Background

Excited? Passionate?
No.  Not me.  I listen
to sidewalk and kitchen talk,
any sound of my own
veiled in the meter of a slow rain.

There are times I wish
I was thunder, or more: lightning
tearing a tree down and startling everyone
within view of it,  leaving a hole behind,
or splinters; at the very least, my own story.

Instead, I’m the hiss of
a presence sensed, soaking through,
making the ground soft.
Everyone who walks by
can see where they’ve been
because I’ve been there.

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Scrolling Down

Bird with three wings
found in Suffolk.  Infants
born singing
in Sao Paulo.   A ghost,
seen by thousands and identified
as a long dead rock star,
hovering just above the rush hour traffic
on the ring road around Atlanta —
in broad daylight, laughing
and strumming a lute.

In Tehran,
green turns overnight
to red.

The severed arm of a Jamaican wrestler
miraculously regenerates right on the floor
of the ring.  A Swiss man five days underwater
is found alive and breathing through a straw.
Slingshots have replaced cell phones
as the new status symbol for Japanese youth.

A Karachi flower market
reopens for business with a new look
after a car
previously pollinated with C-4
bears fruit.

A new puzzle craze
sweeps the Internet:
people competing
to connect dots
and create pictures
on a screen filled with nothing
but dots.  Winners
will be chosen
at a date to be announced.

In Kentucky, authorities report
a young boy has killed his entire family
because they were demons.  The death
of a middle aged shepherd in Andorra is linked to
a traditional curse of the Roma.  Paris
is now the world capital of sleeping sickness.

The news takes the world by surprise.

Investigations continue,
with results expected.

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To Become A Fish

you don’t want to breathe
today

when each sound is music.
to blow a wrong note

seems criminal.
still, you must

breathe, so you go into
a place you think is empty

and continue to do so,
only to find

hosts of song entering,
ready to drown you.

your eyes are swimming,
your lungs filling with voices

without malice
that are still killing you.

to live, you become
a fish: you learn to live in it

until you can evolve
back onto solid ground.

until you can sing solo again,
no one listening, your voice

slung out on the air
in search of a chorus

that can sustain you;
harmony, not unity.

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Aching

When he hit the ground
after his undignified flight,
with his feet wrenched to one side
and his head surprisingly
unhurt despite the angle of the fall,
his first thought was of all he had to do that day
and of how feared being seen as inadequate
if he was unable to do it.

So he got in the car
and went to work. 
He limped into the building at eight
and figured it would be okay
as long as he stayed off his feet.

By ten o’clock, his leg was fine
but the pain in his back had begun
to bubble and throb.  He could feel
a curve in his spine that wasn’t there before,
a gentle, sinister arch
two inches to the left
of the normal line,
and whether it was real or not

the pain of holding himself up
began to play his head for pity.
He ground his teeth and managed a smile
while doing what he had to do

to keep himself upright,
to get things done,
to fight past his agony
and look like a productive member
of this workforce…

in other words,
to do the same thing he did
every day.

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I Love My Monsters

I love my monsters,
my underbed smoking hobos
with their screwy eyes
and chilled tongues, the burble
of their mangled appreciation
for my tension, their green and yellow
foods!  their angry love of childhood
never over! their dancing, separated
fingers coming up the sheets
to poke at my hip and remind me

I’ve always danced my best
when I’m most terrified
of what happens when I
stop!

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Pruning

Before you cut
that wrecked and twisted branch
free from the tree, note
that while
something made it
ugly,  something also kept it able
to bear fruit:

maybe the same thing,
something we can’t know
without allowing the branch
to remain?

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Another Rejection Letter

Last week I mailed a letter to my alien abductors
casually mentioning that it had been a while
and if they weren’t doing anything
I had a free weekend coming up.

I received a cordial but firm note today
that simply read, “We’ve learned all we can
from you, and do not wish to pursue
further investigations.  Best of luck, Oort.”

I tore it up and burned it in an ashtray.
After all the trouble I went through
to get that address, you’d think I’d deserve more
than a form letter with an auto-signature.

