Poem for Monday, August 31, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

VII.

My Stoic grandmother wants to attend a Cherokee

powwow with me, and I would love to

take her. I will even buy her

turquoise jewelry and not reprimand her for

                being (slightly) ethnocentric.

I love you, Stoic grandmother.

I am part Cherokee. You are part Cherokee (I'd like

to believe you are, anyway). It's all about the

plight.

To my right is a photograph of my weeping father and

my beloved mother circa 1979; they are standing,

arm in arm, in my Stoic grandmother's front yard.

         Father is wearing a gold blazer and a patriotic tie.

         Mother is wearing a white lace dress.

They created me!

The past is a delicate thing; not just my past, but 

all of our pasts. Think about it:

in ????, the world came to be

in 1776, America came to be

in 1963, America's son died

and that's all most remember.

I purchased a 2 liter Coca Cola at a gas station,

and I lost it somewhere from there to my home, and

       I am terribly upset with myself.

        I am terribly upset with myself--that's

how I have felt mostly.

In a town called Wye, we walked through

a field of daffodils and perused through

a tin arts-and-crafts barn with wooden ornaments

and relics of the south.

Manly brother--you and I would cross the

boundaries of the daffodil fields and look for 

snakes in derelict bluebird boxes. We never found any,

             although we were adventurous enough. I came

to the edge of the woods with rotting oak and pine,

             and I felt at home. We felt at home.

Sometimes, when we were at home, we would look

        up at the sky at night, and I would tell you where

Venus was in relation to the moon, the universe, and us.

We both knew that it's simply a sulfuric acid-strewn

        planet with a touch of Greek goddess prestige, but

I always wanted to go there (did you?).

I always wanted to be an astronaut, but I was never

smart enough, and I was never disciplined enough,

and I was never, I was never, I was never.

How sad it is.

Our childhood innocence is not lost all at once

but gradually. We accept what we can do/cannot do,

        what we should pursue/should not pursue.

The poster of the water cycle in my tenth grade biology

class told me two things:

                                           where water went, and

                                           that I wasn't meant to be a

                                           scientist.

If you tell me I'm not meant to be a writer,

then I'll have nothing left.

Don't tell me that.

Don't tell me.

Don't tell me.

Don't.

(to be continued)

Poem for Sunday, August 30, 2009

I'm giving y'all a break from the "Coming Down" brilliance/monotony. Also, it feels fucking beautiful outside. I'm ready for you, September.

God, Love His Bones

"God, love his bones," he would say.

When I was a child, I would

bump my knee on a coffee table or

scrape my arm on a tree branch, and

my father would console me.

"God, love his bones," he would say,

holding me in his lap

against his chest.

(I remember crying, tears freely flowing

from prepubescent eyelids, unblocked

by the dam of pride.)

"God, love his bones," he would say,

kissing my forehead with paternal authority.

And we would sit in his smelly

recliner for awhile, watching football

and televangelists.

(When I was ready to leave him

to play again, I would squirm; he would

lift his legs and let me go.)

I would go back into the world

a slightly smarter little boy, ready

to endure more bruises and scars.

He would light his cigar, flick at his

translucent ashtray, and watch me.

(I have never gone back.

I will never look back.)

Poem for Saturday, August, 29, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

VI.

There is a (one of many, actually) post-modern minstrel

who plays my favorite hymn. He uses the sacred, polished

        acoustic guitar of whoever/whatever created us all, and it's always

              flawless, and it's always cathartic, and did I just die?

                                                    No.

Listening deeper, I grow chary of things.

        One day long ago, I was walking around in an Indian

reservation, shards of pottery older than my nation itself beneath

my feet.

        Another day long ago, I was walking on the Golden Gate

Bridge--early August, cloudy, 70 degrees. I have never felt

more spiritual.

        Yet another day long ago, you, weeping father, wrote

me the most genuine letter I've ever come across, telling me

you loved me.

You see, I have felt alive!

        And this feeling has spoiled me, like an Epicurian with an eternal supply

of manna. Because I cannot always feel this way, because

I am something called human, I will be terribly, terribly

                   deprived during my last chemical exchange. It's poison, it's

a humble realization, but so be it.

I

 am

      ready.

I want to be honest with you, reader. With all of you, readers, about this:

        science textbooks tell us that we are nothing

more than 46 chromosomes intertwined, 70% water, unpredictable

genetic allelic entities that thrive on oxygen.

The reason why I hate science is because it says nothing about

        LOVE. The closest it gets is talking about erections, which

are only sometimes love, but not enough times.

