Paradox in Two Verses

Verse One


who is being watched,
If the whole world is on the other side of this glass?
what is under “control,”
if nothing I see can I touch?
where need I go,
if the Q waits on me?
when did I get “disconnected,”
if the cable still comes through just fine?
why is it “remote,”
if it’s always here in my hand?


Verse Two

Delete Space? Lofty promise.
Six weeks and four techs
Just to install two sets.
U-verse? My ass.
More like vs. Me.

25 Things

1
I have trouble setting priorities,
Not least of which are the items in this list.
So this is in no particular order.

2
Having a February 29th birthday
Makes me kinda insensitive
About everyone else's birthday.
If I miss it by a day or two,
I don't really see the big deal.
Unless I'm married to you.

3
I am trainable. But I wouldn't try it.
Unless you're married to me.
In which case, lighten up a little.

4
I snore.

5
Grey's Anatomy seasons 1 and 2
Were guilty pleasures to me.
Now I just watch to mock it.
Prom?
[2011 edit: still ridiculous, it now has me again.]

6
I lived on a LOST-TV message board for 2 years.

7
Having read that, it shouldn't shock you to know
That I played Dungeons and Dragons
Religiously in high school.
I had a mage named Raistlin
And a warrior named Daryl.

8
I have an annoying compulsion
To try to sound clever.

9
I used to try to write text adventure games
On my Apple IIe.
Nothing ever really beat "Pirate Adventure."

10
With my guitar on hand,
I do a serviceable "Let's Get it On."

11
I've been to or through
All the US states (and the District) except:
Arkansas, Alabama, Rhode Island, Maine, and Alaska,
But outside our borders
I've only been to
Canada, Jamaica, Costa Rica, and Israel.
It's a little embarrassing.

12
I'm not a hoarder per se,
But I keep random small collections of things
On the gut feeling that
I might use them interestingly someday.

13
Some call it non-linear thinking,
But having ADD
Diagnosed earlier than age 31
Might have made some
Things easier along the way.

13
I'd like to shave my head
And grow a really long beard.
Not necessarily at the same time.

14
I've recently taken to wearing two pairs
Of heavy wool socks around the house.
Necessarily at the same time.

15
About fifteen years ago,
This girl's dad told me this joke
About a guy taking a truckload of penguins
To the zoo, and now it's pretty much the only joke
I ever remember. Ever.
That, and the "why was 6 afraid of 7?" joke.

16
I really, REALLY don't like watching me
On video.

17
I still treasure my autographed cast photo
Of the "Diff'rent Strokes" gang.
Dana Plato (RIP) signed it,
"Dear Adam, Love Always, Dana Plato."
Short, but very, very sweet.

18
cf. #17 above,
I just lost the last 15 minutes
To the Wikipedia entry on Dana Plato.
I love the Wikipedia.
More than Dana.

19
I love, love when my kids
Wake me up in the morning.
If it has to be anything,
It might as well be them.

20
It's been almost/at least four years
Since I joined Facebook,
And I just lost another fifteen minutes
Trying to find the exact day.

21
I sense I'm leaving out significant details here.
That is, however,
A significant character trait.

22
I desperately want to convince my wife
That going skydiving
Again
Before I die is probably a good idea.
(I mean, not RIGHT before I die.)

23
Kingsbury,
Bay Point, Cherrywood, Willow, Pelham,
Sherman, Lincoln,
Prospect, Lydell,
Foster, Agatite,
Talbert,
Marine, Seminary, Orchard, Lister, School,
Greenwood,

Stratford,

Castlewood.
All the streets I've lived on,
Geographically separated,
In chronological order.
Oh, and let's never forget
Old Highway 70.

24
My brother and I share an affinity
For singing TV sports show theme music.

25*
My wife deserves many medals
At least a dozen dozen roses,
A Sweet Mandy B's cupcake, and
A serious vacation for living with me.


Epilogue
Because 7 8 9.



*Yep, It's actually 26. I used
#13 twice. Did I mention
! have ADD?

