I.
men in suits on cell phones
dodge past leaf blower blasts
and groaning, hissing city buses;
sunglasses shielding their eyes
as they hustle through the city in May.
II.
on his riding lawn mower,
Mr. John sweeps his yard
in even passes, cutting his grass
at night, headlights on;
diagnosed 'legally' blind,
Mr. John grew ornery.
III.
Wu-Tang Clan rapper Method Man
calls flip-flops feminine in the song "Ya'Meen,"
I listen to the song walking over freshly trimmed
grass clippings on the sidewalk
on my way to class wearing black flip-flops;
I inhale the smell of the grass hanging in the breeze
but won't bend to smell the lilies while the song plays.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
At the End
Dying, she thinks,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
thinking Death and living
are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her dragging breaths,
daydreams under seagull squeals,
the yellow shores stored in childhood,
thinking Death and living
and memories
are the permanent things
she thinks, dying,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs
smooth with lotion, our patent skin
glowing in the failing daylight'
thinking Death and living
and light and memories
are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her purging breath,
the panic-gasps of drowning before
the shock of Mother stealing her
out of the death-hungry ocean,
thinking Death is the permanent thing.
Dying, she thinks,
thinking Death thinking permanent
Bleeding on the floor, she counts:
thinking thinking thinking thinking.
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
thinking Death and living
are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her dragging breaths,
daydreams under seagull squeals,
the yellow shores stored in childhood,
thinking Death and living
and memories
are the permanent things
she thinks, dying,
'Mother rubbed our rough backs
smooth with lotion, our patent skin
glowing in the failing daylight'
thinking Death and living
and light and memories
are the permanent things
Bleeding on the floor,
she counts: her purging breath,
the panic-gasps of drowning before
the shock of Mother stealing her
out of the death-hungry ocean,
thinking Death is the permanent thing.
Dying, she thinks,
thinking Death thinking permanent
Bleeding on the floor, she counts:
thinking thinking thinking thinking.
'Mother rubbed our rough backs'
Cool, Sober Nights
"I have sleepless friends
and on cool, sober nights,
with rain steady as biology,
their backs yearn for my umbrella hands,
how I snake down their spines
soothing them into sleep with my massages,
fading their nightmares into cough-syrup comas."
"With memories of stuck pills
haunting their throats, my friends rub their eyes,
tearing over in the pain in my absence.
I allow myself to dote on them when possible,
but my schedule twists and morphs regularly,
I can only play nurse for so long before my life
calls me back: I go to work, I want to rest,
but my friends keep losing weight, too tired to eat,
and need my massages to sleep."
"And I'll yield. In the rain I'll cross the city
without an umbrella, without a raincoat,
(because I own neither)
to tend to a friend with my hand-medicine
despite how they ignore what I endure
helping them. My clothes, drenched, drip
up flights of stairs, I climb past elevator doors
with 'out of order' signs taped on, mocking me."
"Sometimes I fantasize denying them my magic,
watching them huddle into corners
of their beds, drawing the covers, crying,
begging me to touch them, to quiet, just for a moment,
the monsters of discomfort and insomnia plaguing
their frail bodies. I imagine their sickly, gray-green skin
drying out and ashing off, only the skeletons left,
the bones begging for back rubs and the faceless skulls
looking like they would bite me if I tried. But I yield.
I close my eyes tight to escape the fantasies and
sure as spring sunshine, I yield to my sleepless friends"
and on cool, sober nights,
with rain steady as biology,
their backs yearn for my umbrella hands,
how I snake down their spines
soothing them into sleep with my massages,
fading their nightmares into cough-syrup comas."
"With memories of stuck pills
haunting their throats, my friends rub their eyes,
tearing over in the pain in my absence.
I allow myself to dote on them when possible,
but my schedule twists and morphs regularly,
I can only play nurse for so long before my life
calls me back: I go to work, I want to rest,
but my friends keep losing weight, too tired to eat,
and need my massages to sleep."
"And I'll yield. In the rain I'll cross the city
without an umbrella, without a raincoat,
(because I own neither)
to tend to a friend with my hand-medicine
despite how they ignore what I endure
helping them. My clothes, drenched, drip
up flights of stairs, I climb past elevator doors
with 'out of order' signs taped on, mocking me."
"Sometimes I fantasize denying them my magic,
watching them huddle into corners
of their beds, drawing the covers, crying,
begging me to touch them, to quiet, just for a moment,
the monsters of discomfort and insomnia plaguing
their frail bodies. I imagine their sickly, gray-green skin
drying out and ashing off, only the skeletons left,
the bones begging for back rubs and the faceless skulls
looking like they would bite me if I tried. But I yield.
