I am interested in the relationship between poetry, the writer’s life and her or his community.  To me, poems are parts of processes, e.g., technologies of self, relationships in community, truth-finding. In “Ethos”, I wanted to: (1) learn about character –translation of the Greek ethos- by insight; (2) shape my memory; (3) relate to my students by presenting a different view of philosophy.  Philosophy is a way of life, an ethos.  And I like how it is dangly, too. 

 

Ethos

 

 

A

way of life.

We talk philosophy over tea by

evening, candles almost quiet.

Or work last hours in adjacent rooms,

my shirtless, thin back leaning tarp-like on

a table over books.  Please,

 

be

passionate about meaning: ask

survivor questions –

fascination is alive. Institutions

aren’t immune to reason.  Give

reminders that are true –

or

parts of them. Modesty,

being you.

 

See

how the day reflects off side-car mirrors? I’m

in a rush to walk to meet.

 

De-

light!

 

Ea-

sy?

 

Ef-

fective worry.  We

run for cover in the smell of dust.

Dot clusters on

the gray concrete –wind’s

swaying hairline of trees, rapid afros.

We hold love indoors by

the window half-

cracked and creaking on

my sweaty back.

Small death right here.

 

June 3^rd –June 16^th, 2010

Syracuse, N.Y.

 

 

 

A theory of the occasion

 

Stop wondering about philosophy.  When

you touch my skin,

I hardly know what to make of it. I’m

confused. The

discourse has been stacked.  I’ve

long since let go

goose-pimple chasing things.

Ordinary life’s an occasion to

give your feet their own

half-nervous brush against

each other.

I used to run down the block at midnight

holding my teeth in my heart.

 

Syracuse, N.Y.

June 6^th-16^th, 2010

 

 

 

Geography

 

I can be philosophical

like a fish.

It swims in pale light

of blue visions

vaguely remembering touch.

I can love wisdom

as a cat, instinctively, does

— slyly—

going to sleep. Oh,

no, I am not facetious.

The world is made of maggots.

Aurelius was right, the sod.

But today, air and clouds and time

were clear. I walked,

and slept,

and felt the sudden glare cast yellow hope along brick walls.

You know, heh heh, don’t you —

the cactus cries,

new kitchens,

buying a car,

eating pizza with someone whose marriage is inflamed

(and child is lost). You know,

please, don’t you,

the cactus cries?

 

Old globes sit in antiquarian stores

and wait for more fingers to be

careened around a continent

–there.

I live, but

in the sixteenth century it

did not exist.

 

My soul’s a split direction.

Jumbled things rise up

as ceremonies of the dead.

My soul is split-pea soup.

(Where, a child, my mother would make

the green contraption soup,

and I would laugh,

expectantly

in Utica, New York.)

 

What I’m saying is easy

for ceremonies of the dead.

Time surrounds all creatures

–a silent, blue globe.

And continents fold up,

up into bluest air.

Do not mistake these ramblings.

They come from a heart at quiet with itself.

I love you, and me, and all the things we’ve done.

I am undone like planets hurtling back into the void,

a red, fine mist of stone.

 

June 15^th, 2008 - June 16^th, 2010

Manhattan, New York – Syracuse, New York