The Obvious Child
A single window, double-paned, is brimming with exhalations of yesterday, and vivid yolks of the morning crack and release through its open blinds. Sonny’s mouth is open, a last cavern of the night evaporating out into the direct glare of the sunlight as he jolts awake from his oversized grey office swivel-chair. It is Sunday.
Years ago, a Sunday morning would have yielded for Sonny a slow, down-comforter steam from the sun of the bedroom windows. It would have been probably ten in the morning or so before its release, when his wife would gingerly walk to the front door, her hot feet making steam footprints on the tile floor along the way.
For some reason, he now recalls the tender, delicate places where the comforter always wore away near the top edges, how little feathers that were supposed to be bad for your lungs would escape into the golden dust of the air. His wife would always lie with him until she was sure she wouldn’t wake him by getting up, and would dance away and back with a newspaper, a needle and thread. There was never any rushing, not on Sunday. These were the years before the ticking alarm of shelved items near the bed, pulsing with every child’s footstep down the stairs for seven a.m. cartoons. This was before the birthday that Angie, Sonny’s wife, had started using that damned hairspray with it’s caustic, tongue violating fumes that ever after would render the bedroom unsuitable for crosswords during the morning hours. This was before discount, bulk supermarkets, before Rogaine.
In good morning tradition, Sonny stretches his legs out, his back. He tightens his muscles from his legs up, his butt, his shoulders and fists. He exhales heavily, his mouth a torn seam of night, a purgatory for the restless coffee fumes, sugar-loaf leftovers, dormant enzymes. This morning, he thinks he can almost see bed feathers issue into the bedroom air. That is, he hasn’t found where his glasses must have fallen the night before. He slides off the last remaining piece of furniture as his knee crinkles onto the newspaper classifieds. Pawing the carpets, his hand is banded with thin shadows from the blinds. His fingers trickle into the pockets of depressed carpet circles: the dresser had been here. He leans to the side, more circles: the bed corner here, the fern stand here. He has forgotten the search for his glasses. His eyes close into little convex circles and he wants to say to someone that some rooms are like cages.
A crack. Just when he tries to stand. The pricking give of hard plastic end eye lense pierces Sonny’s elbow. His shoulders slump forward and he resigns again to sit inside himself, looking out with blurry vision, blurry now not only because of his impaired eyesight. It pierces the thick air, the bare walls, the furnace of Sonny’s chest, and more crackling issues forth. Thin whimpers lean on the slants of sunlight as Sonny’s head rocks in his hands. The illuminated morning dust now like sparks moving into ash.
And he recalls the comforter. The little feather bits exhaling into the golden light of the morning, how the little holes became slowly instead little stitches of thread, strong and steadfast in comparison to the brittle fabric surrounding them. How eventually, that comforter became more a dappled collection of mended holes than comforter. Sonny remembers how, when asked why it had to be thrown away, his wife had said, “Well dear, because I can’t fix the whole thing, now can I?”
Friday, May 8, 2009
NEW POEMS
BEAST
A trash-can-plastic planter overflows with runoff
from the split-roof aluminum drainage system.
Hard, shiny painted squirrels
chew their everlasting Wonka nut
as the flow of gutter water
peaks and froths—
a disappearing failed soufflé
The ground-in waterfall off the rear porch
won’t have to battery operate a splash today
and the cracked paint of the backyard bench
beneath the trellis dressed with fake grapes,
its paint inhales with moisture
-wants to flake off onto the Levis
of any future someone
on a distant dry day
below, amongst worms and crayon-box canary graves,
that’s where the real action is
the Wonka inspiration is among the beasties!
There are bird-seed hoarding squirrels
Who can figure out any bird box that can be bought
and –gasp- places that are still rototilled the old fashioned way
because we are still trying to figure it out:
where instinct goes when its husk dies off,
the invisible germination mechanics of fission logic,
and like worms in asphalt puddles after rain,
at some point, we’ll have to leave the rest
to the possibility of sun.
The Perfect Lover
We’re in Lefty O’Douls on Grant street when
She walks in,
leaving her smoke lambskin, seam detail, pintuck-scallop trim jacket
--Which perfectly matches her shoes, by the way—
at the door.
