Looking Around the Corner
The other morning Patti said that there was something remarkable in the simple act of looking around a corner. She was speaking about looking ahead and glancing back and knowing that what we can’t see yet we will or may see soon, And what we’ve seen before will change once we’ve turned a corner and walked away. This is simple and obvious and impossibly profound and complex, all at once, Just as what we might observe around any corner could be as well.
As a Poet…
(… and I’m just saying this as if ownership of the label/title belongs to me,) as a poet, my job appears to be to notice and comment one moment, object, sensation, experience to the next. And write it. And like looking at a Jackson Pollack painting and saying “Hell, I could do that.” as I poet I’ll respond like I imagine old Jackson did, “Yeah, but you Didn’t.”
Ducks
Friendships end in a wide variety of ways...sometimes even just noticing something about someone’s betrayal you hadn’t previously noticed...
You love ducks now, Which is about right for you. As a boy, hunkered down in mud You shot hawks Deer, coyotes, And ducks. And something happened to you And some more things happened to you And you met a woman, had kids, Met another woman, Ran away with her. Now you love ducks Which, of course, you used to kill But which now you just watch Hunkered down within yourself. Ducks always move together, Always leap at once to an inner rhythm, Turning, rising, Winging away — Like clones, Clichés, Old familiar stories. With ducks each movement is the same Each marking seems the same And you love ducks now, Which is about right for you.
Lies
There are a few things I would lie about, Okay, more than a few. I’d want to believe that I was lying just to protect Others, But I’d know that is bullshit I’d be lying to save my own skin. But there are a lot of things I’d admit to that would hurt me And bite me, hard, For being honest. I think I’m trying to say That we all lie some And that maybe the most Important truths we tell Need to start With ourselves And then expand In proportion to the harm being done to others by the lies we are telling.
The Rush of “#MeToo”
This poem was written a few years back when #MeToo was at it’s height, for both good and ill.
I don’t know who, if anyone, can Address this latest series of explosive noises by women harmed and wounded Through decades of Casting couches and let’s face it, call it what it is, Men demanding and getting Sex in their cars for the promise to her of a promotion on the job, and women performing these acts in Unwanted sexual surrender. I grew up in an era when… I can stop right there! This is America and Nobody gives a shit About historical or hysterical context or any other background that smacks of justification for men using their power to get their rocks off as it were as it is as, who knows, it may not always be. I have sinned in these ways and up until quite recently Some of my favorite memories And most sustaining past Experiences have been recalling Those hot, intense, Sweaty explosions of love… Okay, I guess NOT love for my victims/partners/co-conspirators (you tell me) But orgasm and release Accompanied by As I recall it My saying Thank you Or at least thinking I should have said it. In my nightmares I see no faces screaming “ME TOO, ME TOO!!!” While pointing at me, but I suspect it’s now just a matter of time. Mea culpa Mea culpa Sorry and Thanks.
Somehow
Taking pictures of clouds Feels like A better use of my time Than Pretty much Anything else. Not sure if this Is genius or idiocy or neither or both? Nor do I care.
An Old Man
Sits quietly on a hill, Like he’s in a Beatles song Or a sentimental painting Meant to capture the Magical wisdom Of aging. A pretty woman Walks by. He smiles And she ignores him. And no music plays And the sun Does not break through At precisely that moment Casting a glorious golden Ray down upon them. And in the distance a dog barks And the old man stops smiling And the pretty woman is Gone. And this is far more The way life works out And unfolds Than any other Bullshit I could Type right now. I’m not that old man presently But I have been a time or two and almost assuredly will be again someday, soon.
Intentional Ambiguity
Used to seem such an important part of me Until clarity arrived and said, “Enough Of this vapid trickery, If you can see What needs saying, just say it! I’m calling your bluff!”
Why Not?
A legend tells of a great mountain-climber who lost his grip and fell from two-thousand feet up. Nothing to do about it as he plummeted towards the sharp rocks below. Witnesses said, he did somersaults and twists and turns a gainer and swan dive, and a jack-knife — perfect form, a 10 out of 10 on all the judges’ cards right up until the final second because… Why not?
Chasing the Wind
It blew in from the north so I chased it. Then from the south and I chased it again. And then the day grew still, not even a hint of a breeze, so I ran around in circles because I didn’t have any better plan.
Photo by Khamkéo Vilaysing on Unsplash
