Poetry Reading at a Community College
The hardbacked plastic chair creaks,
Weight shifting from side to side, trying
To catch a glimpse between the mishmash
Suited scholars and bored twentysomethings,
It's whispering under the breath of the distinguished poet
Who's gripping the podium and casting eyes to the rafters
Reciting verse while we all tail behind,
It must be that point in the evening when classes are over
And in the catwalks above, the nurses-in-training spill out
Above the motley crowd, you, in your pink scrubs,
Phone plastered against your cheek, loudly proclaim
"There's some guy reading something"
To that invisible party on the other side,
The weight shifts back as heads crane backward
So you say, "Yeah, idunno, what are you up to?"
Ignoring the huff-and-puff of the offended audience
Even the students, the slaves of extra credit assignments,
Click their teeth and shake their heads, lazy eyes
Following you down the staircase, back and forth
Crossing the foyer, disappearing, and crossing again.
And like the poet, we transport to your future
As you check us in to the emergency room
Slap on a blood pressure sleeve around our waist,
Tighten the belt as you wield your pen
Check some box on a form to mark an estimated blood type,
Your gum smacks as you wheel us down the hallway,
Leaving us unattended outside some room, then depart,
Finding yourself halfway and turn around, blushing
Saying, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I caught your name."
4.08.2011
NaPoWriMo #8: Repeat the Chorus
Repeat the Chorus
If you could float, like an unmoored vessel
over the river's high water, swept through
banked trees up to their waists in spring cleaning,
I'd hope you would find yourself crashed, washed ashore
here in this parking lot where the low tide
requires handicap plates and swim trunks.
Land simply, harbored in the swelling of ebb and flow
to some place quiet like a pioneer home.
Far upstream from where trust funds with haircuts and
sideways caps stomp and holler at recollections of the Depression,
shaking the floor until it collapses.
Where below the floorboards and dust,
a veiled memorial continues to be stomped on, hollered at,
now repeat the chorus two more times!
No, I hope you come to shore closer to home,
right next to where no memory needs to be revealed
and the word "reconstruction" means to mortar some bricks,
not to paint over rubble and call it preservation.
No one is coming, and I don't think anybody
is going to be parking down here for a while.
So, what do you say, Tom Sawyer,
can I be your [redcated] Jim?
If you could float, like an unmoored vessel
over the river's high water, swept through
banked trees up to their waists in spring cleaning,
I'd hope you would find yourself crashed, washed ashore
here in this parking lot where the low tide
requires handicap plates and swim trunks.
Land simply, harbored in the swelling of ebb and flow
to some place quiet like a pioneer home.
Far upstream from where trust funds with haircuts and
sideways caps stomp and holler at recollections of the Depression,
shaking the floor until it collapses.
Where below the floorboards and dust,
a veiled memorial continues to be stomped on, hollered at,
now repeat the chorus two more times!
No, I hope you come to shore closer to home,
right next to where no memory needs to be revealed
and the word "reconstruction" means to mortar some bricks,
not to paint over rubble and call it preservation.
No one is coming, and I don't think anybody
is going to be parking down here for a while.
So, what do you say, Tom Sawyer,
can I be your [redcated] Jim?
4.07.2011
NaPoWriMo #7: A Skyscraper, not Tripoli
A Skyscraper, not Tripoli
The windows, papered over for protection,
are not partial walls riddled with bullets
from decades of ham-fisted management,
some distant status quo that exhausts itself before its time.
The windows, papered over in privacy
hiding human resources and boxes of discount tissue.
These are vestiges of an economy that trips
over and over again to show just how far we've come
because we don't have riddled walls.
And as war criminals bang their fists on an empty podium
calling out to supporters to kill their own,
I walk past the papered reflection knowing that
behind that protection my own are numbered,
where the pounding hands of upper management
are letting us go, calling it aworkforcereduction,
notaneasychoice, as a nodding head you've never met
confirms what we've known to be true all this time –
that the status quo had exhausted itself and now it's time.
So we all sit together, sharing a worry for the next one
to be snatched up, and by the time they come to lead
her away, everyone cries because it's her birthday today,
and as she walks to her car holding a potted plant and a severance check
I keep looking at that papered over reflection
and replaying the news report about a soldier in Libya
who jumped from his plane instead of bombing his own.
I haven't had the courage to walk out from that job I hate
that makes me weigh tragedy against being unfortunate
or put upon, but I still can't escape that it feels good
to picture it like our papered windows are those riddled walls,
that we share a revolutionary vitriol deep in our bellies
and someday we'll make our demands. But we're foolish.
So I gather my coat, take the skyway to my car,
start it up and take off for a quiet home life.
The peaceniks on Franklin Avenue are just starting to gather,
and I wait idle as an old man waves two flags – half peace, half American –
as he looks with trepidation as they won't unfurl to polar ends,
nothing that the pull of a cord won't fix.
The windows, papered over for protection,
are not partial walls riddled with bullets
from decades of ham-fisted management,
some distant status quo that exhausts itself before its time.
