December 16, 1975 (I was 30)
A Throw
Perceiving the impending fall,
the equestrian rises out of the saddle
clearing the mount, and extends
body lines along the lines of force.
Upon impact, the faller
absorbs the energy
rolling a line as long as possible
converting vertical motion to horizontal.
Whereupon assessing bodily damage
and usually finding none permanent,
the pedestrian retrieves his mount
and ignores tomorrow’s papers.
September 4, 1975 (I was 30)
That Man’s Attitude
Frost’s person in the snow should
Have said to hell with keeping,
Caught there in impeccable mood
Between frozen promise and promising wood.
The dream called for sleeping,
The little horse made it clear-
Hard edge of light and shadow creeping,
Silent bell of awareness sweeping.
Better the seen than the seer,
said this looker through snow’s mirror
stretched at length to show what’s near
Through the blizzard to warmer fear.
June 9, 1975 (I was 30)
I drove to the library
past a kid squatting at the roadside
surrounded by tools and the rear flat
of his ten-speed. At his age
I’d have never got it together.
I returned some books
scanned the headlines of the papers
and drove back thinking I’d load the bike
into the van and give the kid a lift.
There he was tightening the last nut.
I stopped anyway and told him why.
I asked how long it took him.
He smiled and said he didn’t know.
I said good-bye, he said thanks anyway.
May 31, 1975 (I was 30)
Change
Blink eyes turn pages switch books
Go through doors fall down
manholes climb ladders
get on vehicles
spin dizzy
do drugs
lie in white beds wrestle
get your teeth fixed grow a
garden record your pulse stretch
thigh muscles with daily calisthenics
Dream of your hometown
its streets snowy springs
driving automobiles out of another winter
Correspond with strangers whose functional
letters never let you forget how
they came to be written
Go on vacation
at home don’t vote whisper
sit on your jury and hear your case
Greet expediency embrace ambiguity
order a single scoop of vanilla
say not guilty and use your napkin
Mourn the athlete who had
no time to wear honor out Run
his track spikes daily over his grave
and over those old folks lying around it
Avoid bullets and strong tea
sodium bicarbonate is the practical antidote
and abstention is a better remedy
May 24, 1975 (I was 30)
Underground Basketball
As the videotape of Abbie Hoffman’s putty nose
was readied at NET, the wild prairie fire
golden state warriors
taught new lessons in cadre effectiveness
in the nation’s capital. Abbie would say they are
communists whether or not they admit it.
Violent revolution was probably necessary
(Washington’s bullets felled Celtic institutions)
but the warriors’ meditative defense left blank
stares in front of the humming tube;
Abbie dribbled off the courts without a shot.
April 6, 1975 (I was 30)
Instructions for the Greenhouse
If you build the greenhouse out of found lumber
and 4 mil plastic sheeting
it will cost practically
and be the size of your sunny spot
When it rains hard first the meekly angled roof
supported by nylon guy lines
will sag and break the one-by-four support
Repair it with inexpensive metal braces
and cut door shaped flaps in the ceiling
low spots after you tighten the nylon
These will allow the rain to drain
through your tanbark floor without damage
after you have moved your plants
and seedlings out of the way
In clement weather the doors can be closed
with plastic tape hasps easily reopened when
the next rain becomes the biennial hail storm
and slush clogs the drain holes
Be there to poke your fingers through
and the ice water will pour your sleeves
with a few more wider windows cut
By this time you will have plants to save
and it will be invigorating
The survival of the continuing green world
will be necessary
February 23, 1975 (I was 30)
from The Poetry of Urgency
It’s
like stealing second;
there’s this cautious hesitancy
that tenses your stomach
then a mad sprint.
The object’s to fly straight,
the delightful dive
backward into the skidding dust,
the settling of everything;
the call.
February 12, 1975 (I was 30)
Addressing Abe Lincoln in 1975
Abe Lincoln
tall father in the stone chair
America’s comforting conscience
these hundred years
nothing left of you is merely real
We have come to understand your solitude
we have grieved
we have become war weary
we have lost faith
the captain a lost shadow in the man
We sit before the new world stage
with vague memories of other theaters
other characters other meanings
February 1, 1975 (I was 30)
Rain Prayer
The rain.
What will wash
away as I walk?
May it be
wind blown drapes
drafting the full room
in natural respiration.
Rain
batter my face
cleanse my vision
blur the daily illusions.
Rain strengthen
my cautious steps
on the running mud.
Put wisdom in my feet.
Rain be my wetskin
protection from the cold.
Be all the benevolent metaphors
attached to my sanity.
Rain
longer than ritual
beyond rebirth and baptism
yet short of retribution.
Let lightning be
fashioned upon my tongue.