And with a tight-lipped,
Loose-hip
Rock-and-roll
strut like that,
I’ll bet that after three vodka tonics,
I could get her to show me her guitar face.
Eyes would half moon in an instant
Surveying the
the 490R and 498T alnico magnet humbucker pickups
atop the
hand carved maple top and mahogany back,
Chrome---
No.
(For that tight little number)
Gold
hardware
Adorning the rosewood fingerboard
of my 1983 Studio Gibson Les Paul Electric
And more
But wait
She slips between a couple at the bar
to order her drink
A Bronx cocktail, no. 2, dry,
-class-
And I’ll bet the bartender shook it 50 times—
(ten longer than necessary)
Just for an excuse to linger…
…
she walks out toward the balcony for a cigarette
when the 1957 classic
‘blue train’
sounds out over the chatter
and
she pauses
…so this is a coltrane woman…
for her only the
Hamer USA Monaco Elite
With its
Arched, flamed maple top, single cutaway, ivaroid, Honduran-mahogany body,
Dovetail neck joint,
Rosewood fingerboard,
Mother of pearl victory inlays,
Chrome Schaller tuners
And 3 Hamer 500kOhms (custom taper) split shaft potentiometers, and a Switchcraft lever switch
Capable of finely dictating the delicate rise and fall of her perfect chest
Would do
But wait—
She is still pausing in front of the balcony doors—
This is my chance.
I approach her from behind
--her long, coffee-auburn hair which extends past her exposed shoulder blades
rustles in the slight breeze from the door when
(as my hand approaches her shoulder)
she reaches into her purse
for the source of a muffled
slightly familiar tune
-her phone-
ringing with the 1999, tween-tinged smash-hit, pop star debut single from Britney Spears-
Baby One More Time—and—
and,
well,
she answers.
“hello?”
and forever shuffles off into the oblivion of auto-vocal correction
with underpaid song-writers and,
stock guitar loops.
probably synthesized.
Sestina:
Ascension
The dimming breeze of Fall
loosens heat’s still grip
and we spring
forth, heads in high gear,
Heaving stiff new rope
up splintered walls of rock.
If you’ve never touched rock
cold still from nights during Fall,
Then you’re heart has not hung from the rope
of numb hands, and fear’s tightening grip.
Your stomach lurches as if you’ve dropped all your gear
400 feet above ground, and you’re only option is a downward spring…
In the winter of our fear, we desperately search for Spring,
a mother moving off of her child, a monumental rock
but we are left with one last leaf, which winter takes after Fall
we oil, with our hands, our bodies’ every gear
It is our hands, and our grip,
after all, that make for us the possibility of untying the mind’s knotted rope
We think of this too often without rope
when we are safe on a mattress spring
late at night, in each other’s grip,
Who knew we would need rock
to conform our bodies to, and that our fear of a fall
could enable us to use a previously unknown gear?
It is on the wall then, while placing our gear
and the possibility that we use our rope,
but don’t need it, that to fall
seems indeed like flight. In the case that our protection then loses its spring,
indeed we may fly amongst the magnificent rock:
a blissful way to accept the loosening of life’s dear grip.
Covertly, fear’s grip
is too often what leaves us without gear
enough to manage our troubles, and as immovable as rock,
fear too is the fiber that makes up the rope
of our noose. It waits to spring
for our necks, when we stand above our comfort, at the moment of inevitable fall.
For us, rock is abrasive enough for the fibers of that rope.
Our grip is our gear
as we spring into action, and accept the flight as well as the fall.
A trash-can-plastic planter overflows with runoff
from the split-roof aluminum drainage system.
Hard, shiny painted squirrels
chew their everlasting Wonka nut
as the flow of gutter water
peaks and froths—
a disappearing failed soufflé
The ground-in waterfall off the rear porch
won’t have to battery operate a splash today
and the cracked paint of the backyard bench
beneath the trellis dressed with fake grapes,
its paint inhales with moisture
-wants to flake off onto the Levis
of any future someone
on a distant dry day
below, amongst worms and crayon-box canary graves,
that’s where the real action is
the Wonka inspiration is among the beasties!
