Rushing to finish this. After bragging about how I haven't had a cold or flu in two years, today I'm coming down with one or the other. This done, a two-day nap in store.
Don't ask me to explain the title of this post...because I can't.
I mention somewhere in the post my intention to go to the coast to get new pictures. That didn't work out, so I'm using old photos from there, Corpus Christi, about mid-way of the Texas Gulf Coast. I lived there for fifteen very good years, in fact, some of the best years of my life, both personally and professionally.
The time frame on the pictures range from about five years ago to just a couple of months ago.
In addition to the pics, I have the regular menu of excellent poems from an anthology, excellent poems from my library, and okay poems from me, new and old from a book I have planned for later in the year.
Specifically, these:
Me
harvest
Jack Hershman
Haiti
Me
bang
Pat Mora
Chuparrosa: Hummingbird
Me
you must remember this
Jim Carroll
Facts
Me
who needs it
Sidney Wade
Rejected Mafia Nicknames
What Kind of Cars They Drove
This Mind is Buddha
Tozan's Pretzels
We Have Chocolate Pudding
Me
a fan of little things
Vandana Khanna
Bowl
Me
finding my book in a second-hand bookstore
Joe Brainard
Van Gogh
Sick Art
Art
Me
beacon
watching rain
Charles Harper Webb
Weeb Dreams He's Thrown in Jail for Becoming Discouraged in Public
Me
gone forever
Joan Jobe Smith
Aboard the Bounty
Me
the cootie conundrum
Robert Bonazzi
A Stray Arrow from Chaos
Me
morning after
Alan Kaufman
The Saddest Man on Earth
Me
Monday notes
Brian Chan
by Wicklight
Me
no end to it
Kathleen Wood
The Wino, The Junkie and The Lord
Me
squashed armadillos and other mythic creatures of the Texas plain
Me
turning
Me
stuff about stuff
Me
concrete gardens
harvest
a great morning
after10 days of cold
sun
bright and yellow
pasture fresh mowed,
golden grass
fresh cut
and thrown from the tractor in rows
deer
graze along the rows
little holes dug
around the base of oaks
holes
like those doodlebugs
make in fine, loose
earth
holes made by squirrels
retrieving
their bounty of acorns
winter sustenance
earned earlier in the labors
of summer and fall
gathering
I,
nearing another in a long line
of birthdays,
gather my own, right here
right now
here...
let me share my harvest
with you
Here's the first poem from my anthology of the week,
The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry.
The poem is by
Jack Hershman. His books include
A Correspondency of Americans, Black Aleps,
Lyripol, and
The Bottom Line.
Haiti
One day in the future these sounds are seeds of,
there will be a moment when not even the monkeys chirp in the
trees,
when burros will hold their brays,
when the coconut-milky clouds will not stir in the sky,
when the thatchwork of huts will not be gossiping,
and there is no breeze or sweat between you body and your rags.
One day when that moment lived for years, for centuries, is here
and everything is still
like death
or zombie bread holding its breath,
a drum will begin sounding
and then another and another, multiplying,
and the voices of the simidors will be heard in every field.
And the backs,
those backs with everything written on them,
which have bent like nails hammered into the wooden cross
of the land of ages,
will plunge their arms into the ground
and pull out the weapons they've planted.
For the drums aren't an invitation to a voodoo ceremony.
The voices of the simdors are singing another song.
The lambis are growling lions of Africa.
and it isn't the cranium of a horse hung on the wooden cross
braided with limes;
it isn't a wooden cross at all that's planted in the good earth
of new Haiti.
On the night of that day of the taste of a mango will be
a rapturous fireworks bursting and dying into
the ecstasy of the simple truth in our mouths.
Our acres will sleep with their arms around each other.
The child freed from terror and death will bound with
the boundless, and the maize amaze the sky upon waking
for as long as humanity is.
Here's the first this week of poems from my next book,
New Days, New Ways.
bang
i believe
we are all children
of the big bang
and that nothing truly new
has been added to the mix
since.
and while I don't know what came before
the bang
I'm guessing we'll figure it out
before the end...
multiple bangs, maybe;
bangs withing bangs;
bangs bouncing off bangs
like a six bank corner pocket
hustle;
perpetual bang,
one bang banging another
like steel balls hung from strings
banging one after the other
in forever and ever progression;
bangs banging out here, banging in
somewhere else -
that's one to imagine,
creation in reverse, the Garden of Eden
returning to unplowed field -
or it could be a single, once-and-only
bang -
that would make us really something,
us and all the universe we know or don't,
our stars,
the only stars anywhere...
somehow,
I just don't feel that special
Here's a poem by
Pat Mora. The poem is from her book,
Chants, a Southwest Book Award winner first published by Arte Publico Press in 1984, with funding from grants by the National Endowment for the Arts and the Texas Commission on the Arts.