Golden

It might as well be, I concede,
Scottish
For all that I can read...
Is it blurred from refraction
Or am I drunk (the slightst fraction)?
A thousand words
Fail anyway to speak
Of golden nose
And single malt, high grade;
The sunset poured itself
A tumbler
Hours ago, a splash of salt
To taste
The summer January made.

Paper View

Upon a single foot begins
A journey of a thousand lines;
To meet a reasonable pace
The second stress is borne four times.
The early steps, in certain climes,
Are glazed with icy rime, and trace
A path from prior space and time
So there, by God, I go with grace.

But forward motion’s warming feat
Will shake spears loose of cold dies cast
And fade the scars of past defeats
And melt the mourning frost at last.
The coming spring brings ten essential
Words worth wit-men’s pens at play:
If I compare thee, truth, to beauty
I see but a summer’s day.

By two, I break on through this pen’s
Restrictive wooden script and burst
Open, flaunting well-lettered men’s
Established rules for every verse.
The sun, its climb peaked, radiates
With vigilant sincerity,
So I for half an afternoon
May bask in golden clarity.

But further off, the waxing moon,
Though early, stands attentively,
Reflecting light too bright to gaze
Directly on, like ink and page
Distill thought-dreams that can’t be seen.

By nightfall, stumbling whence began
This pilgrimage toward works that mean
Anything in the end, I land
Upon a blanket sheet of dreams:
Unconsciousness will guide my hand.

(Before I fade, have tribute paid
The friend who rescued me, enjambed
And drunk from every still of trite
Distraction, never left but stayed
Afoot, so I am willed to write:
I think, therefore I thank, iamb.)

Own

This age of free agency fails
To teach what being "owned" entails.
Yes, I confess I want to see
Possessive pronouns used for me.
I'm asking not for flags nor borders
Nor for rules nor marching orders.

Whether "lover," "partner," "friend"
Works best for you, I understand
That none perfectly captures how
Connected I am to you now.
It's not the noun it modifies
That pounds my heart or wets my eyes;
So I'll just ask the smallest sign:
That you consider me your "Mine."

Poetic License

For my names' sakes please tell me,
Which stands out more readily?
My absent I, or missing U?
Would it could drive traffic too...

It's not my car (OBVSLY),
Though I'm a "Muller" (WECANC).
Mine, after today (UNFCLY),
Will say MPLOYD. (FINALY.)

Though this post may feel foolish,
I don't care - it still seems




Though the weather may disagree,
Indeed blue sky shines down on me. GR8FLY.

The Vanity of Vanities

OBVSLY.

If you don't see the irony,
I'll just enjoy it privately.

WNKWNK

Reflection in an Hourglass

When we are young and top-heavy, feet stab floors with balance rare as disinterest;
The hourglass sand appears to never drain, days dilating into years;
And yet, beneath the weight of great potential, fourteen thousand
Feet above the firm and verdant lawn of recollection, each cohort
Of grains confined confront the present portal, chutes packed,
Shuffled forth by nervous elders stacked behind. Standing
-—in their primes-— feet squarely rooted to the floor,

Ears ring with curdled howls of those poured
Through the jump-door, until they’re
Hurtled out with a gruff

"Go! Go! Go!"
Now! Now?
NOW.

Into
The narrow
Breach of moment,
All cascading into
Memory at thirty-two
Feet per-second per-second,
Exactly as each precedent’s freefall.

The parachute blooms, the flash blinds:
The instant ends with a skyward jerk, once
Familiar sounds lurk far below this place, this
Softer time for quiet minds. Now we are old, unsound,
Top-heavy once more, groping two and three and four legs
At a time for flat ground and hard floor. As the pile grows
Of grains below, the gathering gains its own gravity; a greedy,
Rasping chorus calls, “Down here!” In trance, time appears to slip
Away the faster, the dance crescendos as the coda nears; isn’t that the
Funny thing with years? They count more in proportion than duration,
And we count each less with accumulation.

