Double Down   Thursday, August 28, 2014

Still life with bullets VII
Photo by Alex Stolis



This week, coincidental with learning that my poet-friend Alex Stolis is now also my photography-friend, I found in my library a copy of his chapbook Li Po Comes to America. Discovering both things so  close together, led me to double down on Alex. First all of the photos in this post are by Alex in his new photographer incarnation and all what would normally be anthology poems are instead pieces of his chapbook.

This, with poems from library and my own poems, new and old, rounds out the playbill for this week.


Presenting for you entertainment:


Me
grown up jokes

Alex Stolis
First Law of Thermodynamics

Me
not a poem, or maybe it is - I'm thinking about it

Sharon  Olds 
The Death of Marilyn Monroe
The Issues

Me
other trails, other times and places 

Alex Stolis
Newton's Second Law of Motion

Me
morning

Marge Piercy
Going In

Me
secret places

Alex Stolis
Newton's First  Law of Motion

Me
watching my book be read

George Oppen
The Forms of Love

Me
just for the summer

Alex Stolis
Schrodinger's cat

Me
nope, I just won't do it

Lawrence Ferlinghetti
At the Bodega

Me
the rooster crows

Alex Stolis
The Big Bang Theory

Me
and you have a really good day

Deborah Bogen
Sin
Angels

Me
empty closets

Laure Lico Albanese
S.U.N.Y. College
Life Lessons

Me
refuseniks    




Been a long time brewing II (The man on the radio says...)
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                      




I'm not so much unhappy about getting old as I am about the youngsters growing up around me.












grown-up jokes

dinner
with a niece

all grown-up
now

remembering
when she was not
and the games we played

laughs
at my grown-up  jokes now
and makes grown
up jokes of her
own

I don't really mind
getting old
myself -

only hate
the way all my favorite
people
are growing up

and leaving me
behind




Dream songs
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                                               
Here's my first poem from Li  Po Comes to America, a chapbook by poet-friend and, now, photographer, Alex Stolis. The chapbook  was published by Parallel  Press in 2010. As I explain above, having forgotten I had it, I  was very happy to find it in my bookcase about the same time Alex sent me his first  batch of photographs.

I read the chapbook  as a love story, written in little pieces of poetry. Alex always figures out some unique way to present his poetry. In this case he ties it to various scientific principles, most familiar to most of us from  high school science classes.





First Law  of Thermodynamics

1. First we'll take Manhattan

Watch the sun act guilty
when you smile,
listen to the river
cough and remember -
I can hold a suicide
in the palm of my hand,
predict the future
in broken glass.
Doesn't it make
you want to forget
who might have been.

                                       Energy cannot be created or destroyed,
                                       it can only be changed from one form to
                                       another


II.  We get inked at Skin Kitchen Tattoo Studio

I make a fist  to the needle-buzz
smell rain in your hair
as my arm burns.

Someday you will forget
my name - I will not remember
the curve of your breast.




Monkey gone to heaven
Photo by Alex Stolis




                                                                                

 Something undetermined from September, 2008, addressed to my housemates on Blueline's House of 30,originally written to question a problem  on the site. Then I  got carried away.

By the power vested in my by the Benevolent Order of Poem a Day Poets, I declare it a poem.










not a poem,  or maybe  it  is - I'm thinking about it

anybody have any idea when we're going to get  past this debug  hassle. also, when we're going to get email notification back, when i'm to get back to 180 lbs and a 32 inch waist I had when i was 18, and when the bald spot on the back of my head is going to be reforested, and when john mccain is going to realize he's too old and quit and when the irs is going to forget about the money i owe it and when the gang at the house is going to pull together a book, sell 17 million copies and make us all rich and other stuff?

that's what i'd like to know!




Drive-by shooting VII
Photo by Alex Stolis




The first two poems from my library this week are by  Sharon Olds. It is from her  book, The Dead and the Living, published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1995, obviously a reprinting, since the book was the 1983 Lamont Poetry Selection of the Academy of American Poets.