I close my eyes tight to escape the fantasies and
sure as spring sunshine, I yield to my sleepless friends"
Blueberry Pancakes
Sitting in an English class
focused on 18th century novels,
I spot an abandoned campus newspaper
folded on the floor, half a headline
still readable, and notice a photo of a veteran
dressed in his green Class As
sitting smiling in a chair being interviewed
under large bold letters proclaiming:
"...honored with reception,"
and a wave of shame flushes over me.
Suddenly I'm thinking about my father,
but he is an army engineer, the veteran
looks like a marine if I had to guess,
but something about a man in uniform
“…honored with [a] reception” connects
this nameless soldier with my father,
and despite my best attempts
to participate in the discussion of Mr. B—
as both villain and hero in Pamela,
I am lured into a tangle of memories.
The flashbacks start in objects,
things that reappeared daily.
There's his ubiquitous brown shirt,
which, outside of his drill sgt. hat,
was my favorite piece of his BDUs,
and in slow motion I see myself running
from Jerry Springer or Judge Judy reruns
to hug him, finally home from work, and in the doorway
I rest my head where his chest shifts to stomach,
inhaling deep whiffs of his 5 o'clock cologne,
a mixture of sweat and cigarette smoke:
my father's scent.
And there's cans of beer,
cases of whatever was cheapest
in the cavernous freezer room at the Class Six,
stocked cold in the fridge where I bounce
to grab him one as a favor while he slumps
deep into our hunter-green, leather couch
to watch Cops or Sportscenter, his head perched
on his right hand, his left hand in a bag of pretzels.
Sometimes I would shake the can to surprise him,
and the white beer foam would volcano out
over the tab onto his hands and forearms as he leaned
out of his seat to avoid dripping on the furniture,
ordering me to run for a towel and clean the mess.
Still separated from the class discussion,
I think how angry a friend shaking a soda can
before handing it to me would make me.
With a new wave starting to surge, guilt,
the flashbacks switch to places,
and I'm inside a fourth grade classroom
at Partridge Elementary School at the top
of Epps Street, the street we lived on
and walked up every day to school
when we lived in housing on Ft. Leonard Wood.
I'm sitting at my desk looking forward,
watching Mrs. Casey writing something on the chalk board,
and my dad opens the classroom door half-smiling
and nods at the teacher before crouching behind me,
whispering so he doesn’t disrupt class.
He wants to know when I'm in the geography bee
because he was able to leave morning PT early enough
to come watch me compete.
And I explained to him,
still dressed in his gray sweat suit
with ARMY plaster on the chest
in big, bold black letters,
his shaved head kept warm
under a black wool beanie,
the bee was moved earlier in the day and was over,
I didn't call home when it started
and he had missed seeing his boy
beat out a bunch of fifth and sixth graders
to win the damn thing and earn a spot at districts.
And after I told him this, almost annoyed
having to explain the situation during class,
he smiled at me with a hand on my back
and told me, "Good job!" and he'd see me after work
but had to go home and change for the remainder of his workday.
As he walked quickly out of the room,
I started crying to myself at my desk.
And I'm walking over the standard hardwood floors
in base housing into the back bedroom
he shared with my mother then;
on Saturdays, when he could sleep in after long weeks,
I would wake him up, jump on his bed, lift his eyes open,
so he could make me blueberry pancakes.
I loved his pancakes, but I stop remembering
because I can feel my eyes watering,
the sudden self-consciousness reminds me
I'm sitting in a college class room surrounded
by adults and should not start crying
while discussing Pamela's 'virtue' as her fortune.
I rub the ebbing tears out of my eyes
and look back to the marine in the newspaper,
wondering how Vietnam vets were spat on
after returning home. Maybe it was just
the nation's way of asking for blueberry pancakes.
focused on 18th century novels,
I spot an abandoned campus newspaper
folded on the floor, half a headline
still readable, and notice a photo of a veteran
dressed in his green Class As
sitting smiling in a chair being interviewed
under large bold letters proclaiming:
"...honored with reception,"
and a wave of shame flushes over me.
Suddenly I'm thinking about my father,
but he is an army engineer, the veteran
looks like a marine if I had to guess,
but something about a man in uniform
“…honored with [a] reception” connects
this nameless soldier with my father,
and despite my best attempts
to participate in the discussion of Mr. B—
as both villain and hero in Pamela,
I am lured into a tangle of memories.
The flashbacks start in objects,
things that reappeared daily.
