"Generally, the age of a cave can't be determined directly because the cave itself is an empty space."
-Oregon Caves tour guide
We populate our blindness
with nervous laughter, shuffle
our feet on unseen ground.
Somewhere a bat discerns
our shapes by listening.
You clutch my hand, moored
to the safe harbor of palms
and fingers as we are asked
to hold a collective breath.
Listen: dark like this presses
on your open eyes, your chest
sings out to it. Your body
contains this absence––all
bodies contain some light-
less core. Beyond the blood
that pulses in our ears: water
drops on stone like pecked
cheeks, wind from the lungs
of cathedrals built by paring
away. The sweat on our palms
could fill a crevice, carve a river,
raise a pillar someplace else
if given time. Bless the empty
spaces we could make––
I let go, and wave goodbye
knowing you cannot see
my hand. Later, driving home,
we hold our breath against
the walls of freeway tunnels
to keep the mountains aloft.
Poems About Nothing in Particular
by Nathan Landau
Friday, August 31, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Non Finito I
"Never before had works of art so clearly revealed the process that made them."
Jeremy Angier
I.
When you die, you leave
dishes on the counter
you swore you'd wash
tomorrow. Or is it 'you
had sworn'? Tasks like that
become past tense right
in the middle of things.
For something so definite,
everything is half finished.
I imagine Donatello knew
this, left his works non
finito––a woman's face,
pensive, praying, perhaps
for hands instead of
the unhewn stumps
he left her; a wrestler,
struggling ankle- and wrist-
deep in the stone slab
of his uncarved opponent––
the suggestive power
of the incomplete.
The crumpled ghosts
of your dirty laundry.
Last song on the stereo, un-
rewound cassette tape
playing six seconds
of static. Not just the dishes.
The dustless circles
on the counter once
we washed them.
Jeremy Angier
I.
When you die, you leave
dishes on the counter
you swore you'd wash
tomorrow. Or is it 'you
had sworn'? Tasks like that
become past tense right
in the middle of things.
For something so definite,
everything is half finished.
I imagine Donatello knew
this, left his works non
finito––a woman's face,
pensive, praying, perhaps
for hands instead of
the unhewn stumps
he left her; a wrestler,
struggling ankle- and wrist-
deep in the stone slab
of his uncarved opponent––
the suggestive power
of the incomplete.
The crumpled ghosts
of your dirty laundry.
Last song on the stereo, un-
rewound cassette tape
playing six seconds
of static. Not just the dishes.
The dustless circles
on the counter once
we washed them.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
NaPoWriMo Day 12: Untitled (because I am lazy in the face of the apocalypse)
You tell me how long it will take
for the Sears Tower to crumble
in on itself like a star. Water will
be our undoing. You tell me
the pillars of bridges will stand
long after their roads have fallen,
but dead gods are no good
to anyone. Corn will shrink
to the size of a finger bone. The word
"bone" will mean nothing. Grass
will cover the streets ankle, hip,
waist-high––we measure the world
by our bodies and without them
the world still grows. Our untouched
oases––nature preserves like
fenced-in jewels––holding
the key to before in after. You say
the stars will again be nameless.
for the Sears Tower to crumble
in on itself like a star. Water will
be our undoing. You tell me
the pillars of bridges will stand
long after their roads have fallen,
but dead gods are no good
to anyone. Corn will shrink
to the size of a finger bone. The word
"bone" will mean nothing. Grass
will cover the streets ankle, hip,
waist-high––we measure the world
by our bodies and without them
the world still grows. Our untouched
oases––nature preserves like
fenced-in jewels––holding
the key to before in after. You say
the stars will again be nameless.
Friday, April 06, 2012
NaPoWriMo Day 6: The Ongoing Search for Truth
I'm told the average person tells
four lies a day. One thousand
four hundred and sixty lies
a year. The most common:
I'm fine/alright/okay. Second:
I'm sorry. The third is: I know.
You can understand the problem
of collecting this data, like taking
at face value the unseen second
and third hearts of the octopus,
the dreams of an infant not yet
born. Invasive (of medical procedures):
involving the introduction of instruments
or other objects into the body or body
cavities. From Latin: Invadere (see invade).
We cannot always break things open.
I will be an uncle next month,
my brother's first child. They called
him Little Sprout, then Big Sprout,
then just Sprout. We outgrow
most things given to us.
When he is older, and capable
of speech, I will not ask him
if he remembers his dreams.
I will ask how he is doing.
He will say he is fine. I will
say that I know
four lies a day. One thousand
four hundred and sixty lies
a year. The most common:
I'm fine/alright/okay. Second:
I'm sorry. The third is: I know.
You can understand the problem
of collecting this data, like taking
at face value the unseen second
and third hearts of the octopus,
the dreams of an infant not yet
born. Invasive (of medical procedures):
involving the introduction of instruments
or other objects into the body or body
cavities. From Latin: Invadere (see invade).
We cannot always break things open.
I will be an uncle next month,
my brother's first child. They called
him Little Sprout, then Big Sprout,
then just Sprout. We outgrow
most things given to us.
When he is older, and capable
of speech, I will not ask him
if he remembers his dreams.
I will ask how he is doing.
He will say he is fine. I will
say that I know
Thursday, April 05, 2012
NaPoWriMo Day 5: Apocalypse Pow [fragment]
Entire flocks of turkeys
dropped dead that summer
out by the Air Force base.
Heart attacks. Who knew fear
lived beneath the breastbone?
But without our association
of explosions to progress, I suppose
test flight sonic booms would sound
a lot like the end of the world.
dropped dead that summer
out by the Air Force base.
Heart attacks. Who knew fear
lived beneath the breastbone?
But without our association
of explosions to progress, I suppose
test flight sonic booms would sound
a lot like the end of the world.
