Every decision to read something

 

from this week in February 2008  (I was 63)

 

Every decision to read something

is a decision not to read something else

It is what makes books a wonder

or such a waste of time

what makes short stories or essays

economical investments

and some poems polished stones

 

Some readers are sprinters

words and phrases no more than cinders underfoot

ideas finish tapes to be broken through

records smashed into generalization

They think the author’s nuance

is their own deduction

Elementary my dear Watson a veritable primer

a convergin’

 

from this week of December, 2008  (I was 64)

 

         a convergin’

 

it was just a coupla nights ago

the rhythmic pluck of an ol banjo

comin outta the raydeeo

matched the scratch on the distant track

motion and notion ‘prochin nickedynack

banjo sang train sang and I sang back

The devalued photo

 

December 26, 2008  (I was 62)

 

The devalued photo

on the two-inch screen

taken two seconds ago

shows a tropical butterfly

in a tropical forest exhibit

at the aquarium

The photo snapper

looks at the photo

a foot in front of their eyes

their finger still on the trigger

ready for another shot

while the butterfly

still jiggles like a puppet

in the leaves of the mangrove

 

Our photographs used to fit

in a single oversized family album

with an extravagant cover

deteriorating from useful love

across three generations

looked at studied

again and again

They were history

now we have blips on a chip

They never leave the camera

just a confirmation

that what we actually saw

is virtually still there

more proliferate images

than moments left in our lives

So often with partial mind

 

from this week in November 2008  (I was 63)

 

So often with partial mind

thinking seems inept

yet one-eyed sight is not blind

common sense and images kept

 

Inspiration needs a spark

deep thought seeks the dark

Most time we avoid the glare

to see our dappled shadow there

 

When rid of that shade inside

comes a task in view

Art and focus must decide

what half a mind can do

The learning of the new

 

from this week in November 2008  (I was 63)

 

The learning of the new

comes not from the ground

not the baked clay of California

nor the black loam of Minnesota

nor the pyritic glass of Hawaii

The few foreign grounds I’ve walked upon

seem not much different

in towns and cities built over

with shops and churches

And in the country field and forest

yield as ever the fragrant must

of knowledge that has always been

In drizzling wind

 

from this week in August, 2008 (I was 63)

 

In drizzling wind

we stood to warm over steam vents

overlooking the deep drop of Kilauea crater

then hiked the rim trail in low clouds

weaving mist through gradual descent

to find no one else at Thurston lava tube

We explored the old hole in new wonder

birthed by the perfect solitude

shared a silent toke in sacramental homage

A fumarole of cylindrical symmetry

coiled round hairy roots threaded through the ceiling

Water drops anointed us down the dim path

and deeper for moments beyond any light

subdued in the dark recognition

before we backtracked

to emerge among bright ferns

flowers and the canopy of ohia trees

which kept the percussive rain from us

Such are impromptu gifts of circumstance

and reminders of our un-divinable situation

Silent Partner

 

from this week in August, 2008  (I was 63)

 

         Silent Partner

His presence is his participation

his email address is anonymous

He knows his opinions

would elicit embarrassed silence

That man tries to think of what to say

then not say it

measures that a small victory

a privilege not doing       

Keeps his irons out of any fire

he did not start

Sitting among those conversing

he can contemplate a coffee cup

on a table across the room

His consciousness refers to him

in the third person and last night

he dreamed he was too slow

to outrun a steamroller

Never Trust Jesus:

 

March 8, 2008  (I was 63)

 

March 8, 2008  (I was 63)

(more from The Litanies of Mistrust)

 

Never Trust Jesus: 

to admire your car

to love your friends

to despise your enemies

to not spoil the child

to fear your old man

 

Never Trust Jesus:

to approve of an unconsidered life

to authorize a version of The New Testament

to congratulate the most clever hypocrisy

to honk at a car with a fish on the bumper

to fold when he holds a trey

to allow your dirty feet

 

Never Trust Jesus:

to expect you to be anything but a sheep 

to take the advice of Bo Peep

to speak clearly about sheep

to starve the ravens

to work harder than a lily

to not abuse your swine

 

Never Trust Jesus:

to join the Foreign Legion

to join the American Legion

to join the Legion of Decency

to say I am Legion

to say incense in the morning smells like victory

from The Litanies of Mistrust

 

February 24, 2008  (I was 63)

 

         from The Litanies of Mistrust

Never Trust:

a teacher who doesn’t read

a teacher who got straight A’s in high school

a teacher who needs a plus or minus to distinguish a grade

a teacher who knows the date by the text page he’s on

a teacher who can’t return assignments within two days

a teacher hired in September

Never Trust:

a teacher who doesn’t love his subject

a teacher who loves his religion more than his subject

a teacher who’s subject is his religion

a teacher who nominates himself for an award

a teacher who’d rather fund raise than teach

a teacher who measures success only in test scores

Never Trust:

a teacher who can’t tell a joke

a teacher who can’t talk with his hands

a teacher who can’t climb a tree

a teacher who can’t tap dance

a teacher who never pisses off the principal

a teacher who wants to be superintendent

Never Trust:

a teacher with shiny shoes

a teacher who orders all the condiments on the side

a teacher to split the check without itemizing

a teacher who denies his family and concedes to a bad contract

a teacher who thinks he doesn’t need a union

Public storage units are everywhere

 

