someday, when i get more used to this love, i'll write again.

i promise.

Autumn Beans

In the first days of true fall, the sun so welcome and warm I wonder when the cursed heat of summer took its leave, I learn from beans.

First, I sit and shell dry beans for seed saving. Hulling the dormant life from dead, dried pods, we work together, the two of us sitting and scooping beans with our thumbs and I listen to the update of her life. The end of one relationship, the beginning of another.
She tells me about her ideas of "ethical love" and how after a painful exchange with her ex, she goes to her mother's house and draws a tarot card. Just one, and it's death. "What does that mean?" I ask. "That something has to end," she says.

Later in the afternoon, I am harvesting the last of the green beans with two people I have just met. We get to know one another, a steady stream of pleasant conversation as we more bed to bed, bent or kneeling. The garden is yellow and dry or green and wilted and the air smells like earth.
I ask the boy if he will stay here a long time, after his job is done. He is silent for a moment, then cautiously tells me of his father's death this past summer, the suddenness of the cancer's spread, and how his mother is alone now, across the country. I feel heavy and then ashamed that I have nothing more graceful to say than, "I'm sorry;" to ask a few questions and to say the desert is a land made for healing.

I die too, sometimes daily, or now, hard and deep for a week. Everything seems to be suffering and the shape of a window is painful, my frail existence inexplicably unbearable.

It doesn't occur to me until now, on the back porch with the October earth tilting from the sun, that this is the season of death, of pain. This is the way things move. Beans that are dry and scatter across the floor when dropped from my hands or the last green beans pulled from the garden, the loss of love or a loved one is all laid bare in the autumn. We must die and till and replant with last season's seeds to have new bounty. It doesn't hurt me for a moment to smile at the desert's cliffs and breath the crisp air.

I Ate Too Much for Dinner

I ate too much for dinner last night

And now there is a
terrific morning storm raging outside my bed.

As if God were saying,
"You want to feel full?
Eat some lightning. Drink this thunder
with cold wind and rain.

I promise you won't get indigestion."

Sharing

Please click here to watch a video by filmmaker Mika Kiburz inspired by this poetry.

But Sigh

The morning after we bought the van
we drove down the mountain,
last night's rain still clinging to the 27 year old paint.

Cows bobbled slowly across the scrub oak hills
and clouds coalesced where no clouds had been the day before.

We clinked coffee mugs then, brown liquid sloshing with the washboard road.

The cat prowled and bounced in the back, searching for some stability.

My favorite Irish folk singer sang a song about a forest.

There are more cars, there are more toys,
there are more trendy styles and there is more money.

But few are the moments where we feel so perfect,
feel that the life is everywhere and there is nothing to do
but sigh.

Spring #4

Snow melting on Mountains
honey black locusts bloom
thick fragrance falling,
my heart opens wide.

Marvel

The sky is orange today,
desert particles blocking the sun
like a bride's veil
or
red scarf over lamp.

The rim is distant and out of reach
and the sound of the creek
drowned by the wind.

Biking is going nowhere.

You kiss me twice before you leave
then come back for a third
and I can't comprehend how the world
is still turning,
how everything doesn't stop what it's doing
and marvel.

Voice Grace

If the noises of feet
rustling in grass
were amplified

and cricket's tones
were slowed,
it would sound

as children singing
amazing grace around
a campfire ring sound

when moonfilled mists
surround still thicker
smoke trickling

from a smoldering
coalbed that cradles
nimble flames unsure

of whether they’ll waver
much longer, but dancing,
at least, until the voices

finish lingering in mist
and echo back
off the hillsides,

the moon,
or some other source
of light behind

the obscured sky,
returning to tuck
them into the ashes.


By Mr. Keefe Keeley

There's Magic Everywhere!

We went off the trail, followed
a wash north west. Came upon
mouse track highway, shrub to tree.
I worried for you climbing steep slick
rock with all that extra weight
wrapped across your back, that
tender-small body sliding forward.

In an alcove above a pinyon, we
spelled the names of loved ones
in shadow with body letters. When
the sun eased himself below distant
cliffs, we waved our arms and became
invisible as our silhouettes disappeared.