Born in 1942, Olds has received many honors, including the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry in 2013. She currently teaches creative writing at New York University.







The Death of Marilyn Monroe

The ambulance men touched her  cold
body,  lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close the
mouth, closed the eyes,tied the
arms to the sides, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,
saw the shape of her  breasts, flattened by
gravity, under the sheets,
carried her, as if it  were she,
down the steps.

These men were never the same. They went out
afterwards, as they always did,
for a drink or two, but they could not meet
each other's eyes.

                               Their lives took
a turn - one had nightmares,strange
pains, impotence, depression. One did  not
like his work, his wife looked
different, his  kids. Even death
seemed different to him - a place where she
would be waiting,

and one found himself  standing at night
in the doorway to  a room of sleep,listening to a
woman breathing, just an ordinary
woman
breathing.


The Issues

(Rhodesia, 1978)

Just don't tell me about the issues.
I can see the pale spider-belly head of the
newborn who lies on the lawn, the web of
veins at the surface of her  scalp, he skin
grey and gleaming, the clean line of the
bayonet down the center of her chest.
I see her mother's face, beaten and
beaten into the shape of a plant,
a cactus with grey spines and broad
dark maroon blooms.
I see her arm stretched out across her baby,
wrist resting, heavily, still, across the
tiny ribs.
                Don't speak to me about
politics. I've go eyes, man.




 Suicide notes
Photo by Alex Stolis




                                                                        



A  lot of science  fiction books and stories about alternate history and alternate dimensions. Usually the alternate histories are about the big things, the confederates or the Nazis win their wars, or Alexander the Great lives to a ripe old age instead of dying young. When I think of this kind of  stuff, I'm more likely to think in personal terms.










other trails, other times and places

there  is a science fiction
fancy
that our life
is just one of many
in  alternate
universes

that for the me that is here
there are hundreds, 
thousands, even,
of me in those other times
and other places

a different
me
for each of the thousands of  intersections
in life
where one decision, large  or small, was made
over another

(even the smallest have
consequences
unforeseen and often later
unrecognized)

one of the other me's
might be happily married to that high school
sweetheart, the romance that in this life
fell through the first  time
we were not together daily...

and in other lives
I might have spoken my mind and heart
to the girl in Baltimore
before
our separate planes
returned us to separate places -
in those lives
I would not have stayed mum
as she walked away,
would have called her  back...

I suspect  there are a lot of lives
where I am a  military
man,
the choice, in this life
was a close one...

or I  might be  a thief, a
clumsy cat burglar,
spending my years mostly
behind the bars
of bad choices on a rocky path...

or a bum,
drunk and homeless,
sleeping under  a cardboard tent
on mean city streets -
I can see that  life easily
as plausible
as the one I have today,
victim of ill-serving chance
and my own dim-witted
choices...

in many lives, it is likely
I was never a husband, and in many of those,
even though it most defines me
in this life,
never a father...

all those other  lives
in places I have never been,
will never visit

including many lives where I am long dead,
other  lives where I  will die
tomorrow,
and even others where
I  was never born,
blank lines in the alternate
universes  of me...

life is a path
through a dense forest,
the only path between
the trees that surround  us,
passing all the other paths
that branch out  along the way,
trails not taken
in  this life,
but,
in this science fiction fancy,
as real as the one
I walk today




Guthrie
Photo by Alex Stolis




                                                                         



Here's more from Alex Stolis and his chapbook Li Po Comes to America.











Newton's Second Law  of  Motion

III. Battery Park

A dragonfly nips at the heels of the moon,
the moon, being  pious, scatters your breath
across the street  like fire.

Let's head west, pin our past to mile markers,
build a cherry-red house on the flatland -
bury our future in a shallow grave.

