http://www.ohio.com/news/62456962.html

I just have to post this article before I go. He's a fascinating man.

Warren's house. There's the dormer I painted, though it isn't quite finished yet, and the full front and back as well as one of the great stained glass windows.

Leaving at 4:30 tomorrow morning. Next post, I should be in Oxford.

Finally.

Sweet Ruin

My time at Warren's is done, as of today. It's a little sad, but there's much to do before leaving. No poem this evening, but one or two tomorrow. And pictures of Warren's place, hopefully.

Hot Toddys all round. Goodnight.

Sinterklaus
Jerry Sinterklaus knows:
when his family gathers
facts remain unstated.
Grandma has been dead years.
Aunt Margaret just had botox,
smiling with too-white teeth at
nobody in particular.
Uncle Martin didn’t show–
he still hasn’t paid his taxes in over a year.
Jerry’s got an ugly sweater, a bad haircut,
and a hangover.

Since there’s no more beer in the fridge,
Jerry gets out his canteen and sits
among the nutmeg and coffee smells
of cooking and drinks,
drinks
drinks
drinks
and slouches in his chair while the buzz hits
because Grandma used to slouch, too.
Jerry used to sit and trade pulls with Grandma
from her tarnished canteen while
they talked in hushed tones the way
soldiers do in deep brush.

John, the pimply nephew ferrets over
to ask if he’d like to play hide-and-seek.
Jerry mumbles a rainbow of language,
and Margaret’s smile teeters on the precipice
ready to fall off. Her teeth stay shining, though.
So white, whiteness that betrays
every gleaming indecency.

Grandma’s gone
and Jerry, slouched alone and a little drunk
pulls again to navigate the pitfalls and barbed wire
of his relative relatives
and the hidden knives
of nativity.

Grandmother

I came out from shaving
after a late shower
my cheeks dry and warm
new without whiskers to decorate them

I came out from shaving
after a late shower
my cheeks dry and warm
new without whiskers to decorate them–
knowing that she could not remember,
that she would not know why I was there,
knowing that she would recognize me,
but not be able to know why

I was standing there with a towel around my waist
a thousand miles from home
pondering if mayonnaise or mustard
would be best with the roast beef
that I was thinking of putting on her sandwich
for lunch
wondering if she would remember which she preferred
wondering if she would remember that she liked two pickles.

I came out from shaving after late shower
my cheeks were dry and warm, new without whiskers
to decorate them
sleek without growth
like her mind
all the branches there, unbroken,
but without the lights to hang on the tree
without the tinsel to celebrate
a holiday with a name she knows,
but with grandchildren she doesn’t, and never will.

I came out from shaving after a late shower
and knew when I looked into her eyes
that I could never be a child again
and never wanted to grow old.

Dawn
Upon waking, January 26 2009

Finding a way to wake
isn’t always simple
when reasons to sleep
have all but fled
a bitten nail,
ragged edge and damaged bed
is a mind kept company
constantly
thoughts, then
are fog on a cold window
they become dew &
disappear

Perhaps the old knows
their weakness is a gift,
not curse–
one more misconception
that too-young grown ones make.
Wrinkles and jowls,
sags of skin and broken teeth
are not the signals of an ending
but a promise
that sleep might be everlasting
that there is a chance still
of some back door
we may yet
slip through

Shadowplay

some nights, I’m all hands.
I wander over
breasts,
curved back,
curled lips.

a puppet show–
shadowplay, all hands
slidingfingersbent,
a flicker-show of
odd shapes, animal shapes
hot shapes that scramble silently,
bubbled up, unbuttoned shadows
they fly into corners
they fall still.

Shadow oceans build up,
a shadow beach,
shadow figures play
in the sub-substantial spray.

there is a closed door
but open shadows,
working shadows that slip
apart and together
stood up, or rolling around

flickering hands
that move together and separate–

hands move.
They cast shadows
rushed together
on opposite walls

Worse and Better

Worse and better,
the urge to take your shoulders
and push them against a hard shape
and take your breath in my mouth
only to return it again, my own.

Worse and better,
the desire to hold you
in motionless motion
and not say anything
at all.

Worse and better–
myself at you
without a question
except for where
and when
and in how many ways how.

It is worse and better
this need to let the rust
developing on body’s heart
crush off as the words
words words words
make their dash
towards the end of the arm
towards the tip of the pen
towards your eyes
It is worse
because it is as deep as you
where you lie beside me, all angles ablaze.

It is better
because I know that I am more endless
not only deep, but without depth
full of fathoms
I will yet
add infinity to

John Ballam's Charge

First assignment today:

1000-word poetic manifesto.
A collection of poems that I like,
and why I like them.

Excellent.

Given that last post, I feel obligated to explain a few things:

1: this is designed to be a blog for my time in Oxford. It will be eccentric, it will feature whatever I feel it should, but the vast majority of the content will be my own poetry and photos.

2: Feel free to comment. I'd love to hear from whomever happens to enjoy what exists here.

3: I have to cite Adrian Louis for providing me the title for the blog.

Thanks for reading, anyone and everyone.

-M

The Hill

–Where we might have decided to climb ourselves, were it not for
this blindness we all seemed to suffer
the hill, the hill
we implicated every day with inhibitions that only dripped suffering blood
blood so thin we lost any calculation of how fast it fell out


it is where we wounded ourselves, how we decided to turn back
on the long climb past the relics of our future, the stone wreckage shaped into
empty beds, or full ones, empty bottles or full ones
while the prairie grass sliced at our climbing feet


We have run out of all the chances we gave us, all the glimpses of morning glory
we would have spied–except we didn’t want that
never sure what we wanted, if there were even chances at all.