First Poet

[Note: the transcription of Ms. Alexander's poem is my own - I apologize for errors in format, capitalization, and punctuation -- AB]

Click for a complete list of Elizabeth Alexander's books


Praise Song for the Day

Each day we go about our business walking past each other,
Catching each other’s eyes, or not,
About to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise.
All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din,
Each one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem,
Darning a hole on a uniform, patching a tire,
Repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere
With a pair of wooden spoons on an oildrum,
With cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words:
Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
Words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will
Of someone and then others who said,
“I need to see what’s on the other side."

"I know there’s something better down the road."
"We need to find a place where we are safe."
"We walk into that which we cannot yet see."

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
Who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

Picked the cotton and the lettuce,
Built brick by brick the glittering edifices
They would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
The figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
Others by “First, do no harm” or “Take no more than you need.”
What if the mightiest word is Love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national;
Love that casts a widening pool of light;
Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
Any thing can be made, any sentence begun
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp.

Praise song for walking forward in that light.

-- Elizabeth Alexander, for President Barack H. Obama, January 20, 2009

Beautiful Now

This single frozen moment, beautiful now,
How long can it last?
Should spring come soon
These hopeful spines will sag,
Icy flesh will decompose,
Slurred shades of "Yes" will necessarily
Resolve into "Adieu,"
And other facets of this jeweled vision--

This plastic bottle's accidental gift--
Will be clear:

There are rooms and walls beyond this pane,
Solid surfaces on which this dream will melt,
Appliances and countertops financed
With the same hope:
Beautiful now, beautiful...now.

Maybe it's unfair of me, on such a day,
To pray so cynically;
To see the beauty of ice amid historic lows,
What does it show? Serenity?

We once looked backward over painful times
And saw the beauty of struggle
As the centerpiece of--framed blandly by--
Our present comfort;
Why should we, the gods of irony,
Choose any other way but to look out across the void
Through spectacles of Hope,
And celebrate the beautiful Now.

Her (Actual) Words, Not Mine

"Daddy," she said,
"Whenever you're alone,
And you're locked in a cage,
I can open it up
With a special key.

It's just a pretend cage."

Don't worry if the mask you made
At Brandon's party falls apart
From cheap construction long before
Your interest starts to fade.

You don't need it to be my superhero, kid.
Unlock this pretend cage? You just did.

Herspective

It hurts my knees but I don't mind
Squatting to remind myself of you.
With so much standing in your way,
And crowding out your view, to huff
And fold your arms despairingly
And pout out loud seems reasonable enough.

To want things only half within your reach
Each simple seed of craving
Struggles to find purchase
From the lurching sponsorship committee:
Roll our eyes, slurp our lattes,
Part our ears from cell phones otherwise affixed
And answer, "Well, we'll see."

Not really, though, not much.
If we'd squat more often
To this fifty 'cent perspective
We might soften our rejective clutch
On age, and size, and rushing to be tall,
And recall: we do appear up here to have it all.

Still Life

What so intrigues the fish-watchers?
The effortless fluidity?
The endlessly self-scouring memory?
What bliss, to feel always renewed,
Floating--unpursued--in two feet cubed,
To dart about for never-changing flakes
Of paper food,
Companions fixed and constant
(Seeming so: The mostly orange uniform obscures
Who comes and goes).

Thus viewed from inside,
Does our cube of atmosphere
More or less trump theirs?

With jagged, fretting struts
Of our daily anxiety
O'erdrawn so blatantly
Before their bulbous stares unblinking,
Our manic, clamorous troubles
Slightly muted by the droning pumps and bubbles,
Who lives a life more sheltered from fear?
Who should envy whom in here?

And with its end, there are no dreams to come,
No mortal coil to shuffle,
Just a gentle roll and sinking toward the surface;
Only We soliloquize on action, future strife, and purpose.
Yet, to continue this forgetting, birth 'til death,
Is that still life?

I must confess my secret pleasure:
To watch in fourth dimensions,
To sit beyond, at right angles to both ogler and angler
And watch the symbiotic tension
Of mutual voyeurism
As a separate, living organism.

Pura Vida

All the Costa Rican locals
Flip their thumbs and pinkies wide,
Smiling "Pura Vida!" at you
While you bask in tropic sun.