                              Force equals mass multiplied
                              by acceleration


IV  Drinking alone

The sun is too hot, I can hear the rush
of the  river, a bartender  pretends to care
about the politics of loneliness.

When it gets dark enough I can see the outline
of your body against the water - a few more drinks
and I will be able to cut my face on your chin.



Suicide notes II (for Anne)
Photo by Alex Stolis




                                                              




From September, 2008, a small poem series.












morning

birds call
in the still-
dark

announce
the day

claim the
sun

~~~

morning breeze
rustles trees

the tender
passing
of leaf
on
leaf

~~~

alarm sounds

Debussy
whispers

awake awake

Mussorgsky
up  
next

~~~

cat
asleep on my arm
purrs

a gentle feline
snore




 Drive-by shooting  III
Photo by Alex Stolis





                                                                                                             




Here's another poem from my library. This one is by Marge Piercy, poet, novelist and social activist, from her book The  Twelve-Spoked Wheel Flashing. The book was published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1980. Born in 1936, Piercy earned a MA from Northwestern University.
\









Going  in

Every day alone whittles me.
I go to bed unmated and wake
with a vulture perched on my chest.

I suck my  solitude
like a marrow bone, nothing
left but a memory of feasts.

Wait in the silence, wait
empty as a cracked eggshell
for the beating of heavy fast wings

the soft pad of the big cat
the dry grate of scales sliding over rock
the boiling of the waves as he breaches.

I wait for the repressed, the unnamed,
the familiar twisted masks of early
terrors, or what I have always really known

lurks behind the door at night grouping
from the corner of my eye, what breaks
through the paper hoop of sleep

When all of my loves fall from me
like clothing, like the sweet flesh, what
stands but the bone3s of my childhood

ringed like a tree trunk with hunger
and glut, the tortured gaping
grin of my adolescence homely

as death. Then my bones drop away
like petals, my bones wither
and scatter and still I am waiting

empty as a grey arching sky,  waiting
till I fall headlong into my center
the great roaring fiery heart

the crackling terrible furnace of the sun.




Suicide notes X
Photo by Alex Stolis




                                                                           





Even in a small town,  there was always places to hide  out. I guess  it's harder these day. I  know all the places I hid out are gone now.












secret places

acres of brush,
paved over these  days,
parking lots, WalMarts, Dairy Queens,
nail salons and half-priced
barbers, broken down  shopping  centers,
empty storefronts, dirty display windows,
graffiti, trash blowing over cracked asphalt,
almost deserted,
everything there before, gone,
replaced with fly-by-night evangelical churches,
flea markets,  bingo  halls,
and other shepherds of the cyclical bust
out to fleece the flock
one way or
another...

but before,
the brush uncut,  thick,
paths winding through  like
a dirty gray maze, lined by scrub mesquite, brilliant green
in spring, yellow huisache,  wild  chilitipin,
tiny berries advertising their heat
in intense  red, and wide red-ant  beds,
the big ones, trails
of  them,like a Russian  May Day parade, like little red trucks
carrying bullhead thorns to scatter around their beds,
their first line of defense, and horned toads who went to sleep
if  you rubbed between their horns and who, some said,
spit blood at you if riled, and long, low, sleek
green-stripped lizards, racing, so fast across the trails,
and  snakes, in the brush,rarely seen but the rustle of their slither
heard along with the cries of mockingbirds  and red-wing blackbirds
and raucous jays and the most  fearsome  creature of all,
tarantulas,  big black and hairy, not poisonous we were told,
but those big pincher jaws sure to  produce a painful bite...

and throughout the brush, pockets of cleared
space,  under a mesquite tree, a safe circle
where fifteen-year-old  boys could talk, smoke Parliament
cigarettes and the Playboy and Cavalier
and Sunshine and Health magazines they inherited
from older boys, some so old, so wrinkled and crinkled
and fragile, third or fourth-hand girlie magazines, the closest
a fifteen-year-old was likely to get to first-hand

fortresses in the brush, secret places
where secrets were told and
kept, dirty jokes, big brags, scary stories
of ghosts and ghouls and tarantula bites...

important places for us back then,
relief  for a fifteen-year old
from the oppression of  the world
outside

seeking, like the tarantulas, hairy
and ugly and slow and unloved,
a place to live  a quiet
hidden
life
where only the select
know  the secret places
and the secret paths to get
there...




Divorced