My love, I ask you to tell me
is there anything more in life than
these simple moments? Any God that
resides elsewhere but in the
setting sun, speaks in a language other than
our harmonic hiking song and your baby's coo?

Furry Fog

A furry fog thick on the back of my teeth.
"Oh, I don't really get drunk anymore," you say.
The highway curves like tangled yarn.

I am a flowering tea.

Couch Surfing

Some tiny, tinkering piano
forces my cautious feet forward
and sets the stage for finding
your empty apartment.
I can feel the city swirling around outside
like a horde of locusts in the sunshine.
But here, in your unfamiliar home,
all is swollen wood and hollow metal,
afternoon shadows and house plants,
quiet rushing
and my delicately
shattered heart.

13

We lay on your bed, the ends from a
hunk of wood shaped into a bowl and
shipped overseas. Shattered sunlight
broke the winter morning
and made shapes on the ceiling.

Before, we went out on a root
windy night. The city was empty, save our
streetlight sentries and their halos of
gold suicide spattered on the sidewalks.
We held hands and sang soft
lullabies to the sleeping concrete.

Homecoming

He repositions
the water glasses so
they catch
afternoon light
a little more.

The clean clothes wave
on the line and

we laugh and
wait for you.

Sunrise in Needles

The earth turns on her axis,
gravity forcing rotation, revolution
about and around a huge fire star,
light years away.

And what I see seems equally magnificent:

centimeter by centimeter the red rock walls,
spires, capstone mushrooms touched by light,
as if that heat, that rising sun, is unfolding languidly,
deliberately slow
so we pause over breakfast and pay attention.

But really, even now, we move.
It is US that dances,
the rocks that move to meet the light,
the world that turns.

Nothing stands still, the fusions of atoms
a wild flurry in that star,
the rocks falling apart and sand blow-washing away.

Blanket

Rolling clouds, un-carded wool.
She's weaving a blanket.
Spun with fingers old and deliberate,
A juniper trunk hand.

The loom?
Sandstone, ancient ocean:
layered, slabbed, cracked.
The material water-sun softened
desert varnish and color changing
crypto soil stained.

She swaddles us up, safe and soft.
We dwell-sleep in her work,
cradled, caressed, cajoled,
into knowing
into true faith believing.
We
are
loved.

Dongzhimen, 6 p.m.

The lights come on at dusk.
Red,
neon,
four characters
advertising 'sleeping house'
eight stories down,
three streets over.

Vein of steel shuttles bodies
up
down
up;
doors shut with a prison cell's bone crack.





It's visiting time to hallway inhabitants.
Dust covered clock,
forever bicycle with birdcage,
dog piss stained stairwell.

Roses and cabbages grow in the weak window light.

CARI II

The big moon rise sifts through
layers of cloud wet wool torn apart
felted against the stars.

We're dome enclosed
the vaulted endless heavens bending to drink
trees on all sides
while we lay in the field and listen.

Owls call south to east and
something moves in the
tall prairie grass on woods' edge.

The cat watches with sharp green eyes.

Fungi

My mother

sent me a magazine
I had already read at home,
before moving abroad.

There was an article on mushrooms, nature, and god,
and a poem about married life.

I had read it while soaking in a tub,
dreaming of waterskin.

Later, I wrote a fairy tale poem
in two languages as homage.

I put it in the mail.
I hope you got it.

Sweet Love

Sweet Love,

where did I leave my hat
last night
before falling into your arms?

I can't find it now!

Perhaps I shall have to
come back this evening
and have a look around.

HAB

Apartment buildings of glass, concrete,
painted by men suspended with one rope and a bucket of paint
come complete with laundry in the balcony
and yellow, blue, or pink lit living quarters.

Broken hutong shacks, surrounded by plastic and food garbage,
no heat or water or private bath
but insulated with steaming jiaozi baozi crates
and old men singing along with accordians.

We all got to have a place where we come from
This place that we come from is called home.
We set out on our travels, we do the best we can
We travel this big earth and we roam.

We all got to have, a place where we come from
This place that we come from is called home.
And even though we may love, this place on the map
Said it ain't where ya from, it's where ya at.

