thanksgiving songs

winter songs are all premature birth and long hope for a first chance to thrive. there has been much ado lately (that is, historically) about the death/dirth of our poetic culture, which--even if it were true--of course wouldn't be a bad thing. it seems poetry is invading our culture beyond the saturation point. but it is all manufacture, none of it mnemonic, which is why when we come upon a true value in poetic terms (henri cole, jim harrison, maxine kumin all succeeded in their [spiritual] 'reminders' this season) we can gratefully let the rest go, it melts like sweetsmelling, foul ambergris in the frictive heat their thoughts make.

i know a poet who is clinging to life right now, on the cusp of finding his signature. let us give thanks to the necessary survival of the few important poets. thanksgiving is the last and best place to lay out our sins, and successes, as our overcomings. now, some poems herewith committed to [a sort of] memory:
.
.
.

i am thankful for the mind that grows supple
as it walks across the volga when it is a frozen highway.
i am thankful for the distance that separates
my body from my history.
i am thankful for the ways in which i may allow myself
to forget, which are legion.
i am thankful for the thread that is committed to memory
that leads from the dark ocean to--you.
.
.
.
boston in november
traipsesparrow
in a yellow coat
or
yellow coat
flung in the corner
after rain

roots like eels tying knots
in the mud
lockjaw on the river
logjam on the northtowest
in the lowlow sky
heavens' tall ghostmaples
about to drop their tired arms
of white leaves
on the day
.
.
.
two weeks into october
and still summer
according to the wind
but white buds of wings on the rain
and lights up in the trees
it was getting a little lonely
in boston

i pissed in the river
and felt like a fish
ruling the roost
i sat down with
no hand to rest my head in
i walked off down the road
until i faded like a moth
into thin air
.
.
.
of course
there is no way
to haunt
the old places
just nip
at their heels
and sing
like a herding dog
like we used to
out in the dark
of night
in the dead of
life
drunker
than the skunks
choking
on their own blood
on the shoulder
of the road
two paces
ahead of us
on the way
to what we used
to call home