goat limbs dancing under midday sun.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

In the Libraries—

64/ —among shelves of Nietzchian wilderness and Kierkegaardisque forests of meditation, Pan wanders the labyrinth of trees, shouting into the rough November winds his name.

A Wild Rookery

63/ Absentmindedly, he burned his palm on a hot stove. The boiling kettle turned and bit into the flesh of Pan’s left hand. A slow awareness, the burn ached, hidden on the surface of epidermis cells, until moments later, the wound roared out, a disturbed rookery wilding over the landscape—

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

The Culture of the Moment Unfolding

62/ In bakeries, with the rising of the breads, there is a rising of the common flesh, Pan as a loaf of fresh wheat or pumpernickel, the culture of the moment unfolding, prickling the skin, raising sporadic shivers or raw trembling unexpectedly— the warm urge for embraces, to tumble among dough, sour yeast increasing, in the blood, the rigid pillar firm, anticipation of release.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Once, out of Divine Boredom,—

61/ —Pan shaved off his autumnal hair, removed all elements of fur and down from his skull and chin— his countenance left bare and human under two buds of sprouting goat horns. He sheared off the wool from his arms and legs, clipping the fleece back to its golden roots, until all manner of locks lay at his hooves, an overspread removed, leaving him cold, naked, shivering in the early spring, a young kid trembling with a brand, new life—

In a fit of illogical drunkenness,—

60/ —Pan paints his face with heavy eye makeup, the full drag of gender transformation, bending masculine drives into an angular femininity, caking on layers of foundations, wine-red lips smeared with paint, over rogue’d cheeks mimicking the blushing female he can never be— and with a final flare, he drapes a veil across his naked body, bare shoulders carrying the full weight of comic indifference as he prances circles across his living room floor, reassigned, refurbished, realigned into something new.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Sudden Trumpets

59/ When alone in bed, Pan lets loose sudden trumpets, breaking wind, a rude exclamation within the sheets— and he laughs loudly at the sudden, private joke—

Sometimes Pan rides crowded innercity buses—

58/ —on rainy evenings, trapped between women’s oversized purses, wet umbrellas, and college students’ bookbags. The swaying jolt of the metroline lulls him into false slumber, his faded fedora askew on his head, his human knuckles scarred from overtime hours on the warehouse dock. He doesn’t care that his shoes are untied or that his jacket is stained. He simply exists in the twilight, the last run for the night— watching his reflection betray his presence, when no one else glances in his direction.

Friday, March 7, 2014

The Seasons of Rain

Rediscovered the poetry of Audre Lorde, particularly her collection The Black Unicorn . The poems read with a logic of a poetic quilt— phrases sewn together through metaphoric connections; private associations, researched myths and folklore. I’ll need to dig out more research on her approach— her intentions with mosaic-like imagery.
I will braid my hair
in the seasons of rain.
Chanting cadences. Expressionistic.
After class a student asks me, in all sincerity, when will the course become less “boring.”

I do not remember how I responded.
57/ in blue cigarette smoke from the mouth of a twenty-something trick, his thick fingers fumbling at his mouth. The chapped lips. His unkempt hair tumbles over his eyes as he runs fingers suggestively: a fan, a friction, proposed exchange.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

As Bland Over-Watered Coffee

At first I decided not to write anything today— the full burden of work-projects weakened any other forms of expression— as bland, over-watered coffee, pale tea.

We bought pillows last Sunday—their fluff rises high around the ears, shifting my neck in God-awful positions. When did I develop such a cranky, old man’s body? Sometimes at night I feel my right leg lifting off the mattress, curling up and back as if it willing itself to become inhuman, reshape itself through an arthritic impulse.
56/ inside piles of debris, leaves ready for burning, pyres of cast-off lives, forgotten words discarded in casual conversations
among soiled bed sheets, piled for washing: protein stains or urine mishaps, in the fashion of a body forgetting its own rules, the restrictions society places on control or release— when two bodies merge, blur territories, build points of friction—

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Bread Crumbs

Changing positions in bed, seeking words, seeking phrases. Seeking memory. Comfort. Comfort for my back and for my words. Within my words. Language. Following the trail to see where it leads. Leaving bread crumbs behind.
I have never used the word “sheaf” in a sentence.
This morning, on my right hand I chipped a fingernail on fabric. Even now it throbs. Sensitive to small motions of the wrist as my arm moves across the page, my mind wondering between sonnet notes, pornographies, or—
55/ also the muscular motion of carp, phallic arches, lunging at food under bridges, under shadows of green water

the blue curling smoke of incense, a dense coil lifting prayers

Their Identity Sewn Tightly

Our son has reached a point where he needs less of me, but more of his Papi— a progressive, aggressive choice for another body, other than me. The sting lessens overtime, but the sting exists.

On one level it hurts when I am rejected, just as when a poem is rejected. As when a student falls asleep in class in the middle of what should be an important discussion period. As when a manuscript is returned for a notion based on ambiguous logic.

I watch Brendan cuddle close to his Papi— the fabric of their identity sewn tightly, interwoven with a braided thread.
54/ —or with a fallen flock of Japanese maple leaves, slipping across dark ice, the creek frozen over with a thick existence of early winter—

(he exists here)