for the contrarian

making the whole process

more complicated than it has to be

no-body would disagree

it matters not

how good you are

what good you do

or does it

is the final measure

more than cronbach’s alpha

more than just seeing

if the same answer

can be had again

are any answers

sacred

is any

          thing

   say

      cred

      sake

   read

for goodness sake

       for pete’s sake

my sake

   for me

what about that

years speeding up

only to slow down

in libraries

and on dirt roads

in locker rooms

in your mother’s home

atop her piano

more for holding up

photographs

than stirring chords

or sweet songs

sing along

   sing

alone

none of this

and none of you

see

the sunset

was not meant for you

nor was it meant for

everyone else

stone stuck

staring at it

without the words

to make a stand

only word enough

to meet demands

of consumer culture

that coffee colored vulture

with a shaker to the right

a stolen glockenspiel in the center

                                                          its silver bars glimmering in the middle

   of it all

the glimmer

   is something you hear

and if you hear it well

   you can see it too

you can make it through the

   hoop

through the roof

   even

and if that’s not enough

to get you to stop calling me

      steven

   then i don’t know what else

i can do for you

                         friendo

   defend it

make a case

tell me why

you ended up in this place

and why you feel such a strong want

   to heal the hate

to set it straight

   from out of state

the harm’s long gone

don’t you know that son

don’t you forget what we told

you when we said that

we know what the color yellow

   is

what the color yellow

   was

what the worth of work depends upon

when we sat on the back bumpers of fords

      always more than one

and just wanted to play golf

before we went back to work

before we came home

from the moon

or from utah

where god only knows what happened

and what that meant

the port in the storm

called itself arthur

but you always said

   ‘author’ like it was writing

our story

from the gulf coast

   ankle deep in crude

            strike broke

didn’t seem right to me

at the time

doesn’t seem any more right

now

despite my red subaru

and three green semesters

for the contrarian

the septuagenarian

   who tricked me

every day of the week

 *leaf cutting by Hillary Waters Fayle

http://hillaryfayle.wordpress.com/

the depression is not significant

watching the light die

 listening to dogs fight

just north   of the good side

                                 of those tracks

where the cops walk fast

                                                   when they pass

you can see the station from here

                     if that lightens your fear

       or straightens her hair

                    when the first snow comes

stir            son

don’t have enough to pay the rent

                but the depression is not         significant

           ask her man      she’ll tell you that

we’ll wait for it

         want to know you haven’t ignored it

     her eyes say something like   hypocrite

                                or    predator

              they don’t say editor

and they damn sure ain’t keeping score

you can count

      one to four

      add it up

if you must

             the birds are singing

so it’s time to go to sleep

take the crosses from your hands

            and lay them at my feet

everything that you borrowed

            every little bit i stole

if the fan makes wind

            then time’s been told

a statistic

happy june was nice while it lasted

     lucky thirteen

you know what  i mean

it started as a flat lie that we all could decide

       might just give way     become truth someday

how the outlook subtle and serious display

                                      just might reach out and touch you
                               one day

yeah      it started as a lie

                         now it’s a damned lie

soon enough     it’ll be a statistic

difficult waters

we stand where the land gives in to the harbor

and the rest of the journey is difficult         waters

but i can't think of

anyone

       i'd rather see

trying too hard is just

      hoping that you see

it's not about you

          it's not about me

                                    that much is a lie

it's just not about me

you drove away the snow turned 

        into rain

and your last apology

              didn't mean anything

you said ‘forget…

            forget i even came’

i spent the next three days in search of disaster

 with dylan

                   whiskey

                                    and all the best bastards

         that’s when the sad boys

                               lined up to see me

the ever-go-by shows you the picture

     then you decide that the small parts

         are     fiction

i’ll work on the world

                           you work on the time

                           sitting in swoon

bending back fingers

there's nothing i have    that's

   even worth stealing

you

                  underneath   

                                    breathe

‘my kingdom                            for a king’

            so

in a one window room

                  i make the decision

            the train rattles by

with a lack of precision

                  but you and all ways

find the tracks

                  that i need

    the sound of the air

is making me lonely

                  well   lonelier

                           that's better

to describe the courage

     to stubborn and stand

give the harbor a hand

this morning stands tall

    at a comfortable distance

from the truth or the past

                 whatever you noticed

       could take you away

take you to the sea

here's the trick though

 it's a bit late for changing

i wear this on my sleeve

cause that's what is remaining

and i can't think of

         anyone i'd rather be

                       late  

         on a friday

                  the stare isn’t moving

the figure descends

         and you won't get to me

circle the ones

                  that make you believe

            in

  suicide marks

      of procrastination

the something between us

                  won’t ever be patient

if you could marry an idea

                  then i'd be an idea

then the picture starts to fade

          it cracks

                  and it yellows

and you have to be

                  at rushford tomorrow

good at goodbye

                  isn’t something to be

      i'm broken

so fix me

   it isn’t a question

     i know that you're leaving

and there is no exception

but i still can’t think of

                  anyone

           i’d rather see

           to live                    is to fly

but that sounds like bullshit

    i don't know who'd believe it

and waste their time chasing it

                   but would you would you would you

come to england with me?

the old fashioned way

an act of contrition

           atonement

wrist slitting   the old fashioned way

he got to watch the life

                           d r a i n away

it went slowly

      a blush red warm

this ultimate autonomy

     pressure from

the family

    eleven minutes

that will never come back

          not much to learn

the rest of the world is intact

who among you then has desire enough

                                                               to act  

come back to the old kind of trust

the arithmetic of care

                           near the rock river

wisconsin

in bloom

                           the year’s second full moon

a  beautiful   dutiful thief

                           just saying that comes as relief

no longer

keeping it

                  from myself

sharing the wealth

                           the health                    

the burden

    of words

                           you couldn't call it anything else

these are the ones

                           that woke me up

that made me

                love

                           and forget what it is about heaven

turning over every leaf

                           to find they are the same

what was

the name?

                           to finally place the blame

in brazil it isn't summer

                           clandestine behavior  

to taste

the sweet sunshine

                           cold and clear or warm and bright

joyride got to have

                           summer twice

before she took

the bad advice

                           she spilled it slowly late at night

she took the time

                           to take a chance

before the fall

broke both her hands

                           put the idea back in a can

it came from eyes

                           and minds   hearts in the air

from scorn

and stares  

                           golden waves of golden hair

not sure i was

                           supposed to be complete

not even

remotely sure

                           about supposed to be

to those that would

                           thieve

and everyone

              does

                           the wood makes a good effort

                          

to hold back the water

                           feel like it ought to

come back

to the old kind of

                                        trust

Helping Mr. Rothko by Henry Xavier Porter 2007