if you can’t mourn by dancing, what can you do?
also for Peter

we fling our slight bodies
against the night
until it thrills into pieces
we can imagine your face.





*

very rough draft, it's been a rough day.

alignment
for Peter of the Earth

when a black man in america finishes school
stays out of trouble, out of jail, out of prison,
isn’t beaten for being gay, only harassed
on the street a few hundred times, finds a butterfly
in amber and keeps it for years, moves out,
crazy roommate number one, insane santaria
neighbor number two, moves back home, makes peace
with both his father and mother, helps raise
his brothers, dances on the Far Rockaway beaches
under both sun and full moon, gives pinecombs for gifts
because what else, makes his curmudgeonly friends
hold hands in the sand at midnight and give thanks, dances
with and without music in clubs and on subways, his internal
metronome a shifting, hip-level thing, when his back
starts to hurt and the doctors say nothing, when his back
continues to hurt and the chiropractor aligns and aligns
and his back continues its twist and can a black man
in america get an MRI can a twenty-eight
twenty-nine year old man talk a system
into growing an ear or a heart or a stethoscope
that can hear an entire lymph system choking
on itself on a cancer not a backache not just
a bad night a bad day listen past the slight lisp
and the club stamp on the inside of the wrist
and not send him to another alignment to say
a man is sick is a man when a black man
in america says want says something’s wrong
it’s not normal what is normal when Nobel
Peace Prize winner Stan Tookie Williams dies
at the state’s, at the nation’s hands and Lawrence
Bittaker and Roy Norris and Theodore Kaczynski
and and and and and and live out their sad
and angry white lives behind bars but live what is
normal when the same week the mayor calls
for a lawsuit against transit workers
need I say mostly of color transit workers need I say
a lawsuit against the threat of a strike an illegal
strike and we’re all glued to our TVs and the news
in the hospital where Peter where a black man
in america says I’d like to make it to my birthday
and the men on the TV talk contingency plans and
lawsuits against potential picketers and clemency
no quarter no respite an eye for an eye your pocket
for my inconvenience my hands are shameful
for how much their line patterns look like systems
of mass transit or org charts of the post-HMO medical
bureaucracy the family should sue Marsha says, mis
diagnosis like that is an actionable complaint she says
/ pneumonia, lymphatic carcinoma, his painter’s hands
in a graphic pose, in California a man refuses water
or last meal from the men who intend to kill him
the mayor’s on the TV and the workers on the tracks
we are burying our brother on a beach in mid-December
in the west they electrocute their unrepenting martyr
the mayor’s on the TV, his wide cot covered in an army
blanket, says we’ll stay here all night, if we have to.

*

the mamas and the papas had a name for the overtone that appeared when the harmonies were perfect

day, the body extends, the long-billed bird resting on your chest, no threat. a windowshade open like an eye, this is the world we own, electric blanket, worn sheets, one foot, another. the mouth, a country of want, wants, satisfaction, arm across the belly, a found language the radiator speaks, all sibilants and long spaces you step through for a kiss.

x

melody = the pitch below touch, the home tone, a return after so long. what kind of a nickname is that? lit, the ceiling is a reduced sky, a segmented body, look up, it's all mirror, fold the equation a leaf in your pocket, the first to turn, first found, the room on your tongue, an undiminished fifth, imperfect pitch hitting the mark every time.

xx

I love I love I love I love without reprieve or need for vow is the sun corrupt for not swearing to God a heat for morning / release -- a constant, encircle and release, repeat -- la lampara, the lamp, la luz, the light, I have no demands, day tramps in and we are anatomy in revelation, in light, still here.

xxx

coy radiance, cure-all, what brings you here this toothed December, spelunking my lost cause, not knowing the hot water tap from the other, the burgeoning jungle of words obscuring the practical, the connective / from where this reserve? when did my heart go crooked and small, light-shy and hiding?

xx

all your blood on the outside, what holds you together? somewhere between constantly naked and obstinately secreted is a wall the correct height and of the appropriate stone, behind it a river, my mouth, a word like stay.

x

endings are the hardest. to pull off the blankets and go, rouse the bird and the radiator to a new pitch, entrust skin to the day, to other hands, get me drunk and I'll tell you a long story about a girl, she takes honey in her tea and no cashews, please / outside, two dogs and a car horn, the electronic shop radio predicts two more inches, can you feel the tenses shifting now, present, present perfect, pluperfect, future, subjunctive, past.

*

{revision}

ugh. love it when I creep myself out with a poem that I, ostensibly, wrote.

