Jazz Means “I Dare You”
Feet hanging off
the edge of the bed,
even though I know
the cat will bite me.
/ / /
27 November 2024
Charlottesville VA
(The title is a paraphrase
of something said by
saxophonist Wayne Shorter.)
Jason Crane Posts
Meditation
If I sit on this couch
quietly enough, still enough,
perhaps I will disappear.
/ / /
22 November 2024
Charlottesville VA
Documentarian
Here’s William Stafford:
well along in years, lying
on a couch that’s conformed
to the shape of a poet,
writing his daily lines,
trying to get it all down
before the divots in the cushions
are all that remains
of the collection of atoms
named William Stafford.
/ / /
19 November 2024
Charlottesville VA
You should watch this.
Leave a CommentCredit Line
Playing MJ Lenderman on the radio.
He’s having a moment.
I guess we all are,
in a manner of speaking.
It was cloudy but the sun’s out now,
shining on the trees outside the studio.
They might be big bushes.
I never was very good at identifying things.
Paths, purposes, plans:
I know people have them but I can’t find mine.
My friend says the secret is credit card debt.
My limit was just extended.
Is this my guru on the mountaintop?
Save me, Capital One. I’m ready.
///
18 November 2024
Charlottesville VA
outside the window
cessation of the upstairs AC:
enlightenment!
/ / /
17 November 2024
Charlottesville VA
I’ll be honest, when my schedule shifted to hosting the morning show and I could no longer do the vigil, I was quietly relieved. Ten months of standing on that street corner every day had taken it out of me. It wasn’t the people yelling obscenities or “Go Israel!” or “Get a job!” or any of the other inanities. It was the daily parade of apathy. People driving by, glancing in our direction or keeping their eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. The half-smiles, the “it’s all so sad” eyebrows. Ten months of that just … got to me.
So, when my job schedule changed and I had to stop, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders and a pressure ease in my chest. But in the months since August 9, my last day at the vigil, a different weight has settled on me. A different pressure. Both stem from disconnection. From leaving a fight long before it was won. From not seeing those people who made me feel sane and hopeful every day, even in the face of apathy.
Last Monday I went back to the corner of Rugby Ave and Rugby Rd by myself at 3 PM to stand there for an hour and to see what it was like. I made a double-sided sign using two of my old signs – FREE GAZA NOW and YOUR APATHY KILLS KIDS. I realized that from one direction it wasn’t clear what I was talking about, so on Monday night I went and bought new supplies and made a new double-sided sign that said FREE GAZA NOW on both sides. And on Election Day I went back to the corner and tried again. Then on Friday I went to lunch with a friend I’d met at the morning vigil and told her what I was doing. She and her husband joined me that afternoon, along with a passerby who used to occasionally stand with us and just happened to be walking down the road when we were there.
I’m not ready to commit to every day. But Monday and Friday feels manageable. More than that, it feels necessary. It’s not the only thing to do, but it’s a thing to do. It’s a way to force people to look, even for a second. And to force myself to remember, even when it’s so much easier not to. If you want to join me, I’ll be standing on the corner of Rugby Ave and Rugby Rd on Mondays and Fridays from 3-4 PM. Bring a sign. Feel like yourself. Join me. It’s a small thing, but it’s something.
How To Make An America
• 1 part genocide
• 1 part slavery
• 1 part apartheid
• 1 part supremacy
Heat for 400 years
in a pressure cooker,
until the steam
escapes the valve.
Then, holding
the cooker at arm’s length,
carry it to a bombed-out
hospital or school,
set it in the foyer,
take 20 paces back,
wait.
///
6 November 2024
Charlottesville, VA
a squirrel revealed
in the fall
of a leaf
/ / /
6 October 2024
Charlottesville VA
gunshot acorns
smack the shed roof
always more water for rain
/ / /
2 October 2024
Charlottesville VA
Tonight, My Heart Is North
1.
Swallows, bat-like,
swoop over the sycamore.
A low breeze raises blades
of grass beside our blanket.
The sounds of South Sudan
mingle with the clinks
of leashes and collars
and the sneakered footfalls of walkers.
The cat chases imaginary prey
up the trunk of the tree,
squirrels passing unnoticed
mere feet away.
2.
A break with routine:
I’ll forego a shower
so as not to miss
the sound of the rain.
I waited till the small hours
to close the bedroom window —
preferring a damp carpet
to the loss of the waterfall.
Since I was a kid
I’ve loved the car wash,
the sense of enclosure,
of safety in the flood.
This pre-dawn morning,
my bed is my transport —
from its shelter
I adore this world of water.
3.
It’s been raining for days —
today, warnings of a tornado,
but none appeared.
“If one comes I’ll run out,
let it take me,” I said.
“Over my dead body,”
they said, “I’ll knock you out.”
Tonight, my heart is north:
on the shores of the Memphramagog,
where a skunk slithers
around my legs;
on the beach at Provincetown,
kneeling in the sand
to photograph the wooden Buddha
I’d carried in my backpack;
after a movie on North Street in Pittsfield,
stopping to capture the sun
as it sinks between the buildings.
Part of me is always there —
walking the rocky beaches or
breathing in the Berkshires air or
looking over the waist-high wall at Quebec or
pulling a smooth stone from the edge of the Housatonic.
That ground — the land of my birth —
captured me a half-century ago.
It has never let me go.
I never want it to.
/ / /
September 2024
Charlottesville VA
Perhaps Hummingbirds
Perhaps there are hummingbirds —
on days when the burnweed isn’t blowing;
or when the workers in their tees and jeans
and steel-toed Redwings aren’t heaving
detritus into the temporary dumpster
with the Maximum Fill Limit sign;
or when the neighbor kids aren’t yelling “car!”
as they clomp down the street in their Crocs;
or when the cat is indoors rather than roaming
the front yard on his oft-tangled leash —
but I’ve never seen ’em.
/ / /
23 September 2024
Charlottesville VA
A Poem About How We Set Our Sights On One Thing
But Then Life Conspires To Deliver Something Else
A man and his dog stare out at the infinite universe:
desktop wallpaper on a computer monitor,
grey cubicle in a nondescript office.
/ / /
20 September 2024
Charlottesville VA
Up Late Reading Galway Kinnell
Up late – or at least late for me –
I lie on my stomach reading Galway Kinnell,
wondering at the lives I could have lived
if only I’d run away at 14, or
gotten on that plane, or been more
comfortable alone, or finished that degree,
or kept any one of a number of jobs, or
done the thing people thought I should do,
rather than what I did which was often
weird – you have to admit – and which
finds me up late, reading Galway Kinnell,
wondering at the lives I could have lived.
/ / /
14 September 2024
Charlottesville VA
Sunday & Monday
Pop songs in the tattoo shop.
All power to the people.
High tops splash color
like the mycelia on your arm.
Text: a break-up far away;
nothing is promised.
•
The next day:
Sacramento 12-string.
Cat wrapped around the bird bath.
Flannel season has arrived.
The neighbor going
wherever it is she goes.
•
Help me light this fuse.
I want to set fire
to the past
so I can use the flames
to light the way forward.
/ / /
8-9 September 2024
Scottsville and Charlottesville, VA
Precursor
Coltrane and Ellington.
Two mugs of chai.
The cat is in the hostas.
A simple morning.
We eat avocado toast,
pull ourselves up by our bootstraps.
Lorenzo Kom’boa Ervin
speaks of revolution.
/ / /
8 September 2024
Charlottesville VA