January 16, 1975 (I was 30)
How Gary Became a Bartender
The door was kicked in
pointing guns stockings over faces
three of them all over the room
and gun at his head said
The money and the stash Now
I’ll blow your fucking brains out
Gary gave up the cash said Refrigerator
which held the hash
and was pistol smashed in the face
Look at the floor Big One said
musta weighed three hundred
Where’s the Coke
No coke said Gary looking at the floor
Don’t tell me that shit
grabbed Shelly by the hair
45 between the eyes said
Where The Fuck’s The Coke
no coke she said and Gary’s face
was pushed into the floor
Where are your Guns
Just one behind the door
I should stick it in your mouth
Take off your clothes
Get in the other room
Come out the door and you’re dead
lights went out
stood naked waiting
for silence
night blew into the house
they were gone
with the stash
and twenty-two hundred in cash
November 17, 1975 (I was 31)
Fred and Other Realities
Fred learned not to disregard other realities
in reactionary defense of his own.
Fuck you Fred, others said to him
and Fred would listen attentively
having no real stake in the outcome
and only physical presence in the argument
November 15, 1975 (I was 31)
play
all the men organize themselves
along the line of scrimmage
something will happen soon
the diagrams have been made
the chalk has talked X ‘s and O’s
patterns and routes assigned
ball handlers designated
situations have been reviewed
huddles held
(offensive) and (defensive)
signals called options mentioned
deceptions implied formations set
each now alone hears everything and sees it all
knowledge awaits the snap
November 3, 1975 (I was 30)
We want hard-edged prose
even in our poems
The splashy colors of weekly tabloids
SLA WATERGATE ASSASSINATION
Hemingway illustrated by Peter Max
How realistically Nixon cringes
in all those books Dan Rather
could do commercials for razor blades
The Revolution is brought to you by
Flames Burning through three networks
Serious Gunshots blaze in crazy L.A.
September 28, 1975 (I was 30)
Down at the vehicle house
they congregate in the driveway.
Each day as I pass
I see the supplicating parishioners
bent over like ostriches into open hoods
of the car, station wagon, camper truck, tractor
and jeep. They climb in and out
of the boat. Mary and Joe Vehicle
watch the earth mover clearing more space
next to the triple stall garage whose doors
are always open. Neighbors seem to drop by often
Young Jesse flies by on his un-muffled cycle
to give the boot to a few garbage cans
on his winding way up the hill.
His sister kicks the horse into third gear
riding bareback across the field.
These people are movers;
they are not about to ignore the salesman’s dogma
steaming off the showroom floor
They know that getting there is more
than half the fun. This family is tuned
and running smooth. Only a spark gap
separates their generations.
August, 23,1975 (I was 30)
MVP
The school board is Charlie O. Finley
It gets off by winning cheap
gets off on the concept of ownership
Its his farm and their system
I recognize fiscal responsibility
I understand public service
but I’m a Reggie Jackson or a Catfish Hunter
at fifteen thou a year
Man I fill the house everyday
and it’s a long season
I’m a skilled seasoned veteran
deserving some monetary recognition
Check my career stats
My work is art I’m a student of the game
I go hard in extra innings every day
from this week in July 1975 (I was 30)
what to do with the old motels?
room with double bed (hardly one and a half)
cracked plaster compartment painted large yellow
loud snapping light switch in tile bathroom
water with something in it
carpeting sticky to bare feet
at night the air conditioner like a DC-8
vibrates images of chilling flight
incessant echoes of familiar tunes
meditations, dishes rattling next door
it breaks down at 4 a.m.
soon this will be a downtown convalescent home
for the terminally ill; no wonder the aged
find regularity a problem assigned to rooms
designed thirty years ago for one-night guests
May 3, 1975 (I was 30)
How temporary must be
this task to overfill a rented house
with children who will not wait
for us to afford their home.
We exist in misshapen dreams
of what we know we really are.
And it happens every day;
though there may be reasons
I can't offer any excuses.
Didn't we have a dogma?
I find me on a fugitive poster,
paralysis and blindness the crimes.
We didn't know the price on our own heads.
We've been such elusive runners,
how can it be that we are guilty?
from this week in February, 1975 (I was 30)
reality
the carpet is on the floor
my tray is on the carpeted floor
my feet are at the end of my legs
I wear glasses
I feel drawn elsewhere
what if I dream I forget all my words?
from
this week in February 1975 (I
was 30)
Every tender sparrow…
those final flutterings
where hopes are denied
dreams resolved
the day is brightest
the air is clear
the stone will not fly
it wants the soft earth
the warm sun
the seed left in the clay
from this week in January, 1975 (I was 30)
Drinking Alone in the Woods
Here’s cheers to the continual rebirth of wonder
assuming a position of dance
with the trees in the woods
Hurray for un-shattered naiveté
who pays the daily price of innocence
with every amazingly fragrant step
Willingly suspended disbelief flees
Moss illuminates gray rock
Every bird a messenger every song
an intelligible vibrancy of hermetic synapse
Celebrate the isolated ego erupting from the throat
Pitch the burning stone down the abandoned well
There is no one here to disbelieve
