Angle of Repose
(S. Bucklin)
Faith.
It is a sanguine moderation
Of my hopes.
Hopes,
That beckoned me down courses
Best ignored.
Feeling days like these are short,
Measuring angles of repose.
Feel.
Fear.
The impossible declension,
Angles on.
On,
It’s a straight shot,
A worsening, I know.
Fearing days like these are gone,
Casually standing on the stones.
Free.
Fall.
Once again, my subterfuge,
Rambles notionally through the meanings,
Carefully obscured.
And I notice You approve.
No one pays to hear the simple sermon,
Of avalanching stone.
Even though my eyes are closed…
Even in the evening’s dark…
Saying what you want out loud…
Is hard as stone.
So,
The experience effects,
The things I know.
No,
Certainty.
An irony, I’m sure.
Feel!
Good times,
Come and go.
Free!
Believing,
In rock and stone.
Feeling days like these are stones,
Measuring the angles,
Over and over.
Belief.
I am certain that I’m certain.
I am sure I’m sure.
Falling
(S. Bucklin)
Yes.
It is said to be divine.
A label that was chosen,
With a complicit God.
Yes.
It is joining us by twos.
The dagger is laid down.
Respected masks removed.
Why do we give ourselves over to this?
Why are we still pouring forth in this darkest hour?
Sometimes… I just get a glimpse of your hand…
So.
Tree embraces Sky.
Sky extols the Wind.
Says, “Hold me for a while.”
So!
The Sun will hold us in,
Its planetary arms.
Rock us for a while.
I see the symptom of some great conspiracy.
Clearly there is a power at work here.
Surely you see it!
Maybe its pushing me over the edge.
Over the edge into you…
This is my life.
You do what you can,
Maybe it strains your disbelief… but that’s all right.
This is my life.
Sometimes it rains.
Sometimes the sun shines all the time… and that’s all right.
This is my life.
Maybe it’s wrong.
I don’t know the protocols.
And I don’t even know who to ask anymore.
This is my life.
You do what you must.
This is the metal,
And the rust… and that’s all right.
If I could push away the ground… and travel high up through the air…
If I struggle through the clouds… would I find you there?
If I was falling towards the Earth… at maybe twice the speed of sound…
Would you situate yourself… so we could kiss while we fell?
Frayed Ends
(S. Bucklin)
It takes a while to work it all out.
His illusions fail,
That nothing has changed,
That dark times lighten
At dawn.
He’s a traveling mid-management sort,
Who lost the fight with cost-cutting drives.
When he leaves the house each morning,
He’s on his own.
Oh, I’ve abbreviated all I am,
He sings,
As the rearview shows,
His driveway,
Fade to black.
And his wife won’t even notice he’s gone,
And his oldest son won’t feel it for years,
But his youngest will be listening,
For the sound of the rising,
Garage door.
But once again he’s found another way to go.
He sits awhile so the engine can warm,
In the Cadillac he rented down south.
It’s a grey November morning,
And cold.
He wastes his coin on Michigan’s tolls,
When he should be West on I-94,
Making best time for Chicago,
And home.
Oh, I’m a quarter of the man,
I was,
He sings,
An improvised counter,
To the rhythm of
Road and salt.
And his smile is strange,
As the back end slides.
And at 85,
He crosses the line.
And he’s suddenly regretful,
That he might show up on TV 5.
Once again,
He found another way to go.
Harmony (In Three Parts)
(S. Bucklin)
I.
Way down here…
It’s the signature of things…
…things go haywire.
Way down here…
It seems simpler to guess…
…guess what I believe.
Frame by frame…
The shape of what we’ll bear…
…bears repeating.
Scene by scene…
Of an imaginary face…
…facing downward.
Lead me where you will.
I know my enduring truth,
Revolves around The Word.
“No.”
II.
I fake it every Sunday afternoon.
Pot of coffee brewed with holy water,
And the New York Times communion,
Rest up for a new fight,
A new song,
The Good “news,”
Reaches you and me
Reaches you AND me.
See!
I’m not the kind of man who breaks through.
The kind of man that breaks through,
And won’t let you….