(Thanks to Mr. Mos.)

Late Night Snack

I stand in line and wait for my bing like every one else.
Tonight I will try the one that comes with carrots.
Someone on a bike goes by, ringing their bell in the dark
just outside the circle of steam formed when the batter hits.

I look up and see the clouds lit bright against the sky
back framing a new glass, 40 some story building.

For a moment, I consider asking my bing man where he's from,
how long he's run this cart in the central business district,
selling late night street food to security guards and construction workers
moving concrete in the wee hours.

But I don't want to shatter this second, this city,
this quiet peace I am imposing.
So I wait, listen to the sounds of egg breaking,
sauce brush painting, spatula scraping,
give him a five kuai note, take my warm bing bag and
trip along home.

Spring

My father, in a gentle voice,
tells me how the wood he cuts is so beautiful
and he picks and chooses each piece
to split open.

The asparagus is tender
and the cat is living outside.

Last night, you were driving a motor boat in a beautifulcleanblue, Y shaped lake called Wudaokou and I was sitting shotgun, talking to Emily on the phone. The sun was shining and there was a breeze and green trees on the banks. We stopped at a restaurant/bar where we planned to have dinner, but instead I went to wait for you outside at some undetermined beach while you finished your business talking.

And then I woke up.

Electronic Sufi

One Dream
with two head phones
and you,
shaking with laughter.

seek your friends always with hours to live.

an orange octopus hanging in a glass window so hot men without shirts flipping crates of sharksfins under tree roots breaking concrete walls and grateful for you somewhere in the back of mind singing with cats on walls under embassy street lights and soldiers following us along the yellow lines outside gates with nowhere going but walk.

That Afternoon

Warm air,
White seeds flying everywhere.
In want of being held in arms,
He stands there, crying.

Little coat, little bag and little water jug occupied his left arm and hand,
Bent down,
The grandfather gently patted the kid on the buns,
Asking him to walk by himself.
Each time the big hand landed on the little buns the crying mouth opened bigger.


那天下午

温暖的空气
弥漫的杨絮飞在空中飞舞
他站在那里哭
要爷爷抱着走

小小的外衣，小小的书包和水壶填满了爷爷的右臂和右手，
爷爷弯腰，
腾出的右手轻轻拍打孩子的屁股，
要他自己走路，
大大的手落到小小的屁股上
每一次那哭叫的嘴都会咧到更大。

By Ms. Jane Yang

WATER


I lay fantasizing
about cutting myself

four long slits

on the outside
of my lower left leg

just above the ankle.

I went into the bathroom
noticed the florescent light was out.

I thought about your babies,
the twins that died inside
before any of us knew they existed.



I would have talked to them

sang

them

songs

took them

to play in the spring

where the four of us

jumped over mud

breathed

moonlight and

built

cairns.

Where you introduced us to the voices of the land
that never stop talking.

Where we

drank

and

smoked,

unaware.




I'll go outside now
and breathe some death.
Accidentally burn my arm on steam from a street food vendor
walk with 7 mm of plastic separating the souls of my body
from this defiled concrete.

Fy's notebook

There was a hesitation in her step that I immediately fell in love with. Not that she wasn't beautiful to begin with, but I've never liked those people that yell confidence with every perfect pore. I don't believe them; I believe the only truth is uncertainty. My wife will be that woman who pairs her ignorance against my experience, and therefore makes us fit.
But what am I writing about? This should be a book about art, a real masterpiece with plot line and characters who commit murder and fuck close friends and move off the farm because their sister's friend stole their weed and the whole town found out or at least it should have some flying machines.
I'm going to go take a shower.

Memory Shopping

I went to the market looking for an old piece of metal
dug out of the dark earth somewhere much further south than here.
A door knocker fallen from rotted wood
accidentally oiled by child fingers in summer.

I found a bell, most certainly not antique
that rang with an assertive yell
each time my bicycle went over a crack.

