Dumb Ducks

 

from this week in November, 1977  (I was 32)

 

                  Dumb Ducks

The thing is, it seems ducks will live anywhere.

They are quite indiscriminate;

more than a few find their way out of the woods.

They populate roadside drainage ditches and swamps;

they live with pigeons and gulls in city park lakes

floating among the paper scraps,

feeding on a diet of popcorn and white bread

and lead bb’s to aid digestion.

Dogs and kids break their legs.

They swim in circles.

These are not old ducks;

they did not know to think and became unable to fly out.

A little brown monk

 

from this week in October, 1977  (I was 32)

 

A little brown monk

each hand in the other’s sleeve

earns his bald spot

his badge of heavenly reflection

padding round the courtyard paths

like a solitary runner doing his laps

getting in shape for the big meet

Minimalism in social survival

 

from this week of September 28, 1977  (I was 32)

 

Minimalism in social survival keeps me on the edge

and sometimes just over.

Transportation breaks down and I’m a hermit.

The only fear in solitary existence

is its lack of creative responsibility.

Metaphor loses its amusement.

Personally, I am as fond of cliché,

and I soon take to drinking soup from the bowl.

 

Random Notes

 

from this week in September, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         Random Notes

Hemingway, from “Indian Camp”: 

“is Dying hard, Daddy?”

“No, I think it’s pretty easy, Nick.  It all depends.”

 

Wilde, “De Profundis”:

“It seems to me that we all look at Nature too much and live with her too little.”

 

Rimbaud, “Illuminations”  (at age twenty):

         “Perfect and unpredictable beings will offer themselves for your experiments.   Around you the curiosity of ancient crows and idle luxuries will move in dreamily.  Your memory and your senses will only serve to feed your creative urge.”

 

Huddie Leadbetter:

Take this hammer (wahh)

and carry it to the captain (wahh)

 

 

Wilde, “De Profundis”

“…there was nothing that either Plato or Christ had said that could not be transferred immediately into the sphere of Art and there find its complete fulfillment.”

“…Christ’s place indeed is with the poets.  His whole conception of humanity sprang right out of the imagination and can only be realized by it.”

A little brown monk

 

from this week in October, 1977  (I was 32)

 

A little brown monk

each hand in the other’s sleeve

earns his bald spot

his badge of heavenly reflection

padding round the courtyard paths

like a solitary runner doing his laps

getting in shape for the big meet

Sunol

 

September 3, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         Sunol

Some might say I’m living an escape.

They speak of a hideout in the woods

for a part time recluse.

To them, it is an amusement

quite romantic, naively idyllic,

a place of dreams in which to dream.

They intimate psychological retreat,

these worldly heroes who leave the room

to avoid a spider, who contract poison oak

thinking about trees, but this place is real.

The deer are feeding in the hills

the turkey vulture circles overhead

the raccoons come to the porch

the possums hang from the oaks

the snakes hide under rocks

tarantulas march across the road in September

The actuality of the place cannot be denied

It has not been created in search of ignorance

It creates itself in the image of its own truth

That man invented the clever light

 

from this week in June, 1977  (I was 37)

 

That man invented the clever light

because he could not hear the wires sizzle

The lady danced because she liked

clothing trailing in the wind she made

Tough guy wrote books with and about 

shrapnel in his crotch

Paintings are painted of horses and violins

because they taste good to him

The caveman heaves a rock

Ponderous duck with broken foot

swims circles in the pond

The significant scare themselves out of it

That man will light it 

That lady danced it in a breeze

That pug put it in prose

That horse has splinters in his teeth

That primitive retreats hungry to the rocks

to learn a new technique

Within the dark crevice something crackles

Over his head the first bulb goes on

without a sound and weak as it was

anything not dark was bright

There it is Again

 

May 23, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         There it is Again

Parachutists think it as they step from the porch

Deep sea divers hear it crackling in their ears

Race drivers feel it run through the transmission

Dogs bark and cats walk circles around it

 