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                                      



Here again, Alex Stolis, from his chapbook, Li Po Comes to America.












Newton's First Law of  Motion

IX. New Orleans
 
I'll  burrow under
the neon blanket
of Bourbon Street -
collapse with you
into a crease in the horizon.
I  love this city on sullen nights,
summer's death
spent with you.

                              An object  in motion will remain in motion
                              unless acted upon by a new force

X. Graceland

I'll bet you can remember the day
the sun was born - I imagine you
spun a robe of gold to wear that day.

There is a cardboard sign propped at the side
of the road, a bottle is emptied  - the wind
blows a hole in your memory.



The knife thrower's wife
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                                 



I've had a lot of comment on my first book from 2007, Seven Beats a  Second, usually good. This was a  different kind of comment, one I enjoyed more than any before or since. The poem is from 2008, the book out barely a year.











watching my book be  read

for 
the first time
ever
I watched someone
read my book today

someone
I don't  know;
someone who  
doesn't  know me

someone
on the other side  
of the coffeehouse
who doesn't know
I'm watching

it's a young couple,
boy and girl,
who stopped at the free
reads
table by the door

I was watching,
curious
to  see what they would do

I could tell 
it was my book they picked up
by the colors on the cover,
so  paid close attention
as they took the book
to a table
in the far corner of the room

they read together,
handing the book back and forth,
pointing to a page,
here, 
a page there, 
pointing to a poem,
talking about it

reading sometimes 
very quietly,
laughing loudly
at others

it made me feel
wonderful
to see the concentration,
to hear the laughter

the book has serious
poems,
as well as many meant
to be funny

i will continue
to assume
they were laughing
at the right 
places...

and don't
try
to  tell me different




Drive by shooting - Cedar Ave.
Photo by Alex Stolis





                                                                                                   


The next poem is by George Oppen, from his book Collected Poems of George Oppen. The book is a New Directions paperback published in 1976. Born in 1908, Oppen abandoned poetry for political  activism in the 1930s and moved to Mexico to avoid the House Un-American Activities Committee  of Congress. He returned to the United States in 1958 and won the Pulitzer Prize in 1969. He died in 1984.











The Forms of Love

Parked in the fields
All night
So many years ago,
We saw
A lake beside us
When the moon rose.
I remember

Leaving that ancient car
Together. I remember
Standing in the white grass
Beside it. We groped
Our way together
Downhill in the bright
Incredible light

Beginning to  wonder
Whether it could be lake
Or fog
We saw, our heads
Ringing under the stars we walked
To where it  would  have wet our feet
Had it been water




The knife thrower's wife -  Prologue and Epilogue
Photo by Alex Stolis





                                                                            




Here's a new memory poem, remembering summers in the mid-sixties.













just for the summer

I worked
on a power  line construction crew
for three summers,
hot, hard labor
with hard
men,
digging post holes through hard-packed caliche
under a blazing sun in the borderlands,
far into the rough of  Rincon Ranch
about half  way between  Rio Grande City
and  Laredo...

digging post holes under  a tropic moon
through  the  persistent sand
on Padre Island...

building new power lines
through city alleys
at midnight,
and along  country highways
not yet built...

repairing blown-down
lines, knee-deep in running
water after a coastal squall...

eating lunch by the Rio Grande,
under the crew truck
for  lack of any other shade...

hard work  in the sun,
made me  hard
and dark as the leathery back
of a slow-crawling desert turtle,
working with my shirt off, feeling
the flex of muscles
long buried between soft folds of teenage flesh,
coming into their own, arms thick, shoulders wide
and strong, chest deep from breathing
wet coastal morning dew and
the dry searing, furnace blasts
of border badlands, of  cactus
and snakes and beautiful green and
yellow and red desert foliage
lying clear and open
under wide blue skies...

three summers
finding truths about myself
and the nature of men...

three summers
ending,
returning to soft university life,
different
and better at  the end of each summer
than I was at the beginning
and most greatly pleased that it was all
just for a summer
and not
for the rest  of my life




 Cashiered
Photo by Alex Stolis




   
                                                                                 





Alex again, from his chapbook.











Schrodinger's cat

