ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

sequence #
1 2 3 4 5
6 7 8 9 10
11 12 13 14 15
16 17 18 19 20

  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 7

TRIPLE OUGHT
we have endured...


TURN OR BE TURNED
waking...


untitled
I am...


WEAK
my ill-rising...


FIRST DAY OF SPRING A BLIZZARD VISITS US
this last snow's weight and power...


BOOK OF THE DAY
a version of no corrections...


SNOWFALL
a cancel of...


HERE, YOU
valley of the powerless...


untitled
the minutes...


NOTES IN HIS OWN HAND
About the destroying condition....


NEIGHBORLY
our day...


untitled
out of the door...


JUST BARELY
here it is difficult...


untitled
quoted before I speak...


TRUE
time to notice...


POINT OUT
here is an impossibility...


COMPANY
there is a quiet before I speak...


HEARTENED
almost midnight...


IN PROCESS
giving thanks or sass...


CONTINUANCE
a face to look into for...


STRUGGLE TO UNDERSTAND
fresh tears...


PRAYER
heart made of dirt...


MONDAY
the call to remind me...


JUST LIKE ME
trying to move sideways...


HOW IT IS
the old smile...


THUNDERSTORM LIGHTNING FLASHES
the storm's welcome...


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AT LEAST ONE PERSON
a shell game in which...


FOR THOSE LYING WAKEFUL AS IT STORMS
thunder off in the distance...


4/22/96
press of rain...


CONSCIOUSNESS
what grabs it...


CLEAR DARK
there should be...


untitled
see what...


START OF THE DAY
tight...


ADDRESSING YOU
if you are staring at me...


untitled
the strange diction...


untitled
3 a.m. an owl calls out...


WEATHER REPORT
showers and thundershowers...


NOTATION
I allow myself to be influenced. It is ...


WHEN YOU
arrive in ocean a wave arises inside you...


THEFT OF LINES FROM CERNUDA
Sleep...


10/20/96
my circles run through the woods...


untitled
held up my empty secrets...


THE FEELING OF IT
North begins hereabouts...


TIME TO GO
winter light...


A PLACE
it closes to them...


CLOSING MY EYES
as I die...


STORY ABOUT SAFETY
the wind up...


untitled
a voice in the room...


11/19/96
words rest...


untitled
clouds form...


POEM OF SLEEP
sky mists...


MUSIC
a music that makes me...


WHEN I READ
I read to keep steady...


SOS
the page shifts no rest a sea...


NOW REMEMBERING
the rain cuts...


CARRIED
I give up on my fingers...


HAWK
strong hunter...


OVER AND OUT
crossing over the creek bed...

PROSE POEM ON THE BAKERS (NO COMMAS)

I always see the bakers when I am in a hurry walking past the door
on the alley where they take their break. In any reasonably toler-
able weather they sit outside the door on crates or squatting on
their heels. Many of them smoke during their break because they
can't do that inside. I don't think they talk a lot and they sel-
dom make eye contact with people like me walking past. For some
reason this makes me more aware of my stride and I can feel it in
a way that makes me grateful to the bakers. They work in a yuppie
place that is chaotic and expensive (a microcosm of our late twen-
tieth century world) where the customers always seem intent on
their transactions rather than on any personal grief or joy. I
join this atmosphere with enthusiasm since this is now our way of
having a common experience. Experiencing something in common with
other citizens is sacred or at least has always been thought so.
The bakers in their white t shirts white aprons and small white
caps seem to be (or I would like to see them as) messengers from
another realm of existence whose message is simply their presence
in our world. Hence their silence. As I walk past them silently
my legs in their regular pace say to me "I get the message I get
the message I get the message."