I Wish I Had Something to say   Saturday, April 04, 2020





I wish I had something to say
I wish
I had something to say
about the new year’s arrival,
wise, profound, or even vaguely
interesting…

more than that, I wish
I could go back to the days
when I thought such a thing was even possible,
back in the day, when I imagined the passage
of one year to the next meant something
was going to change, something new
was aborning…

I miss those days
cause
I knew so much more back then,
certainties that seem impossibly silly now,
back when believing was something I could
believe in, innocence I guess
you might say, though it is only now,
a short step to the beginning of my 73rd year
that I recognize there was ever any innocence
in me…

not as tough now as I was back
then

not as certain now as I was back
then

knowing so much less of what I knew so much more of
back then

what can I say about this new year, not so much
it’s clear

just another shot at compounding confusion

what can I say…

it’s what I do








This is my 5th attempt to post this.

I’ve made it about halfway through the previous efforts when all my work disappeared.
So, I’m thinking, maybe I was going on too long. My new strategy, instead of posting a long issue every couple of weeks. I’m going to do short posts more frequently

Also, I'm not going to tempt fate by editing and spellchecking. Also, no poems from my library

So here it is, poor bedraggled creature such as it is

This, if it works, is the first of them.

All this short post by me:

“I wish I had something to say”

“an itch for the road again”

“Frank and Dino are dead”

“I will not write about this”

“how did the doornail die and how old was it at the time?”








an itch for the road again
remembering
good times on the road
and feeling lonely for the road
the itch
to get into my car and drive,
west, to the mountains and forests
of New Mexico and Colorado,
nostalgic for my times there, University
of New Mexico, Peace Corps Training during
the fall and winter of 1964, the camaraderie
of extraordinary people in a place like I had never been
before, from the flat cotton fields of South Texas
to mountains and forests all the colors of a crazed artist’s
palette and in recent years, Colorado and the grand majesty
of the Rockies, snow capped, the forests, pine and shimmering gold
aspen, driving through the canyons and heights and switchbacks
as the mountain and the road rises and the view from lookouts along the way,
the world, so recently visited, spread out like landscape of a another world,
and the narrow gauge railroad, Durango to Silverton, riding the rails,
following the Animas River up as its waters tumble down through forests
and mountain gorges the last time as winter slips in, snow
on the racks on all sides, and…

I have an itch to travel again, to be where I’m not again, a highway cowboy
riding the asphalt trails again…









Frank and Dino are dead

I held the door
at Starbucks this morning
under an Amazonian
shadow

a tall woman, ever taller
than my six feet,
long and slender in body
in a soft summer dress barely
to her knees,
long blond hair,
long feet
with long, red-tipped toes

age
indeterminate,
anywhere from 25 to 45,
either aging very well,
or in the very slight
early
decline
of a life already lived
well...

she did smile
as I held the door for her
which moderated
somewhat
the fact that women
such as she usually scare the crap
out of me

it’s not that I’m easily
intimidated
but after 44 years
with my 5 foot 2 wife
my parameters have become keyed
to looking down to the top
of a woman’s head
not up
to the underside of her
chin…

but I’m old,
it’s like the music today,
new stuff, like interfacing
with Amazon women,
is not within the boundaries
of my comfort
zone

~~~~

Frank and Dino
are dead

I guess I just need
to get over
it









I  will not  write about this


I will not write about this

about the number killed, the obscene number
killed

about the tears, the grief, the vigils, the weeping,
the wailing, the gnashing of teeth

or the preachers preaching

or the politicians
politicking

or the agitators agitating

or the white-sheeted racists racing to identify the murderous other

or the apologists, and the pacifists and all other brands of pie-eyed stupidity

or the presidential candidates campaigning

or the florists raking it in

or the gun-nuts explaining
(well he didn’t need the gun, you know, he didn’t need the gun, he could have killed them all with apples, throwing apples at them, deadly head trauma from hard Granny Smith apples thrown with extreme radical strength and speed - they train for that, you know, special camps in Saudi Arabia, you know, training apple assassins)

or all the cries of “do something, do something”

and all the promises of “we’re going to think about doing something, we’re going to talk about doing something, meanwhile, can you send a couple of bucks for my next campaign so I can think about it, talk about it better and with much greater sincerity, promise, promise, promise…

and I'm not going to write about in the silence of true grieving, somewhere where mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and neighbors, and bosses and co-workers, all puzzling over the random fates of hate

no, I’m not going to write about any of it

because I know, because I know for certain
that somewhere in this great country,
some insane fuck, probably more than one, maybe in your neighborhood
is basking in the reflected glory of the latest insane fuck
to take action,
watching it all on TV
the glory the glory the glory
the newly famous
insane fuck,
thinking
damn I got to get me some of
that…










how did the doornail die and how old was it at the time

Harper Lee is dead
and Umberto Eco and Justice Scalia
and many more, I’m sure,
that I don’t know about, all dead
as the proverbial door
nail
whatever the hell that is
and whatever it is how did it die
and how old was it when the end
came

and Ursula Andress is 79
years old
and that can’t be because
the last time I saw her she was
on a beach coming out of the surf
in a bikini with a knife in a sheath
and long blond hair and a lean, tan
body and there is no way she can be
79 years old and more important
what does that mean for
me

and how did the doornail die
and how old was it
and questions like that especially
about how Ursula Andress
got to be 79 years old
and when is her doornail
due, and what about
mine and
just thinking about all that stuff
gives me a pounding
headache

(maybe that’s how the doornail passed on)








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