Chuparrosa: Hummingbird
I buy magic meat
of a
chuparrosa from a toothless witch
who catches it as it sips flower-wine.
She fills her palms with blooms,
and the bird dives into perfumed petals for the last time
The with claps her hands hard
and blossoms float away,
but the small body is still,
as the
bruja plucks the ruby and emerald feathers:
soft pillow for her grandchild's head.
She dries the meat, magic meat,
which I buy to sprinkle in your wind
so you will see me, only me.
And you do.
You hover.
Your eyes never wander.
More and more
on hot afternoons
I sleep
to escape your gaze.
Netflicks subscribers should check out "The Molly Maguires," an old and very good movie starring Sean Connery between Bond movies.
you must remember this
I remember
both things that are
and things that aren't
I remember Holmes
in the "Hound of the Baskervilles"
deducing from scratches around a keyhole
that a character drinks too much
and too often, comes home
drunk and has trouble fitting his doorkey
into the keyhole
I remember that
every time I have difficulty
unlocking my door in the dark, feeling a need
to reassure the neighbors
that, no, I am not
drunk
I also remember
a middle section in the book,
a subplot that is author's feint, suggesting
a motive for the nefarious affairs
afoot, a subplot that provides a backstory
on Holmes' client, Sir Charles Baskerville,
who, it turns out, was a detective in his earlier life,
infiltrating the Molly Maguires,
then being discovered eventually,
becoming convinced
of the rightness of their cause....
but it turns out, no matter how clearly
I remember it,
this is not found anywhere in the "Hound of the Baskervilles,"
being instead from another book, (the last Holmes book) "The Valley of Fear"
which I do not remember ever reading, or even ever
knowing of before...
such is the memory of an elder poet, content
to make up memories when the annals of real life
do not sufficiently amuse, an entertainment
for long days and nights, but a danger
when the made-up becomes the better part
of reality...
leaving a fear that persists, like that of falling, in knowing
that much of the most interesting parts of my life,
places I've been, people I've known
could well be only the remembered dreams
of a poet with too much invention
in his life
The next poem from the anthology,
The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, is by
Jim Carroll, the poet, musician and diarist, best known for the memoir of his turbulent youth,
The Basketball Diaries.
Facts
Its own wisdom has
Left Holland in ruins.
If you repeat the words
"Medulla Oblongata"
Long enough over and over you will
Collapse to the ground and hear the sound
Of the first drum developed by homo erectus man.
When Oscar Wilde lay on his death bed,
Penniless and disgraced,
In a cheap boarding room in France,
He stared dimly to the window and muttered:
"Those curtain are absolutely horrendous;
One of us simply has to go."
He then sank into the pillow, shut his eyes and died.
If Angela Lansury sneezed
While swimming underwater
It would take exactly one second
For the sound to travel one mile
And be heard by, say, a sea otter or a pilot whale.
Though they have tried to squash the facts
There is enduring evidence
That when Wallace Stevens died
An unspecified number of blackbirds
Flew through the windows
Of the mortuary where he lay
Removed his eyeballs with their beaks
And flew away, carrying both eyes
To the Florida Keys, depositing them
Softly into the green waters above the coral reef.
Here's another 2011 poem from
New Days, New Ways, the next book, due sometime this summer.
who needs it
the truth is
I'm 67 years old
diabetic,
eyes and feet
on the road to ruin
at about the same
pace
as the gray cells of remaining
intellect
keep on popping like
microwave
popcorn...
the truth is
I'm an increasingly creaky
cog
in an unimportant machine,
long past warranty,
subject
soon to recycling
by some eight-year-old
radiation mutated
child
in some poor slum in
Brazil...
the truth is
sooner rather than later
I will die,
probably a lingering
death
given the miracles
of modern medicine,
tubes sprouting,
plugs plugging, intricate
machines of terminal torture
wheezing
night and day by my bed...
the truth is
if I'm right about the absence
of God
in this universe
I will, once the machines are silenced,
dissolve into the realm
of atomic particles
too small to be seen with anything
but the strongest microscope;
and if I'm wrong
and there is a God out there,
who, if his literature is to be believed,
is a bloody, vengeful cat with hostility
issue regarding those who did not believe
in his ever-powerful, ever-present
presence,
I'll be whole and intact, heading
head over heels
to the fiery boundaries of hell
where I will burn and burn and burn...
the truth is
I could write a better story than that
any day before the sun rises
complete
with five and dime crayon
illustrations...
the truth is
who the fuck needs the truth
when the truth
offers no good ending to
anything
and the truth is
I'll take all the lies
I can life with and mostly can't
live without...
you tell me yours,
and
I'll tell you mine
Next I have poems of a unique sort by
Sidney Wade. The poems are from her book,
Stroke, published in 2007 by Persea Books. Wade, a Professor of English at the University of Florida, has published four collections of her own poetry, as well as translations from Turkish in various periodicals.