The windows, papered over in privacy
hiding human resources and boxes of discount tissue.
These are vestiges of an economy that trips
over and over again to show just how far we've come
because we don't have riddled walls.
And as war criminals bang their fists on an empty podium
calling out to supporters to kill their own,
I walk past the papered reflection knowing that
behind that protection my own are numbered,
where the pounding hands of upper management
are letting us go, calling it aworkforcereduction,
notaneasychoice, as a nodding head you've never met
confirms what we've known to be true all this time –
that the status quo had exhausted itself and now it's time.
So we all sit together, sharing a worry for the next one
to be snatched up, and by the time they come to lead
her away, everyone cries because it's her birthday today,
and as she walks to her car holding a potted plant and a severance check
I keep looking at that papered over reflection
and replaying the news report about a soldier in Libya
who jumped from his plane instead of bombing his own.
I haven't had the courage to walk out from that job I hate
that makes me weigh tragedy against being unfortunate
or put upon, but I still can't escape that it feels good
to picture it like our papered windows are those riddled walls,
that we share a revolutionary vitriol deep in our bellies
and someday we'll make our demands. But we're foolish.
So I gather my coat, take the skyway to my car,
start it up and take off for a quiet home life.
The peaceniks on Franklin Avenue are just starting to gather,
and I wait idle as an old man waves two flags – half peace, half American –
as he looks with trepidation as they won't unfurl to polar ends,
nothing that the pull of a cord won't fix.
4.06.2011
NaPoWriMo #6: A Poem My Mother Will Love (Autumn Wars)
Autumn Wars
We first noticed the hole in August, in the upper corner of the room hidden by the mantle and watchful eyes of the cherubs. For weeks before, we had wondered where the pellets of animal waste were coming from, or why the pantry always seemed more bare than we had left it. We staked it out, waiting by the corner to catch a mouse, sillily armed with tennis rackets and garbage bags. You'd think we were waiting for the Hun army, battle plans were scattered across the dining room table. I stationed myself, the Commander, at the ready as you, my dear lieutenant, hunched low, arms spread open with a plastic bag gaping for our prey. We were almost ready to call it a night when the first head poked out from the darkened hollow. A tail, followed by the scurry of claws and another hungry head, and soon we were face to face with the enemy. Not the mice we had diligently planned against, but two fat squirrels sat on the mantle, slipped behind the sentried cherubs, down to the floor and darted to the faint trail of rice lingering at the bottom of our pantry. You shrieked, I swung wildly, like a blind man in a wind storm. You dropped the bag and the two grey bandits scurried back up the heating duct and retreated to their hollow.
***
The next day you showed up with your father's bb gun, so we sat out on the stoop sniping the thieves who were eating us out of house and home. We sat there all summer, vigilant in defense, always taking turns on the watch. You were a much better shot, and you always looked so confidently blood-thirsty every time you tagged one. We'd carry out the dead to the compost heap by the alley, turning invaders back into earth, our little way of justifying our preventative destruction. When the snow finally came to cause the dénouement, there were sixteen pelts hanging from our trophy belts. We patched the hole and filled our pantry to the brim.
***
When the earth thawed, I slung your father's gun over my shoulder and backed my bike out from its winter shed. I was halfway to your house when I heard the blast, pitching forward over my handlebars and onto the pothole-riddled street. Under the tire, freshly exploded, there was a squirrel, deader than Moses, dragged out by some alley cat or karmic bitch, where with one last bout of prideful existence had managed to sink a sharp tooth through the rubber. I commended the valiant nature-warrior, holder of all revenge, swept it off into the gutter and wheeled my bike down the road to your house. I left the gun on the porch. It never takes an army to tell you when you've been defeated.
We first noticed the hole in August, in the upper corner of the room hidden by the mantle and watchful eyes of the cherubs. For weeks before, we had wondered where the pellets of animal waste were coming from, or why the pantry always seemed more bare than we had left it. We staked it out, waiting by the corner to catch a mouse, sillily armed with tennis rackets and garbage bags. You'd think we were waiting for the Hun army, battle plans were scattered across the dining room table. I stationed myself, the Commander, at the ready as you, my dear lieutenant, hunched low, arms spread open with a plastic bag gaping for our prey. We were almost ready to call it a night when the first head poked out from the darkened hollow. A tail, followed by the scurry of claws and another hungry head, and soon we were face to face with the enemy. Not the mice we had diligently planned against, but two fat squirrels sat on the mantle, slipped behind the sentried cherubs, down to the floor and darted to the faint trail of rice lingering at the bottom of our pantry. You shrieked, I swung wildly, like a blind man in a wind storm. You dropped the bag and the two grey bandits scurried back up the heating duct and retreated to their hollow.
