The Ship Canal. The Fremont. And the Ballard. The Montlake,
closed over the cut. There’s the Southwest Spokane Street
Swing bridge. And the University over Portage Bay. Linking
the U-District with the north. This is a city of bridges. One
hundred and forty nine at last count. Steel and concrete
skyways hanging in space. Stopped. On the Aurora. Eight
AM. Grinding a commute towards my grave. Life empty
like the passenger and back seats of my car. And there he
sits on the railing. Legs counterweighted above a concrete
walkway. Back to the sky. The rest of us cantilevered over
a gray expanse. Looks to be a hundred and fifty vehicles.
I figure a passenger in every other one. Two hundred or so
people. Which is how many have chosen, as Sartre put it,
to embrace the abyss. We name this bridge with relish.
Suicide Span. Fremont Falls. Tourist rightly call it the
George Washington. But Jumper’s Bridge rises as the
favorite. For the self-extinctively inclined, its thousand-yard
length, and two hundred foot drop into eternity, serve as a
stage to irresistible drama. This guy’s got to be surprised by
his reception. Half the drivers lean on their horns. The rest,
out of their cars gawk or yell. Jump. Jump. Egg the guy on.
He reels some as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from a
pocket. Lights one and inhales. Exhales. Wind yanks the
smoke overhis shoulder. It’s cold. One hand draws a nylon
jacket closed. Eyes wary, the other reaches down, unlaces
his shoes. Kicks them off. I half expect a priest to show,
bible in hand. Whisper a prayer maybe. Walk him down a
long corridor. Hand on his shoulder. Bare lights overhead. A
cop and two paramedics thread their way fast through a
crush of cars. Toward mid-span where the guy waits. More
police whoop-whoop their way to the outer fringe of the
crowd. A couple of women are closest. Try to talk him
down. He smiles his thanks. But no thanks. He lifts his
arms over his head. Leans into the emptiness. Pauses to
look at us a final time. Back flips into the end of his life.
The mob goes quiet. They climb back into their cars. Key
their ignitions. Crawl away north or south. Disappointed it’s
over. I stand there. Against the fender of my car. Hazard
lights still flashing. The cop who almost reached him walks
over. Looks at me. Why do you think he did it? I don’t know.
I’m just wondering what it felt like to finally stop falling.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Disconnect
I wander the halls of the interred, search the names
etched in marble or granite of those I might have known,
while their lives walk me vault to vault. I’ve come
seeking a last visit with you.
Save the Mexican caretaker, only I and the dead have
arrived for the ceremony that will honor you, bring
each of us a false peace. I fear I will not find you;
it is easy for the dead to hide from the living. We
are near certain they have just stepped away,
out of sight for a brief moment.
But at last I see you, in the rose garden. Sixty ounces
in an ornate urn wrapped in a tasseled felt bag. Atop
a wooden dais, where you can survey old and new
friends alike. Just you and I now, as we share a
moment before your procession of mourners comes
to lean upon each other, and commend your
soul to their separate heavens.
Your daughter and her sons are the first to join us;
your sister and her god take their front-row seats.
My brother would not come when you were alive,
why now? Your first husband sits sobbing, at home.
The second waits in the ground. Faces taut,
each mouth a rictus, as if it is they
whom we bury. A tired minister,
rented from the local classifieds,
takes his place before we gathered.
I do not fear the dead. For me they differ little
from the living, except they do not chatter
incessantly to keep terror at bay. Nonetheless I
am unsettled; you and I have changed in some way I
do not understand. I feel the disconnect while
holding my sister as she sobs. Pours your ashes into
a hole, her tears nourishing the soil to which you
return. I set a sapling maple in your hands; the
migrant porter sweeps dirt around its burlap
edges. I want to ask him who it is we
place in this earth.
Where is the coiffed blond hair, even into your
eighties; the perfect makeup? Your nightly cocktail
untouched. Your kitchen’s air suddenly
smoke-free. Why have you stopped laughing?
No longer seek the lights?
The old grave tender shakes our hands as we file out,
whispers his regrets. I tell him a week has passed,
and still you don’t answer your phone.
etched in marble or granite of those I might have known,
while their lives walk me vault to vault. I’ve come
seeking a last visit with you.
Save the Mexican caretaker, only I and the dead have
arrived for the ceremony that will honor you, bring
each of us a false peace. I fear I will not find you;
it is easy for the dead to hide from the living. We
are near certain they have just stepped away,
out of sight for a brief moment.
But at last I see you, in the rose garden. Sixty ounces
in an ornate urn wrapped in a tasseled felt bag. Atop
a wooden dais, where you can survey old and new
friends alike. Just you and I now, as we share a
moment before your procession of mourners comes
to lean upon each other, and commend your
soul to their separate heavens.
Your daughter and her sons are the first to join us;
your sister and her god take their front-row seats.
My brother would not come when you were alive,
why now? Your first husband sits sobbing, at home.
The second waits in the ground. Faces taut,
each mouth a rictus, as if it is they
whom we bury. A tired minister,
rented from the local classifieds,
takes his place before we gathered.
I do not fear the dead. For me they differ little
from the living, except they do not chatter
incessantly to keep terror at bay. Nonetheless I
am unsettled; you and I have changed in some way I
do not understand. I feel the disconnect while
holding my sister as she sobs. Pours your ashes into
a hole, her tears nourishing the soil to which you
return. I set a sapling maple in your hands; the
migrant porter sweeps dirt around its burlap
edges. I want to ask him who it is we
place in this earth.
Where is the coiffed blond hair, even into your
eighties; the perfect makeup? Your nightly cocktail
untouched. Your kitchen’s air suddenly
smoke-free. Why have you stopped laughing?
No longer seek the lights?
The old grave tender shakes our hands as we file out,
whispers his regrets. I tell him a week has passed,
and still you don’t answer your phone.