XXI. SXSW
   
When falling
in love
was different,
I could watch
night collapse
under the weight
of the stars.
right now,
feeling you
dare me
with your eyes,
I want to run
until the wind
tells me to stop
believing

                                                   The cat
                              is both alive
                                                               and dead

XXII. San Antonio

The sun tells me a different story
it is darker, disjointed.

I take a cigarette from your purse
pretend you are not asleep - whisper
peu a peu, je te regagne. *

*little by little, I regain you 




The knife thrower's wife 
Photo by Alex Stolis



This poem was written in September, 2008, the beginning  of the mind-numbingly nasty anti-Obama lies from right wing politicians and the first  followers  of the Tea Party and other extremist, racists and retro-fascist that continues today was just beginning.

History students of the future (assuming the crazies leave us with a future) will have a hard time believing how bad it was.

I wrote a lot  of political poems during that period, most of them giving back to the crazies what they were shoveling on the civilized part of American society.

This is the only one I'm using here, not wanting to wallow in that disgusting time.

I will say that I'm impressed that I was able to maintain some semblance of  humor in the midst of it.




nope, I just won't do  it

I'm
thinking
I  ought to  write a poem
since I wrote  one last week
about the dems
but I can't think of a single
good thing
to say about those people

and even if I tried
really
really
hard
I've no doubt it  would end up
mean and nasty
asking things  like
how come young conservative repubs
always turn out to be
such nimrods
and how come the old ones
with hairy ears
and clickity clackity dentures
can't imagine any possible good
arising
from a world different from the one
they lived in when
they were 7 years old
and how come they can't imagine
the world when they were 7 years old
being all that different
from the one a 7 year old live in today,
Bambi's mom died,my gosh,
and they cried
and today's 7 year olds cry too
when  Bambi's mom dies
so  what's the big deal,
I ask you,
and  how come all  those
repub women
have those big...

no,
I can't do ti

I won't do  it

if I write  about the repubs
I'm bound to be
mean and nasty and I don't wanna,
not  today,
the first day of September,
the first  day after godawful August

nope,
just won't do  it,
mama always said
if you can't say something nice
about someone
you shouldn't say anything  at all,
so, mother,
please note, I'm
putting a zipper  on it
right here...




Been a  long time a'brewing
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                                                       




 Next, a short  poem (yes, there are a few) by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from his  book Wild  Dreams of  New Beginnings, a New Directions paperback published in 1988.











At the Bodega

The hot young stud flamenco dancer
                                         dressed like a bullfighter
         has fast feet  like little animals
                                     with their own identities
                                        and a life of their own
                    having nothing at all to do
                                                      with the rest of him
                               which watches
                                           as they do the dancing
And each insolent gesture
                                      which the body makes
        and each arrogant pose
                                           the body takes
                                                    exactly like a toreador
                  telling the woman he whirls around
                                   "I am your master
                                       You cannot touch me
                                           And in the end
                                              I will bring you
                                                 to my feet
                                                     with this
                                                        white handkerchief"




Exiled from main street
Photo by  Alex Stolis



                                                                   




My dog and I wake up  very early in the morning.  We are not alone.














the rooster  crows

the rooster crows
at five thirty
every morning,  about
a block away, I can hear  him
from my backyard

wake up, wake up
he calls the
sun

another day,
he calls to the snug-a-beds,
wake up wake
up

I've already started...

hoping
with the neighborhood cock for
the best




Be drunk, be continually drunk
Photo by Alex Stolis




                                                                               


Here's the last poem from this week's  Alex Stolis chapbook, Li  Po Comes to America.