Trajan's Column is erect. Big Ben is erect. I am not (until you're

        ready, girl on the concrete steps). And I could

talk forever about exquisite monuments, weeping father, beloved mother,

manly brother, and Stoic grandmother. But I won't.

A new planet was discovered; it will combust within a million

years because of its orbiting and its moons.

                                That is way too soon. That isn't soon enough.

Which

is it?

       And what planet can exist without love and erections?

       And what planet do I want to be on when the creator

realizes they made a costly mistake in letting humans interact?

       And what planet am I from?

       And have I even sprung from my beloved mother's womb?

       And have you?

Those shards of pottery on the Indian reservation--they meant

            the world to me.

(to be continued)

Poem for Monday, August 24, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

V.

The wildfires are attacking the Athenians, torching

        olive vineyards, suburbs, and history. Nearby,

        Marathon is next (run, citizens!). Little

boys with names like Stavros and Mikos will

                               be temporarily displaced and lose

faith in the universe. I

        cannot blame them. Our world suffers. We suffer (and

our fathers still weep).

I read a book about a merchant who served

   Tangier tea in crystal glasses, and I became enamored

and thirsty--not for tea, but for company, for

                     faith in the universe. In the sky, an unseen

aircraft cuts through your favorite constellations,

   plowing through the nitrogen as a farmer does his soy fields,

carefully.

              I read on, and I hear about the "universal language" in

the stars--they speak to me in glows; they speak to me in

                   supernovas; they speak to me. And they speak to you

(I still

          love

                you). 

We'll take a Mediterranean cruise with the stars to bless the poor

          Athenians if Poseidon doesn't mind. I'll tell you of my

weeping father, my beloved mother, my manly brother,

my Stoic grandmother. You'll tell me of yours, too!

          Over dinner:

          sample the wine, pick at balsamic salad, and right

before the main course, you can tell me yours. Our server

          will wear a white, ruffled jacket and starched black

pants, and the shadow of starboard (we're sitting

               at the edge of the dining hall) will intersect with

his crooked smile--pretentious, but thankful for

      my generous tip, of course!

See, my fantasies are funny! I dream of this

not from the earth or not from outer space, but within myself.

        REVELATION: I, we, are our own planets. 

My cells are my moons: red and white, preserving and

destroying my body. My blood is my longest river, and it always

                  changes paths. My nucleus is my core. When two

people love each other, I believe it's nothing more

than two planets emerging in celestial confluence. Do you

           want that for us, girl on the

                                                      concrete steps?

Somewhere flat, maybe Kansas, maybe Mongolia, 

there is a lonely shepherd with

                             a hungry flock. He leads them through

monotonous landscape until the sky turns from

baby blue to burnt orange. The arid heat

          breeds sweat droplets in his scraggly beard (the

beard of a prophet?), and he stops

to rest in an abandoned church. I saw this man

in a dream, and he told me something important:

"I have wanted nothing in life but to be

          a shepherd and to travel. I have wanted

  nothing in life but the dependence and reverence

          of my flock. God, Yahweh, Allah, Buddah, Krishna,

          Zeus--they want exactly the same thing."

I offered him a beer and asked him which deity to

        follow, and he slapped it out of my

        hands with the power and wisdom of his

ancient staff, shouting:

                           "Feed my lambs! Feed my LAMBS!"

Who am I, with shepherd-like dreams, talking of

         Greece and stars and you? Who am I, mother,

brother, grandmother? And father, why

         are you

                     still

weeping, just like the poor

Athenians?

(to be continued)

Poem for Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

IV.

Dreaming of Heidelberg, though I have never been

there--

 

            meine Lehrerin let me have a poster (seventeen-

years-old and counting) of the place several years ago

and I constantly gaze at it. "What do you see?" you may

wonder. I'll tell you:

perhaps it's the multi-dome brick bridge that spans

the quiet, creepy Rhine, connecting smokestack industry

with forestial fertility. Who are the go-betweens that l  i  n  g  er

on that bridge--that is the question. If just three people, then

me, you, and the specter of whichever of us gives in first. Us go-betweens,

can see/hear/feel much:

a Lutheran clergyman surreptitiously eyes a beer stand;

a dog takes a shit on the steps of an orphanage;

a man slugs his wife a good one for burning the bratwurst.

These things make me feel HUMAN, and what it is to feel

HUMAN is to have your guilt eased.

I would never shit on the steps of an orphanage or slug my wife.

But I have eyed beer stands, and I have eyed them well. HUMAN!