A gray crush of coals
When I was a kid my dad would build fires that raged for
hours. Propped upon the floor by elbows, chins cupped in
our hands, my sister and I would lie inches from the
fireplace. Caught in the hypnotic blue-tipped flame and
radiating heat, we were spellbound. He tended these fires
well. Kept them burning with poker and thong. He would
position and reposition oak logs. Provide vents for updrafts.
A hot fire is a clean fire he lectured my sister and me. And
never a wisp of smoke or residue escaped his fiery
destruction. As the blaze softened we’d move closer and
marvel at the embers of red and gold. It was easy to
imagine make-believe buildings. Engulfed in flame. Their
interiors consumed, leaving crimson skeletons charred and
gutted. A blue corona of St. Elmo’s fire. Turned to ash while
we watched. My father was a clean man who cared for
things, little for people. When cinders cracked and flew from
the grate to land on his carpet, his voice would freeze us: I’ll
be a son of a bitch! But eventually he’d lose interest, find
the news on TV or a second piece of pie from the night’s
dinner, long cooled. He would leave little evidence of
previously set fires. Along with the molten pitch that had
vaporized, each log and every piece of kindling was reduced
to a cold residue. When all he set fire to had completely
burned away, he would sweep its remains into a waiting
coffee can. Now I’m older than he was when he unknowingly
taught me his lessons. With wood, paper and kindling lying
on the hearth, I revisit the memories of a child grown old,
the remnants of my first fire in years now only a
gray crush of coals. The only sound I hear, the hiss of my
tears fallen on hot ash.
hours. Propped upon the floor by elbows, chins cupped in
our hands, my sister and I would lie inches from the
fireplace. Caught in the hypnotic blue-tipped flame and
radiating heat, we were spellbound. He tended these fires
well. Kept them burning with poker and thong. He would
position and reposition oak logs. Provide vents for updrafts.
A hot fire is a clean fire he lectured my sister and me. And
never a wisp of smoke or residue escaped his fiery
destruction. As the blaze softened we’d move closer and
marvel at the embers of red and gold. It was easy to
imagine make-believe buildings. Engulfed in flame. Their
interiors consumed, leaving crimson skeletons charred and
gutted. A blue corona of St. Elmo’s fire. Turned to ash while
we watched. My father was a clean man who cared for
things, little for people. When cinders cracked and flew from
the grate to land on his carpet, his voice would freeze us: I’ll
be a son of a bitch! But eventually he’d lose interest, find
the news on TV or a second piece of pie from the night’s
dinner, long cooled. He would leave little evidence of
previously set fires. Along with the molten pitch that had
vaporized, each log and every piece of kindling was reduced
to a cold residue. When all he set fire to had completely
burned away, he would sweep its remains into a waiting
coffee can. Now I’m older than he was when he unknowingly
taught me his lessons. With wood, paper and kindling lying
on the hearth, I revisit the memories of a child grown old,
the remnants of my first fire in years now only a
gray crush of coals. The only sound I hear, the hiss of my
tears fallen on hot ash.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
splattered green tea
a rivulet of blood seeks an iron
grate planted in an adjacent slab of
concrete
a dark red ribbon tying a sewer to
her wet, matted hair
a curtain of rain reflects
the lights of the city’s night
and neon creates black contrast
to the temporary life that shines
through a glass door
a tinkling bell sounds
entrance,
surprised patrons warily
notice
a tattered gray overcoat that
separates a prostrate life
from the rain
a fallen and shattered life
like a red and gold porcelain
dragon and its splattered green tea,
fallen
from small hands
strong, smoky smells of
ginger
and peanut oil
contend with
the odor of urine and
alcohol
and the
vomited remains
of
manna
rapid sing song
voices and busy
chatter
fill this false refuge with
deception and for a short time
the condemned laugh at the
black night
photographs of a brown color
resembling sepia,
plates of food
line a wall and
playing in the background,
our god is an awesome god
outside an old woman
gone cold
gives over to the night
the color of her portrait
long ago faded
somewhere in the streets
the wail of a siren grows louder
inside
lies are served up
hot
and steaming.
grate planted in an adjacent slab of
concrete
a dark red ribbon tying a sewer to
her wet, matted hair
a curtain of rain reflects
the lights of the city’s night
and neon creates black contrast
to the temporary life that shines
through a glass door
a tinkling bell sounds
entrance,
surprised patrons warily
notice
a tattered gray overcoat that
separates a prostrate life
from the rain
a fallen and shattered life
like a red and gold porcelain
dragon and its splattered green tea,
fallen
from small hands
strong, smoky smells of
ginger
and peanut oil
contend with
the odor of urine and
alcohol
and the
vomited remains
of
manna
rapid sing song
voices and busy
chatter
fill this false refuge with
deception and for a short time
the condemned laugh at the
black night
photographs of a brown color
resembling sepia,
plates of food
line a wall and
playing in the background,
our god is an awesome god
outside an old woman
gone cold
gives over to the night
the color of her portrait
long ago faded
somewhere in the streets
the wail of a siren grows louder
inside
lies are served up
hot
and steaming.
