Outside, a yard with weeds
Strangling the life out of real flowers
And my attempts at revision
But I side track…
Under the sheets wet with hot flashes
I live in a dream place
Changing nightmares
To night visions of sea waves
Tumbling me over and over to a new place
And I recognize the fresh me in such dream
Upon awakening I look at my flesh
See the old wearied me
And realize the alone factor
That got me to the place I am
In the first place
I’m tearing up lettuce cutting up cucumbers tomatoes
not thinking about the upcoming week’s problems
turn the TV volume down on some sports event till 60 minutes
begins: its news story Stand Down shoots the volume up
out of my control into another tense
a truce between the past and present is broken
I watch vets crowd around tents asking for help: treatment jobs
and it’s 1993 again…we are at the first stand down
a vet salutes him and he salutes back salutes a future intuited
I do not travel beyond that day an outsider
I am taking it all in happy just to be together
the news commentator focuses on some homeless vets
he was never homeless not physically but was
mentally he told me years later trying to make me understand
what it’s like to become voiceless:
“can hear the tune can t sing”*
I couldn’t stop and he didn’t want me to
but there it was impassible
stand down: at ease a temporary ceasefire
a Walt Disney survival fantasy:
word like a rock someone on a cliff throws off
hitting a person in a passing car
sniper word no one is ever prepared for…not I
not then not now not
that Sunday October 10th 2009
————————————-
From “ the boys in the band” by Andrew Gettler
–for Valerie
Sometimes looking back,
we see details we missed:
monsters swim in a glass of water
that sits on the table between us. Yes,
several jealous demons we should have
beaten until dead appear in sweet tea.
Our parting—an incident both tragic
and inevitable—is due only in part
to cruel and tragic words I can never
un-speak. There were hints I should have
heeded, sheets we should have stripped
from the bed, laundered and aired
in the sweet southern breeze
months ago. Through life’s changes—
health, power, and inevitable loss
of our mothers’ unique wisdoms—
two southern women have become,
perhaps, too tired to overcome pain
that stands where they once danced
in sisterhood, sweater-clad.
Some days turn out better than others.
Some days I utter words I should never
have spoken. Some days a hurricane
smashes the land.
My mother died in March, you know,
but I learned from FaceBook
we were undone. Our parting wounds
became a second death, a second need
for freedom to grieve. Yes, time provides
space between events; it guarantees us
nothing more. But looking forward
instead of back, I still choose to love you.
Poet man…lost and found in a city of angles…didn’t anyone ever tell
you…to get to La Cienega and Sunset you need good freeway
directions and at least…three sets of wings?
It’s strictly a seraphim town…and if the cherubim forget their
diapers and arrows…they never make it to central casting.
And if you don’t have a car you are left flat…on streets stretching from
Santa Monica to Pasadena…waiting for buses that run once every three hours.
And no matter how long you wait…think twice before you get on one…
unless you know who is driving…otherwise you might wind up some place unimaginable.
Just ask the Black Dahlia. She’ll tell you…if you can find her head.
It is all who you know…or say you know…and you did say you were
going to shot those videos and make those recordings…but something
went wrong and word was you were almost homeless…and then you
vanished…and we thought you were dead on a morgue table with a
tag on your toe saying… ”Poet…DNA determined…name unknown.”
And then there you were again…found by that friend on a book tour…
.internet moment. Picture posted in a room sitting cross-legged on an
unmade bed chanting, “monkeys and sparrows…caught in the wind…
nothing to loose…nothing to win…this is not a mask”
Form is tighter…more focused…but the vision has shifted. It’s clear
you’re not in love with that girl from Chicago anymore…and sanity is
a daily determination… but still…you do see horizons to wander into…
if you squint.
And I do have some advice…because…you see…I was born down
there in Angel Land…so I do happen to know a few things about it.
First of all…about that wing thing…you’ll never fly if you don’t try.
It is all a matter of place…they say…at the right time.