***
The next day you showed up with your father's bb gun, so we sat out on the stoop sniping the thieves who were eating us out of house and home. We sat there all summer, vigilant in defense, always taking turns on the watch. You were a much better shot, and you always looked so confidently blood-thirsty every time you tagged one. We'd carry out the dead to the compost heap by the alley, turning invaders back into earth, our little way of justifying our preventative destruction. When the snow finally came to cause the dénouement, there were sixteen pelts hanging from our trophy belts. We patched the hole and filled our pantry to the brim.
***
When the earth thawed, I slung your father's gun over my shoulder and backed my bike out from its winter shed. I was halfway to your house when I heard the blast, pitching forward over my handlebars and onto the pothole-riddled street. Under the tire, freshly exploded, there was a squirrel, deader than Moses, dragged out by some alley cat or karmic bitch, where with one last bout of prideful existence had managed to sink a sharp tooth through the rubber. I commended the valiant nature-warrior, holder of all revenge, swept it off into the gutter and wheeled my bike down the road to your house. I left the gun on the porch. It never takes an army to tell you when you've been defeated.
4.05.2011
NaPoWriMo 2011 #5: city deer
city deer
the snapped twig was all it took,
sending the city deer scuttling down the hill
and you called over to see if i'd seen her,
so I walked over to where you were standing,
snapping more twigs with every step,
it was early spring and the ground was covered
in remnants of dead grass and Corona bottles.
we saw the deer cut a path further down
toward the railroad tracks until she disappeared.
the grey clouds sunk over the downtown skyline,
and the garbage reservoir rippled below,
little waves of poison reaching toward the city's center,
and as we stood there on the undeveloped plain
you asked me if i was getting sick of you yet.
how could i not say no?
the snapped twig was all it took,
sending the city deer scuttling down the hill
and you called over to see if i'd seen her,
so I walked over to where you were standing,
snapping more twigs with every step,
it was early spring and the ground was covered
in remnants of dead grass and Corona bottles.
we saw the deer cut a path further down
toward the railroad tracks until she disappeared.
the grey clouds sunk over the downtown skyline,
and the garbage reservoir rippled below,
little waves of poison reaching toward the city's center,
and as we stood there on the undeveloped plain
you asked me if i was getting sick of you yet.
how could i not say no?
4.04.2011
NaPoWriMo #4: Whitewater
Whitewater
the summer we headed down to Whitewater
it was the rainy season
so we packed extra tarps
to fight off the groundswells.
you lit the camp stove, huddled up
under a tree void of scratched initials,
told me your fears of losing me
vanishing in the distance of your rearview mirror,
so I eased your conscience and scratched
a name and a promise deep into your back,
someone to follow you forever.
by stovelight we made it back
crawling over the threshold before
the first lightning struck, your eyes
shut down in the new darkness
but I kept mine wide for you, so when
the thunder shook foundation I could be the reflection, constant,
the short gasp before your screams.
when we woke up on soaked sheets
I held you tighter than bark
and told you I loved you for the first time,
pinning my chest between your shoulders
all to keep you here in this tent forever, at least
until we were old enough to know better.
that was so many summers ago
and I wonder if your husband ever traces
those scratches I left carved in your skin
like reading a book that was given away
by its own ending, a flurry of acknowledgements,
and does he wonder why your eyes close
when the hot air turns to rain?
I hope he doesn't, because I haven't told a soul.
the summer we headed down to Whitewater
it was the rainy season
so we packed extra tarps
to fight off the groundswells.
you lit the camp stove, huddled up
under a tree void of scratched initials,
told me your fears of losing me
vanishing in the distance of your rearview mirror,
so I eased your conscience and scratched
a name and a promise deep into your back,
someone to follow you forever.
by stovelight we made it back
crawling over the threshold before
the first lightning struck, your eyes
shut down in the new darkness
but I kept mine wide for you, so when
the thunder shook foundation I could be the reflection, constant,
the short gasp before your screams.
when we woke up on soaked sheets
I held you tighter than bark
and told you I loved you for the first time,
pinning my chest between your shoulders
all to keep you here in this tent forever, at least
until we were old enough to know better.
that was so many summers ago
and I wonder if your husband ever traces
those scratches I left carved in your skin
like reading a book that was given away
by its own ending, a flurry of acknowledgements,
and does he wonder why your eyes close
when the hot air turns to rain?
I hope he doesn't, because I haven't told a soul.
4.03.2011
NaPoWriMo 2011 #2: One of These Days
One of These Days
One of these days you'll find yourself deadand I won't be the wiser or know youby your Christian name, your childhood petor any hard words you've gone by.
There will be no eulogies, no empathy,but a state funeral where the only coffee servedis the ring left on a certificate no one files.
No grave for flowers, no one to leave them,and I won't be tracing your genealogy orcalling friends searching for a common memory,something passionate between us.
I'll be too busy hyperventilating in the driver's seatas I try to make peace with your bodywrapped around my fender, or to explain awaythe bits of cranium on the windshieldand why that night you stepped out from the Gospel Missionwith nowhere else to go, decided University was fit for a stroll,and disappeared forever on the hood of my car.
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