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A) WHAT TO CONNECT
journalistic spiel not in terms of the style sheets
(god knows it's treacherous to express that way
if you're spilling the poetry)
same that
it's boring
to poem
of poem
and that's a shade of the old journalism too all those
words
those imaginary tags supposed to say more than a tree, or meat
and potatoes so much
to connect! as usual,
this someone here ("writer") tries to say
to you
HOW TO READ
not even asking, not even asking
if you care, why you don't this or that, sing or not sing, dance or —
why not even forgetting the people places things i've
truly forgotten but have left scents and shadows and laughing for no reason
when i'm alone you don't seem
to forget anything, anyone - but are they/is it still felt? THAT'S
the thing you can always find in the writer, especially the
poet
(or his shadow):
blood you can feel move inside, blind to things,
penetration to twinkling eyes within
with no regard
for facts
for curly journalism, even sometimes
for intent
(or its lack
thereof and a strong suspicious slant-eyed sizing-up
of vocabulary, i mean even LOVE
all fucked up in the letters and memories, i mean
another connection is in order, harrumph
toe the line? or tow it,
drag that sucker out of harm's way, away from
metaphor, the poem about the poem, haul it into
a cloud of love, how did we
get UP here? oops,
don't fall
B) THE SLOW MOVEMENT
time-lapse photography retains the mystery
of moments unfilmed, unshot (might
as well be) a mystery growth, film brilliante
gumshoe walks by night within
each turned corner a new shot
in the fog a new returning all shots
of there remembered sort houses
- faces - between no longer there not even
in memory laughs it off
check's in the mail
we will be stuck, filmed,
in the end, no shots, no growth
mail, faces - nada we will hear
and a D will sound like an T
our houses will grow time-lapsed:
all those skies thrilled us, even the grey,
even the fog thrilled me every corner i turned
every quiet snap of a shutter
time-lapse growth brilliante of moments unfilled
no, only unremembered sort
in sequence remembered retains faces
slowly trails off
quiet simple
end always whole
C) BUT THE WHITE ALBUM WAS DIANNE
wasn't it? i always think of NYC impending winter
teen years mixed with the Beatles, a browse in a bookstore
but that was me heading toward or being with or heading away
from Dianne you and i were such friends
at the time, or around that time, around November one year
later we shared a locker but it wasn't the same later
i remember - don't remember if i talked to you or someone else
told you goodbye or told someone else
i had told you goodbye there had been a maxi skirt and a pocketwatch
and Odessa through wheels of fire later i had the staten island ferry alone
for a nickel, and another, and another i had been many people, and it continued
your skirt shorter than your peacoat we in winter walking
and now no need to sing pete seeger at moratoriums instead i need
you i am too worn to fight a war - you know: fight a war itself, not in one
o bla di o bla da can you take me back maybe it was Dianne that time,
a connection skewed but i kissed you in her basement
we were such good friends at that time and your kiss lasts this long
and will be with me tomorrow were we kids out grocery shopping with our mothers
when we first saw each other, touched an arm, or maybe you laughed
at me when i made a silly face for you, a stranger -
or were you, even then? Dianne's basement, o bla di o bla da
you felt it in the Circle, downtown, later on, a day off from all the things
left in our way, things hold us, can you take me back
where i came from, a little snow on the streets later, a kiss
that never ends, i will always feel the same
D) STATES OF MATTER
Did we walk in the rain?
We walked into the snow,
uphill always, and I didn't mind.
We walk toward the cold,
the cold I've forgotten, the cold
you've felt in your eyes and your bones.
I miss it. Now simply cold. We know
there is warmth somewhere,
not far, I can feel it. opens like
a refrain toward resolution,
raindrops pooling, ice melts
immediately, yes let's leave it,
let's continue as we have
walked in the rain.
here is
a vocabulary of
photos,
how light takes
over
we are distracted, seems what is
important has turned
into harsh light
we need new
pictures, not ex-
planations, wars i'm tired of can these
sounds
be replaced by rain, let's walk
when it's heavy, pool away singing
a refrain toward resolution
not unlike ice smooth
see-through pristine
something to slide upon
when days are cold
~
11 10 ~ 11 11 07
John Eivaz (john e) was born in New York and lives in California where he works at a winery. He has a chapbook, Remainder of Thursday Afternoon, available at Lulu.