Harvey’s song

whether coded or uncoded, is time not an object
to be dissected, splayed out across the evening news,
but pre-linguistic and therefore incommunicable, a shadow,
damn, is that blood or mud on your shoes, another pair ruined.

to be dissected, splayed out across the evening news,
such a shame, but don't you want to be famous?
damn, is that blood or mud on your shoes, another pair ruined
for nothing, no one even noticing you, lonely heart, amateur,

such a shame, but don't you want to be famous
for something, since even "neutrality" is a choice, or
for nothing, no one even noticing you lonely, heart, amateur,
another face, in the diner, your efforts must be good

for something, since even "neutrality" is a choice, or
the clues were too obscure, you're too sharp to be
another face in the diner, your efforts must be good
or you're nothing, imprinted in, burned into, the signifier

the clues were too obscure, you're too sharp to be
caught but that's the endgame, isn't it, you're reality
or you're nothing, imprinted in, burned into the signifier
and not here, skill lies in the ability to surprise chance, to be

caught but that's the endgame, isn't it, your reality
relies on this chessboard set of snapshots, her and her
and not here, skill lies in the ability to surprise chance, to be
certain of its authenticity, that is fear, this is a tree, reality

relies on this chessboard set of snapshots, her and her
subjugation of the viewer, this is beyond language, so
certain of its authenticity, that is fear, this is a tree, reality
the language-denying moment of visual contact,

subjugation of the viewer, this is beyond language, so
real you could touch her, could go back there, lift the plastic
-- the language-denying moment of visual contact --
the laceration of the viewer by a detail, an eyelash on a cheek,

real, you could touch her, could go back, there, lift the plastic,
a picture endows the subject with a certain sovereignty --
the laceration of the viewer by a detail, an eyelash on a cheek --
as well as vulnerability. the camera colonizes reality,

a picture endows the subject with a certain sovereignty
(how muffled her moan) (I do think that's blood)
as well as vulnerability. the camera colonizes reality,
so smoke is the index of fire, slurred speech of drunkenness,

how muffled her moan, I do think that's blood,
important to keep it all straight, where and when and whom,
so smoke is the index of fire, slurred speech of drunkenness,
why does no one recognize me here, am I not apparent,

important to keep it all straight, where and when and whom,
profilerating a terminology in an effort to describe
why does no one recognize me here, am I not apparent
as pastiche, parody, evolution, adaptation -- they

proliferating a terminology in an effort to describe
what I do. these are my shoes. my face. snapshot
as pastiche, parody, evolution, adaptation -- they
always miss the non-motivated detail, dead giveaway

: what I do. these are my shoes. my face. snapshot
in the trash, I leave a trail a kid could follow but she
always miss “non-motivated detail,” dead giveaway.
I exist. not to be ignored, bloody, photographable as she.

in the trash, I leave a trail a kid could follow but she
but pre-linguistic and therefore incommunicable, a shadow.
I exist not to be ignored, bloody photographable, as she
whether coded or uncoded, is time, not an object.



(Lines 1, 3, 10, 16, 20, 26, 28, 32, 36, 40, 46, 48, and 52 are taken wholly or in part from “The Spoken Image: Photography and Language” by Clive Scott, Reaktion Books, London, 1999.)

OK people. For real for real, this is just about the best way I can think of to end the poetry calendar year. An amazing, generous, brilliant feature surrounded by guest poets of his choosing, and our lovely little open mic. Not to be missed if you are anywhere in the vicinity...

Monday, December 12th, 7 p.m.
13 Bar/Lounge, 35 East 13th Street, Union Square

Pinion: A Reading to Celebrate the Quill, the Ink, and the Turning of the Gears, featuring MARK DOTY with guest poets Tina Chang, Kathy Graber, Brenda Shaughnessy, and Joel Whitney.

louderMONDAYS closes out 2005 with a quintuple feature centered on one of the country's most admired poets, Mark Doty. The Pinion Reading Series features exceptional poets of particular renown or accomplishment. These poets are encouraged by the curators to invite a selection of guest readers whose work they have mentored or through whose work or teaching they have been influenced.

Mark Doty is the author of six books of poetry, including including Source (HarperCollins, 2002); Sweet Machine (1998); Atlantis (1995), which received the Ambassador Book Award, the Bingham Poetry Prize, and a Lambda Literary Award; My Alexandria (1993), chosen by Philip Levine for the National Poetry Series, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award and Britain's T. S. Eliot Prize, and was also a National Book Award finalist; Bethlehem in Broad Daylight (1991); and Turtle, Swan (1987) – plus an autobiography and a memoir. He has received fellowships from the Guggenheim, Ingram Merrill, Whiting, and Rockefeller foundations, and the National Endowment for the Arts.