February 16, 2008  (I was 63)

 

Public storage units are everywhere

cars have been locked out of garages for decades

bins and boxes hold assorted parts of lives

The way too much we’ve had for years

we feel too guilty to simply discard

and pay instead to rent it space

dollars spent to keep the past alive

long after it has lost its productive use

Now a shell without substance or context

emitting acrid odors of dissolution

tightly packed next to one another

little mausoleums for the partly dead

likely to last beyond the memories of their owners

Left at last for strangers to sort through

hoping to find some artifact of value

without any knowledge of the curse upon it

In the dentist’s chair

 

January 27, 2008  (I was 63)

 

In the dentist’s chair

root canal worst case scenario

You are out of there two hours max

with a prescription for pain killers

On the drive home knowing it is done is nirvana

The process induces Colin Wilson’s absurd good news

knowing what we really want

the predictable comfort of what we have

the breath the drink the food the work the sleep

a solvable crisis to make the next one easier

The most believable astronomical revelation

 

January 26,2008  (I was 63)

 

The most believable astronomical revelation

is the increasing distance between things

Every communication device we create

makes the separation more obvious

and proximity more dangerous

Truth is kept simple in idiomatic terms

There is fondness in our absent hearts

and discomfort in things too close

From afar we integrate shapes

into forms that are recognizable

while we deny adjacent congruencies

that might make us seem as one

The truth is so basic so fundamental

 

from this week in 2008  (I was 64) 

 

The truth is so basic so fundamental

only faith can ignore it

No man owns land

no race defines place

No land was a divine gift

Alive we occupy

but we arrive and leave landless

False needs are the seeds

 

All the other justifications

the wars the treaties the boundaries

the claims the writs the water rights

the promises the deeds

(indeed the deeds)

are to separate the greeds

between that that we have

and that that we want

A story and poem from the lost literature

 

December 21, 2008  (I was 64) 

 

         A story and poem from the lost literature that

escape into the dimension of the forgotten after they had

surfaced briefly in the consciousness so succinctly and

securely that the author, momentarily without pen and

paper, thought they would be easily retained while he was

perfunctorily distracted by some banality.  Then they were gone,

leaving behind only threads frayed so fine they could never

be rewoven, yet so distinctly present as to represent

substantial loss.  

A tree branch irritates the roof

 

December 17, 2008  (I was 64)

 

A tree branch irritates the roof

Say it’s the wind

say it’s the cold

causes the sweep and creak

the welt and scar in the dark

Perforations of constellations

outline myths in the night

Beneath the western moon

radiates Jupiter’s throne

to sparkle the eye of Venus

It is the scrape of wind the breath of cold

decides the story to be told

The truth is so basic so fundamental

 

from this week in 2008  (I was 64) 

 

The truth is so basic so fundamental

only faith can ignore it

No man owns land

no race defines place

No land was a divine gift

Alive we occupy

but we arrive and leave landless

False needs are the seeds

 

All the other justifications

the wars the treaties the boundaries

the claims the writs the water rights

the promises the deeds

(indeed the deeds)

are to separate the greeds

between that that we have

and that that we want

Things Get Real

 

November 1, 2008  (I was 63)

 

      Things Get Real

One thing is

pine scent in the wind off a lake

 

Stars permeate a true darkness

I recline to watch

 

Concussive surf lunges under lava

blow hole explodes

 

An exclusion of fog folds over all

specters emerge.

So many remember what it was to work

 

October 2, 2008  (I was 63)

 

So many remember what it was to work

Their bodies still wear the pain

of ditches dug and barrels lifted

chickens dressed and flour sifted

 

Cold curses from the open pit

frozen iron chunked out

of the empty holes  Musta been 1955

they struck to keep low-grade hope alive

 

Iron-poor pellets pulled from the ore

taconite taken by the magnets of Tokyo

after years of tin toys amused us

sent back to Minnesota as a Toyota

-from The Litanies of Mistrust

 

September 21, 2008  (I was 63)

 

         -from The Litanies of Mistrust

Never trust:

         Hansel to follow the crumbs home

         a dinner invitation from Mother Hubbard

         the Sprats to serve a salad

         a cow’s worth of beans

         Bo Peep to tend your sheep

         a ba-ba-black sheep to give you a ba-ba-bag of wool

         a little piggy who has none

         Johnny Flynn heading to the well with a sack

Never trust:

         the swan within your ugliness

         Mary to be more than contrary

         Pete’s wife to come out of her shell

         a puss in boots

         a woman with a whip who lives in a shoe

         a spider to scare every muffet away

         Eency Weency to stay out of your spout

Never trust:

         Jack Horner to keep his fingers out of the pie

         Charming Billy not to try the young thing’s mother

         Rapunzel to let down her hair

         Boy Blue to wake up and blow

         Spoon not to run away with your dish

         a courting frog to be unarmed

         a monkey to pop your weasel

          nimble Jack to clear the fire plug

If you mention what it is

 

September 16, 2008  (I was 63)

 

If you mention what it is

it isn’t anymore

It begins in premonition

playing on the floor

 

Light and shadow from a window

cast from leaf and curtain lace

projects a shaded glow of age

across a youthful face

 

Eventually it sees the sound

and sound reflects the light

If you don’t say what it is

you hear a lovely sight