The sights are so easily lost

 

February 22, 2009  (I was 64)

 

The sights are so easily lost

the eternity of the universe

disappears in the details of days

less than a week in the man-made world

diminishes the being of world-made man

         walk in the dirt and on leaves under trees

         breathe in wind blown miles to your lungs

         acknowledge the calls of birds

position the web of the spider

between the eye and the sky

The sight of then and that of when

transports thou out of now

the this of this to the wish of that

reading the log or plotting a course

when you could be navigating

Halemaumau smokes blue sky

 

August 5, 2009  (I was 64)

 

Halemaumau smokes blue sky

Vog rides kamakane to Kona

Due to erupting renovations

the trail across the big crust is closed

so we trek the black skin of Kilauea Iki

which close up casts luminous hues

from dark crystal pores

We straddle fuming fissures of glass              

walk on petrified bubbles within the cauldron

over explosive trapped gas we know could blow

us up five-hundred feet into the rain forest

from which we so scenically descended

Though this day Pele does not pummel us

she leaves a distinct impression

any day anywhere primal power

is just below a fragile surface

 

from this week in May, 2009  (I was 64)

 

The United States is falling apart

because I am falling apart

and I don’t think I’m going to get much better

I think about but do not sustain an effort

to regain physical fitness

I look at books that propose to redirect us

I don’t believe the matter is in the reader’s hands

Relationships are cold chipped and cracked

held together by homeostasis and habit

Like my country I don’t do much good

without expectation of better in return

Like me the country doesn’t travel well

We take way too much of our stuff with us

whenever we go someplace else

No place much better off for my being there

I’m inept at home repair

Hire someone who needs a job

later someone who can actually do it

Spend way too much money on stuff

we promise we will never use

Keep it in deep basements across the country

that cost more to maintain

than all the homes in my hometown

Officially we call it homeland security

I call it fear  Bill collectors at the door

The old men have spots on their pants

 

May 1, 2009  (I was 64)

 

The old men have spots on their pants

in places that should embarrass them

They do not see them

They no longer have reason

to suspect they might have spots on their pants

 

The old men grumble under breath

about things that would embarrass them

if they thought anyone heard

They no longer have the attention

of any near enough to listen

 

The old men tremble at the table

in a tremor that could embarrass them

if it overturned the furniture

They no longer have the influence

to register an after-shock

 

The old men issue perplexing odors

tainted wafts that might embarrass them

They don’t smell a thing

They no longer have to discriminate

aroma from taste

Behind the screen

 

April 21, 2009  (I was 64)

 

Behind the screen: 

no audience

 

A profiler

looks at me sideways

 

nylons are removed

& draped over it

 

another cubicle

 

Behind the screen:

the original face

 

subtext of pretext

strategy meetings

 

accusation of instigation

smoke fibers

 

The high priest

Scourges the vestal virgin 

 

Inescapability is a meditation

 

Behind the screen:                   

hand claps loud laughs

jeers and regrets

 

the guard

goes up for his jump shot

 

you see a different pitch

you hear a different pitch

Joe’s Bar When I Was Nine

 

April 4, 2009  (I was 64)

 

    Joe’s Bar When I Was Nine

You’ve heard of Joe’s Bar

everyone has

Lots of people have been there

Joe’s my grandfather

I call him Grampa

He’s bald and he always needs a shave

He was from the Old Country

too poor to stay there so he came here

He opened the bar before I was born

He doesn’t remember some stuff

so he doesn’t have to talk much

He talks Bohunk best

It’s only a three-two joint

so he sells bootleg shots under the bar

We don’t do stuff cause he doesn’t know how

He gives me pop and candy all the time

Some old guys sit at the bar all day

They smoke and spit in the spittoons

They have false teeth

Grampa tilts the glass when he taps beer

then he uses a plastic wand to level off the foam

He puts the beer on the bar

rings up 10¢ on the cash register

In the backroom I check the jukebox coin-return

I find two nickels and leave by the back door

bike through the alley to the park

I don’t know why his bar is so famous

When you’re young you enter dangerous deals

 

January 17, 2009  (I was 64)

 

When you’re young you enter dangerous deals

not knowing nor daring to know it

when the house of the dealer has guns upstairs

and drifting beings lost in the hall

and his patient wife with the bad back

has a legit excuse to take pills for the pain

and the guy with ten teeth is staying for dinner

 

When you’re young you don’t know how trouble feels

and when whatever you’re waiting for is late

but the money is paid so you wait and you wait

the dishes are in the sink his kids hidden away

and some other what-the-fucks show up

but no deal so you leave  Later you say  Tomorrow

you hear fuck-up got shot in the knee and the shit’s in

 

When you’re old it’s about friends in the business

a visit with handshakes and hugs

and how is the family a knowing concern

There’s a fire in the woodstove

abalone to be pounded breaded fried and eaten

a reunion of those at the summer vacation home

and everything packaged and on account

out from the cave and echo of ritual

 

January 15, 2009  (I was 64)

 

out from the cave and echo of ritual

fire made shadows leapt

bone beat wood made song

one string whined

bug bit through smoke

rock scraped animal shape

night song sung long

deep warm sound sleep

hunger dream hog hunt

sun spark cracked dark

let out light lit up rock

wind blew black smells clean

revelation in Oberammergau

 

December 29, 2003  (I was 59) 

 

   revelation in Oberammergau

Non-Germans in the street

create spaces as they walk.