normal
the call came in as
we were sitting down
to dinner
between sobs
she said I should come now
he's actively dying
she said
not yet forty
loves his wife and little girl
and a brand new baby
a boy
the guys down at the warehouse
think the world of him
my friend
who will soon no longer exist
feels like an execution
went in for an annual check-up
walked out a condemned man
sentenced to death and
only god knows his crime
are still alive
but to lose this man
we’re best friends
it goes unsaid
but we love each other
he’s someone I laugh with
cry with
count on
and he can tell me anything
even how much dying scares him
refused entry by some family member
I’ve never met
I sit in my car
in the dark
alone with my disbelief
while those inside
no doubt stumble about
in some horrific grief
that must surely come
in the presence of
one so young and dearly loved
now so newly dead
as it shines out on a landscaped yard
a tree lined street
try to make some sense of this
a couple walking their dog
moves past on the sidewalk
from here
it looks just like a
normal house
we were sitting down
to dinner
between sobs
she said I should come now
he's actively dying
she said
not yet forty
loves his wife and little girl
and a brand new baby
a boy
the guys down at the warehouse
think the world of him
my friend
who will soon no longer exist
feels like an execution
went in for an annual check-up
walked out a condemned man
sentenced to death and
only god knows his crime
are still alive
but to lose this man
we’re best friends
it goes unsaid
but we love each other
he’s someone I laugh with
cry with
count on
and he can tell me anything
even how much dying scares him
refused entry by some family member
I’ve never met
I sit in my car
in the dark
alone with my disbelief
while those inside
no doubt stumble about
in some horrific grief
that must surely come
in the presence of
one so young and dearly loved
now so newly dead
as it shines out on a landscaped yard
a tree lined street
try to make some sense of this
a couple walking their dog
moves past on the sidewalk
from here
it looks just like a
normal house
narrative
I’ve cracked the window
to let the dark in
rest my heart
in the stillness that enters with it
rain comes
comes like the footsteps of
an unexpected friend
bringing welcomed news
even if it has turned up empty handed
still
that panicked terror
of so many years is absent
I fear nothing
neither living man
nor he who steals life
not even myself
at last
I have become who I am
my misfortune
titter amongst themselves
I measure tomorrow
for refuge
from today
and will sit quietly should loss
decide to quit me
though I suspect it stays because
it likes my company
and its nature
it is a snare
a truss of perverse hunger
that keeps loneliness alive
even when freed of it
it will mock me with its apparitions
of tomorrow
yet I know with nothing to lose
there will be nothing to fear
just how long is dead anyway
life will run its course
and I will let it run free
though it comes to me that this freedom
from affection may be captivity in disguise
no matter
this narrative of loss tethers me
to my doom
I will be alone
I will not trust
I will not love . . .
the lies I invented drowned out by the sound
of my pounding heart
and suddenly I’ve wanted this for so long
she says she’s coming home with me
I ask her if that means what I think it does
she reaches over
gently lays her hand on mine
neither of us says a word
all the way back to my place
for the first time
in a very long time
I am afraid
to let the dark in
rest my heart
in the stillness that enters with it
rain comes
comes like the footsteps of
an unexpected friend
bringing welcomed news
even if it has turned up empty handed
still
that panicked terror
of so many years is absent
I fear nothing
neither living man
nor he who steals life
not even myself
at last
I have become who I am
my misfortune
titter amongst themselves
I measure tomorrow
for refuge
from today
and will sit quietly should loss
decide to quit me
though I suspect it stays because
it likes my company
and its nature
it is a snare
a truss of perverse hunger
that keeps loneliness alive
even when freed of it
it will mock me with its apparitions
of tomorrow
yet I know with nothing to lose
there will be nothing to fear
just how long is dead anyway
life will run its course
and I will let it run free
though it comes to me that this freedom
from affection may be captivity in disguise
no matter
this narrative of loss tethers me
to my doom
I will be alone
I will not trust
I will not love . . .
the lies I invented drowned out by the sound
of my pounding heart
and suddenly I’ve wanted this for so long
she says she’s coming home with me
I ask her if that means what I think it does
she reaches over
gently lays her hand on mine
neither of us says a word
all the way back to my place
for the first time
in a very long time
I am afraid
I keep running out of metaphor
here, I’ll put my mind on display so that
you can peer through the
window of my words like
some peeping tom
open my life to walk-by business as though
I am some sidewalk hawker
soul for sale
soul for sale
let me provide you a view through the
transparent tissue of my heart,
its fluid passions pumping through
pipe and valve.
if you like, you can feel exhilaration
as fear and anger
race the raging current of
my blood
you can sit poolside
your slapdash toes splashing
in the love and hate submerged
in raw crimson lochs
perhaps
I will strip
the aging skin from
my body
reveal its factories of
knotted muscle and bone
pulleys and levers to make it all
work and move
or . . .
or rather come share
my days
my white hot
flame
listen to me laugh and cry
be afraid
be brave
weak
strong
watch me
feel me love you
you can peer through the
window of my words like
some peeping tom
open my life to walk-by business as though
I am some sidewalk hawker
soul for sale
soul for sale
let me provide you a view through the
transparent tissue of my heart,
its fluid passions pumping through
pipe and valve.
if you like, you can feel exhilaration
as fear and anger
race the raging current of
my blood
you can sit poolside
your slapdash toes splashing
in the love and hate submerged
in raw crimson lochs
perhaps
I will strip
the aging skin from
my body
reveal its factories of
knotted muscle and bone
pulleys and levers to make it all
work and move
or . . .
or rather come share
my days
my white hot
flame
listen to me laugh and cry
be afraid
be brave
weak
strong
watch me
feel me love you
If I Were King
Memory’s a funny thing.
There’s this old movie
in which a handsome rogue
played by an actor, Errol Flynn,
utters a romantic phrase to this woman he loves.
If I Were King, If I Were King, I Would Take You Far, Far Away.
I’ve never forgotten that scene or those words.
He became my hero after that.
Only it turns out it was Ronald Coleman
who was in that movie
and it was he who spoke the lines.
Memory’s a funny thing.
I remember you loving me.
There’s this old movie
in which a handsome rogue
played by an actor, Errol Flynn,
utters a romantic phrase to this woman he loves.
If I Were King, If I Were King, I Would Take You Far, Far Away.
I’ve never forgotten that scene or those words.
He became my hero after that.
Only it turns out it was Ronald Coleman
who was in that movie
and it was he who spoke the lines.
Memory’s a funny thing.
I remember you loving me.
Hope
Once more the ever-threatening darkness
comes as with a will,
bringing before it a desolate and
unrelenting landscape.