…See me as I am.
I know my enduring word,
Is small.
No.
III.
It’s easy to reveal,
The underside of things.
We marshal what we can,
For easy victories.
Harder, strangely,
Is facing into rain,
Driven forward by,
Daylight anchored in,
Night’s wide silence.
I’m listening.
I’m listening to you.
Home
(S. Bucklin)
If I was a robot,
I’d tell you a story,
And I wouldn’t worry,
About all the little details.
I’d stick to the big themes.
I’d go on for hours.
Just like a machine.
Strange.
The future always has a place for you.
My design,
Recognizes you and I.
Simple as can be.
If I was dead eye,
Aiming at something,
I would be certain.
And certainty,
Would be a fine thing.
It would be a nice way,
To go through the motions,
Of my disbelief.
Strange,
The only certainty I know is you.
I realize,
Each and every word describes,
You and I today.
If I was an airplane,
I’d look for the runway.
It isn’t like I mind,
The open skies.
The scenery,
Is nothing if you can’t get home.
Strange,
It’s nothing if you can’t get home.
I’m Gone
(S. Bucklin)
Gone again.
Chase the sound.
Same old fire.
Brand new ground.
Mesmerize me.
Take the day.
Stay behind me,
Or I’m gone…. gone.
(This line sung underneath a counterpoint lead.)
Gone. Away.
Safe. Sound.
Give. Take.
Lost. Found.
(The lead.)
(gone) Deep in the imaginary, resonating,
(away)With everything I know for sure.
(safe) Sympathy for long lost causes,
(sound) The games the same no matter what the score.
(give) Old men’s stories crumble,
(take) Under young men’s songs,
(lost) Strength and speed we hope will stumble,
(found) To guile.
Override me.
Share the night.
Try to find me,
‘Cause I’m gone…. gone.
Late
(S. Bucklin)
Four in the morning rushing,
Tangled and stumbling towards alarm.
The hours waste, and wasted,
Ride into morning, busted,
Nothing is settled or secure.
We pay for dreams abandoned.
I’m wide awake.
Grey, silent time.
4:30 doesn’t know you.
4:45 could give a damn,
When five falls, tension stiffens,
Wired and weakened minutes,
Between the broken nows and thens.
We count the missing pieces.
I’m wide awake.
Right on time, again.
I’m wide awake.
Right on time…
Right on…
Time.
These shadows, long and dull…
These colors, washed in blues…
These angles, taking form…
Foretell the day,
Again.
We’re on,
Again.
I’m wide awake.
Maps
(S. Bucklin)
Above it all,
A line.
A mercenary goal,
Defines,
A new way.
On,
He’ll cry.
We recognize the sound.
The ground,
Divided.
In lines.
Our lines.
I see the lie,
In lines.
A surrogated faith.
A guess.
A measurement you know,
Must pass.
Those separated reds,
And blacks,
And blues.
My Last Birthday
(S. Bucklin)
Say what you want….
I’m right here…
Right now…
It’s ordinary time.
Careful…
Cautious…
Common but resolved.
Hopeful…
Helpless…
Who could ask for more?
Every minute is a syllable…
A phrase…
No one understands…
This time…
Our time…
Is all there really is.
Nothing…
Saves us…
Nothing interferes.
We are…
Flashes…
Careful what you say
And what you don’t say.
Even if I should fall,
You and I’ll know,
What I feel,
On my last,
Birthday.
Past Is Prologue
(S. Bucklin)
I am a card house.
Tapering towards the top,
For stability’s sake.
Built with shaking hands,
On shifting sheets.
I am a strange vine.
Untrained and overgrown.
Strengthened by sun.
Shining white and hot,
Onto poisoned earth.
I am a big pile,
Of old forgotten things.
Seen from far away,
When the light is right,
You might be deceived.
I am the last time.
I am the first.
I am my best day.
I am my worst.
I am the cold look.
I am the shrug.
I am the clasped hands.
I am my love.
I am the new thoughts,
And the ancient distrust.
I am the ocean.
And the dust.
Prayer for the Dawn
(S. Bucklin)
I.
Can we begin?
Never underestimate the fast ones.