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Choice

Unmerciful evening:

early morning wake up needed tomorrow
for a work day
with little promise to it —
and yet, unable to sleep.

Three cigarettes left,

the wet hiss
of hard rain on warm asphalt
discouraging any desire to go out
for a fresh pack.

Shit on TV, shit on the radio,
and bored with all the music
in the house.

Words themselves
bore and bore again.

So, decision time:

turn in to toss for a hundred hours,
or bore on to see if something can happen,

to strive to find mercy
where none appears to be?

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P. C.

It’s absurd,

how proud I am
of having no friends
who use “gay”
as a perjorative,

as if
such careful speech
among careful friends
is truly evidence
of care, when
I consider

how quick I am
to provide a disclaimer
regarding my own
orientation
during my own passionate defenses
of equality.

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Conversation

Outside in the street
the dense chunk
of a slammed door.

A hard, confident summons:

“Hey pendejo –”

followed by
two men speaking
I can’t really hear.  Then,
the first voice again —

“you never know.
When it comes,
it comes.”

I turn off the light.

When it comes,
it comes.  I live that way too,
waiting for it.

But outside —
nothing more.  Whenever it comes,
it seems,
won’t be
tonight.

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Home Of The Blues

It’s Saturday
at 12:30 AM
in Gilrein’s Steak House and Blues Club
on the corner of Main and Piedmont
in Worcester, Massachusetts:
no showcase club, no fancy fake joint
for polished stars to shine in.  It’s where you go
if you feel your blues in your old bones.   A place where
the sidemen who kept Chicago steady come
to play for people who know their names
without looking them up.

Hubert Sumlin’s been drunk here more than once,
and more than once the doorman’s cleared a path
for Pinetop Perkins’ ladies
as they queened their way in
to hear Daddy roll those elegant ivories home.
Big names come through that door unannounced after hours
from posher places where the blues are just a way for fancy folks
to slum a little
with something they will never fully understand,
come here for the chance to play their old stuff
with their old friends
in an old, old club.

Tonight, the Blue Dogs are on stage to say farewell.
It’s 1:00
and last call is half an hour away
when Danny steps to the mike.

Danny is
35 years old,
been a legend in this town
since he was 14.
Makes a guitar pray.
Makes you pray along.
The Blue Dogs
are his latest band
have a rabid
following
but Danny
is calling them quits tonight
and heading off to Nashville
to play sessions.
He’s headed for the big time
and we don’t know when we’ll see him
this cheap or this close
again.

We know what’s coming.

Danny doesn’t sing much
but there’s one song he’s done
in every band he’s been in
since he was a kid
and no one here is ready to say good bye until
we hear him sing it one last time.
Dobie Gray, in 1973,
had a hit with one perfect slice
of country soul tinged blue.
Danny long ago
made it his own.
If you took a poll
half the folks here tonight
would likely say he wrote it.

The drummer clicks two sticks together
into the liquid opening
of keyboards laced up tight
to Danny’s shimmering chords.
The bass player lays down a
walking line that’s more like a lope
while the crowd moves in
and the song begins:

Day after day I’m more confused
And I look for the light
Through the pouring rain.
You know that’s a game that I hate to lose
And I’m feelin’ the strain, ain’t it a shame...

The fat man wheezing in the corner
through his cancer
starts rethinking his plan to die on purpose
when he gets home.

Beginning to think that I’m wasting time
I don’t understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind.
And I’m counting on you, to carry me through.

The woman with the missing tooth
is imagining a bird of prey
that will scar her husband
when she gets home.

And when my mind is free
You know a melody can move me
And when I’m feelin’ blue
The guitar’s coming through to soothe me

A couple forms
in the shadow of the song’s bridge
and tries to decide where they will go
when they go home.

Thanks for the joy that you’ve given me

I want you to know I believe in your song
Rhythm and rhyme and harmony
You help me along, making me strong.