The gray, roiling skies,
the wind like a knife,
and the cold unforgiving ground give evidence
that life has disappointed
and deceived.
Before me lies a wasteland upon
which no living thing moves.
The way before me is littered
with the stench and decay
that once was life. I wander
this path of torment and loss,
no longer search for the home
where my journey began. I seek only
shelter from the killing environment.
Soon my weary spirit
weakens and my step falters.
As I surrender to despair,
as much in supplication
as defeat,
the thorns and sharp stones
of the frozen earth impale my hands.
It is there, on my knees,
that I discover the small nub,
a kernel of eternity and renewal.
No gardener am I but
I know this seed
for what it is: the rough husk
concealing long forgotten
visions of a life filled with promise and
expectation.
My broken and bleeding
fingers beseech the barren soil
for purchase and lay the seed
amongst the stone and nettle.
And then its cover falls
away revealing the miracle of
a small green bud already
unfolding.
The dead season
dissolves as if by magic,
washed from me by a warm
spring shower, and in the pool
that forms, the reflection overhead
is of azure and gold.
And as I lift my face
to the rising light,
God comes laughing and dancing
across a liquid green meadow.
comes as with a will,
bringing before it a desolate and
unrelenting landscape.
The gray, roiling skies,
the wind like a knife,
and the cold unforgiving ground give evidence
that life has disappointed
and deceived.
Before me lies a wasteland upon
which no living thing moves.
The way before me is littered
with the stench and decay
that once was life. I wander
this path of torment and loss,
no longer search for the home
where my journey began. I seek only
shelter from the killing environment.
Soon my weary spirit
weakens and my step falters.
As I surrender to despair,
as much in supplication
as defeat,
the thorns and sharp stones
of the frozen earth impale my hands.
It is there, on my knees,
that I discover the small nub,
a kernel of eternity and renewal.
No gardener am I but
I know this seed
for what it is: the rough husk
concealing long forgotten
visions of a life filled with promise and
expectation.
My broken and bleeding
fingers beseech the barren soil
for purchase and lay the seed
amongst the stone and nettle.
And then its cover falls
away revealing the miracle of
a small green bud already
unfolding.
The dead season
dissolves as if by magic,
washed from me by a warm
spring shower, and in the pool
that forms, the reflection overhead
is of azure and gold.
And as I lift my face
to the rising light,
God comes laughing and dancing
across a liquid green meadow.
seven stars
my grandpa said he used to
grab hold the moon
when it was sleeping on its back
and pull himself up
reach out and grab the handle
tip that ladle and
drink from those seven stars
being a kid
I saw them differently
they were a mama bear
walking the night skies
with her cub
I’d watch them move
from the north into the northwest sky
and back again
while a motionless earth
secretly spun
and just as grandpa
I would leap from star to star
my child’s heart traveling
the unknown
into the endless night
of space and its tiny lights
somehow
somewhere I lost that child
and I lost my way
I could no longer
look out on that black sky
mistook awe for fear
couldn’t figure out where
I fit in with that dark eternity
I stopped looking
sought those temporary distractions
that pull at us all
behind which we hide
when the dark comes looking
but sometimes life gives back
some of what it takes
and on this clear night
without fear I look again in wonder
as that bear and her cub still walk the night
and know that they always will
as my gaze briefly drifts
a sleek metal cylinder
makes its hurried way across the moon
my eyes follow its path for a moment
and just as quickly it’s gone
for a moment . . . I wonder if you’re working that flight
but nothing holds me now
one day soon that sleeping moon
will set and no dawn will follow
life and love but short moments in time
those seven stars
about as close as I can get to forever
grab hold the moon
when it was sleeping on its back
and pull himself up
reach out and grab the handle
tip that ladle and
drink from those seven stars
being a kid
I saw them differently
they were a mama bear
walking the night skies
with her cub
I’d watch them move
from the north into the northwest sky
and back again
while a motionless earth
secretly spun
and just as grandpa
I would leap from star to star
my child’s heart traveling
the unknown
into the endless night
of space and its tiny lights
somehow
somewhere I lost that child
and I lost my way
I could no longer
look out on that black sky
mistook awe for fear
couldn’t figure out where
I fit in with that dark eternity
I stopped looking
sought those temporary distractions
that pull at us all
behind which we hide
when the dark comes looking
but sometimes life gives back
some of what it takes
and on this clear night
without fear I look again in wonder
as that bear and her cub still walk the night
and know that they always will
as my gaze briefly drifts
a sleek metal cylinder
makes its hurried way across the moon
my eyes follow its path for a moment
and just as quickly it’s gone
for a moment . . . I wonder if you’re working that flight
but nothing holds me now
one day soon that sleeping moon
will set and no dawn will follow
life and love but short moments in time
those seven stars
about as close as I can get to forever
Sunday, May 6, 2007
nothing serious
it’s gotten so I like being alone
I can sit with a book
in a crowded square and
become its fictional character
disappear into its story
looking up a long while later
only to discover it is the crowd
that has disappeared
what begins as imposition of
a will greater than yours
mine
becomes yours
mine
and you come to like it
not loneliness
but only-ness
living the private life
I realize now I’ve always had
trouble separating me from you
but there are times when
it all creeps into need
a subtle desire for someone
to share one or two of
my moments
nothing serious
just someone to
talk to
someone
whose hair
dances amber with her every step
someone
to hold my hand
and my eyes
to enjoy an alfresco moment
at some sidewalk café
nothing serious
just someone
to pass the time with
I’d cook her dinner
one of these summer nights
later we could sit out back
listen to the creek play with
the frogs and the crickets
and on that hot summer night
she could lie with me under a thin sheet
nothing serious
just someone to share my
troubled sleep
Nothing permanent
though I wouldn’t mind
having someone around
some of the time
most of the time
someone who will be true
wants to be loved
adored even
and someone who will be
there when I close my eyes