In the tree canopy above
Our rum and pineapple-graced
Infinity swimming pool,
Three-toed sloths would chew all day, dazedly,
On Cecropia leaves
Known to alleviate depression,
While we bob and loll on a throne of liquid water
Overlooking the Pacific.

Would it change these Tico attitudes
To cross north of forty latitudes
And see this "Pure Life" frozen still,
Bottled up so brazenly?
Either that's what shocks me,
Or else my brittle mustache shivering
In minus twenty degree windchill.

Dark Night

So now you're one of those
Whose gaping absence stands for presence,
Every brilliant mumble in extrapolation
A soliloquy of potential.

I haven't seen all nineteen,
But this will always define you to me.
I can't help thinking, just like Twist,
You could have had it another way.

I could add your drama to this post,
If only I would wait another week,
But I've a deadline to keep,
And my voice isn't silenced by the flash.

Magic Beans

My winter window frames, ironically, these same hues.
The naked brown elms huddle, shocked and knock-need,
Like panicked birthday candles,
Dying just to light, and pry their feet from the ice.

Inside, though, these beans seem warmer for the white,
Snuggled plump and cocoa-shiny in my mug,
Waiting like a lump of coal to burn this furnace bright.
I can almost smell their smug potential.

Yet I could no more swallow inspiration
From a day like this
Than I can these beans
Unless I lace up my boots
And grind a walk through it;
I suspect the view from inside
Does no justice to it.

Pretty picture, though, and worth a sigh:
I know the best taste of this coffee
Requires I swallow my frigid pride
Then, later, stagger back inside and brew it.

Strings Attached

They say pure love comes without them,
But I know there are strings attached
Because when your cord was cut,
I held the scissors;
And because when you pluck,
I feel the vibrations in my heart.

50/Fifty

I had to be here, on Division east of Western,
At 50/Fifty; and you there, north of North.
I had not to call, nor text,
Not to wonder, I knew you were safe,
Because you did not call or text.
I had to hear myself over the rumpus,
Just to remember that I could name names
Of the overdressed and oversexed,
Shrugging off wars but immersing in stats and games
And critical scores,
Not that there are any to settle anymore, at 50/Fifty.

Down in the basement,
We stew in a broth of desperation.
We stir and caress like sister-brothers,
Roll eyes at and bump against Others,
Thinking and tagging them so,
When only the slightest salty dash of data:
A favorite Psalm or poet of choice or private wish
Could ricochet now off a dish in northern Virginia,
Spill into my Palm and flavor this moment, this space between
With something worth savoring—with tongue but not voice—
Worth saving, in flesh-memory, not Flash drive.
Alas, now that we are digitalive
There is no either/or anymore,
Only half what we see and half what we say.
We are 50/Fifty.

These primates drown themselves in their own noise.
In squads of three and four we pose, and posture, and lose poise.
Bartering to winnow down the ratios
Close to one-on-one,
We stir unearned pride into twelve-dollar bourbons;
We choke down the joke, and baring our teeth
Lest we forget this setting
This round of getting to yes/no's,
We flash and light down this pageant
Onto a magnet of 1's and 0's,
At 50/fifty.

Upstairs in our room we lay, in our binary bed, one up one down.
I had to be there to get back here,
To wager the ball of that moment against the wheel of these years.
The curves of our respective gravities turn so oppositely
That you and I, now, across the twittering interference of the blogosphere,
Might never have met.
It may feel like marital Russian roulette, but compared to that?
If the odds that we make it are 50/Fifty,
I’ll take this bet.

Music Lessons

Don't listen to them, son.
They'll think it's fun to gloat and say how dumb
But then you all would miss the sweet irony.

When you walk the forest
To the meter of your own boots,
Banish airwaves from your mind,
And bandwidths, and click-throughs;
Listen only to the whine
Of dancing marionette branches enslaved to the wind,
Wouldn't you expect to find
The real music lesson is within?

Threatened

You were placed here purposefully:
Downcast eyes would count the windows,
Calculating morbid options.
Crushed within or without? Matters
Little to your near-dead readers.