There are bird-seed hoarding squirrels
Who can figure out any bird box that can be bought
and –gasp- places that are still rototilled the old fashioned way
because we are still trying to figure it out:
where instinct goes when its husk dies off,
the invisible germination mechanics of fission logic,
and like worms in asphalt puddles after rain,
at some point, we’ll have to leave the rest
to the possibility of sun.
The Perfect Lover
We’re in Lefty O’Douls on Grant street when
She walks in,
leaving her smoke lambskin, seam detail, pintuck-scallop trim jacket
--Which perfectly matches her shoes, by the way—
at the door.
And with a tight-lipped,
Loose-hip
Rock-and-roll
strut like that,
I’ll bet that after three vodka tonics,
I could get her to show me her guitar face.
Eyes would half moon in an instant
Surveying the
the 490R and 498T alnico magnet humbucker pickups
atop the
hand carved maple top and mahogany back,
Chrome---
No.
(For that tight little number)
Gold
hardware
Adorning the rosewood fingerboard
of my 1983 Studio Gibson Les Paul Electric
And more
But wait
She slips between a couple at the bar
to order her drink
A Bronx cocktail, no. 2, dry,
-class-
And I’ll bet the bartender shook it 50 times—
(ten longer than necessary)
Just for an excuse to linger…
…
she walks out toward the balcony for a cigarette
when the 1957 classic
‘blue train’
sounds out over the chatter
and
she pauses
…so this is a coltrane woman…
for her only the
Hamer USA Monaco Elite
With its
Arched, flamed maple top, single cutaway, ivaroid, Honduran-mahogany body,
Dovetail neck joint,
Rosewood fingerboard,
Mother of pearl victory inlays,
Chrome Schaller tuners
And 3 Hamer 500kOhms (custom taper) split shaft potentiometers, and a Switchcraft lever switch
Capable of finely dictating the delicate rise and fall of her perfect chest
Would do
But wait—
She is still pausing in front of the balcony doors—
This is my chance.
I approach her from behind
--her long, coffee-auburn hair which extends past her exposed shoulder blades
rustles in the slight breeze from the door when
(as my hand approaches her shoulder)
she reaches into her purse
for the source of a muffled
slightly familiar tune
-her phone-
ringing with the 1999, tween-tinged smash-hit, pop star debut single from Britney Spears-
Baby One More Time—and—
and,
well,
she answers.
“hello?”
and forever shuffles off into the oblivion of auto-vocal correction
with underpaid song-writers and,
stock guitar loops.
probably synthesized.
Sestina:
Ascension
The dimming breeze of Fall
loosens heat’s still grip
and we spring
forth, heads in high gear,
Heaving stiff new rope
up splintered walls of rock.
If you’ve never touched rock
cold still from nights during Fall,
Then you’re heart has not hung from the rope
of numb hands, and fear’s tightening grip.
Your stomach lurches as if you’ve dropped all your gear
400 feet above ground, and you’re only option is a downward spring…
In the winter of our fear, we desperately search for Spring,
a mother moving off of her child, a monumental rock
but we are left with one last leaf, which winter takes after Fall
we oil, with our hands, our bodies’ every gear
It is our hands, and our grip,
after all, that make for us the possibility of untying the mind’s knotted rope
We think of this too often without rope
when we are safe on a mattress spring
late at night, in each other’s grip,
Who knew we would need rock
to conform our bodies to, and that our fear of a fall
could enable us to use a previously unknown gear?
It is on the wall then, while placing our gear
and the possibility that we use our rope,
but don’t need it, that to fall
seems indeed like flight. In the case that our protection then loses its spring,
indeed we may fly amongst the magnificent rock:
a blissful way to accept the loosening of life’s dear grip.
Covertly, fear’s grip
is too often what leaves us without gear
enough to manage our troubles, and as immovable as rock,
fear too is the fiber that makes up the rope
of our noose. It waits to spring
for our necks, when we stand above our comfort, at the moment of inevitable fall.
For us, rock is abrasive enough for the fibers of that rope.
Our grip is our gear
as we spring into action, and accept the flight as well as the fall.
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