Open Mic sign-up at 7 p.m. sharp! hosted by Lynne Procope
13 Bar/Lounge 35 East 13th Street @ University Place, 2nd Floor
New York, NY 10003
4, 5, 6, L, N, Q, R, W to 14th Street/Union Square
$5 ($4 for students)
2-for-1 drinks all night

www.louderARTS.com

Harvey’s song

whether coded or uncoded, is time not an object
to be dissected, splayed out across the evening news,
but pre-linguistic and therefore incommunicable, a shadow,
damn, is that blood on your shoes, another pair ruined.

to be dissected, splayed out across the evening news,
such a shame, but don't you want to be famous?
damn, is that blood on your shoes, another pair ruined
for nothing, no one even noticing you running

such a shame, but don't you want to be famous
for something, since even "neutrality" is a choice, or
for nothing, no one even noticing you running,
another face in the diner, your efforts must be good

for something, since even "neutrality" is a choice, or
the clues were too obscure, you're too smart to be
another face in the diner, your efforts must be good
or you're nothing, imprinted in, burned into, the signifier

the clues were too obscure, you're too smart to be
caught but that's the endgame, isn't it, you're reality
or you're nothing, imprinted in, burned into the signifier
and not here, skill lies in the ability to surprise chance, to be

caught but that's the endgame, isn't it, your reality
relies on this chessboard set of snapshots, her and her
and not here, skill lies in the ability to surprise chance, to be
certain of its authenticity, that is fear, this is a chair, reality

relies on this chessboard set of snapshots, her and her
subjugation of the viewer, this is beyond language, so
certain of its authenticity, that is fear, this is a chair, reality
the language-denying moment of visual contact,

subjugation of the viewer, this is beyond language, so
real you could touch her, could go back there, lift the plastic
-- the language-denying moment of visual contact --
the laceration of the viewer by a detail, an eyelash on a cheek,

real, you could touch her, could go back, there, lift the plastic,
a picture endows the subject with a certain sovereignty --
the laceration of the viewer by a detail, an eyelash on a cheek --
as well as vulnerability. the camera colonizes reality,

a picture endows the subject with a certain sovereignty
(how high-pitched her scream) (I do think that's blood)
as well as vulnerability. the camera colonizes reality,
so smoke is the index of fire, slurred speech of drunkenness,

how high-pitched her scream, I do think that's blood,
important to keep it all straight, where and when and whom,
so smoke is the index of fire, slurred speech of drunkenness,
why does no one recognize me here, been in the paper for days

important to keep it all straight, where and when and whom,
the proliferation of a terminology in an effort to describe
why does no one recognize me here, been in the paper for days
as pastiche, parody, imitation, adaptation -- copycat

the proliferation of a terminology in an effort to describe
what I do. these are my shoes. my face. snapshot
as pastiche, parody, imitation, adaptation -- copycat
always misses the non-motivated detail, dead giveaway

: what I do. these are my shoes. my face. snapshot
in the trash, I leave a trail a kid could follow but she
always misses the non-motivated detail, dead giveaway.
I exist. not to be ignored, bloody, photographable as she.

in the trash, I leave a trail a kid could follow but she
but pre-linguistic and therefore incommunicable, a shadow.
I exist not to be ignored, bloody photographable as she
whether coded or uncoded, is time, not an object.


(Lines 1, 3, 10, 16, 20, 26, 28, 32, 36, 40, 46, 48, and 52 are taken wholly or in part from “The Spoken Image: Photography and Language” by Clive Scott, Reaktion Books, London, 1999.)

it's here! available from Soft Skull books, on powellsbook.com, booksense.com, Amazon.com, and most likely at a bookstore near you!

ignoring the fact that there's one eensy weensy edit that I made long after the book was being compiled, it's pretty thrilling to see the poem in print. somehow I thought there would be more poetry in the anthology -- but the preponderance of stories and essays probably means it'll sell better! plus, it's kind of fun to be one of only a few poets. for once.

here's the publicity blurb:

We live in a culture founded on transgressive desire (apple, serpent, party of five) even as it insists on suppressing it. What does it mean when our most sought-after emotional state--being beloved--comes into direct conflict with our most deeply ingrained values--being honest--in our most prized relationships? When desire is aroused, what are the consequences as it is silenced, suppressed, subverted, or fulfilled? And what happens next? Although recent estimates insist that half of all women and men have cheated in their relationships, the climate of silence surrounding such behavior (except in the lowest forms of popular culture and in conjunction with major public figures) would have us believe that affairs are an anomaly.

In a post-queer, post-nuclear family age, the "affair" looks different from media representations--that is to say, what's violated may not be the marital bond, and the betrayal may not be a sexual one. Homewrecker explores the emotional intensity and complexity that affairs entail: euphoric, unapologetic, guilty, torn, ashamed, unrepentant, creative, insatiable, self-loathing and many more--sometimes all at once, and from a multitude of perspectives. The anthology also examines what is destabilized by the affair--(heterosexual) pair bonding and the nuclear family--and the consequences on those who challenge it.

Major shapers of contemporary writing share space with fresh talent in Homewrecker, each with a different take on the desire and its aftermath. Steven Elliot remembers the dominatrix who two-timed him with a square while Lori Selke spins steamy erotica about just how quickly queer-marriage can degenerate into extra-marital queer activity. Neal Pollack recalls using the early days of the internet where anything seemed possible--even destroying the marriages of those you-ve never met--while Matthue Roth wonders if it-s possible to cheat on God. Cris Mazza, Susannah Breslin, Kevin Sampsell, and 19 other writers prove that there are no victims here, no villains, and no innocent bystanders. Only lovers, with all the responsibility the word implies.

proud to be one of the "19 other writers" --

:)