There's a lot more of this book than I could present here. If you're interested in getting your own copy (and I recommend it), contact the University of Wisconsin - Madison Libraries at parallelpress.library.wisc.edu.








The Big Bang Theory

XLI. In what furnace

I know a poet
that lives here - 
she knows
my name
knows the sound
of my words
and the color
of my intentions.
You call me
honey
and baby
and darling
and touch
the back of my hand -
you never ask
what about tomorrow


                              A cosmological model
               in which the  universe has been expanding
      for around 13.7 billion years starting from a tremendously
                              dense an hot space

XLII. The Emerald City

I light a cigarette,
contemplating the curve
of your  shoulder -
there is no difference
between oceans
and soon,
morning will  bring
that washed up feeling
of being sober.




Genesis in no man's land
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                                                               





I apologize to all my vegan friends for this, but my genetic antecedents on the evolutionary ladder are on the carnivore  side, not of the  lettuce and parsley kind.











and you have a really good day

think
of this...

you're driving
down
a country road
one day,
a  little two-lane
blacktop,
and you come 
to  this field,
this calm
pastoral
scene
of clean green
grass  waving
gently
in the breeze
and a herd of cattle
just standing around
munching away
and you stop
and walk
to  the fence
and all the cows
come running
cause they know
that when the  rancher
comes and stands
by the fence
he's probably going
to have something for
them, maybe some
nice  dry crispy hay,
something good
they're thinking
so they come running,
great sad brown eyes,
innocent eyes,
like the eyes
of a fallen angel
watching,
cud chewing, tail  swishing,
waiting
for you, and you say,
hello, cows,
I just thought I would mention
that one of these days
I'm going to eat you,
a few minutes
over hot  grill with
a little salt and pepper
and maybe some  A-1
if I leave you on the fire
too long and all  your
juices
dry up and you're 
going to taste
really great

until then,
I  thank you very much
and you all have a really
good 
day




Untitled true story
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                                                       


From my library, here are two poems by Deborah Bogen, from her book Let Me Open You a Swan. The book was published by Elixir Press in 2010. The poet lives in Pittsburgh where for the past decade, she's run free writing workshops.











Sin

This is the dream: you are the girl,
your are the girl gone now to the
creek, swinging the bucket to and fro,
listening to men who circle the fire.
Mother meant you to go to church,
to wear white gloves and bow  your
head. Your body moves on its own,
it  flows. It  worships fear for you are
the girl, the difficult daughter smeared
with red who ate the fruit they said
would poison - you never listened,
you wouldn't hear, you took the bucket
down to the water,  let  the cruel cold
cut your feet, this is the dream, you're
deep in the dream, your ankles ache.
You live in the dream of the men
and the dark. You love it here, you
dread the waking.


Angels

One leg over the motorcycle, I regret the impulse.  It's
1969. What we have in common is his brother's suicide
and I know what's running me - enthusiasm, that variant
of fear. The I Ching says enthusiasm in service of the self
is a bad thing. That's the kind of warning I take seriously,
but Roger's dead - and I don't want to start smoking
again. No stars tonight, just dark shapes rising against
darker headlands and part of me aches to be on the bike,
silhouetted against  the sky.  Soon we're on the slope that
takes us past Olema and Point Reyes, past cryptic horses,
head-down and mellow, Stygian banks of nasturtiums and
the rich folks' dogs straining on their chains. The bike's
come wholly to life and the boy directs it. I try to sink into
him so there's no fleshy argument distracting the machine.
The engine's agony drowns out thought as we slide down
to blackness, the sex of wind on our arms and necks. I did
not attend the funeral. I still sing, but not as well as this
bike which tonight is keening. There is something I'm
trying to master. There's no reason to trust the boy whose
bike heads down the mountain.




Unsent letter #8
Photo by Alex Stolis




                                                                 




There a  some days like this one when I feel like I've been pulled from the shelves before my sale-by date has come due.











empty closets

I suffer
from memories
of  past
relevancy

facing 
another day
when the closest  thing
to significant
I  will do
is this, whatever the hell
this is

another day,
I guess,
for my memory book
of blank looks
and empty closets