It is on you now and you are clearly not bewildered

An unembarrassed shiver and a smile of recognition

Suddenly quieter and more aware

I always watch whenever I can see it

 

How amusing always to realize there is nothing to do

But let it go release it or pass it on

Noticing my attention you turned to the west

and laid it upon the girl in the golden blouse

Whenever -song

 

January 30, 1977  (I was 32) 

-third verse added 1/8/17

 

         Whenever  -song

Whenever you walk out the door

it’s me that’s gone

I’d cross the line if I knew

the side you’re on

I’m blind, resigned

don’t know what I can do

See too much when I start lookin’

Babe, I been lookin’ at you

 

Whenever I talk to you darlin’

I get told

I’m not talkin’ about the weather

I’m talkin’ cold

I’ve left, deaf

Don’t need the report from you

Hear too much when I start listenin’

a wind blowing nothing new

        

Whenever I remember you

so much I forget

the failure and the pain

the emotional debt

I know I’ve lost touch

With all that I’ve felt

I’m not sure that it matters much

It’s part of the deal to get dealt

Oh Adeline, why are you mine?

 

November 19, 1977  (I was 33)

 

Oh Adeline, why are you mine?

You came in on my birthday

With a red ribbon in your hair

All your shit all those years

Another birthday and you’re still here

 

Oh Adeline, why are you mine:

You strut around with your ass in the air

Can you really feel so fine

Adeline, don’t you care

Quit your lowdown feline ways Adeline

 

Oh why are you mine?

After a dozen years

 

October 16, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         After a dozen years all he could hope to be, was clever.

Most often his work was simplistic, even superficial.  He was a

General Practitioner who recorded symptoms, wrote prescriptions

to treat the most predominant manifestations.  Not what you

would call a definitive diagnostician.  He wrote poems because

he could fit it all on one page.  Direct doses, the pharmaceutical

middlemen eliminated.

Measuring Distance

 

October 13, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         Measuring Distance

Standing on one ridge

looking across the canyon to the next,

distance is deceptive.

The line of sight is direct.

The turkey vultures glide it in no time.

The mind flies as easily across

and does not understand the resistance of the body;

does not understand flight as unified commitment.

No command is given to fly.

And the trek down the mountain across the creek

and up the mountain

is the correct way to measure geography,

pacing the actual terrain,

making observations beyond geometry.

It’s a practice in the correct sense of place,

and perfect really, if you can’t fly.

Spending our time

 

August 16,1977  (I was 32)

 

         Spending our time.  Isn’t it a marvelous phrase?  An honest idiom.  Do you want to make an investment?  I spent a lot of time on you.  I spent time up in the hills.  I spent time creating ways for others to spend time.  I’ve spent time as if time did not exist.  I spent time watching the elderly spending time wisely or childishly.  I’ve spent time like money, expecting a guarantee.  I’ve bought entire years I can’t remember and inexpensive moments I’ve never forgotten.  I still find myself spending time regretting time lost and time spent waiting for another time.  I may have arrived at an awkward time for you.  You are racing with your own time.

Desperation lives in a singles apartment

 

July 15, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         Desperation lives in a singles apartment.  He

drinks beer in the parking lot when he gets out of work at

11:00 pm.  When he is home his apartment door is open

and his chair is in direct line for viewing the hallway.  He

checks out anything that happens by.  He drives a black

sporty hardtop with gold and red striping. His life is waxed

and amplified.  His cool sounds filter down the hall.  This

guy’s first name is not Quiet.  He is on the firing line with

every chick that comes within range and he is in direct

competition with every other heterosexual male.  In mixed

company, all is fair.  In the company of other men, it’s

statistics, hits and misses.  He hates fags though he rather

suspects they find him quite appealing.

At the Dance At The Land

 

May 28, 1977  (I was 32)

 

At the Dance At The Land

We got lost getting here.

Can you believe wrong roads

Named Woodstock and Altamont Avenue?

Barn hall open-beams, plank floors

Map of The Land tacked to the wall.

