getting it

birthday week

okbobok — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 15:52:29 +0000

Tell me this:
Why are the birds here so wise?
Tell me about the lichen that climbs
The grey fence – is there anything more humble?
When did food begin losing its flavor
And when did traffic become so terrifying?
Start slowly and use a calm voice,
For I have never seen the like.
If I seem distracted, reach over,
Squeeze my hand.

sunday

okbobok — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 14:28:01 +0000

a few hours ago, charlene
got herself kicked out for cussing.
no one had slept much, the whole night.
but now, quiet breakfast noises
have overcome the shelter stink,
the rancor of feeling ill-used,
and the weight of the week.
women and a few men chew pancakes,
blow on their coffee, chit chat.
bent over a sink of dishwater,
someone is crying at the grace of it.

security

okbobok — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 19:15:41 +0000

I have sometimes longed
to sit still inside an egg
as boiling waters

soothe and slowly warm
the shell, the white, and, at last,
the sullen yellow.

maples

okbobok — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 16:39:54 +0000

The maples that year –
More red than I had ever seen them,
Lamped from within by strange blood
And alien urgency — stayed waving to me
Well into November, watching from a distance
And dropping silent leaves as if
Tasked with the delivery of
Some great secret. I could not take the hint.
But it was a year of peace: the wars had ended
And the indiscretions of the night,
Whatever they were, had receded.
And in the last rattling week of December,
It became the year I forgave myself.

actions

okbobok — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 12:27:55 +0000

in this world, you will have trouble.
your actions will uproot and mow down.
your stillness will be filled, to the brimming limit,
with hopelessness and a sort of surrender.
at every turn, unintended consequences.
the seed cries out for the sower.
the animals pant for feed and water.
each human dwelling casts its shadow
a long ways back into deprivation
or forward towards oppression.
even the neighborhood weeds –
long and rangy browns, birdleg reds,
and the blacker, empty husks –
shake their heads against you.
hissing and sighing line your paths,
and the warmth of companionship
leaves the hearth that much cooler
when it goes.

departures

okbobok — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 13:58:08 +0000

empty chairs hold themselves still.
quiet gaps in conversation
wait without speaking to be noticed.
in any given moment,
lapsed circles hold together
by miracles of social integrity
when each moment they should
burst apart into glittering dust.
the moon perceives it.
(see? her mouth, a perfect o.)
how often have we carried on
in the midst of mourning? of loss?
what secret strengths
within the fragile heart
work progress through the nights?
what blood pumping onward?
how often have we parted
and found the long way back
to one another,
if only for the weekend?
these sightings stave off separation,
as if it will never happen.
and why not? some connections endure.
we meet our former selves
rising up in the mirror
each day before the sun,
as if to say, i knew you once
and i will not forget it.

knowing

okbobok — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 15:35:53 +0000

eyes following like
twin fish, your gaze ghosts along
below the surface.

imagine this were
all i had: a sketch of you,
lines done in charcoal.

i would keep it dry,
your face, eyes swimming in line
towards some hidden cove.

what waits for us after

okbobok — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 03:07:48 +0000

sausages
saffron rice
a bowl of nectarines
shining

unfinished

okbobok — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 22:20:39 +0000

from somewhere among the smoking mouths
a man’s long, astonished whistle rolls.
whatever they say about dusk is true; we feel it now.
each day ends with imprecision, lost among
the neighbor noises: someone has hit a dog,
a woman leans out on the fire escape to tell
the story into her mobile, a crowd mutters below,
the bus churns by them, coughing. it is dark.
we miss the silent exit of the sun
not because it is unimportant to us,
but because the clamor of so much else crowds it out.
children wait for supper and bathtime and bed,
lovers want a little conversation.
outside, the blooded lump of fur asks a riddle
that no one there can answer; the bystanders
hang out for what will happen next;
the yards with their keening insects
sing over and over: “i am glad to have known you.
i am glad to have known you. i am glad.”

a long time

okbobok — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 11:58:00 +0000

my heart withers, folds
in raisin wrinkles.
i sit here, waiting
for it to take up
less space and less blood.
nearby, some dogs bark
back and forth, sounding
the yards between them.
the clouds peel away
and return with rain.
the heart struggles on.