I hurried home to where I hung it above my window
glinting dimly, garnering the wind.
It is not a knocker, but a bronze voice that still ushers visits
from my long gone wife, saying, "It's a nice day today."

i broke twelve times yesterday

once seeing our two arms side by side
again when the throat singers stopped playing
again when us foreigners displaced the baby and her family
from upstairs bar since we would spend money
and
for a fourth time when her little hand closed on my fingers

once when no one said hello to the taxi driver
and again when no one said thank you
for a sixth time when you told me it didn't matter what i said
as long as i was honest

once broke with disgust for myself for staying out so late
embarrassing bar smoke smell in church
with the ambassador's daughter
eighth time that no sleep feel shaking hands with a rich woman in black

shattered shivered perfect the ninth time reciting the lord's prayer

once seeing the hills that exist beyond beijing
only when there is no smog
and again noting small bush blossoms pink white yellow
in the shadow of skyscrapers

last and wholly
into a million pieces in the hutong
old woman wheel chair child kites setting sun on broken brick

spring kickapoo haikoo

snowmelt, old linens
redbuds, eyes easing open
bedhead of burdock

by mr. keefe keeley

Warm destruction

Gnaw thumbnail
like the Wilkins ice shelf
nibble nibble un-encumber.

legs truncated to scrunched up cloth
rolling down sidewalk
crease grease dirt skin hair.

Still the train comes
divorcing sunlight
making the heart beat fast.

But that was all before

she started walking into walls. Before she started smelling the emotions of those in her near vicinity, getting distracted, loosing her balance and crashing. Oh, but I get ahead of myself.
What was before? The mixing of the road signs with store signs with books so she might suddenly look a stranger on the street in the eyes and with flashes of "please do not smoke," and "Buddha says everything has to be forsaken," running around somewhere in the gymnasium of her mind, she would say directly and loudly, "Where please smoke forsaken Buddha?" and her mother, (the vessel of shame,) would shovel her along blushing embarrassment, while she, poor fool, continued to stare hard at where the building met the sky.

Chrysanthemum blossoms sleeping in a plastic bottle
cradled by the cracked concrete
lulled into afternoon 休息 xiūxī by a 5,000 y.o. history.

The steel dragons rise from the broken earth
rearing their proud faces to the smog sky.

We hold hands and giggle wiggle walk.


(休息 xiūxī Rest. 休 = a person stopping to rest under a tree + 息 a heart under a nose as when we stop and rest we smell the flowers and feel.)

I like riding the subway here
and being pushed and shoved, everyone loosing their balance
in the cradle shocking motions.




We crash into each other.

Responsibility

She slid into my life like a key into a lock. The first and last on some stranger's ring I had all but given up hope of finding, despite being told it was there. A consummate fit, I could almost hear that satisfying "click" with each turn of personality revealed.

But it was not to last. Too early, too late, neither of us brave or maybe dedicated enough to open another dimension into this one and in less than a week, it was over, and she was gone.

Maybe someday, I thought, as I closed the door, we can do this all the time.

Gills

Again we are underwater.
In the desert, this reality
was encouraged by
the scraggling green plants
straining from rocks
to the huge open sky.

Here, the smog is so thick
I think to walk
through it
I must swim.
What an appropriate haze
to bumble through
humming a happy tune surrounded by poisons
created of ambitions.

For Vancouver

I'm sorry;

You never knew my dad died until today,
and we held hands and I told you how much I loved him.

This is why I laugh so much and smile at strangers until they smile back,
but cry when the blind masseur asks what blind people do for work in America
and I have to say I don't know.

Tragedy happens.

I didn't mean to tell you about my dad's cancer but you seemed like you wanted to know. You asked. Maybe I should just try and get on with my life, stop running around spoiled and lost. Or maybe I should go to Cambodia and get drunk again until I cry. I don't know.

I don't care whose fault it is, just fix it.

sexybeijing

after resting my head on a stranger's back
in the subway and getting excited
i yelled at a woman on the street
and told her i liked her t.v. show.
she did not respond or smile
but frowned across the line of taxis.

so i threw my milkshake at her.

For Sonya...

Language Lessons

in concrete city
miss trees and stars and fungus
oh lost love night sky!

在具体的城市
想树和星和真菌
哦晚上天空的爱丢了！

Wanted to set up and the star and the fungus oh evening sky love in
the specific city loses!