Adam and the Snake Prepare to Recite Some Verse
Snake
says
let's
go
mesmerize
some
pomes
Adam
says
I
prefer
to
mammarize
them
After the Flood, Frogs
assemble,
whirp
and
fart,
dissemble,
delve
and
throng,
prolonging
the
agglutinant
song
of
themselves
Stroke of Genius
windfall
display
of
art
playing
a
signal
part
flaying
the
heart
of
indignant
enigma
prol
This was the plan for the weekend on the coast mentioned earlier that didn't work out because of really lousy weather. The poem also almost didn't work out, accidentally deleted, then recreated as best I could remember. I think, like fish, the best version got away.
old homes left behind
taking
a little trip
in a couple of hours
a two-hour drive
to the coast,
to Corpus Christi first,
the city where I lived for fifteen years
before ambition drew me to the hills
twenty years ago
I'll see if any old haunts
remain - it seems
every time I visit, a few more are gone,
the old city slipping away, a whole new city
grown up on the south side where
grain and cotton
were the only cash crops before...
I'll wander around downtown, called now
in my hotel brochure
"the downtown entertainment district"
(which some years ago it was, until the folks
at the old folks home complained about the noise
we'll see, I guess,
maybe all the old folks died
or have become accustomed to noise with their oatmeal)
breakfast
tomorrow morning
at the top of the Omni,
the bay and bayfront laid out,
the water rippling
in early morning tide,
shinning orange and red
under the rising sun,
the lights of the shipyards
tiny pin holes through dim early morning
on the other side
off the bay...
---
taking the long way home tomorrow,
across the bay bridge
to North Padre and Mustang Island,
stopping for pictures of the beach
and the fishing boats
in Port Aransas,
then the ferry across the ship channel,
back to the mainland, first Aransas Pass,
then down the coast to the little cities
that lap the water's edge,
Ingleside by the Bay,
Rockport,
Fulton, with lunch
at Charlotte Plummer's,
pictures along the way if I can find anything
I haven't snapped before...
after lunch,
west to the flat highways of the coastal plains,
plowed fields on either side, fields
settled in for winter, awaiting
early grain, and the wind farms, new,
spread along the coast,
facing southeast to catch the constant gulf winds,
winds converted to electricity,
the sustenance that feeds our civilization,
then, pasture and old oaks
spreading wide across low hills
that grow over the miles to the curves
and up and down highways
of hill country
highways,
just past my home in my little divide
between rolling ridges and
the creek
that runs alongside it...
home
at the end of day,
old homes left behind
again
Next, from
The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, these (I'm not sure what to call them - except funny) by
Mike Topp. Born in Washington, D.C., top, Topp, at the time of publication lived in New York City and was a member of the Unbearables, described as a loose collection of noir humorists, beer mystics, anarchists, and debunkers.
Rejected Mafia Nicknames
Vanilla
Kitty
Jughead
Senor Wences
Marcel Duchamp
Archilochus
Tony the Logical Positivist
X-15
Gideon
Achilles Fang
What Kind of Cars They Drove
Albert Einstein 1955 Buick Century
Delmore Schwartz 1958 Mercury Montclair Phaeton
Norman Mailer 1960 Plymouth Fury
Ian Fleming 1956 Ford Fairlane Victoria
Cardinal Richelieu 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood
Sitting Bull 1962 De Soto Firedome Convertible
Jackie Robinson 1962 Chevrolet Impala
Gertrude Stein 1962 Chevrolet Impala
Ramses II 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham
Ludwig Wittgenstein 1960 Chevrolet Impala
Santa Claus 1960 Ford Falcon
Richard Wagner 1960 Ford Thunderbird
Mr. Ed 1960 Dodge Dart Station Wagon
Flipper 1964 Cadillac Coupe de Ville
(with water)
This Mind is Buddha
Two monks were arguing about whether their train was moving. One
said:
"Our train is moving."
The other said: "The train on the tracks next to us is moving."
The sixth patriarch happened to be walking down the aisle. He
asked them: "Would I look good in short shorts?"
Tozan's Pretzels
A monk asked Tozan when he was eating some pretzels: "What is
Buddha?"
Tozan said: "These pretzels are making me thirsty."
We Have Chocolate Pudding
When Banzan was walking through the Union Square greenmarket he
overheard a conversation between a vendor and his customer.
"Do you have chocolate mousse?" asked his customer.
" We have chocolate pudding," replied the vendor.
At these words Bazan became enlightened.
