THE SOUL WHISTLES A LITTLE DITTY BEFORE CLOCKING BACK IN TO BEING GROUND DOWN TO DUST
just once
I’d like to lie down
in the middle of this factory
close my eyes
and sigh forever
like the earth
or a busted old fridge
only humming
to rest
in just-dreamt music
to jam the gears
and machines with singing
to make love
on this cold killing floor
to become the leaves
when we come
an unending film
of trembling
unreeling
but we must go back
to work
tired of existing
in this forlorn form
unable to transcend
or unionize
where hope is taboo
the impossible— all
tired all the time
and tired of time
its endless shabby constructions
tired of the lie
of money
its stingy thingness
a novel in no god’s cannon
tired of working
towards someone else’s bewildered
world
tired of the loud and endless parade
of death
tired of having hands
anvils of stars
gently rest them on the ground
matting the boat-shaped grass
and feel it
pulsating radiating rumbling
a train coming but not stopping—
the dream
of the intricacy of things
LOVE POEM DESPITE THE CRISIS
from bed
obviously
a clandestine heaven
you breathing
the last dream
on its knees
goodbye blues and greens
the world is getting warmer
wildfires flash floods
droughts famine disease
black mold grows in our homes
spores in our lungs
plastic in the ocean
sulfur in the air
lead in the water
fire everywhere
and still we have to go to work
try and survive
in terror and despair
beauty like a quiet protest
against it all
you lie
next to me
impossibly
alive
more dream
warmer than
anything
in the world
than
the world
POEM FOR THE POETS SINGERS DREAMERS DEALERS MAKERS WORKERS HEALERS LOSERS LOVERS
in 1989 my TV
tried to sell me
a piece
of the Berlin Wall
for six easy installments
of $39.99
any country
is a crime
the guns have won
ask god
close your browsers
and open
your fucking eyes
the only walls
we want
are floating
whistle-blowing
singing
in languages
we can’t understand
but eternalize
like strong coffee
a drug in the blood
awaiting a reckoning
maybe misunderstanding
can be ours
see what dreams do
someone has to
keep language
alive though
no furloughs
for this labor
of love
nor health insurance
the truth is
nobody knows shit
the only known
god
is gone
try being
needful
of something
for once
of everything
us
the workers
all naked
down by the docks
splashing water
in the sparkling sun
feel the cool
dematerialization
the thermal music
of being alive
call it
time
and a half
what you will
even in death
you’ll be wrong
and these songs
our ours