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
NaPoWriMo Day 3: My House is Your House
Rayne painted bricks onto the drywall
of her rented room in the basement,
then vines on the bricks, a city behind
that. When the washer and dryer
chattered and the water heater
hissed and groaned it sounded
like somewhere far off where she ended
up running to. We painted a lot
those days, footprints on the ceiling,
names and dates and sold the house
that way, gallons of paint in the garage
the original shade of each room
somewhere in the stacks. Look for
the drip-dried runs down the lip
of each sealed mouth. Break one open
with a hammer and chisel and
I'll bet it's still wet inside.
Whitewash everything and wonder
what we whitewashed to get here.
Cleaning out the attic, we found
a squirrel, hollow and flat and––
like a drum: the skin between
his mummified ribs and limbs.
I was six, no, seven. Our brother
held it aloft like a trophy, wanted
to make it talk, cracked its tail off
accidentally and we all felt cursed,
saw our pupils as black stones
at the bottom of every puddle.
In the basement the cat's foot-
prints were indelible in fresh
concrete, dried sharp enough
to snag socks or skin long
after the cat had died. I don't know
why we never fixed that. Maybe
the same reason we sold the house
without repaving the front walk
where our names and ages were.
They're gone too, without us
doing a thing about it.
There is always someone following you,
marring your footprints with their own.
of her rented room in the basement,
then vines on the bricks, a city behind
that. When the washer and dryer
chattered and the water heater
hissed and groaned it sounded
like somewhere far off where she ended
up running to. We painted a lot
those days, footprints on the ceiling,
names and dates and sold the house
that way, gallons of paint in the garage
the original shade of each room
somewhere in the stacks. Look for
the drip-dried runs down the lip
of each sealed mouth. Break one open
with a hammer and chisel and
I'll bet it's still wet inside.
Whitewash everything and wonder
what we whitewashed to get here.
Cleaning out the attic, we found
a squirrel, hollow and flat and––
like a drum: the skin between
his mummified ribs and limbs.
I was six, no, seven. Our brother
held it aloft like a trophy, wanted
to make it talk, cracked its tail off
accidentally and we all felt cursed,
saw our pupils as black stones
at the bottom of every puddle.
In the basement the cat's foot-
prints were indelible in fresh
concrete, dried sharp enough
to snag socks or skin long
after the cat had died. I don't know
why we never fixed that. Maybe
the same reason we sold the house
without repaving the front walk
where our names and ages were.
They're gone too, without us
doing a thing about it.
There is always someone following you,
marring your footprints with their own.
Monday, April 02, 2012
NaPoWriMo Day 2: [Fragment]
Crouched behind the mandolin,
tail twitching from under the body
of a guitar precariously leaned
against the arm of the couch,
our cat hunts a felt mouse over
and over again. It's dead I say
over the lip of a bottle. Kill it again.
And she does. This kind of certainty.
How the face resides in the marble
block, already smirking. How every
stone holds a face, a hand. How
we all await the chisel, the claw.
tail twitching from under the body
of a guitar precariously leaned
against the arm of the couch,
our cat hunts a felt mouse over
and over again. It's dead I say
over the lip of a bottle. Kill it again.
And she does. This kind of certainty.
How the face resides in the marble
block, already smirking. How every
stone holds a face, a hand. How
we all await the chisel, the claw.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
NaPoWriMo Day 1: Disembodied
I.
The telephone
has told me that
you are dead
and apologizes
for bearing bad news.
I think it's nice
to give the television
a break from being
death's mouthpiece,
but do not say so.
I say Thank you,
and then thank you,
and then goodbye.
II.
The first telegram
read What hath
God wrought?
and I think of the few
men gathered
at the rail depot,
looking at one-
another, benefactors
to this ghostly message,
knowing there to be
a man on the other end
and doubting still.
III.
Tonight the telephone
will not stop apologizing
for my loss,
the radio crooning
that every little thing
will be alright in voices
I am convinced exist
nowhere but in
the object itself.
The telephone
has told me that
you are dead
and apologizes
for bearing bad news.
I think it's nice
to give the television
a break from being
death's mouthpiece,
but do not say so.
I say Thank you,
and then thank you,
and then goodbye.
II.
The first telegram
read What hath
God wrought?
and I think of the few
men gathered
at the rail depot,
looking at one-
another, benefactors
to this ghostly message,
knowing there to be
a man on the other end
and doubting still.
III.
Tonight the telephone
will not stop apologizing
for my loss,
the radio crooning
that every little thing
will be alright in voices
I am convinced exist
nowhere but in
the object itself.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
30/30 day 30: Fragment
Leashed dogs cower beneath the porch
before dawn. Peeling planks of wood
swell out nails like teeth, widen gaps
to yawn lazy in expectation of rain.
You peel lemon after lemon, separating
each segment and salting them, a cross-
sectioned core of some planet, glowing
and never seen.
before dawn. Peeling planks of wood
swell out nails like teeth, widen gaps
to yawn lazy in expectation of rain.
You peel lemon after lemon, separating
each segment and salting them, a cross-
sectioned core of some planet, glowing
and never seen.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
30/30 Day 27: You, carrying severed head on a shield. Me, the head.-W4M
It was that goddamn mirror you carried––no, hid behind––that distorted everything but your ankles, calves, the impeccable curve and crater of one shoulder from behind it. All I could see of you I wanted to keep, the hand that raised the sword a perfect sconce for a torch in winter, for cradling drying herbs in spring. To hold something with grace is a beautiful thing, you know. The sword fell and I felt your hands in my writhing hair. You will never be more perfect than this moment. I love you. I hate you. You could be preserved for all time. A work of art. Just look at me. Look at me.
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