There's his ubiquitous brown shirt,
which, outside of his drill sgt. hat,
was my favorite piece of his BDUs,
and in slow motion I see myself running
from Jerry Springer or Judge Judy reruns
to hug him, finally home from work, and in the doorway
I rest my head where his chest shifts to stomach,
inhaling deep whiffs of his 5 o'clock cologne,
a mixture of sweat and cigarette smoke:
my father's scent.
And there's cans of beer,
cases of whatever was cheapest
in the cavernous freezer room at the Class Six,
stocked cold in the fridge where I bounce
to grab him one as a favor while he slumps
deep into our hunter-green, leather couch
to watch Cops or Sportscenter, his head perched
on his right hand, his left hand in a bag of pretzels.
Sometimes I would shake the can to surprise him,
and the white beer foam would volcano out
over the tab onto his hands and forearms as he leaned
out of his seat to avoid dripping on the furniture,
ordering me to run for a towel and clean the mess.
Still separated from the class discussion,
I think how angry a friend shaking a soda can
before handing it to me would make me.
With a new wave starting to surge, guilt,
the flashbacks switch to places,
and I'm inside a fourth grade classroom
at Partridge Elementary School at the top
of Epps Street, the street we lived on
and walked up every day to school
when we lived in housing on Ft. Leonard Wood.
I'm sitting at my desk looking forward,
watching Mrs. Casey writing something on the chalk board,
and my dad opens the classroom door half-smiling
and nods at the teacher before crouching behind me,
whispering so he doesn’t disrupt class.
He wants to know when I'm in the geography bee
because he was able to leave morning PT early enough
to come watch me compete.
And I explained to him,
still dressed in his gray sweat suit
with ARMY plaster on the chest
in big, bold black letters,
his shaved head kept warm
under a black wool beanie,
the bee was moved earlier in the day and was over,
I didn't call home when it started
and he had missed seeing his boy
beat out a bunch of fifth and sixth graders
to win the damn thing and earn a spot at districts.
And after I told him this, almost annoyed
having to explain the situation during class,
he smiled at me with a hand on my back
and told me, "Good job!" and he'd see me after work
but had to go home and change for the remainder of his workday.
As he walked quickly out of the room,
I started crying to myself at my desk.
And I'm walking over the standard hardwood floors
in base housing into the back bedroom
he shared with my mother then;
on Saturdays, when he could sleep in after long weeks,
I would wake him up, jump on his bed, lift his eyes open,
so he could make me blueberry pancakes.
I loved his pancakes, but I stop remembering
because I can feel my eyes watering,
the sudden self-consciousness reminds me
I'm sitting in a college class room surrounded
by adults and should not start crying
while discussing Pamela's 'virtue' as her fortune.
I rub the ebbing tears out of my eyes
and look back to the marine in the newspaper,
wondering how Vietnam vets were spat on
after returning home. Maybe it was just
the nation's way of asking for blueberry pancakes.
Diner Dinner (a revision)
Missing the Southwest
dishes that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork
around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I guess at the meat
chucked across my plate
and decide ignoring it
might save my stomach.
Boring side dishes
dissolve me into lessons
well-learned living in
Texas: grilling steaks
out of marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:
I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,
anticipating
painting my mouth with blood, sauce,
and earthy flavor;
tongue rolling slowly
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,
my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
and teaching me tricks
his grandfather knew,
failing to hide ancient pride
behind disinterest.
Breaking my flashback,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"
securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,
"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."
dishes that trained my pallet,
I travel my fork
around "meat and three"
at a diner. Drained of hope,
I guess at the meat
chucked across my plate
and decide ignoring it
might save my stomach.
Boring side dishes
dissolve me into lessons
well-learned living in
Texas: grilling steaks
out of marinade puddles
taught me to taste flesh:
I sizzled briskets,
detonating charcoal clumps
with dripping juices,
anticipating
painting my mouth with blood, sauce,
and earthy flavor;
tongue rolling slowly
over booming tender chunks
of Mexican steer,
my grandpa nodding
behind me, sipping tallboys
and teaching me tricks
his grandfather knew,
failing to hide ancient pride
behind disinterest.
Breaking my flashback,
a waitress asks if I'm done.
I kindly say, "No,"
securing my plate,
still thick with food I won't eat,
next to my water,
"but you could bring me
a refill and a coffee.
I might stay a while."
Our Afternoons
I count nicks on the spaceship
as you smile, manning controls
outside of the outlet store
while your mother naps at home.