one last time
nothing serious
I can sit with a book
in a crowded square and
become its fictional character
disappear into its story
looking up a long while later
only to discover it is the crowd
that has disappeared
what begins as imposition of
a will greater than yours
mine
becomes yours
mine
and you come to like it
not loneliness
but only-ness
living the private life
I realize now I’ve always had
trouble separating me from you
but there are times when
it all creeps into need
a subtle desire for someone
to share one or two of
my moments
nothing serious
just someone to
talk to
someone
whose hair
dances amber with her every step
someone
to hold my hand
and my eyes
to enjoy an alfresco moment
at some sidewalk café
nothing serious
just someone
to pass the time with
I’d cook her dinner
one of these summer nights
later we could sit out back
listen to the creek play with
the frogs and the crickets
and on that hot summer night
she could lie with me under a thin sheet
nothing serious
just someone to share my
troubled sleep
Nothing permanent
though I wouldn’t mind
having someone around
some of the time
most of the time
someone who will be true
wants to be loved
adored even
and someone who will be
there when I close my eyes
one last time
nothing serious
Thursday, May 3, 2007
that last light bulb
I no longer believe in time
this physics article I read
convinced me of what I had
long suspected
that in spite of the clock in my head
life is really just one event
after another
though I’m not quite ready
to give up on space yet
I’ve begun looking to the future
and some potentially linked experiences
that will likely serve
as milestones
along my timeless road
take the light bulbs I just bought
the package tells me they
last seven you-know-what’s
given even a generous count
five are all I need to buy
I’ll be dead before I can screw in
that last light bulb
then there’s my favorite cereal
looks like I’m going to need
something around eight hundred boxes
and four hundred jugs of milk
before that final event
gets here
but I’m getting morbid
death’s not the only important
thing in life
of course the closer you get
the more consecutive events
the more
it seems like it
so looking on the bright side
of things
if I pass on the next
eight hundred and seventy-five
slices of bread
I will eventually be lighter
by about twenty-five pounds
certainly I don’t want to forget those
short-runs of occurrences that
line up like so many dominoes
if I drive my car two hundred and
sixty-one round trips
accounting for overtime and holidays
I can pay the rent
buy my meals
keep each of those light bulbs burning
don’t want to forget the people
in my life
my dentist says if I will brush
and floss twice daily
let him clean my teeth
on sixty more
equally spaced visits
I can keep them
my teeth
of course there’s our son
he’s a good kid
already has all this time and space
stuff figured out
what I haven’t figured out
is on how many more occasions
he will need to borrow money
it’s almost enough to make me
believe in time again
and then there’s dance lessons
at the rate I’m going
I will need four thousand
six hundred
eighty lessons
before I get half way decent
but if you saw my dance teacher
well
I’d do twice that many
so far
only one anticipated event
has defied my
calculations
I wonder
how many more years
it will take before
I stop loving
you
this physics article I read
convinced me of what I had
long suspected
that in spite of the clock in my head
life is really just one event
after another
though I’m not quite ready
to give up on space yet
I’ve begun looking to the future
and some potentially linked experiences
that will likely serve
as milestones
along my timeless road
take the light bulbs I just bought
the package tells me they
last seven you-know-what’s
given even a generous count
five are all I need to buy
I’ll be dead before I can screw in
that last light bulb
then there’s my favorite cereal
looks like I’m going to need
something around eight hundred boxes
and four hundred jugs of milk
before that final event
gets here
but I’m getting morbid
death’s not the only important
thing in life
of course the closer you get
the more consecutive events
the more
it seems like it
so looking on the bright side
of things
if I pass on the next
eight hundred and seventy-five
slices of bread
I will eventually be lighter
by about twenty-five pounds
certainly I don’t want to forget those
short-runs of occurrences that
line up like so many dominoes
if I drive my car two hundred and
sixty-one round trips
accounting for overtime and holidays
I can pay the rent
buy my meals
keep each of those light bulbs burning
don’t want to forget the people
in my life
my dentist says if I will brush
and floss twice daily
let him clean my teeth
on sixty more
equally spaced visits
I can keep them
my teeth
of course there’s our son
he’s a good kid
already has all this time and space
stuff figured out
what I haven’t figured out
is on how many more occasions
he will need to borrow money
it’s almost enough to make me
believe in time again
and then there’s dance lessons
at the rate I’m going
I will need four thousand
six hundred
eighty lessons
before I get half way decent
but if you saw my dance teacher
well
I’d do twice that many
so far
only one anticipated event
has defied my
calculations
I wonder
how many more years
it will take before
I stop loving
you
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
should you fly
if you would sing
sing loud
or sing soft
but sing
for a voice in song
brings a new season
were you to dance
fast or slow
matters not
just dance
for this is how the gods
pass
their time
but should you fly
fly far
fly away old man
loose this earth from your
feet
go find your sky
yet dare you sing
only to have your voice lose its timbre
and while dancing stumble
if you fall to earth broken
as so many before you
deny it
accept no proof
turn from all you believe real
then raise your voice
climb to your feet
unfold your wings
once more
and
sing out
dance the night
take flight!
sing loud
or sing soft
but sing
for a voice in song
brings a new season
were you to dance
fast or slow
matters not
just dance
for this is how the gods
pass
their time
but should you fly
fly far
fly away old man
loose this earth from your
feet
go find your sky
yet dare you sing
only to have your voice lose its timbre
and while dancing stumble
if you fall to earth broken
as so many before you
deny it
accept no proof
turn from all you believe real
then raise your voice
climb to your feet
unfold your wings
once more
and
sing out
dance the night
take flight!
Cemetery
(tribute to Raymond Carver)
A walk among the dead
Late
Cold
Black
Studying my options for eternity
When your clean warm hand breaks ground
takes mine until the living sun chases the night.