Here, from the next book, a paean to all the little better things..
a fan of little things
just finished
breakfast, thinking
best damn super-extra-crispy bacon
of my whole doggone life
on this planet, which I thank
for creating the corn or whatever
that fed the pig
that became the best damn
super-extra-crispy bacon
of my whole existence on this planet
not counting the times
I might have been the corn
or the pig
or whatever else was involved
in creation
of the best damn super-extra-crispy
bacon ever, thank you, God,
if you exist and if you had anything
to do with it
and I'm thinking, damn
I wish I could wake up again
and come here again and order
my breakfast again
and eat the best damn super-extra-crispy
bacon
all over again,
enjoy the super-extra-crispy
crunchy pleasure
all over again as it it had never ever happened
before and the super-etcetera pleasure
was completely new to me,
experienced
for the very first time
but
that's the way I am,
a fan of little things,
the little atomic thingies
that come together to make up bigger
and bigger things, like stars, that in turn
come together
to make galaxies and constellations
and ultimately a whole damn universe
laid out before me as I lie in the grass at night, looking up
at it all, thinking of the teensy-tiny things that came together
to make wondrous things like stars
shining against a universal backdrop of dark somewhere/nowhere
and pleasurable things
like cool breezes in the summer, cold water splashing
on my droopy-morning face, little girls
who giggle
when I wink at them
and, as you guess by now,
super-extra-crispy-crunchy
bacon, the best I ever had, just this
morning
Next, I have this poem by
Vandana Khanna, from her collection,
Train to Agra. The book was published by the Crab Orchard Review and Southern Illinois University Press in 2001.
Khanna, born in New Delhi, has lived most of her life in the U.S. She attended the University of Virginia and received her M.F.A. from Indiana University.
Bowl
My head in the basket of her folded thighs,
she rubbed my hair, fingers thick from kneading
wheat bread that sold quickly at Sunday markets.
Flat cushions firm on my scalp, wrists that smelled
of vanilla and coconut oil.
She left my father in the hospital, left his breath
falling through the air, and slipped under the hot
sheets of my bed. It was then she let her bones
sigh against the painted wall of my room, her spine
like the trunk of a mango tree, curving.
Sometimes she spoke of things that could not be touched,
told stories I could eat, burning my throat
as the words went down.
Mostly, she cupped my head like a bowl asking
to be filled, listened to car horns and cicada
through my window, undid he braid in her hair.
It fell around sharply -
silver-black as rain under streetlights.
Finding the book in a second-hand bookstore was a something new, but I have before sat in a coffee shop watching people read my book, not knowing who I was or that I was watching.
It was very strange to watch them read to each other, laughing; the almost overpowering urge to rush over to see what poem they were laughing at - to see if the poem they were laughing at was a poem that was meant to be funny or if it was my incompetence they were laughing at.
finding my book in a second-hand bookstore
so I found my book
in a second-hand bookstore
in a city far from home
do I think:
oh, wonderful someone read my book
and brought it here
so that it might be purchased
and enjoyed by a second reader...
or:
oh, woe, this book, this labor of love,
discarded,done,old news, no
leaves pressed between the pages.
no careful preservation for poetry-minded
progeny, a remembrance forgot,
not to be cherished and saved for another generation,
or maybe for a current lover
who will hold it as dear as
they hold you,
oh wonderful and sensitive people
who sleep every night with a book of fine
poetry tucked beneath their pillow
never to sleep over
mine...
or, simply,
oh, look, someone bought my book, money
in my pocket, easy-earned cash from a few
small scribbles
on the road to riches now,
let's go out for
dinner...
---
taking in the sights
in a new city, finding
the familiar
where never expected
The next poem from
The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry is by
Joe Brainard. His books include
I Remember and
Bean Spasms.
Van Gogh
Who is Van Gogh?"
Van Gogh is a famous painter whose paintings are full of inner turmoil and
bright colors.
Perhaps Van Gogh's most famous painting is "Starry Night": a landscape
painting full of inner turmoil and bright colors.
There are many different sides to Van Gogh, the man.
When Van Gogh fell in love with a girl who didn't return his love he cut off
his ear and gave it to her as a present. It isn't hard to imagine her reaction.
Van Gogh's portrait of a mailman with a red beard is probably one of the
most sensitive paintings of a mailman ever painted.
It is interesting to note that Van Gogh himself had a red beard.
When Van Gogh was alive nobody liked his paintings except his brother Theo.
Today people flock to see his exhibitions.
Van Gogh once said of himself: "There is something inside me - what is
it."
Sick Art
Mona Lisa's smile often causes observes to overlook the fact that she has no
eyebrows.
One skin specialist offered the suggestion that Leonardo da Vinci's model was
suffering from a skin disease called alopicia. Alopicia is a skin disease in which
one has no eyebrows.
On the other hand, many women in those days shaved their eyebrows and
Leonardo da Vinci's model may have just been following the fad.
There is no doubt however, that Rodin's "The Thinker" had bunions on both
feet.
Today, with modern art, it is not to easy to spot disease and physical dis
orders.