I am no longer dreaming of Heidelberg or Germany or castles or

blond-haired blue-eyed women or classical music because I am

too tangential. I cannot help but mourn and praise my wilting bamboo

plant: three stalks, two green, one yellow, jaundiced from weakness and

neglect. I will call the latter Abel, the first victim.

                   Abel is about to die, but certain things lift his spirits: 

         Turkish music, cool air, and mind vibes. His chloroplasts will be

            ingested by his two brothers, and they will fight greedily for them.

When we were young, manly brother, I punched you in the stomach

because I did not like the way you breathed. You shot me in the shoulder

because you did not like the way I talked. Strange now to think about it--

we laughed. we laugh.

                   There are a few alternate universes to which we should traverse,

two saints on broomsticks flying above Arkansas's humid air, past the flat

mid-west, past the interminable river, past Boston and its five thousand dialects

up, up up!

             Up, up, up!

                              UP, UP, UP!

                     

          Past Europe and Asia and heaven and past superheaven. And we'll 

dick around there for awhile, and then come back to 

                                                                                          Heidelberg.

(to be continued)

Poem for Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

III.

It's time to just sit. 

So, I, we, sit and in my

       finite mind I attempt to enumerate my thoughts

to no avail. Tonight, I sit with you, dear friend,

at the bottom of suicidal steps in the dark. The

water roars from the east, blocked by the dam, and

we compare it to magma, questioning its

                    state of matter. What is our state of matter?

Do we matter?

        And I tune out the abstract/philosophical bullshit right

there. Religion and love. Faith and concepts.

                     There are six fluorescent lights across the water,

their photons skimming across the ripples, and you compare

them to a famous painting with six asymmetrical persimmons

and then talk of Daoism. Or Buddhism.

         We-are-what-we-make-of-it-ism. That is my RELIGION.

I am reminded of you, Lady Pontellier, contemplating

walking right into the water and dying jovially, but I

          could never bring myself to do that. I have no courage!

Sitting on the steps and gazing at the seemingly futile tributary that

is only lit by six persimmon lights and the fluttering lunar

penumbra (the moon! the moon! never forget it), and I know the earth

is moist from inconsistent rain, embedded with the

marks of ungulates and mosquito droppings.

                        And the troublesome tree to the west puts on many

facades--a dog, a pirate skull, death smiling with dichotomous leaves.

           Two planes take a low flight behind us, blue lights. Blue lights

across the water. Why blue lights? The universe, shapeshifting as

it may seem, must always revert back to a primary color. That

is

all

I have learned in my two decades of breathing.

             But you, friend, half bred of the Orient, are even older

than I! I have corrupted you with nicotine and nostalgia,

and you have corrupted me with guilt from my own naivety!

REVELATION: though unadulterated love is our principal priority,

we are also here to corrupt each other.

And ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

And I have not forgotten you, weeping father, beloved mother, Stoic grand-

mother, manly brother. I have not forgotten you.

Coming down again, my only hope is to reduce the universe to

matter, then atom, then ion, then quark, then -------! What else

can be salvaged under the humid Toadsuck sky?

(to be continued)

Poem for Sunday, August 16, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

II.

The scorpion on your desk says

"Hello! Hello!" he is made of a wire

alloy and begs, "Let us talk of your past

and why you came to be!" So, being in agreement

with universal sympathy, I declare, "Okay."

Love. Love. Love. Love. What did I 

miss?

         Love. Love. Love. Love.

From who? Beloved mother, weeping father, manly

brother, Stoic grandmother?

          My friends and I have squandered more

brain cells than sperm cells because

          we think more than we "intellectually

                                        masturbate!"

I want nothing more than to be the next

BEAT GENERATION! I am Kerouac, my best mate

           is Ginsberg, and Corso, Ferlenghetti, and Cassady

are talking poetic genius with us!

           This is why it's pointless to dream; I recall the times

I wanted to go to outer space.

            What is it--this connection with religion? Is

this all a

              ploy to remind us that we exist (you asked me

that when you were high one night and you would

never admit it)

              Asians gliding on sleek wooden hoverboards cutting

wind and physics in between asteroids like

              a post-modern music video and all, all that

              that ENTAi   l    s   .

(to be continued)

Poem for Friday, August 14, 2009

I've been slacking again, so I'm deeply sorry.  I've been bummed out lately, but I should have known that writing poetry would be the perfect cure. Hopefully, this poem will make up for it.

Coming Down

I. 

It's the feeling you get when you're coming

down from a high, sitting on concrete

steps.    There are flowers across the street

          springing up from a small plot of grass in

urbania: 

tiger lilies, or something of the sort.