Women shop the windows,

men don’t know what to do;

they blow their noses and wait.

What does it mean?

To what does it allude?

 

Kofel was visible an hour ago,

the fog descends tree to tree,

skiers can’t see each other.

The Alps have disappeared,

the mist enters the village.

What does it mean?

To what does it allude?

 

People visit the theater

where no performance is held;

the look at props and sets

and at where the orchestra sits

during a very famous performance.

What does it mean?

To what does it allude?

 

Suddenly at thirteen hundred forty meters

the cross appears on Kofel

illuminated through sun-shredded cloud;

visitors who left to visit the Passionate Scene

return to report another passionate scene.

To what does it allude

and what does it mean?

stunt

 

October 18, 2009  (I was 64)

 

                  stunt

At a particular time for each thing

that we think and thing that we do

we become stunted

Suddenly or progressively we stop

or grind to a halt in the height that we grow

our running speed begins to slow

We eat what we ate read what we read

we sleep when we dream in our particular bed

Affects and attitudes are reflex and platitudes

expansive becomes exclusive variety intrusive

When we think what we thought

our forefathers thought we forget

that they thought we would think

coqui frog

 

August 10, 2009  (I was 64)

 

coqui frog

small vague

new plague

I hear soon as I here

so near here I hear

coqui it’s me

coqui it’s me

 

coqui frog creak

on a bed that squeak

she play piccolo

contrapuntal

zing to cricket ring

almost pipes

melancholy baby

 

from mountain vog

he coqui frog

seeks dialog

choose me

whistles he coqui

he coqui availability

 

coqui be still

folk out at night

with net and light

if found we will

end your sound

and our ennui

coqui ennui

Family Music

 

July 17, 2009  (I was 64)

 

         Family Music

Once there was music

a pair of clarinets

in thin harmony and fragile strength

like hope and sunrise

bird call and answer

 

Once were molten golden notes

poured from bell of saxophone

pure liquid substance

permeated every room

like warmth and light

hits everyone around a fire

 

Once a complexity of melody

a galaxy of constellations

sparkled from a flute

to fill the density of heaven

like a continuity of wisdoms

that hold our myths together

 

Once there was music

made by those who could

Now only the percussive hammering

of one who could never hold a beat

An occasional lost echo

haunts a different reality

I misplace things

 

May 17, 2009  (I was 64)

 

I misplace things

hard to have a place

for each and every

after every use

things quickly

resolve into nothings

The mind moves on

before the body picks up the tools

You could be known

 

May 16, 2009  (I was 64)

 

You could be known by the things

you did not write about.  If you wrote

thoughtfully about something, you thought

about things of which you did not write.

Composition is what it is called.  Composing

is what you do when you don’t

choose certain thoughts or certain words

because they are uncertain.  Uncertainty

in meaning or how the meaning is perceived

is taken into consideration when things are unchosen.

This does not mean the unchosen ones

are not revealed.  Their invisibility

is a strong presence in every written line.

They express the doubt the indecision

the fear the disgust the nakedness

the unspeakable truth you do not want

to reveal.  Watch what you do not say.

The Credo of Hypocrisies from pro athletes

 

May 15, 2009  (I was 64)        

 

The Credo of Hypocrisies from pro athletes

makes us all look like idiots:

We’re grown men here

we take responsibility for our actions

We create extraordinarily high

expectations for ourselves

We have impeccable work ethic

We always give 100% but

we know how to step it up when we have to

I live for the pressure of game seven

It ain’t trash talk if you can back it up

I know I am blessed and ordained by God

I believe everything happens for a reason

We’re done talking about it

We were embarrassed

and it called into question the character

of some of their players

We’ve had tough ones to swallow before

but this one just snowballed

It wasn’t nerves

it was just a matter of settling down

We regret that it happened but

we’ve put it behind us and we move on

 

The message to kids should be

you don’t have to talk like that to be successful

Behind the screen

 

May 10, 2009  (I was 64)

 

Behind the screen:

         the embroidered image is reversed

         on the silken Japanese landscape

         muted sheen of a silent pond

         miso and sushi

Behind the screen:

         spatters from the surgeon’s cut

         the nurse practices

         deadpan bedpan humor

Behind the screen:

         the puppeteer pulls the strings 

         shadow puppets are cast

         giants and dwarfs

         the deferential fool falls dead

         stabbed in the abdomen

Behind the screen:

         the drama ends

         a dusty backstage

         the door leads to the alley

Behind the screen:

         the priest hears sins

         wizardry is revealed

         in charlatan platitudes

         anonymity is ensured

At the Goodwill

 

May 8, 2009  (I was 64)

 

At the Goodwill I find the wood desk

I think would fit in your life

You think you chose it but looked to me

to okay the price size and smell

After all it was my car

It meant too goddamned much to you

for me to want to think about

and later at the recycling center

where the workers are so poor

they hide the weight from the homeless

who drag their bags onto the scale

Workers put dollars in their own pockets

for the pounds they do not pay

for the glass for the dirty aluminum and plastic

Pre-empting me you voice no protest

You take the weightless receipt

to the securely barred payment window

and sign for your twenty-two fifty

“Not much to some,” you say

“But for me, icing on the cake”

I look at the piles of stolen redemptions

“Where the fuck’s the cake?”

I ask you