Many doctors, however, have noticed a strong relationship between various
skin diseases and the paintings of Jackson Pollock.
Fungus infections are very common in the art of the Middle Ages and the
Renaissance.
Art
Looking through a book of drawings by Holbein
I realize several moments of
truth. A nose (a line) so nose-like. And then I think to myself "so
what?" It's not going to solve any of my problems. And then I realize that at
the very moment of appreciation I had no problems. Then I decided that this is
a pretty profound thought. And that I ought to write it down. This is what I
have just done. But it doesn't sound so profound anymore. That's art for you.
Here are a couple of shorter things from the next book,
New Ways, New Days, a selection of poems from 2011.
beacon
tall girl
with very white teeth
comes in
and, on this sun-shining
blue-sky day,
her smile is a beacon
of reflected light,
like crystals tossed into the air,
like diamonds
against
a cloudless winter
sky
like
the sun
rising high ad bright
watching rain
the rain starts
dry
with a mighty gust
of northwest wind;
then the rain,
sheets of cold, mountain-born wet...
on the patio,
I shiver, step bare-fleshed
out to the grass, stand
flat-footed
against the blowing
rain, arms out-stretched,
soaking,
listening to our no-name creek
roar
in a roiling flow
to Apache Creek and,
some days hence,
the Gulf of Mexico...
I watch the puddles
form the grass turn
brown
to green even as the rain
falls
Next, from
Charles Harper Webb, one of many funny poems in his book,
A Weeb For All Seasons, chronically the life of the poet's alter-ego, Weeb. The book was published by Applezaba Press in 1992.
Weeb Dreams He's Thrown in Jail For Becoming Discouraged in Public
I sit on a straw-stuffed bunk
and think "Jail's not so bad."
My social-worker girlfriend
has exaggerated. Through a crack
in the door, I see the sheriff's
office. He strides in,
swinging an iron key on a ring.
The phrase "toying with my freedom"
jumps into mind; but I forgive him.
He's tall, so clean-cut,
so well-built with such honest
eyes, he's sure to set everything
right. Except he leaves,
and in stumbles his deputy -
a wizened brown man with a twisted
leg, who trips over his cane,
and curses with a hick accent.
I laugh. This beats
Gunsmoke.
Then all at once the brown man
is leering through my bars.
"Looky out that winda, bo'ah."
I hear fierce hammering
and sawing, note the gallows
sprouted like a magic beanstalk
outside my cell window.
"At's fer folks'et makes funa
m'laig." He spits tobacco
in my face and limps away
while, drenched in sweat,
I struggle to remember
if it's ACLU or UCLA
that I need, and what
the number is, and how,
in 1881, I'll never reach
a telephone by dawn.
This is the other half of a trip to the coast excitement, the not so good half.
gone forever
return
after 30 years
and discover you knew
the people many streets are named for
and they're mostly
dead
still,
you think,
had I stayed here
I might have a street
too
but you never think
you might be dead, too...
---
45 degrees
at 5 a.m. - wind from the north
blowing 40 miles an hour
no sunny beach
today
---
eating breakfast
in front of wide, high windows,
waiting to watch the sun
rise, instead a gray, sullen sky,
daylight
easing over
a gray, sullen bay,
water lapping
furious and frantic
at the seawall
but no sun
no shining disc
rising red over green waters
that was another day
---
crossing the Oso causeway
high over the white-capped water,
th4e wind blowing
from high distant passes
like through a five-mountain
funnel
the car wants to fly
with the cold
wind
---
the ferry will not run today,
all the little bay-side
villages
will be bundled up against the cold
and closed...
no pictures anywhere,
even on the beach, just dim sky,
dull water, nothing on the horizon
but more dim and more dull
sand from the dunes behind me
blowing against my neck,
the grit of it
stinging,
suggesting it's time to go
home...
---
homeward
against the wind that fights me,
pushes me back, a longer
drive with it in my face than at my back
lunch at Oakville, half-way home,
bar-b-cue sandwich, potato
salad, and pinto beans with peach
cobbler chaser...
---
and the week-end's over,
Dee still down with a cold,but the dog
happy to see me, thought I had left
forever
that's the way dog's think,
sometimes smarter than we are...
because that's the message here
if thee is one -
once a place is left, no matter
how dear, that place is gone
forever,
old home just old now,
never the place you remember
teaching you,
if you're willing to learn,
that home has to be where you are today
or you will be forever
homeless
My next anthology poet is
Joan Jobe Smith, founding editor of
Pearl. She worked as a go-go dancer for seven years while completing here MFA from the University of California at Irvine. At the time the anthology was published she had published seventeen collections of poetry.