A walk among the dead
Late
Cold
Black
Studying my options for eternity
When your clean warm hand breaks ground
takes mine until the living sun chases the night.
fire
Life
a raging fire
burns
a path to
passion
love yet
a spark explodes
above the forest’s
canopy
leaps
races leaf and
limb
outstretched arms
ignites a flame
and unquenchable
fire
reaches for the sky
dares even
heaven
in the end
clouds rupture
release their black
torrent
the
firestorm contained
night falls upon
its devastation
Twenty
green pills
douse the embers that remain.
a raging fire
burns
a path to
passion
love yet
a spark explodes
above the forest’s
canopy
leaps
races leaf and
limb
outstretched arms
ignites a flame
and unquenchable
fire
reaches for the sky
dares even
heaven
in the end
clouds rupture
release their black
torrent
the
firestorm contained
night falls upon
its devastation
Twenty
green pills
douse the embers that remain.
Garage Sale
I’m selling off much of my life today and hers
by rights. It’s the day before mother’s day
and mine is seven hundred miles away.
Our son’s is twice that far.
With some other guy’s mother.
There isn’t much of a turnout. Which is fine
with me. I just sit there and listen to the music
I brought down from the house.
Write poetry. And think back on all the other days
before mother’s day.
That pretty cotton skirt I bought her in Seattle?
Some woman in sweat pants took it first thing
this morning. About three sizes too large.
Her, not the dress.
The sled went next. The guy gave five bucks for it;
wanted to know if it worked.
Yeah I told him, but you need snow.
Oh.
Here comes my neighbor from next door. This guy’s
had cancer and lived through it. Real bad cancer.
We had some trouble a while back but I went
to the hospital and made peace with him.
Just in case he died.
Makes his way through dog-eared paperbacks,
old car parts and a table of worn-out jeans and sweaters.
Wants to know if I’m having a garage sale.
For chrissakes!
Look in the dictionary next to the
word bore, you’ll see his picture.
There’s something fascinating about people who will
rummage through anyone’s life as long as it’s
a Saturday or Sunday. And it doesn’t cost
more than a buck. Do they know that’s the dress she
was wearing the night I asked her to marry me? The down
jacket my other neighbor just carried off? That
was from our first Christmas here.
That bedspread?
We must have made love
under it a thousand times.
But most of life is met and lived in the ordinary and it
is there the extraordinary finds me. This woman,
pretty, a redhead, acts like she’s looking
for something; she is. Keeps sneaking glances at me. I need
the practice so I start talking to her. Turns out
we have some things in common. I like women,
redheads, she likes old drunks and
shy men.
Then she’s sitting down reading some of the things
I’ve written. It reaches her; the work. The parts I won’t sell,
on paper, that’s what I have to tell her.
She’s crying.
One
thing leads to another and we have our arms around
each other. Just holding on.
Dear God, don’t let it end!
For that thousand-year moment. For the first time in months I feel
safe and loved. And for that long moment
I am at peace.
People are just standing there, watching us.
I want to tell them all to leave; take her upstairs,
get to know her better.
I’m married . . .
. . . she whispers.
Everyone has gone. I’m boxing up the last of my life,
the stuff my new friends didn’t carry away. As I count the
money they’ve left, I find one has paid with hope; in exchange
for a small item of sadness I no longer needed. It’s starting
to rain but all I feel is sunshine inside; it takes me
all the way through to tomorrow.
You see, those people left parts of their lives with me.
by rights. It’s the day before mother’s day
and mine is seven hundred miles away.
Our son’s is twice that far.
With some other guy’s mother.
There isn’t much of a turnout. Which is fine
with me. I just sit there and listen to the music
I brought down from the house.
Write poetry. And think back on all the other days
before mother’s day.
That pretty cotton skirt I bought her in Seattle?
Some woman in sweat pants took it first thing
this morning. About three sizes too large.
Her, not the dress.
The sled went next. The guy gave five bucks for it;
wanted to know if it worked.
Yeah I told him, but you need snow.
Oh.
Here comes my neighbor from next door. This guy’s
had cancer and lived through it. Real bad cancer.
We had some trouble a while back but I went
to the hospital and made peace with him.
Just in case he died.
Makes his way through dog-eared paperbacks,
old car parts and a table of worn-out jeans and sweaters.
Wants to know if I’m having a garage sale.
For chrissakes!
Look in the dictionary next to the
word bore, you’ll see his picture.
There’s something fascinating about people who will
rummage through anyone’s life as long as it’s
a Saturday or Sunday. And it doesn’t cost
more than a buck. Do they know that’s the dress she
was wearing the night I asked her to marry me? The down
jacket my other neighbor just carried off? That
was from our first Christmas here.
That bedspread?
We must have made love
under it a thousand times.
But most of life is met and lived in the ordinary and it
is there the extraordinary finds me. This woman,
pretty, a redhead, acts like she’s looking
for something; she is. Keeps sneaking glances at me. I need
the practice so I start talking to her. Turns out
we have some things in common. I like women,
redheads, she likes old drunks and
shy men.
Then she’s sitting down reading some of the things
I’ve written. It reaches her; the work. The parts I won’t sell,
on paper, that’s what I have to tell her.
She’s crying.
One
thing leads to another and we have our arms around
each other. Just holding on.
Dear God, don’t let it end!
For that thousand-year moment. For the first time in months I feel
safe and loved. And for that long moment
I am at peace.
People are just standing there, watching us.
I want to tell them all to leave; take her upstairs,
get to know her better.
I’m married . . .
. . . she whispers.
Everyone has gone. I’m boxing up the last of my life,
the stuff my new friends didn’t carry away. As I count the
money they’ve left, I find one has paid with hope; in exchange
for a small item of sadness I no longer needed. It’s starting
to rain but all I feel is sunshine inside; it takes me
all the way through to tomorrow.