You soar, a brave astronaut
with orders to examine
imagined planets abroad.
I relate to the distance.
Not noticing who's with you
these afternoon vanquishments,
you, son, conquer galaxies,
not wanting of love or sleep.
If you want to ride again,
I will put more quarters in.
as you smile, manning controls
outside of the outlet store
while your mother naps at home.
You soar, a brave astronaut
with orders to examine
imagined planets abroad.
I relate to the distance.
Not noticing who's with you
these afternoon vanquishments,
you, son, conquer galaxies,
not wanting of love or sleep.
If you want to ride again,
I will put more quarters in.
Strolling (another revision)
She strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds,
the flagged ends dangling down
past her knees. She strolls alone,
the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines people living in the abandoned
apartment buildings and townhouses she passes,
giving each one a character, a family
sitting together in portraits
she mentally hangs in mosaic
along the walls of the night: star-strung and black.
She strolls alone and new blocks
become new wings as she builds
a slow-growing mansion for her
slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,
the sound of her shoes scrapping across the sidewalk
reminding her ex-boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; she thinks of her night-mansion
and imagines bedrooms.
She strolls alone, draughting at red lights
and crosswalks, each passing car
a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick
and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her
only inches away. She strolls alone,
breathing deep into her scarf while the chill
of the opposing breeze waters her eyes;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians.
She strolls alone, fists cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the cold stillness swallowing
the around-her. She strolls alone.
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds,
the flagged ends dangling down
past her knees. She strolls alone,
the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines people living in the abandoned
apartment buildings and townhouses she passes,
giving each one a character, a family
sitting together in portraits
she mentally hangs in mosaic
along the walls of the night: star-strung and black.
She strolls alone and new blocks
become new wings as she builds
a slow-growing mansion for her
slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,
the sound of her shoes scrapping across the sidewalk
reminding her ex-boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; she thinks of her night-mansion
and imagines bedrooms.
She strolls alone, draughting at red lights
and crosswalks, each passing car
a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick
and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her
only inches away. She strolls alone,
breathing deep into her scarf while the chill
of the opposing breeze waters her eyes;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians.
She strolls alone, fists cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the cold stillness swallowing
the around-her. She strolls alone.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
after securing the schooner's failing mast-sail
against the spiking sea-blast of several sea-gales
Skipper demanded he buy the boy a drink,
so amidst the pub's Sunday crowd
Skipper gathered the crew around
and gave the motley bunch a bit of advice,
bending his knees with a crackle and dread
the old man was heard to have basically said:
"there's still death in this boy yet!"
"find him a whore with a fake last name
and if he needs help, aid in the strain,
but let it be known he saved our lives last night!"
"so while he's out taking a piss
let us gather together, the night is his,
and cheer a poor soul that God don't seem to want!"
"for if we be but better men
and not so learned to mortal sin
we might very well be angels now!"
"but thanks to the kid
we were saved from the skiff
and still may serve Poseidon!"
against the spiking sea-blast of several sea-gales
Skipper demanded he buy the boy a drink,
so amidst the pub's Sunday crowd
Skipper gathered the crew around
and gave the motley bunch a bit of advice,
bending his knees with a crackle and dread
the old man was heard to have basically said:
"there's still death in this boy yet!"
"find him a whore with a fake last name
and if he needs help, aid in the strain,
but let it be known he saved our lives last night!"
"so while he's out taking a piss
let us gather together, the night is his,
and cheer a poor soul that God don't seem to want!"
"for if we be but better men
and not so learned to mortal sin
we might very well be angels now!"
"but thanks to the kid
we were saved from the skiff
and still may serve Poseidon!"
Sunday. 2:56 AM. 12/06/09.
I try to sleep,
but the fire alarm sounds
in a neighboring dorm;
under my window
cold, riotous residents
gather in the night.
Now, firetrucks.
but the fire alarm sounds
in a neighboring dorm;
under my window
cold, riotous residents
gather in the night.
Now, firetrucks.
Friday, December 04, 2009
My Process:
I sit staring
at my computer screen,
and, counting the errors
I missed sleepless,
regret the additions
to my latest
attempted poetry.
at my computer screen,
and, counting the errors
I missed sleepless,
regret the additions
to my latest
attempted poetry.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Alabama Dreamin' On Such A Winter's Day
All the leaves are brown,
and the sky is gray,
but I'd still rather stay
in December-bitten Alabama,
then get stuck
on a California freeway.
and the sky is gray,
but I'd still rather stay
in December-bitten Alabama,
then get stuck
on a California freeway.
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