The lead you build,
May endure.
Maybe it works,
On principles or orders undetermined,
Until we,
Shape it ourselves.
Shape it ourselves.
Weigh every thought.
There’s misery in saying what you’re thinking,
As often,
As wisdom is revealed.
Weigh what you are.
Character is credit in the New World.
The scales tip,
And twist,
And turn.
II.
Turn it on.
Candles are burning,
In nascency.
Shadows are deeper,
And reaching out,
For the dawn.
Towards the dawn.
III.
How does it carry the light,
Streaming into my heart?
How are we carried away?
Nothing is forgiven.
Fade out.
Fade in.
Why does the deepening dark,
Gravitate to my heart?
Why does our worry erode?
Everything is all right.
Fade out.
Fade in.
I don’t believe in the Day.
Nothing is forgiven.
I don’t believe in the Night.
Everything is all right.
Fade out.
Fade in.
IV.
Make our beginnings never end.
Shine, sweet religion.
Care for the moments that we’ve made.
Shine, sweet religion.
River and Air
(S. Bucklin)
Oh savage, ragged man.
I’ve saved you a morsel of care.
These compliments are the shattering
And the fragments of all that we dare.
Separately, involved as we are,
We never imagine we’re craving
Some confluence, some confluence,
Some measure of what we are missing.
oooah…
My run is sharpening,
A careless and quickening pace,
A noise, a noise, a thunder of suffering,
A road arcing off into air.
In the end, we involve what we are,
With the everything-else we encounter.
And we slow, we slow, and despite the embrace,
There is something about this I hate.
ooooah…
Make it deep. Make it wide.
Grind it to elegant wastes.
Leave it sharp in shallows,
And smooth in the most secret places.
And at the end, when we’re fully involved,
It’s inevitable that we will straighten.
But it’s all downhill, man,
It’s all downhill.
Thermodynamics
(S.Bucklin)
He carries an awful load.
He’ll shallow and miss his arc.
He wanders, on days like these,
His orbital ironies.
All Right Now!
Sun rises. The sky’s too bright.
Sun darkens. A lot is lost.
I’m holding a careful…
Breath.
I’m certain to be found out.
All Right Now!!
This neighborhood seems so sane.
This moment is so profound.
It’s quickening deep in…
side.
Its measure is multiplied.
All Right Now!
He carries an awful load.
He shallows from time to time.
He’s certain, on days like…
these.
His burden is harmony.
All Right Now.
All Right Now.
All.
Right.
Now.
Water Rising
(S. Bucklin)
Last day,
I remember rain…
From swollen skies.
It was early evening,
The sun was fading,
And I’d just learned how to say,
These,
Words,
“I’ll,
Be,
Fine.”
I’m sure it seemed,
The brave, if broken,
Smile,
Marked the moment well.
Again.
Wait!
I don’t understand goodbye.
These swollen eyes,
Are watching as the levee breaks,
The rage of possibility,
The landscape disappearing overnight.
It was a gamble,
To leave that stuff behind.
It isn’t certain,
That we can navigate through this.
Always,
The currents pull.
Always,
The courses branch.
Even the broken shore,
Looks sweeter,
From the waves.
“I’ll Be Fine,”
Stencils on the often battered stern,
Turns to windward.
In the lying calm.
What Do You Love?
(S. Bucklin)
Everybody needs to worship.
Everybody needs a God.
Everybody needs a focus,
For their sacrificial love.
Some people choose to love their money,
And all the things that it can buy.
Some others find it sort of funny,
That those people are never satisfied.
What do you love? (chorus)
Some people choose to love their bodies.
They aim for beautiful and strong.
I don’t know why we are always surprised,
When it doesn’t last that long.
It seems we’re always feeling ugly.
We’re always fighting against time.
So many moments when we’re lonely,
Even when we’re looking fine.
What do you love?
Some people choose to love their powers,
Of intellectuality.
Some people think they’re pretty clever.
Even more cleverer than me.
Some of us fall in love with power.
We’re just like Caesar after all.
Somehow we’re always feeling helpless,
Somehow we’re always feeling small.
What do you love?