You see, those people left parts of their lives with me.
pillow
I still have your pillow
you know
it’s not in the best of shape
given my restless sleep
and it could use a good cleaning
I’ve kept it because it reminds
me of our time of love
and its passing
each night before sleep takes me
I imagine I can smell your soft hair
I often think of you
and yes
still dream of you but it isn’t like then
when all my dreams included both of us
day and night
the story behind that pillow
stays with me even today
how you had a seamstress take two
and make one
sort of like what god does
with lovers
there were nights when
you fell asleep first
sinking into that thick down purse
just after making love
and I would lie propped upon one elbow
and listen to you softly breathe
the breath of love satisfied
I listen to music now
alone
while I drift away
just like when I was a kid
you probably wouldn’t approve
it always distracted you
I suspect you know I stopped praying
and it still feels odd
like sleeping without a net
but then
waking up the next morning
no longer seems all that important
I think god tired of hearing
only your name on my lips
with that onslaught of broken prayers
those very few years ago
as much in the name of love
as hate
there’s always a difficult dream
at first
a nightmare I guess
often I yell or moan as
I come out of it with a start
and of course I still snore
but I only wake me now
there are many things
lovers do when love is
taken from them
deserted them
things that help them remember
help them forget
or sometimes both
I’m no different I realize
for of all the truths I question
this one needs no prove
I loved you
there’s just no better way to say it
it looks like I need to add more
feathers to that pillow
but I draw the line
there
your nightgown has gone
to some deserving person
who needed it
you know
it’s not in the best of shape
given my restless sleep
and it could use a good cleaning
I’ve kept it because it reminds
me of our time of love
and its passing
each night before sleep takes me
I imagine I can smell your soft hair
I often think of you
and yes
still dream of you but it isn’t like then
when all my dreams included both of us
day and night
the story behind that pillow
stays with me even today
how you had a seamstress take two
and make one
sort of like what god does
with lovers
there were nights when
you fell asleep first
sinking into that thick down purse
just after making love
and I would lie propped upon one elbow
and listen to you softly breathe
the breath of love satisfied
I listen to music now
alone
while I drift away
just like when I was a kid
you probably wouldn’t approve
it always distracted you
I suspect you know I stopped praying
and it still feels odd
like sleeping without a net
but then
waking up the next morning
no longer seems all that important
I think god tired of hearing
only your name on my lips
with that onslaught of broken prayers
those very few years ago
as much in the name of love
as hate
there’s always a difficult dream
at first
a nightmare I guess
often I yell or moan as
I come out of it with a start
and of course I still snore
but I only wake me now
there are many things
lovers do when love is
taken from them
deserted them
things that help them remember
help them forget
or sometimes both
I’m no different I realize
for of all the truths I question
this one needs no prove
I loved you
there’s just no better way to say it
it looks like I need to add more
feathers to that pillow
but I draw the line
there
your nightgown has gone
to some deserving person
who needed it
reap this
he follows me everywhere I go
it’s not like it’s some secret
after all why hide
when everyone pretends
not to see you
I duck through a door
take a seat
a little off the top Ray
clean up the sides
he watches through the window
from a bus stop across the street
at the market I buy a couple of
frozen dinners
a gallon of milk
moving down the meat aisle
he runs a hand
across the prime and cheap cuts alike
guy at the end of the line
goes gray
as my shadow
gently pushes in front of him
doesn’t buy a thing
it used to bother me
a few years back
thinking he was looking for me
just the same I’d act like he wasn’t
pretend like the rest of you
so now he’s back
walking along behind me
but this time I’m not afraid
although I have to admit
he’s starting to get on my nerves
but I like his style
black’s my favorite color too
goes with my hair
don’t know the color of his
but the hood’s a good touch anyway
I wait on him
he catches up at the light
we look both ways
before crossing
puts his cold hand on my shoulder
like we’re old friends
come on I say
I’ll buy you a cup of coffee
he isn’t much for talk
and that’s okay
he’s a good listener
I like that because
I’ve got questions
and I want answers
you been doing this a long time
ever get tired of the whiners
praying
trying to cut a deal
asking for more time
and what about my soul
I thought you guys were
going to go at it
decide who gets it
I was betting on him
but it seems you got nothing to worry about
he hasn’t put up much of a fight
he just sits there
sipping cold black coffee
pretends I’m not even alive
I’m fed up with this shit
get a life I tell him
take your best shot
reap this
gesturing in his empty face
you’re in over your head pal
there’s easier pickings outside
screw with me and
I’ll have your job
and start following you
all he can do is shake his head
so I get up
walk out the door
head back up the street
hell with him
he can leave the tip
I get about a block away
and look back
he steps onto the sidewalk
looks my way
starts following again
but I can tell he’s holding back
not sure he wants my kind
where he comes from.
it’s not like it’s some secret
after all why hide
when everyone pretends
not to see you
I duck through a door
take a seat
a little off the top Ray
clean up the sides
he watches through the window
from a bus stop across the street
at the market I buy a couple of
frozen dinners
a gallon of milk
moving down the meat aisle
he runs a hand
across the prime and cheap cuts alike
guy at the end of the line
goes gray
as my shadow
gently pushes in front of him
doesn’t buy a thing
it used to bother me
a few years back
thinking he was looking for me
just the same I’d act like he wasn’t
pretend like the rest of you
so now he’s back
walking along behind me
but this time I’m not afraid
although I have to admit
he’s starting to get on my nerves
but I like his style
black’s my favorite color too
goes with my hair
don’t know the color of his
but the hood’s a good touch anyway
I wait on him
he catches up at the light
we look both ways
before crossing
puts his cold hand on my shoulder
like we’re old friends
come on I say
I’ll buy you a cup of coffee
he isn’t much for talk
and that’s okay
he’s a good listener
I like that because
I’ve got questions
and I want answers
you been doing this a long time
ever get tired of the whiners
praying
trying to cut a deal
asking for more time
and what about my soul
I thought you guys were
going to go at it
decide who gets it
I was betting on him
but it seems you got nothing to worry about
he hasn’t put up much of a fight
he just sits there
sipping cold black coffee
pretends I’m not even alive
I’m fed up with this shit
get a life I tell him
take your best shot
reap this
gesturing in his empty face
you’re in over your head pal
there’s easier pickings outside
screw with me and
I’ll have your job
and start following you
all he can do is shake his head
so I get up
walk out the door
head back up the street
hell with him
he can leave the tip
I get about a block away
and look back
he steps onto the sidewalk
looks my way
starts following again
but I can tell he’s holding back
not sure he wants my kind
where he comes from.
