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/ / /
I need a Life Positioning System
to orient myself among once-familiar landmarks
does Garmin make one of those?
/ / /
part of a river of stones
2 CommentsCategory: Audio Poems
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I wrote this on the bus from Albany to New York City.
The Blues
1.
it all goes back to the blues
that’s what they’d have you believe
the gravel your boots crunch
must lead to a dusty crossroad
every baby’s cry is a bottleneck slide
on the worn strings of a scarred guitar
whiskey runs from the kitchen faucet
the radiator’s busted so body heat will have to do
2.
snowscape bus rides to big city lights
he’s seated across from a pale redhead
who looks like she’s crying but isn’t
he pretends to be watching the trees
safe in the anonymity of sunglasses
they won’t be meeting later in a juke joint
she won’t nurse a beer or lean in close
to hear him over the sound of the band
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/ / /
the trick to travel
isn’t remembering
your underwear or socks
it’s knowing which books to take
/ / /
part of a river of stones
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/ / /
__ often take out the word “__”
in the phrase “__ love you”
perhaps to soften the blow
or to provide plausible deniability
/ / /
part of a river of stones
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/ / /
Gerald Cleaver is in my ears
talking about Uncle June
and the Great Migration
I’m making a smaller journey
home from the post office
where I checked for word from you
/ / /
part of a river of stones
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/ / /
first my teeth pierce the soft nori skin
then move through the rice into the rich
avocado in the center
the mug of sencha fits perfectly in my hand
and there’s just enough room at the table
for these friends who will miss me when I go
/ / /
part of a river of stones
4 CommentsJohn M. Roll, 63
Gabriel Zimmerman, 30
Christina Green, 9
Dorothy Morris, 76
Dorwin Stoddard, 76
Phyllis Schneck, 79
it’s not a stone
it’s a country
and it’s sinking
/ / /
part of a river of stones
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this changes nothing
you know that, don’t you?
in a few days we’ll go back to our coma
back to our flat-screen televisions
our high-definition getaways
six people? nowhere near enough
at this point, we’d need rivers of blood
flowing past the grocery store
submerging the church pews
to even catch our attention for more
than a 24-hour news cycle
for shock value I could start listing
the daily death tolls
of those without health care
or the number of children who go to bed
hungry or abused each night
right here, in the richest…
but you know the story
or choose not to know it
for less shock value
(because who really cares about them?)
I could tell you how many civilians
were killed today in Iraq or Afghanistan
or Gaza or Pakistan or Yemen
by us or by our allies or with our weapons
but what’s the use?
a new season of your favorite show
will start soon and you’ll plop down
on your couch with some popcorn
or a nice plate of nachos
and go back to sleep
in a few weeks you’ll have to
Google this date to figure out
what this poem is about
and in another few weeks after that
so will I
outside my window
is a scuttling crab
in his winter tuke, pacing
— if that’s the word —
back and forth, counting off
the first bar of a jazz tune
/ / /
part of a river of stones
One Commentas I listen to Jane Ira Bloom’s
dancing soprano saxophone,
I’m reminded again why I chose
to play this instrument, despite its
“small window of accuracy” —
because the whole world
is through that window
/ / /
part of a river of stones
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/ / /
walking past the coffee shop
where my friends used to work
the coffee may still be brewing
but the warmth is gone
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
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/ / /
your face has frozen
like your mom always said
or is that a pasted-on smile?
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
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/ / /
Talking Heads’ advice is to Stop Making Sense
that’s easy wisdom to accept — it’s been years
since I had any idea what was going on
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
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/ / /
This is the first poem of the year for me, although it’s the third one to make it to this site in 2011. One note: The person 99% of you know as my father is not the person mentioned in this poem, which refers to my biological father.
Perchance to dream
On the first night in my new apartment —
after fifteen years of sleeping in our bed —
I closed the door to my bedroom,
pushed it tight until the latch clicked home.
On that first night I was a boy again,
waiting for the yellow eyes to appear
around the corner at the end of the hallway
like they had night after night when I was a child.
For years I was afraid of partially opened doors,
preferring to see nothing or to see everything;
to know what fate had in store the moment it
lumbered around the corner, thirsting for me.
Even earlier in childhood I’d had a similar dream.
I was in my bed in my pajamas with the feet on them,
and the door to the hallway was open and I could hear
the footsteps, the heavy pounding on the wooden floor.
One night my mother came through the bedroom window,
snuck in under cover of darkness and spirited me away
from the party going strong in the living room
while my drunk father was supposed to be watching me.
I don’t know when he first discovered I was gone
or what he did next. I like to imagine him in a panic,
searching for me, tearing the house apart, tears on his cheeks —
like he failed to do all those years.
But I’m sure it was nothing so dramatic. Probably a phone call
to my grandparents’ apartment on Main Street.
My grandfather would have picked up the phone in his quiet way.
“Yes, they’re here. They’re sleeping.”
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/ / /
the wood floors are shining
even the dust is put away
waiting for uncertain company
/ / /
Part of a river of stones.
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