Nineteen floors below, the pavement's
Cold enough for skin to fasten;
I acknowledge yet look over --
Cream brick walls, white rooftops bask in
January afternoon glow.

Swollen, confident the westward-
Sloping sun, in acquiescence,
Yields the lakeside sky, the Gibbous
Moon thumps its chest to be strung up
Over such a cloudless blue. You,

Sadly, turn your shoulders inward;
You admonish without knowing
What I know now, what He told me:
"See differently with the good news!"
My heart-lining healed completely.

Someone really down and out--not
Only pointed that direction--
You might peddle your "protection"
There, but nothing truly threatens
My heart but the fear of beating.

Buzz

This is School for me;
Always Two of us, really,
Me and ADD.

Through a shuffling tube,
Hot, concentrated raw pubescence
Overlubes

This listener's senses
With chopping-block cadences,
Run-on sentences,

Fluorescents humming,
Pairs of "this week's thing" gumming
Each other -- stunning!

Audacious in lust
Until the buzz interrupts
Vows of sacred trust.

Without such structure...
Ego drowns in calenture,
Lost in adventure,

Swirling, clouds of these
Stinging bits of memories
Fractured by disease.

Locked in Lethal realms,
I summon every last calm:
Fight the Overwhelm.

Breathe in, breathe out: Free.
Only what I used to be.
That is not now Me.

Gamesmanship

Aha! You've seen my work
And have, inspired, composed
Your own response haiku:
A bare-boned 2-4-2,
Straightforward wants and needs
Uncluttered, freed from prose.

What were the chances, you
suppose, that I'd not see
This list, and stumble through
My day without coffee?

When you get home today,
I'll kiss a genius, K?

Toss and Nocturne

I

Sweat beads trickle
Down your neck
As you look back at me.

II

Crimson handprints
On each shoulder
Moments after.

III

Your red wine breath
Tickles my face;

A slash of winter moonlight
Mocks the window’s gauzy skirts

And divides the waking
From the sleeping
Sides of our bed.

Frozen Sage

I hope your scent is locked in there,
Bitter and familiar as the truth.
How dry and brittle your skin -
Keep still now, or you'll tear yourself to shreds!
Come spring, when your tongue thaws,
Let it steep and sing in my head,
My boiling brain will run over with You
And your potent brew.
Not now, but then I'll want to taste your thoughts, because
I should really know all my flaws.

Cold Reflection

 

Upon reflection, you appear serene, upright, steadfast.
On either side, companions shed old leaves,
Digging in toe-roots to wait out the freeze.

Soaked in post-Solstice alcohol,
The Januarians exuviate collectively,
A synchronized reverie, a casting off
Of last year's ills
Upon a drowning sea of fuzzy memories.

But long before the budding comes the test:
These Resolutions--not to have regressed
Back into That, rather toward This.
After the well-dressed kisses
And the Auld Lang Synes fade,
What Progress have I made?

Morning after morning I confront the mirror:
Have I merely added millimeters
To this rust-blond beard?
To right this upside-down portrait
Would expose the bald lie lying there.
Those ghosts of future whitehairs
Floating on the surface, where
Dual states of matter coexist:
Fluid and unbending, edged and neverending,
Winter's ice deciding if it's truly time to melt
Or if the image captured is worth keeping.
Sleep on it, then.

Remember, though, the evergreen does not ever live;
Better yet to turn the dream back over,
Know the central image isn't always meant for you.
Relent the view that tells you what you Want,
But not your Need. With earth and sky
In proper seats, you plant the Seed,
And wait for Spring to call, and
(With a little Grace)
For all things to fall into place.

Motion at the Museum

The camera lies:
When you move I see you snap clear
The circus red blue and orange
No match for your ecstatic ruddy cheek
Baubles fall in time past your swirl
As you climb the upslide

The camera's eye
Froze on the smiler behind
Though he may, posing, have falsified his moment

Truer still may be the deepest pouter
Clutching what he has got tight
Letting "left out" trump his right to play
To let go the car and watch it fall its path
You care not, or else for naught
For you will make your choice to stay in motion
I will let you go
And I will see you through