driving with my eyes closed
I admit it wasn’t my first option
hadn’t even become a choice
until I had nearly given up the idea entirely
but there I was
somewhere between the
moon and the sun
driving with my eyes closed
life and death hovering
inches above the asphalt
it wasn’t so bad
the car was a good one
handled well and was comfortable
though I wish I’d bought
something other than brown
and inexplicably
unimaginable peace overtook me
in the midst of chaos I sat back
let my skull sink into the headrest
eyes closed
and surrendered to the unknowable
there were
no attendant gods
no heaven in which to rest hope
no more questions to ask
none to answer
where once conscious thought traveled
now came the rhythm of the road
its music moving up through wheel and axle
steel frame
up through shoes and bones
finding at last its way to my core
Heidegger and Einstein waited
as I was sucked across their bridge
spirit
now freed from its soul
slipped through
that fabric that divides
one universe from the next
it was then
just before death
that I truly came alive
and rather than dying
I was being born
all are new to me
and I marvel
living amongst your shadowlike host
for here I have learned to love redheads
experience rooms spinning with dance
and found I enjoy telling stories
but times still aren’t all that good for me
had to let the brown car go
the payments were just too steep
I’ve got a little black job now
my favorite color
of course
though it doesn’t handle like
that old sedan
and I am alone
understand
I’m not complaining
just don’t want you to worry
should you see me
with eyes closed
bobbing and weaving
down some long
long stretch of highway
I just want to stay in practice.
hadn’t even become a choice
until I had nearly given up the idea entirely
but there I was
somewhere between the
moon and the sun
driving with my eyes closed
life and death hovering
inches above the asphalt
it wasn’t so bad
the car was a good one
handled well and was comfortable
though I wish I’d bought
something other than brown
and inexplicably
unimaginable peace overtook me
in the midst of chaos I sat back
let my skull sink into the headrest
eyes closed
and surrendered to the unknowable
there were
no attendant gods
no heaven in which to rest hope
no more questions to ask
none to answer
where once conscious thought traveled
now came the rhythm of the road
its music moving up through wheel and axle
steel frame
up through shoes and bones
finding at last its way to my core
Heidegger and Einstein waited
as I was sucked across their bridge
spirit
now freed from its soul
slipped through
that fabric that divides
one universe from the next
it was then
just before death
that I truly came alive
and rather than dying
I was being born
all are new to me
and I marvel
living amongst your shadowlike host
for here I have learned to love redheads
experience rooms spinning with dance
and found I enjoy telling stories
but times still aren’t all that good for me
had to let the brown car go
the payments were just too steep
I’ve got a little black job now
my favorite color
of course
though it doesn’t handle like
that old sedan
and I am alone
understand
I’m not complaining
just don’t want you to worry
should you see me
with eyes closed
bobbing and weaving
down some long
long stretch of highway
I just want to stay in practice.
Friday, March 9, 2007
You Can Bring Me Chocolate
I just wanted to dance
even if I had to learn how first. I don’t
know why. I guess because he was
such a good dancer. Maybe that’s why she left
but what was she doing dancing anyway.
There I am, still in shock that I’m going to
grow old alone, without dreams. Without love.
And I’m standing there talking about you.
We hadn’t even met yet. Not here.
I just wanted to dance.
You were some immortal memory
recalled from some other dream. Walked
through a door from your heaven, into this hell.
You roamed the halls of my destruction
while my life burned in the fire of
some mad god’s imagination.
I should have run as fast as life could go.
Someone, something else would have
been waiting. I wasn’t looking for you.
I was waiting, hoping for her.
I just wanted to dance.
Yet magic and wonder live, two sisters, feign sleep.
Concealed from eyes that cannot see. Will not
believe. Awakened, immutable powers heal,
resurrect, and blaze through the darkness.
They loosened despair’s hold,
exposed Death’s little black lie. They filled
the abyss with light, built a bridge across.
And then they allowed me to be . . .
Caught. Surprised by joy.
A wisp of red hair nearly touches the page.
Soft. Seductive.
Lowered my head to hear,
into that sweet noose.
You can bring me chocolate.
I just wanted to dance.
(for Noreen)
even if I had to learn how first. I don’t
know why. I guess because he was
such a good dancer. Maybe that’s why she left
but what was she doing dancing anyway.
There I am, still in shock that I’m going to
grow old alone, without dreams. Without love.
And I’m standing there talking about you.
We hadn’t even met yet. Not here.
I just wanted to dance.
You were some immortal memory
recalled from some other dream. Walked
through a door from your heaven, into this hell.
You roamed the halls of my destruction
while my life burned in the fire of
some mad god’s imagination.
I should have run as fast as life could go.
Someone, something else would have
been waiting. I wasn’t looking for you.
I was waiting, hoping for her.
I just wanted to dance.
Yet magic and wonder live, two sisters, feign sleep.
Concealed from eyes that cannot see. Will not
believe. Awakened, immutable powers heal,
resurrect, and blaze through the darkness.
They loosened despair’s hold,
exposed Death’s little black lie. They filled
the abyss with light, built a bridge across.
And then they allowed me to be . . .
Caught. Surprised by joy.
A wisp of red hair nearly touches the page.
Soft. Seductive.
Lowered my head to hear,
into that sweet noose.
You can bring me chocolate.
I just wanted to dance.
(for Noreen)
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