Everyday Icarus

[A Series: 8 August, 2005- 15 August, 2005]



The Feather On This Table Is The Title
for Troy

Claw Foot At Full Volume
for Ryan

A Poem Without
for Angel

Hiding To Laugh
for Teresa

A Lineage of Permission

for Michael

Flaunt Blind

for Soma

Magic Realism

for John

Sequence of Repetitious Bodies

for The Ghosts













The Feather On This Table Is The Title

for Troy


I understand predetermination


You are reading this

                aren’t you


                like a poem in the sink


The road you chose to take you here

                is here

                and not a road

                but a survivor


It all happens between sight and object


                like Sancho Panza

                could not communicate being fire

                so gave his body to the wind


This city was here before its name

                before nests


                you have no name


                you are naked and probably

                never made a shirt


Names inferiorate


Hidden so open we are as blind as air

Drawing lines we invent for survival


It’s wax


History is wax


                the horizon that doesn’t work

                the way it’s told


Wax survives













Claw Foot At Full Volume

for Ryan


Tiredness screams in luke warm porcelain

                using everyone else’s vocabulary

Too fathomless for translation


Licking bruises to paste

                wont make feathers stick


I’ve tried                to understand why

                                Sancho Panza stayed


                                eyes hoping windmills

                                carrying a broken rake


“I don’t want to be somebody anymore

  I want to say something”


My ears stuffed with dirty bathtubs

                                (I can’t explain


While you sleep on the mattress


                deep inside your chest


Our statues are still in the mountains

                waiting to be carved

                by thousands of drown windmills

                stuffed with shards of leaves










A Poem Without

for Angel


                an enormous hand

                percolating the horizon


“I never saw you stop moving”


                with an enormous hand

                impossibly honest like winter


Housing the girls you stole from light


                in glass windmills

                percolating the horizon


Where are you now


                there is no pocket large enough

                to hide the winter of your fist


“I never saw you

  stop moving”


Your wings of tempered smoke












Hiding To Laugh

for Teresa


“Run” she said

“to my treehouse of 2nd hand feathers”


She kept the spring from us

                hid in Daddy’s coffee can

                that used to smell of grease and trinkets


(I admire the way her stuffings

                are in love with Don Quixote


(The confederate pistol she hides

                beneath her tongue

                to keep from teaching


“Run” she said

And opened up the channel in her ear














A Lineage of Permission

for Michael


The Poet confuses predictions with reception


These poems expect

                the response of constant creativity


The arson tailor stands

                sample case in hand

                held tight like a dream about flight


These poems are about names looking back

                right before the exit of the cave


                Sancho Panza is a name

                like Wax or Memory


                Don Quixote is a saint that sees

                                the nudity in editing


                                                the poems


                                                are Daedalus













Flaunt Blind

for Soma


People spend most of their language

                telling other people what they do


“I stand up and the sun comes out”


You can’t control memories

                no stirrup fits their inconceivable rampage


In the park of the possibilities of hands

                chalk drawn sidewalks

                (after yawning out of shape in the rain

                are called back refurbished

                by a media that no longer exists


Memory is the color that paints the space

                overwhelming in temporariness


















Magic Realism

for John


The magicians play chess


Notice every curve in the room)


(and giggle at the imposed space

                between people


In the landscape of poetry

                where every Poet is an element

                these poems are beneath the 17th street bridge


Above instead of a road

                people gather in for granted geometry

                happening and drinking everything

                beneath the grinding of mill blades

                sounding as important as a feather


At the chess table

Mates meet mates


As they make (the whole room moves


This exists

      as much as anything can

      without being


(Somewhere in the poem

                  Don and Sancho never move

                  only being real


      as much as anything can

      without being












Sequence of Repetitious Bodies

for The Ghosts


The same old carpet of language


                But where is the ceiling

                        where is the floor


Every sentence is an homage to History


Don Quixote

                takes his lance of left-sided ladder

                to rip the carpet from his eyes

                so everything else is flower veils


Flower bales

Sancho Panza squats behind

                to keep re-making magic


                to keep a real piece of narrative

                with holes not for vacancy

                but being occupied


Names perch on the edge of the cave

                ready to be scattered dandelion white


Don and Sancho turn

                and turn to disappear


Will the names jump

                          jump up past consequential dust


                                 up to all that’s left


                                 up to the Reader (