Danny backs away from the mike for the end,
stretches out in the coda, line after line
of startling decisions, choices made tonight
that won’t last longer than it took to make them.
He’s saying farewell to what he knows,
he’s just another listener listening to himself,
he’s just another reason to keep the night rolling
when Gilrein’s closes its doors twenty minutes from now,
building another story on a castle full of stories,
and when he leaves it behind tonight,
it’s not like he he’ll never come home…

but he knows
he’ll never really come home.

What happened in Gilrein’s
is nothing anyone can describe
without a blue note.

All anyone can ever say is

tomorrow night,
next time,
good night,
let’s go baby,
see ya,
good night…

Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I want to get lost in your rock and roll
And drift away…

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Good Day

sticky as beloved cat
on a nubby couch

this good day won’t let me go

but since I like stroking it
I don’t mind

and will let it cling to me
until I fall asleep
to its purring

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How I Stay Alive

Science shows
on TV
often broadcast
film of bacteria
reproducing, one little rod
breaking into two, two into four,
and so on until the whole screen
boils with a multitude.

Lately, my mind’s
like that.
A mess of damage,
sinister charges rampant
on a shattered shield,
a damned germ orgy
of bills and issues,
stress and fearsome possibilities
and always, always,
an end
by my own hand
in plain and tempting view.

How does one cope
with that? One sets it
to running in reverse:
billions of hot words
fusing and reducing
into a few, then one:

enough.

Enough,
an exacting
answer to turmoil,
better than either
take me
or
make it stop, neither surrender
nor supplication for outside help;

instead,
acknowledgment,  followed by
a choice to say
it is finished.

I say it deliberately
though I am full of fever
and prone to impulse,
crushing down
the fatal stirring
as if it were a pill under my tongue:

enough.

If someone were to make a film
of how sick this spirit can become
and how I move it
from death to health,

they’d see
simple arithmetic at work:
subtraction of rationale
followed by subtraction of guilt and self-hatred
until all that’s left is

enough.

Triumph over black mood,
enough.
Regulation of ill-ease,
enough.

Enough.
Calm storm, trigger peace.
Enough.

When they make the film
about how I have survived
my self,
it will be a still frame
centered on one small cell
holding something
waiting to disappear
in two syllables as soft as a gust
of spring:

enough.

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Hens And Chickens

On my street we all avoid
getting pulled into a conversation
with the guy
who lives on the second floor
of the pale yellow triple-decker.

If there is an iris
in the front yard, he’ll mention it
and will have taken the time to look up
which variety it belongs to.  You will know
if it is bearded or Siberian
almost as soon as he does.  He’ll follow that
with a report on all the tangents he took
on the way to that information.

You will soon be as bored as he apparently is.

I suspect that he talks so much
because not to speak
would leave him alone with his thoughts
and if you’ve listened to him at all,
you can understand how scared he should be
for having them.

He says he would like to have an invisible hand
in one of history’s defining moments
and be the only one who knows of it.

He would like to go to China
and buy a farm child to water his garden
so that he could watch her
and then tearfully describe to her
how carefully she moves among the plants
and then he would take her home
and not ask for his money back.
He believes it would be worth it to see
how baffled they all would be.

He would consider it
an improbable adventure which evolved
strictly for his own pleasure.

Someday she’d come back to him as a famous journalist
and tell him her eye for detail
and her robust self-esteem
were all due to him
and then she would sit with him for days
and capture his story
for her book on great men she had known.

But instead he looks out the open window
down at the ragged yard
and waits for the neighbors to come by
so he can speculate out loud about the hens and chickens
growing in the wall, how they got there, he never planted them,
must have been the previous tenant, did you know them,
what were they like,

his voice rising in volume and pitch
as we back away claiming
we are late for an errand, late for work,
anything we can think of
to get away from him,

the one we call the garden guy,
whose name we do not care to know.


Enough To Let Me Rest

When I start to believe that love is not enough
to steady my rickety progress through the world,

I recall how often I’ve been up from dawn
to well past midnight

waiting for her to come home.
Exhaustion can’t keep me

from needing to see her
the minute the door opens, even if only

for a moment.  I know
that one glimpse will be enough

to settle me into my pillow
and let me rest for a while.

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