The Rocking Chair Was Sold.

It was sold.

The rocking chair was sold to a poor Vietnam veteran.
He clashed. His eyes were brown. He was born of something
Better than anything. His mind was shallow. He was shallow.
The wind is cold.

I was not happy about the color of the clouds-
The ash color of the sky.
We fought tighter temptation,
The land mines were broken on broken soil.

My mother’s old cow lifted his ears and mooed
And chewed the grass around his feet.
He was not an it. He was my mother’s favorite,
He liked him better than anyone else,
Better, even, than the doorframe.

The books taught me better than the professors
At Brooklyn College or Mott,
Where famous professors haunt piles of old
Rocks.

Rock sold. Rocking chair.
You took your rest for too long, and now your ears are dumb-
They wove in and out of highways,
Anything within reach.
Oh rocking chair, I fear you-
You are farther away than anyone.

My mother climbs over walls to reach new heights.
I was bored, I carved my name in old cellos.
I was burdened by the flowers in the vase.
I was burdened by my flyaway hair.
I didn’t understand the English language.
I didn’t understand the words that crawled outside of
Tiger’s mouth.

Night Soldiers.

Night drifts in from all sides.
Sounds pour from all sides.
Speakers are in the walls.
The sound of winter enters from all sides.
The sound of winter is in my veins.

I walk on prose. Prose is gray.
It drifts through a stormy day.
Frogs walk on goodbye sticks.
Stones move over solid mountains.

He is a stalworthy soldier,
A sentinel in sheep clothing-
He eats macaroni and cheese,
He sings songs to the ocean.

Night drifts from all sides.
I can’t speak reason without breaking
Reason. My heart, o glorious wind,
You dry your tears and the tears are still.

I perchance. I perchance miracles, perchance
The doorman, he sat on a foot stool,
Whispered melodies to sorry green rivers.
I am free.

My worries are bothersome. They make
My mother, my brother. They scout
Across deserted landscapes;
Wave crests drift, naked, on the desert floor.

The rose was left in a mudbank.
A man in a dark suit walks across the mudbank,
His eyes stare blindly into the flower.
He is the flower. The flower stills. Stiller than breath.