This knowledgeable collection of hippies has survived

Without a change of clothes since 1968

And they were here to dance tonight.

After a wine and pistachio stop we wound

Up Moody past Foothill College and down again

A number of times; gas station maps were of no help.

Everybody danced all night long.

The band was hot and we were addicted to bliss.

We were lost until we resolved to keep driving up

Roads we couldn’t believe –narrow hairpins

Moonlight reflections off hills, tunnel through tree shadows.

“Chains,” brought on the floor stomping

And the bass and drums rebounded off the walls

Right through your chest to end the first set with “The Shape I’m In.”

The band left them screaming for more.

This is 1977 and I’ve got detergent in the cranium

 

from this week in April, 1977  (I was 32)

 

This is 1977 and I’ve got detergent in the cranium

I’m not paying enough attention to my eye muscles

I don’t have any money

Vaseline in the pocketbook

Oil leaking out of my rear end.

Personal relationships are hesitant

I’m putting a brick in the toilet tank;

The neighbor is watering his lawn.

There must be someway to buy our way out of this drought;

Who do we have to pay?

Arabs? Cubans? Columbians?

Can’t we buy something from England or France

Besides that big plane?

I’ll Be Your Sky -song

 

January 23, 1977  (I was 32) 

 

         I’ll Be Your Sky  -song

Airplane lover workin’ under cover

Fanjet sucking up the air

Roar so load, head in a cloud

Won’t take long to get there       

 

You can drop your flaps

You can raise your gear

Pull back the stick and fly

I’ll be your sky

I’ll be your sky

I’ll be your sky

 

Traffic stacked up, flights are backed up

Wheel me down your runway

Standing-by’s so hard I’ll cry

and we could travel the fun way

 

So drop down your flaps

and raise up your gear

Pull back the stick and fly

I’ll be your sky

I’ll be your sky

I’ll be your sky

 

The air’s so blue at high altitude          

Don’t think I’ll ever touch down

Kiss on the mouth then fly south

Off to get a sunburn

 

You can drop your flaps

You can raise your gear

Pull back the stick and fly

I’ll be your sky

I’ll be your sky

I’ll be your sky

Dumb Ducks

 

from this week in November, 1977  (I was 32)

 

                  Dumb Ducks

The thing is, it seems ducks will live anywhere.

They are quite indiscriminate;

more than a few find their way out of the woods.

They populate roadside drainage ditches and swamps;

they live with pigeons and gulls in city park lakes

floating among the paper scraps,

feeding on a diet of popcorn and white bread

and lead bb’s to aid digestion.

Dogs and kids break their legs.

They swim in circles.

These are not old ducks;

they did not know to think and became unable to fly out.

What the Story Became

 

October 9, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         What the Story Became

The story became too typical to articulate

Images became abstract shapes, splashes of color

Vibrant camouflage for empty space

Onlookers thought, I could do that

And they despised anything they themselves could do

The story became humor and pain

camouflage for despair and self-pity

The story became as predictable as a print-out

an impulse between memory banks

easy to forget, too typical to articulate

The overfed body balloons out of proportion

Onlookers saw themselves reflected

it was a familiar story

with little to learn in the revival

minimalanimal

 

October 6, 1977*  (I was 32)  

 

               minimalanimal

 

                  matter

lowest                                     

                  cell                     

scarce           

                                    being                    

               least            

                                    entity 

          simple            

                                    creature        

          rudimentary                                     

                                    beast          

              restricted                         

                                    varmint                          

                    petty            

                                    predator                     

 minor              

                                    fauna          

         conservative             

                                    denizen                     

                  minute           

                                    barbarian                     

        reduced

                                    brute           

              miniature           

                                    stock               

           exact                                    

                           circumstance        

         precise                          

                                    image            

         humble

 

* Hear me read this piece (and others) at JohnKallio.com  Click the Audio button

*re-composed for a chapbook, Copyright 2010:

minimalanimal and THE POETRY OF URGENCY