Aboard the Bounty
Onto the bar I walked, my first day on the job,
a go-go girl in the raw, onto the bar from the
dressing room where I'd shakily painted my face
with pink and gloss, combed my hair high and
brown, straightened my black stockings smooth,
onto the bar from the dressing room from my
apartment where I'd kissed my kids goodbye,
showed the nanny how to warm the baby's formula,
onto the bar from my dressing room from my
apartment the week after my husband left me,
the rent two weeks past due and I looked around
the bar at all the men drinking beer and laughing
and smoking cigars and cigarettes and watching
Robin whose name I didn't know yet dance some
dance I didn't know how to dance yet to the
Rolling Stones singing a song about a stupid girl
on the jukebox playing as loud as it would go
and a man waved to me to come here, he wanted
some beer, so I wont to him and he pointed up
at Robin, Robin who l I yet did not know, did not
know her stepfather raped her, one of her kids'd
been born brain damaged and the drunken man
pointed up at Robin's crotch and asked me, the
first thing a drunken man in a beer bar ever asked me
my first day on the job, a go-go girl in the raw:
Is that chick up there on the rag or is she really
a fag with her balls tied up in a jock?
Another from the next book.
the coot conundrum
From The New Time Book of Timely Definitions:
Cooties - The aura and essences of all living things;
That which follows behind all creatures large and small,
as well as immobile creatures such as trees and bushes and
rutabagas and carrots; The air breathed in and out, throught
left hanging incomplete; An insubstantial substance like the ghosts
of muddy footprints on a kitchen floor after scrupulous
mopping; a conceit of the dictionarily challenged.
so here's
the dilemma;
Kitty
the blind cat
loves dog cooties
while Reba
the deaf dog hates
cat cooties - so
the dog-cootie
loving
cat
likes to sleep
on the dog's bed
because of all the readily available
dog cooties,
leaving behind
a surfeit of cat cooties
in the process, making
the dog's bed
entirely unacceptable
to the cat-cootie-hating
dog,
so the dog makes her self a bed
elsewhere,
which, in the course of a week or so,
accumulates a full helping
of
dog cooties,
which draws the cat to the new bed
having, in due course,
depleted
the original supply of dog cooties
in the old be,
leaving Reba the dog
once again out on a search
for a new cat-cootie-free
bed,
and, both of these animals
being highly intelligent, old,
and good-natured
homebodies,
I am concerned
that this constant shifting,
living like Gypsies
from tent to tent,
might harm them, being,
like I said, old,
well past the age
where they have any illusion
about change being their friend,
believing, as I do, that that kind of
change-is-your-friend baloney
is what we tell old people
as we begin
to repossess their home of fifty years
and nothing more
Next, I have a sequence by
Robert Bonazzi, from his book,
Maestro of Solitude, published by Wings Press in 2001.
Stray Arrows from Chaos
I am every man
Man wounded by nobody knows what
By a stray arrow from Chaos
- Vincent Huidobro
I
You inhabited endless evenings
in that single room
in no room
in no
I praised your proud rituals
performed that ambivalent dance
Despair
you were my muse
my drug
II
What appeared as the abyss
now opens this wilderness
To know the old life exhausted
in labyrinths of memory
To express the spiritual
as thought creates the logical
equation for beauty
Only the transparent can be
one in form and content
III
Web on the ceiling -
would not notice
except I stare
could climb a ladder
or stand on a chair
(I do not move)
Textured web of a drab utopia -
electric Hamlet - Why a
void this?
(I leap to revise)
I have not seen the spider in years
IV
O coffee bean of pure intelligence
this smoke a prescient intuition
yet no two mushrooms
are alike
The potted plant images the forest
the caged bird recalls the jungle
I learn to live with stones in my mouth
V
Nocturnal lope attentive in repose
everything moves to a staring eye
Flesh freshly sculpted breathes
in shadow reshapes insomnia
on the ceiling
Reality never perceived
without a moon
VI
The mirror invents dichotomies
knows silence reflects
on nothing
Mere roar of your image
O tyger of symmetry
Your moon an absence
O muse of memory
Within cells wander
withing images wait
VII
I had a dream
of wise Chuang Tzy
There is no me
there is no you
Windows in mirrors
mirrors in windows
I without focus and
you a parchment
VIII
Seeing trees
rooted in clouds
we evolve beyond
the figure of one
habitation
We say poetry is feeling
feeling out way
feeling as fingers feel
with casual certainity -
Yet the thumb is doubt
IX
The page opens an unread tree
light leaf of pleasure in shadow's desire
Leaf sails healing waters
refines shape
floats
X
By the way I've seen
The Tasman Sea by map
with a cheap fan for weather
near the eye of becoming
a variation on vision
by the way it moves
Sometimes I have a problem sleeping due to back pain. And sometimes when I have a problem thinking, I take something to help me sleep. And every time I do, I feel terrible the next day.
