Statement

To find purpose. To find the ocean and wonder how difficult it would be to become a fish to fight in water to swim and not drown, tattoo the wave upon one's back, aye.

Uncovering the capitol.

Lazarus.

Is it possible? Send me.

Excerpt from "Anatomy of an Illness: as Perceived by the Patient," by Norman Cousins

"Death is not the ultimate tragedy of life. The ultimate tragedy is depersonalization--dying in an alien and sterile area, separated from the spiritual nourishment that comes from being able to reach out to a loving hand, separated from a desire to experience the things that make life worth living, separated from hope."

Backs in Corners

The Willow Psalms

I Fields of trees, we travel gravel and paved roads by fields and fields dried and dead as Toledo. Yellowing with speed, each branch the shadow of a larger one. II Yesterday’s life was a short drive to a wedding reception where everyone was happy drunk in the garden. III Remember the old poets with the last laugh blues, moustaches, delusions. The music is turned off, don’t think about it, don’t think about it. IV You are only sick if you enjoy the taste of the poison. The well is deep and there’s plenty of rope. V Do not worry about the snail in the bucket. His shell has crusted to the steel, he is now part of the bucket and has been asleep for years. VI Forgetting is an easy memory for those always looking forward. Young poetry is skinny, but remember one psalm in the shade of the willow; to be; not for ourselves, but for others. To be; not for ourselves, for others. VII We were made to live without grid-iron incisions, to make love in the backyard of every country, to feed lions, to sleep on shorelines, to be more like blackbirds; wise enough to sing in the sun and less like wolves, sharpening their teeth on the side of stones. VIII The devil is a defeatist too, always the first in line, wipes his mouth on his sleeves. Even the billion-dollar hotel has bedbugs in the wood of its walls. IX Waiting is not simply counting the clock, finding the pattern of ring stains in hardwood flooring, or disappearing into the weather. Wait like a waiter deserving of a grand-baby piano tip. X Art is not satisfied, abandon your mind and speak in coma. Seek black fly poetry, Egyptian mascara. Whatever you do, do not fall asleep angry. XI If you live your life the last in line walk far as the sole wears, smile, love strangers for being strange, love as friends about to meet and remember jazz grooves indiscriminately. XII Beware of fools who argue simply for the taste of their own tongues, from a distance you are them, they are you. XIII Profound what? Sell your teeth to beggars with broken dentures and let them teach you the meaning of an empty mouth.

HomeYears, Afternoon, 4.24.2012.

Alan Ingus and I were shootin’ pool last night in Iowa City at a bar called Deadwood. A dark bar playing oldies from a juke box and half of the people were dressed like they were ripped off Broadway Avenue’s Lower East side in the 1940s. The funny thing was, Alan and I were hangin’ around that pool table, sipping our bitter ales and measuring up the cue ball and the angles and all that recreational geometry for hours. Longer than it usually takes a couple bull-jawed, red-blooded north American men to sink some billiards, I’d say. Of course I’m no expert. Saying a couple words every now and again and then hitting some conversational chord and talking for a good while about professors or doctors or other poets and writers we had met that weekend at the University. We kept sauntering around the table, just having a good time, buzzing off the beer and the weekend and that hearty dinner we had just wolfed down. The music ran dry off the stereos every once in a while and you could hear the clink and clank of beer glasses, the mumble of voices or drowsy chuckles from the college scene locals. A chill bunch, I wouldn’t mind a couple more pints with ‘em if I was given the choice. There was a whole cinnamon burger kind of feel to the place. So we just kept on hangin around that table, a few games in and we couldn’t sink the damn eight ball for the life of us, must’ve been about an hour, the only ball on the table was that elusive 8-ball. We cursed and fussed, took a sip from our beers and then scratched on the play again and again. It was a cosmic sign I began to realize. God keeping us there, making us work around our thoughts and enjoy the time set aside for friends you don’t always get when you grow older. Alan was working full time up in bear claw country and hammering away on computers and going through pages and pages of scientific research nonsense I could never understand. I was happy for him, he’s got the brain for it and he’s got the stomach for all those numbers too. I’ve been shadowed away like a recluse spider down in the outskirts of Chicago at my parents' house, driving myself mad with all that peace and quiet, drifting through nirvana like the air in the house just gassed you up to it, no problem. Anyway, we finally sunk in the 8-ball and what a celebration we had. I don’t even remember who got it, it didn’t matter at that point, we were bored to death and ready for some change. We split to a booth and got another round of dark beers. Talked for a long while about women and work and women and how much work it takes to get a real nice women for yourself. One of those nights, the blue sky coming in through the windows, and finally the townies were starting to fill up the place and I thought I knew a few of them, but reminded myself I was a stranger and none of us would ever know each other. We got out of there and grabbed a slice of meat-heavy pizza from a slice-joint right across the street, ate outside on a wooden bench and watched the drunks toss themselves in and out of bar doors and across the whole street. What a sight. We got out of there and hit the hotel pretty quick, watching some terrible movie until the television lights sedated all the activity in our brains and zonk. Snoozing like Iowa deadwood.