I looked up at the sun, trading in my long-term

vision for a revelation, and all I could see was

           Icarus struggling to grip that slab of luminary

butter, falling to his death as his father wept.

And my father weeps. He weeps inside his mind

every day, and his son knows it. Like David did

with Absalom (sins, sins of our fathers), but I will 

not be strangled and trampled from a tree branch.

I sat in the balcony in the auditorium, finding

musical tranquility from the performance and gazing

at the lights on either side of the stage: lemon. They

           were neon yellow, glowing intermittently. I was

still a bit high then; all I wanted to do was        hold you

because I care about you.        I love you.        A journey

awaits me, though, and I must go to lands of 

           babushkas, snow, and poverty.  Lands of tan-faced

children, candy, and communism. 

I must leave you, there, sitting on the concrete steps; 

you looked at me, smiled, ruminatively and I wondered 

if you were a guardian angel or not. I must leave you,     weeping,

loving father, and you, mother. Patient mother who

bore me two weeks late and welcomed me with

           pacifiers, religion, and a beautiful fortitude. Mother,

           who I genetically favor with light hair, light eyes,

           and a compassionate yet submissive disposition. The

crabapple tree would bloom every autumn, and you

would take pictures of my brother and I with our baby teeth

and boyish garb. And you, grandmother. You, with

leathery skin, emphysema, and a supernatural heart (your

aorta is lined with gold from an Israelite's throne, pumping

the blood of Jesus).               I would tell you anything. I told you

on your porch in between cigarettes that yes, I drank

beer, and you shrugged it off and wanted me to compliment

your flowers. In your garden I saw everything from colors

to photosynthesis to love. 

And you, brother. Together, we bore the sins of our father 

through laughing and the strongest facades, braving the 

earthquakes of reality. You, the younger, have empirically lived 

before me, and I was scared for you. I am still scared for you, even though

           you're a man. I always will be. I must leave you all, but

I will still see    Mars    from the universal sky, glowing red with

the fury of          war      (it burns so, so bright in August), and I will

        still see the sun, the slab of luminary, celestial butter from

which Icarus fell. I am Icarus. You are Icarus. We are all

                Icarus, and our fathers weep for us.

(to be continued)

Poem for Saturday, August 8th, 2009

Poor Signor Lucci and the Epic Collision

When you're an Italian

         tourist in

America the last thing

         you want to see is

                                      death pre-

sumably but

         that's what they saw

all five of them

Angelo Lucci and his

         bella famiglia (yes

even the dear children)

         were killed in an

epic aircraft collision

                           CRASH

went the helicopter

          into another plane

the propellors sliced

          each other in

utter metallic mutiny

          the Hudson River

became a little dirtier

          engulfing the ash

belching up bodies

Poor Signor Lucci and

          his family are

staring down at us

          with chocolate Italian

eyes (tears flowing in

                                   the Arno)

but

     they are happy

(are they happy?)

     they cheer "Buongiorno!"

(do they cheer "Buongiorno!"?)

     yes, yes

                  they must be happy

but when you're

      a decent American

you must be sad

      for them

Poem for Thursday, August 6, 2009

8/5/09

In an abandoned house
we painted the walls
listened to techno
that was somehow
obnoxious yet soothing
the sound waves glided
off the primer on the
antique paneling

we talked of politics
how everyone here is
afraid of the term
"socialized" (heaven
forbid we do some-
thing as a society)
and then we went outside

the moon--
it was full, distant and white
but just hours before
close and orange
like a celestial tangerine--
that's how I like it
with Mars
plotting to the west
or north
or wherever in
the neutral sky

Poem for Tuesday, August 4th, 2009

Melba

has no idea that I write

poetry

let alone that I am

writing about her

I wonder

if she reads any

if she does

it probably has a uniform

meter and a predictable

rhyme scheme and

was published many

eons ago but so what

the other day

another woman ruined

her morning because she

forgot to bring

her some blackberries

like she promised

Poem for Sunday, August 2nd, 2009

Here's What I'm Feeling

I heard a rumor

that you

have a tumor

                      but

it's only benign

it'll be just fine

(and I could keep

 on rhymin' here, but)

I feel like writing in

free verse and

using big ole words like

"didactical"

(I hate that word)

but

anyway

a friend told me

of this guy

who thought he was

Jack Kerouac

                       he

traveled across

the continental U.S. of

A

(he wasn't oppressed

 enough to be Kerouac)

so my friend and I

laughed at him

over a

         beer