You'd think I'd learn.
morning after
a little red pill
at bedtime
and now the night
will not leave
me
the sun
risen and a pot of coffee downed
and still the world
is just a slit seen through heavy
drooping
eyes
but
it is day
and the world waits
for me to do
the things it expects of me
so I will do my
best
but offer
no guarantees
for it is,
for certain, the morning
after a red pill
night
Next from
The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry is
Alan Kaufman, whose books include
Who Are We, American Cruiser, Before I Wake and an anthology,
The New Generation: Fiction For Out Time From America's Writing Programs.
The Saddest Man on Earth
The saddest man on Earth...
ignored how the rain felt
as he left home
for the last time
Wore down
his boot heels
searching for the woman
of his dreams
but never understood
that life is a woman
Lived in a town
where sadness was illegal
and where grinning
cops ticketed his face
so often
that he lost his license
to cry
The saddest man
on Earth
tuned guitars
but couldn't play them
cheated the IRS
of his own refund
fathered a child
who thought she saw
him in perfect strangers
yet didn't recognize
him face to face
I met him once
in a bar
toasting the mirror
with is stare
He had come
south to start
life over
He was a
Mozart of silence
This is a new poem, from Monday, this week.
Monday notes
overcast day
today
too bad
I found my sunglasses
I couldn't find
yester-sunny-day
---
45 at sunrise
60 by noon, great for squirrel chasing
at the park, mostly Bella
chasing
while me, mostly I'll be watching
she'll never catch a squirrel
but she doesn't know
and I'm not telling
ambition -
it's important
even in a dog's life
---
hired a proofreader
for my next book, a young English major
and part time dance teacher, reminds
me of my niece, thin, long-legged and gawky,
bright-eyed, a believer in life
told her I'd have a clean copy
for her to proof
by next Saturday afternoon
work to do...
---
homeless fella
walks past as he does every several days
about this time, older fellow, my age
or almost, portly, stops to sit for a short spell
on the bench outside the restaurant, sets his backpack
on the bench beside him, a large, packed backpack, looks
heavy, a Teddy Bear tied to the back of the pack,
a grandpa, maybe, lost, a grandchild somewhere, maybe,
waiting for her Teddy
he moves on,
as do we
all
---
a little girl
across the way, a tiny little girl
could be three, maybe
four, struggles to tie the drawstring
at the bottom of her little
coat...
wonder if she needs another
grandpa, wonder if she would mind
if he smells and has fat, tired
feet...
she will move on
as do we
all...
she
much further
than her might-could-be grandpa
and me
This next poem is from the anthology,
Crossing Water, a collection of contemporary poetry of the English-Speaking Caribbean. The book was published by the Greenville Review Press in 1992.
The poet is
Brian Chan, a musician, painter, photographer, movie-maker, and writer born in Guyana.
By Wicklight
All texts shut,open all windows,
I am a glass of liquid flame,
dreaming a time when breadless books -
spires imposed on thatched roofs,
cathedrals fashioned over an abyss -
give way to books of timeless bread.
The piano locked, its fingers muse
a music where no dance is, beyond
the choked gold of measured strings,
the voices of night returning
with its standard lights. No mine,
this hand, this page of fading fire.
Drained my glass, smoke the oil.
A dark camel crosses the dry moon.
Sometimes, too much exposure to current events, and you have to wonder how the human kind will ever survive in the long run, or, even why it bothers to try.
no end to it
so tired
of living in a world
so full of stupid people
fools every day, impossible
to live a full life without exposing
oneself to them, caves and hermits and mountain tops
not appealing to one
not yet ready
to do without the rest of his kind...
politics
in general, whatever the current debate...
this time, guns - on one side slime people
willing to facilitate murder
for profit,
on the other side hapless liberals
who flutter and flitter
and wail and moan
about the injustice of rule
by the corrupt winners
of corrupt games
played in the name of poor dead and debased
democracy, justice, "the people"
the people,
dim, compliant victims
off their own thirst for the comfort
of lies
and well-paid liars, sellers of soap
who soft-soap the murder
of children
---
there will be no change
to it,
no end
to it,
no matter how tired I am
of it
And, finally this week, the last poem from the week's anthology,
The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. The poet is
Kathleen Wood, author of
The Wino, the Junkie and the Lord.
I chose the title poem from that collection to finish off the anthology.
The Wino, The Junkie and The Lord
I was on a bench at 18th and Val
Talking to a wino who said he believed in the Lord.
He said he needed money for dinner at McDonald's.
He said he wasn't asking for much.
I gave him a dollar.
He said he'd protect me whenever I was in the
neighborhood.
Because he always looked out
For the people who helped him.
He said he had good reasons
for being an alcoholic.
I told him I used to have good reasons for being an addict.
He asked me where I was going.
I said to an NA meeting on Eureka Street.
He said his daughters lived on Eureka Street.
And he hoped they turned out okay.
He wanted to know which drug I was addicted to.