Just remember…ultimately…all angels descend…so forget Icarus
and think Pegasus. (As Roy Rogers used to say… ”horse sense
is the best sense.”)
And…if you do make a crossroads bargain…insist on…at least…
seven figures.
And if you ever do happen to move to Topanga…
like you say you want to…be sure to keep your cats locked inside
at night…otherwise…coyotes will eat them.
She leaned over her fake eyes, knees, remember please do her close face disbelieve, a
movie, no one else. Important. Look. Sad not even though he was sick. Tis true. A year
supply of popcorn for this one or two. Depend.
I am watching you walk away
as I stand in line at the Yogurt shop,
You half-heartedly check your phone
and hesitate as if the choice
Is between a million shark bites
or a drop off a long, long, pier
I want to ask you about
Man’s future,
Will you stay here on Planet Earth
or will you go off-world?
An asteroid is only a matter of time
Or so they say,
There are Plagues, overpopulation, wars,
And let’s not forget boredom,
Stranger, I have a question
It will only take a second
In memory of Miriam Patchen
when the crow and I are alone
life is much easier, he alights
onto my shoulder and listens
to the traffic as a crow must do
in order to survive
he keeps a list of other birds
on a tablet in his heart
I scream and the crow caws
I rage and the crow
ruffles his feathers
a people must understand
what is important
in the life of a crow
love is important
and thus I offer mine
a man and a crow
the crow and ceremonial song
come along and speak to the bird
he has a hallway of his own
he loves the gold chain
in his cage
he likes to come out and fly in his hall
one day he took me up to the sky
out of my window we soared
over the low fog
and the other crows gathered in flight
persistent
look into the mind of this universe
take your storage boxes and toss the souvenirs
into the sky
crow is not a god
crow is not a medallion
the crow is not a charm
he will look for seed on my open palm
he will roost on a branch of the cold tree
we sit around together
he wrote this poem in order to save himself
he looks for redemption
he says Miriam dear Miriam so long ago
now you are a plant in the window
the great talons of this crow
I feel his power when sleep comes
rushing into the room
the dark is like his feathers
I have seen the cruel white hand of night
and my forehead beaded in sweat
BE AWARE OF THE SOUND
WHEN THE FOG IS MOVING
you know he rests
alongside all the crows imaginable
and they are beautiful
and primitive
just as we are, primal
and dangerous, heading forever toward disaster
this is what the fire is for
not only for warmth
here in the cold
it is possible to believe
that one may die a better way
not suffer so much
make it easy to disappear
the crow comes into the room
he flies into the room and I shut the window
dear Miriam there is a reason
and I have held it in hand
the crow is alive
“I say the drums are going like mad”
when the crow and I are alone
–March, 31, 2013
To become
sober
one must stare
into the glass
until the last
drop evaporates,
or take
a nap
that
long.
We both know it’s coming as sure as the dawn
but for now let’s put it in the place
where we keep all the things
we don’t think about
until we have no choice
because it’s a lovely afternoon
and we’ve found a pretty good place
to hide
and seeing my face
from a certain angle
and in a certain light
it’s possible to imagine
that this love has transformed me
into something bigger
than I am
and it’s true that sometimes people
have been known
to rise above their baser selves
to forge the future like a
spear
and for now it’s much more pleasant
to think of that
rather than the other
because this thing inside me
could be mistaken for love
the sex is really good
and sometimes it’s fun
to believe in things.
He’s been coming here
for 9 years
hauling plants
from Oregon
to any garden
center that buys
the green
distinctively better
container.
He has kind
brown eyes
and a drawl
that’s slow
like molasses.
We ate lunch
together and talk
about storm shelters,
Joplin
and our children.
When lunch ends
he tells my boss
“You should let her
take the afternoon
off.”
I laughed
and walked away.
15 trucks
will leave this place
and roll down I-5
by the time
Friday evening
arrives.
Rusty Truck 