Poem, 8/28

[to be read aloud whitman style] Flight 2033

first lynn, then winthrop and hull, little harbors, clusters of white boatlets and green trees like shrublets, the entire north shore against the vast blue, bank right, i knew we’d see ptown, but not the entire arm of the cape and the south shore, how it all connects, how simple it looks up here.

this is why i like travel, and why i love to fly: it simplifies and minimizes, brings everything into big perspective.

it’s a beautiful day to be up here, warm on the ground, little clouds and little lakes, and look, there’s providence, tiny tf green, a cluster of small buildings among so much water, and island of a town among the green.

i like flying because sometimes i like getting there faster, knowing there’s a simpler way, knowing we’re already above hartford and i can see clear through to long island and the smaller islands around it, shelter island, and beyond.

this is new england: some farms, some water, clustered towns, and so much green and so much blue.

perspective brings everything together and clarifies. connects that which seems disparate, a different state or highway, a different way of realizing everything’s connected.

Poem, 3/15

I’ve unraveled.

the point from now becomes

a process of raveling, reconnecting myself

with my self’s responsibilities.

it’s a rock in Pinnacles, a point past which

I can no longer go

this time. my boy, my man,

you are everything in the world to me

and what a world we have

yet to make. ps, today I heard

the flapping of a bird’s wings.

Poem, 8/28

At the end of Provincetown,

the end of the Cape, I and my lover

begin another long vacation.

Seven years have passed.

An adolescent has motorized his skateboard

with a friction engine, as might be found in a toy.

As he is rolling down the hill towards us,

I ask myself, Is he storing, or releasing?

The viscosity of our history: At what point

does perpetual motion belie its own progress?

Poem, 12/15

it’s late, i’m older now,

time to sleep alone, off to bed alone —

but not alone, not alone.

my mind gropes for clarity,

for moments of singularity,

each seeking for their own,

for his own, for her own.

i only ever want to develop, to hone.

sharp pangs ache my heart,

but i’ll just pour it into my art,

and create a visual home,

a place all my own, not alone.

Poem, 11/22

the tallest tree on the street

gives rise to the rise in the hill

lends height to the upward slope

and is cutting into our basement floor

and will be cut down this afternoon.

the landlady’s excitement is no match

for the snatch of crows that this very morning

were enjoying their perch. human ego

is no match for nature. she will be here

long after we are gone.