I said several.
He said he wanted to know where the meeting was
Because the streets were dangerous at night.
He asked God to protect me
From the crazies in the dark.
He turned to a yuppie who stood nearby.
"I've got good reasons to be an alcoholic!"
The yuppie smiles at me and shook his head.
The bum asked the Load to keep us all.
Then he stumbled off down Valencia.
The yuppie muttered something about crazies.
Our bus arrived.
Here's a political poem from 2011. It will be in the next book where it will, unfortunately, still seem relevant.
squashed armadillos and other mythic creatures of the Texas plain
I know people
who are so far out
on the right fringe of ideology
they make Genghis Khan
look like a daisy-smoking, fire-spitting,
girly-walking, socialist liberal anarchist freak;
people who are like black holes,
ever circling
circling
circling
rightward into another dimension
where the rules of everything from gravity
to the basic laws of mechanics
and motion
are altered; where sunshine shines up
from the earth to the sun;
where dry rain falls
from arid skies;
where Glen Beck makes sense and
Sarah Palin
is a rocket scientist;
a place where
tennis balls
and clouds never break to the left -
that kind of people,
people for whom I am a kind of token lefty
among their circle of other true
believers...
on the other hand,
I know other people so reflexively left wind
they take forever to get to the supermarket because
they won't make right turns
and can only go places they can get to
by making a series of left-turn boxes,
moving squared block by squared block
closer too their goal...
from their perch
high in the clouds of gooey-gooey
relativism
they bemoan my troglodyte tendencies,
my insistence on evolutionary theories of
gradual things-getting-betterism;
my understanding that the government is a creature of the people,
including people
who care more about their next paycheck
than they do about
academic theories of the casual effects
of meat-eating on
interpersonal relationships between
prairie grasses and endangered insects,
people who want things to work
and don't care
if a few cockroaches get stepped on
in the process...
people
who my left-winger friends
care about
only after they're a hundred years dead
and can be re-configured
as working class heroes
instead of just-plain folks living
just-plain lives
they find rewarding in their own bourgeois way...
my left-winger friends
for whom
I am a kind of token rightist,
good at parties
for the amusing of their ivory-tower friends
who luxurate in the dirty words
they were too prissy to use
before -
I'm a mean motherfucker,
they say,
now pass the brie
and hold the ammunition...
meanwhile
I often feel like the squashed armadillo
a former Texas politician
maintained
was the only thing ever in the middle of the road -
white stripe
ahead, white
stripe behind, it's an uncomfortable
way to live in these times
No matter how much I look forward to winter (and I do, a lot), I begin to look forward to spring the day after winter starts.
turning
winter
settles in
after autumn
settles accounts
then spring
when a new book
opens
and we begin the story
of another turning
of the wheel
and it
turns
and it turns
until our story ends
and accounts
are settled
and
the fields
are fallow
and
the wheels
settle
and wait
for another spring
and
another turning
for another
story
Now, not last for the week, but last for the week from my next book,
New Days, New Ways, due out this summer.
stuff about stuff
I got people
trying to tell me stuff
about stuff
they don't know no stuff
about
regular stuff, like
revealed religion and secret rites of Masons
domestic and international politics
Siberian cookware
the birth and death of stars
tax laws regarding home office deductions
the circulatory system of human beings and other mammalians
the secret socialist agenda of Barack Obama
the sex life of the Cantonese termite
and weight loss
made cheap and easy
amidst a bevy of buxom blonds in
bikinis
stuff like that
and I don't believe
people ought to be telling me stuff
about stuff
they don't know stuff about
having an opinion,
it seems to me, ought to be predicated
on knowing stuff about the stuff
one is opinionating about
so
though I don't like to be rude,
from now on
instead of politely listening to people
pontificating
about stuff they don't know stuff about
I'm just going to tell them
that if they don't have the right stuff
they should just
stuff it!
Here's what I got to close the week.
concrete gardens
with age,
we come to accept
the limited future of our own
corporal self
harder
to accept, no matter how long our life,
that all the works
of our kind
are equally limited
to their own moments in time,
longer moments than our own, but still
all passing fancies, like us, that begin and end
on a schedule unknown to us,
inevitabilities unknown to us until their moment
of denouement,
the whens and the whys,
the mystery lying before us, clues aplenty
all around us, the how-we-will-end
surely a final l play like those of all who ended before us,
most all, some version
of suicide, a product of an aggressive, explosive nature
or just the weariness of existence overtaking the will to continue,
unrecognized until the final of the kind lifted its head
and realized it was the last and no more
would follow...
it might be there are no examples
for us to study,
maybe all kinds find their own way
to kill themselves,
all inevitable ends reflecting the truth
that we are all part of a universe of both births and deaths,
both equal and appropriate
to the machinery
that keeps all the universal wheels
turning
That's it.
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