Figure It
after watching David Blaine
The plan
Was to be lifted
By balloons
And vanish
Into the atmosphere,
But the real end
Of endurance, as we know,
Is the thing
Without escape:
Shackled to the gyroscope
Or buried in the tank,
Ice-block encoffined.
The body wastes like
A hermit thronged about
On his desert pillar—
The body
Like a glamorous clock,
Like publicity,
This willful suffering, which
Encourages in the spectator
A delicate propinquity,
Learning in the nearness
Only that
To last is better than the lesson,
Not a prelude
To victory,
Not unemployment but
An agon
—time and self—still
In a small space within
A huge space.
Some would call it
‘Doing being ordinary.’
The thing is to
Last,
Holding the breath past collapse
Until monotony passes
Into wonder
And no one is thinking of something else.
Suggestion Box
the pumpkin bread is awesome, not at all
stringy or gummy, like some people say
grease the melodrama with subdued violence
last house before the tracks:
I heard you were growing pumpkins,
and you are!
post photos of the pumpkins
to preserve them from misrepresentation
better yet, do a quick paint-sketch
carve the material into
recognizable forms
lift off the lid with tongs
how about a round of applause for our fine actors!
you can make better use of your time
if you focus on one thing, then another—
wait, two things at once—
wait, let me get back to you after Halloween
it’s crazy here
Station Fire
Where the green exotics end,
houses spattered up toward
the fire-ridges and into
dark cloud and dark cloud into
foaming white cloud towers.
It’s hard to concentrate.
It’s hard to go to the store.
For nearly a week
the airwaves, as well as
the forest, horseland, manmade structures, crackle
and none of it,
just when we are undoing ourselves,
can be set aside for later examination,
this fire, expressed—it seems—
out of the clouds like a raping god.
On the second ridge the flames,
miles-long, close ranks.
The fire obliterates the cause
of its form, leaving
landscape scraped of decoration,
immodest, then untouchable,
hiding in its nakedness.
We climb up the Arroyo Seco:
steaming half-life of fire-decay,
the smoking undergrowth fending us off.
A deer, unstitched,
picks her way across the charcoal
toward a patch of green,
the definition of ‘gingerly.’
Beauty obliterates thought.
What is aftermath?
A capacity for shared stunning?
An unsounded note rolling down from the ridges,
damned weather everywhere,
the actual, the undescribed?