poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
This Thursday, one night only: the Poets Jazz Trio at the Social Justice Center, 33 Central Ave in Albany. Poets Jason Crane (poems, sax, percussion), Dan Wilcox (sax, percussion) and Tom Corrado (bass) will perform a 20-minute set of jazz and Jason’s poetry. There will also be an open mic hosted by Dan Wilcox. The shindig starts at 7:30 p.m. Be there!
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this two-wheeled life
all I could think about
as I sucked in diesel fumes
on 80 East was how much
I’d rather be riding my bike
how it was time to sever
the steel shackles
of my automotive life
to take to two wheels
as my creed, my gospel
my response to every
yelled curse and flung
container of french fries
I would yell “you first!”
when told to get off the road
would carry a lance
to joust with those
who referred to me by its name
and like Quixote before me
I would tilt – not at windmills,
but at the ceaseless turning
of the four-wheeled apocalypse
because there are more kinds of freedom
than choosing the radio station
and more kinds of individuality
than spinning rims and fuzzy dice
I would recapture
that nearly forgotten thrill
of being my own master
not a slave to the poisoners
of the Gulf, the savage
inequality of fossil fuels
they are better returned
to their undersea beds
to lie and sleep
to be forgotten as we zoom
and glide through this two-wheeled life
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in any given set
we walked around it all day
that little Japanese tea cup
sitting on what had been the dining room floor
it said Sanriku on the side
in bold yellow kanji
evoking memories of contented nights at the restaurant
when I arrived in Japan
my host mother could only say
“Are you Jay?” — still three more words than I
could say to her
ignorant as I was
of foreign tongues and other people’s customs
nineteen years gone
and I know more words
but I still wonder whether I understand
most of what you say
or what I am supposed to do
in any given set of circumstances
the little tea cup
occupies its fixed place
on the floor, forces us, unknowing, to give it room
I contacted the poetry journal Meat For Tea about a submission I’d sent and hadn’t heard back on. They responded to tell me it was published in their last issue, but they’d forgotten to notify me.
You can read “North Greenbush To Albany” in Meat For Tea Vol. 4 Issue 2 by ordering a physical copy or a $5 PDF version here.
UPDATE: Upon closer inspection, it turns out that my poem “Origins” is also in the issue.
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This poem was inspired by Normanskill poet Alan Casline’s poem “My Navajo Butterfly Song.”
Seeing Eye
(for Alan Casline)
The Navajo sign said “no photos” —
I prefer to think of it as advice, not warning,
encouraging us to capture images with the lenses of our eyes,
to store them on our natural hard drives.
“Doesn’t anybody ever just remember anything anymore?”
George Carlin asked. He was right.
We’ve become victims of instant nostalgia,
our minds grown lazy, our brains soft.
It’s so bad that I’ve forgotten the first line of this very poem,
and the way my sons looked when they were born.
My therapist said chronic depression impairs
the memory centers of the brain, causes
gaps
in the remembered narrative. That was a relief to hear.
I always wondered why my life was a highlight reel,
the entire three-plus decades condensed into three-plus minutes,
like always seeing the bus but never being hit by it.
The Navajo sign said “no photos.”
Pretty smart, those Navajo.
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Another poem for my wife.