~~~

empty closets
a place
where aspirations  once hung
awaiting its
day




Drive-by X - The hum of geometry
Photo by Alex Stolis



                                                                                                      



The last two pieces from my library this week are by Laurie Lico Albanese from her book Blue Suburbia, subtitled "almost a memoir."

Albanese is a writer of  poetry, fiction and nonfiction including travel journals, journalism and a memoir.










S.U.N.Y. College

I work in the cafeteria
so I can buy books

call home
and hear my mother
silently hang up
the phone

drink beer
until I vomit
they go back
for more

read a letter
that says, Mom
won't let me
write to you
sorry, love
Dad

feel the hollow
of loneliness
at dusk

sit by the window
after midnight
highlighting notes

putting dreams
on a tiny scrap of paper
in a small corner
of my diary

I want to be
somebody.





Life Lessons

Campus is  loaded
with skinny girls from Queens

girls with closets full of jeans
and parents who visit monthly
carrying casseroles and cash.

I don't know what I envy more,
the money
or the way those girls are  cherished

while I stay up  late reading Freud
sleep through Beowulf
put on a hairnet
and listen to my dorm mates
complain about the food.

My boss at the dining  hall
is a Buddhist
grad school dropout
who tells me
we should all strive
for the beauty
of nothingness
but I already feel like nothing
walking across campus
invisible

barely breathing but getting by
getting B's

going home
to a summer job
at  Alexander's department store

carrying a notebook
full of stories,  full of poems

my mother says
I am full of myself
but her words  wash over me
like air.




School house rock - The great American melting
Photo by Alex Stolis



Okay, I'm raising the flag.



refusenik

I am settled
on the path of passive
resistance

refusing
to  learn anything new

everything important
that I've ever known,  I  knew
by 1983, everything
since
is just the detritus of a life
paying too much
attention
to inconsequentials,
lesser princes
of lesser kingdoms,technological
progress that  progressed nothing but complication

I don't want an new  phone

I don't  want a new TV

I don't even want new shoes

everything  I have
is fitted
to fit me, all my bumps
and hollows
known and accommodated...

everything I
know
is fitted to fit
me,  all my assumptions
confirmed
and finally contoured
to  contain
my presumptions...

why in the world
would I want to mess with
such sureties
by letting something
new
and different
through the door...

thinking was hard enough...

now I'm supposed to
re-think

I think
not




Newton's  law of cooling
Photo by Alex Stolis







As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me


  As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)



´╗┐Poetry
New Days & New Ways


Places and Spaces
 



Always to the Light






Goes Around Comes Around




Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second






Short Stories


Sonyador - The Dreamer







1 Comments:
at 12:15 PM Blogger davideberhardt said...

as always enjoying the selection- the olds poem re monroe seems flat- yr stuff reminds of charles bukowski- I mean- its straight forward
me I like mysticism, juicy beautiful words a la Hart Crane or Dylan Thonmas- I LIKE MUSIC- n:
if u write a la bukowski- u better have something to say!~
Wallace Stevens- now- he HAD something to say
the bukowski poem abt the jocky being trampled and the guys then going to get a beer- superb- something to say- and yet
it's saying so very little
we must try to go deeper
Emily d did it naturally

please let me know if u try to sell this comment on ebay- best dave

Post a Comment



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