The Oak Tree
(for Jennifer)
I had already asked you three times
you’d wisely declined
I was too young, too unproven
played the saxophone in a latin jazz band
you repaired houses for the poor
we each made barely enough to pay the rent
the fourth time was under an oak tree
at your mother’s house
you finally agreed, throwing caution
to the Pennsylvania wind
we were back East on a rare trip
to see our families, to display one another
that tree had been there for years and years
since the fields next to the dairy farm
were turned into a housing development
for upwardly mobile college professors
whose daughters spoke two languages
and traveled the world on the way to good lives
no one thought we’d last
they all said I was too young, too unproven
played the saxophone in a latin jazz band
couldn’t provide for you
all those beautiful 1950s sentiments
born of monochrome evenings with the Cleavers
but under that oak tree —
a sign of stability, of permanence —
you agreed to place a bet on the long shot
I held your hands as a stray leaf fell,
like your resistance, to rest
in the lush green grass behind the houses
after you said yes
we traveled north to my parents’ house
my mother gave me a wedding ring
that had been her grandmother’s
granting us her blessing
even though she doubted our future
the oak tree is gone now,
cut down by your mother
all these years I’d thought she hated what it represented
only found out this week that it was damaged
in an ice storm and had to be cut before it fell
so many things misunderstood
Painting by Michelle Spark
Long Day In America
shimmering cymbal rises off the stage like heat from the pavement
I’m at a table near the band, drowning my sorrows in a glass of water
or at least drowning, anyway
this is one of those days when I wish I drank, something strong and obliterating
that would wash it all away like a sand castle falling to high tide
I come back to reality for a moment while the bass player looks for a chart
a course through the tune so he won’t get lost
I wish it were that easy
these are the times that try men’s souls, then stomp them with boots made of
money
and unfulfilled potential and disappointment
two tables away a guy is talking loudly, so the band turns up and he talks louder
so the band turns up and he’s shouting, and eventually an old man in a natty suit
leans over from the next table and tells the guy to “please shut the fuck up”
maybe it’s the language, maybe it’s the old man’s audacity, but it works
a hero is born
saves me the trouble of driving my rented U-Haul truck right through the front
window
smashing the moron to a pulp, smearing the carpet
with his like-new brains
there’s no way to summarize all the things you are on paper
but that doesn’t stop people from trying — my life is a bulleted list
in 12-point Arial or 10-point Times New Roman if I’m feeling professional
I’m bored and terrified, can’t focus
lose the form of the song, even an easy one
my eyes are burning
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Based on a recent New York City experience.
dead pigeon
dead pigeon on a gray sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray dead sedan pigeon
heads turn, shake, pass
passing heads, shaking, turn
shaken heads pass, turning
shaken heads, turning, pass
soft feet slap pavement
soft pavement feet slap
slapping pavement, soft feet
slapping, soft, feet, pavement
head bleeding slow trickle
bleeding head trickle slow
slow bleeding head trickle
trickle bleeding head slow
gray dead sedan pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead pigeon on a gray sedan
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First Night of Summer, 2010
At the Mobil station on the corner of Quail and New Scotland,
an obese man in a tank top delivers a lawnmower from the trunk
of his NASCAR-stickered beater to a young man in the latest
summer fashions. The obese man plops back into the driver’s seat,
reaches an arm through the open window to haul the door shut,
cranks up the radio, loudly injecting a surprising R&B track
into the first night of summer. Did the Indian or Pakistani or Sri Lankan
cashier in the Mobil station ever imagine himself here?
Did he play soccer or cricket as a child back home, dreaming
of the night when he’d sell Cheetos and Double Chocolate Milanos
to another obese man in dirty shorts, while R&B blared
and nervous SUV drivers stopped on the way to the suburbs?
Did any of us dream of this night? We sat on our mothers’ laps,
had our backs rubbed, dreamed of being paleontologists
or marine biologists or superheroes, not of schlepping to the gas station
to buy crap before the Red Sox game. In case you hadn’t guessed,
I’m the Second Man, one before Welles and not that many pounds off,
selling no wine before my time, plodding past the young and beautiful people
at the bars to get to the late-night sanctuary of those with no place else to go.
How the fuck did this happen? Where did the dumpster in my driveway
come from? Who put all those memories in there?
I want my mother, or at least the possibility she represented.
I want to go home, but I’m already there, and there’s a dumpster
in the driveway, and in a few days the men will come and haul it away.
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This poem was inspired by a tweet by trombonist Jeff Albert. His message became the first line of the poem.
Separation
The MacBook Pro’s headphone out does
not have clean stereo separation.
It cannot effectively separate the
left from the right.
Nor can it color-code cull the allowed from
the illegal.
Or sit at the base of the wall in the cold
desert night, waiting for what the coyotes bring.
The MacBook Pro’s headphone out sends
a steady stream of sound
straight to the bones inside your ears,
causing tiny vibrations that your
brain magnifies then translates into
language you can understand.
And yet, left and right
will not be properly separated. Will mix
inappropriately, causing some in the room
to murmur their disapproval.
Are you murmuring your disapproval? Casting
a sidelong glance, perhaps
catching the eye of another partygoer, who
responds with raised brow or a
cluck
of the tongue?
Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.
Can you separate
left from right?
Do you know where you bread is buttered?
Do you want to wash the dishes?
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McLemore, Fabricatore & Buttonwood
started out across the grassy plain
ate buffalo meat on the shores of Lake Erie
learned new languages & wooed exotic birds down from the trees
were of sound mind & body, were of sound body & mind
encountered the Kraken & debated the pronunciation of his name,
only to discover that he was a she, & really quite wonderful at chess
were undaunted in the face of adversity
sat beside the wine-dark sea, telling lies & braiding hempen ropes
signed their names in the guestbook at a hotel on the edge of an active volcano,
the ash settling slowly about their shoulders
could see the valley below, but could not state its true name
sailed across the ocean blue in a hastily built marshmallow canoe
were rescued from certain death by a one-legged man who knew whereof he spoke
are as real as you or I
exist purely for our amusement
do not exist at all
McLemore, Fabricatore & Buttonwood
will be back soon, will demand answers, will show slides of their trip
to an uninterested audience in the local library
will realize that the road is better than the rest stop & will start out again
across the grassy plain
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deepwater horizon
ironic, choosing a name
implying distant vision
when the one thing you
can’t do is see
white belly bobs
pointing at the sun
like the face of a flower
or a tree seeking nourishment
but the sun has set
on this day of days
the long night has begun
under a blanket of oil
the Cayuhoga burned
at least thirteen times
oozing not flowing, said Time
magazine with its barrels of ink
the word “gulf” comes from
kolpos, a Greek word meaning
bosom, the chest, the repository
of emotion and intimacy
now we surround the heart
of the world with the heavy ooze
of consumption, the debilitating murk
of driving by yourself with the radio on
nineteen million barrels
each and every day
seven hundred ninety-eight million gallons
each and every day
and that’s just one country
one nation living the dream
the chosen people of a god
who created the dinosaurs
solely to power our factories
propel our cars, fuel our
wildest fantasies, a pornography
of petroleum delights
you can’t get it off unless
you scrape it off with a tool
something no bird can manage
no fish can finagle
it’s like napalm without the fire
smothering, covering
a deadly skin that can’t be shed
can’t be burned off
in Los Angeles, in New York,
in New Orleans, in Chicago,
in towns you’ve never visited
in towns I’ll never see
a man, a woman, a kid with
a new license
looks at his sneakers, her bike
the bus schedule
and grabs the keys instead
turns the engine over
hears the oil-fueled explosion
then turns up the radio
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I wrote this poem today while sitting on a rock along the Housatonic River in Connecticut. The photo below, linked from this site, is of the exact spot where this poem was written. That seems like a remarkable stroke of luck, but actually this spot is one of few along this part of the Housatonic with easy access from Route 7. You can click the photo to see a larger version.
Housatonic Reverie
This is my river, the Housatonic.
This water flows through my land.
I learned to walk near its banks,
Played on a street that bore its name.
I had to turn around and come back to find it –
give up the illusion of forward motion –
to sit on this rock and hear the water’s voice
singing a long-lost lullaby.
Tadpoles swim in a pool sheltered by stones.
They, too, will learn to walk
along the banks of the Housatonic.
Those, that is, who survive
the difficult road to maturity,
a road whose casualties
line the shoulder
like so many car-struck deer.
I put out my right foot to steady myself,
place it on a rock that wobbles;
a handy metaphor to remind me of the
uncertainty of even the most solid objects.
Down the river a ways, a hawk makes silent circles.
The occasional car covers up the water’s voice,
but its song always returns, summoning me
home to my river, my land, my life.
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The title of this poem comes from the title of one of composer Andrew Durkin’s blog posts.
Image by batega
by chance and trembling
by chance and trembling
he touched her
though perhaps it was
not by chance
a design buried deep
beneath his skin
below the rush of blood
the pounding heart
intricate tracery
coloring his cheeks
as the tips of his fingers
hummed against her pulse
there are moments of clarity
instants when the universe is tactile
when nothing is left to chance
when the trembling stops
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pumpkin
she’s almost at the end of the poem
when she slips and says
“punkin”
just like that, all those careful years
peel away, she stands
in a flower-print dress her mother made
reading in front of the class
stumbling over the hard words
in her accent the kids made fun of
she spent years silencing that voice
replacing it with the calm, assured
sophistication that befits a woman of means
she catches herself – puts the “p” where it belongs
but it’s too late, everyone has seen
the scared girl behind the sophisticate
the sweat-soaked dress clinging to her past
the voice she cannot silence
pouring from her mouth