"plywood" poems
I love a good debate,
[science mixed with illusion]
and this year was no exception:
the debate on the best shapes for a kite
from design implementation, inception and execution
some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue
the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo
and of course built by your own fair hand
such was the intensity of discussion it continued
with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles
drew their prize-winning geometry
with a primitive stick
in the sand
a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside
its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals
and documented film of it successfully tested and tried;
years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood
to know instinctively the difference
between the brilliance of genius
and the borderline
just plain good
If nothing else has come from this
I now
know
[so as not to lose]
K = p/q over 2
or
K = ab – sin Ø
[are the formulas to use]
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom
For trying to change the system from within
I'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin.
I'm guided by a signal in the heavens
I'm guided by this birthmark on my skin
I'm guided by the beauty of our weapons
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin.
I'd really like to live beside you, baby
I love your body and your spirit and your clothes
But you see that line there moving through the station?
I told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those
Ah you loved me as a loser, but now you're worried that I
just might win
You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the
discipline
How many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
I don't like your fashion business mister
And I don't like these drugs that keep you thin
I don't like what happened to my sister
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
I'd really like to live beside you, baby
I love your body and your spirit and your clothes
But you see that line there moving through the station?
I told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those
And I thank you for those items that you sent me
The monkey and the plywood violin
I practiced every night, now I'm ready
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
Remember me? I used to live for music
Remember me? I brought your groceries in
Well it's Father's Day and everybody's wounded
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
6.5k
ALDUB, isang loveteam na hinahangaan ng sambayanan
Lalaki, babae, o kung anumang kasarian man yan.
Siguradong kikiligin ka sa tambalan ng banyan.
Syempre ALDUB yan, sigaw ng taongbayan.
Dalawang taong may pinag-aralan
Naging isa sa EAT BULAGA; programa ng bayan.
Walang halong kaartehan o kaplastikan ang pagtitinginan
Inyo itong makikita sa kanilang mga tinginan.
Si ALDEN na handang tumupad sa pangako,
At si MAINE na handang maghintay sa mangingibig nito.
Ang pag-iibigan nila minsan magulo,
Pero madalas nagiging wasto.
Mga mata nila'y nagtugma na,
Ngunit kamay nila'y hindi pa naging isa.
PLYWOOD, ALARM CLOCK, LONG TALBE Nidora, humarang sa kanila,
Paglalapit nila'y naging HOPIA pa.
Kailan kaya magiging isa ang mga ito?
Kung ang layo nila'y magkabilang dulo ng mundo.
Ang mga tao'y nagtatanong,
Kailan nga ba ang tamang panahon?
Ito'y huling hirit na ng mga tao.
Lola Nidora tuluyang buksan ang iyong puso.
Paglapitin landas ng dalawang ito.
Upang ang mga tao'y kiligin mula BATANES hanggang JOLO.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
Treated the plywood to be weatherproof, jigsawed to size base, sides and roof.
Applied non-toxic wood glue,
clamped pieces 'til sturdy and dry
not forgetting an entry hole through which birds may fly.
Took time with the birdhouse,
hung it snug in a tree.
If it will be used for the winter
I'm waiting to see.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
dusty books, pages thin and frail
like my mothers bones
decaying and oxidizing - the words fade
when the ink deteriorates
but that doesn't mean they weren't there
you tied a string around my teeth
and ran south for the winter and with each
step you took, a tooth would pop out
a constant reminder that you are no longer
here, but i wonder when i will run out of teeth
or when you will run out of earth
i sat on a friday night indulging myself
in stories and delicately counting the paper cuts on my fingers
but the dainty cuts will never compare to that time we ate cake
until our stomachs became flour, milk, and eggs
and you told me you loved me
then left to **** yourself
drowning in exhaust must be a silent way to go
and that cake won't taste very good in hell
i would know
recall your earliest memory and
divide it by all the unrequited stares
and thats how much i wish you would
untie my teeth, or stop running
and count the number of goosebumps painted on the
back of my neck and that is the
equivalent to the number of ovens you
accidentally left on
but I'm begging you to understand how immense
the ocean is because thats a very long way
to suffocate and salty water
will burn your wounds
Mariana's trench is a dark place
and the letters you wrote me reproduce on the bottom
not even the ugliest scar can revive my flesh that was chained
to those messages
but the meteor craters lick my surface like chloric acid
and all i wanted to do was repeatedly brush my teeth with the ocean sand
and clean my eyes out with mermaid tears
because you left a sickly residue that
hibernates under my fingernails
so next time you open your trunk
and find a mountain of broken glass
just remember that i loved you
i lost my fingers for you
i sold my soul for yours
but it wasn't even close to enough
what else do you want?
should i drain my blood until i am a desert of a human
shall i cut off all my hair?
and even then ill have an eternal debt to you
but you just turn the other cheek
so the plywood under my elbows
applies pressure to my spine
condensed newspapers stuck in the follicles
of the rain drops
but you don't even care
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
walking through the big flea market
off of highway 19 north of Tampa
looking for whatever and something
curious and kitsch or campy
merchants selling in the parking lot
used blenders and old cameras
burnt out or faulty devices
DVD cases and game cartridges
old rednecks shout out opinions
in a cacophony of drawled signifiers
representing visions of despotic rulers
reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline
old glass containers and windshields shine
scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky
sitting and resting used and content waiting
waiting for the wear and reduction of time
the market continues into indoor aisles
criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure
plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing
an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one
people wrapped in worn fashions
whites in Ts and denim
muslim women in headscarves
a black deputy strapped down in uniform
the deputy enforces commerce laws
around the alternative marketplace
a variety of commodities are still available
bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****
parakeets cry out down one aisle
a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum
the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters
reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps
all is right in America’s America
the flea market is the floorboard of that promise
an opportunity for anyone to begin
or start again and over and over
a liberal conservatism can be guarded well
with rifles or tazers at bargain rates
a conservative liberalism is applied openly
in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything
the dream of the flea market
a black market and a carnival
all of America’s cheap art on display
its people swirled into one
equal in their struggles and desires
reaching for resources and derivatives
buying low and selling higher
stealing and selling short
walking through the big flea market
on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon
looking for whatever or something
it’s a fun thing to do
originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Not real people,
just characters,
defamiliarized,
playacting through
the stage dressing
of their
unconvincing, plywood
lives.
In one small spotlight,
one character
is deciding
not to call
the other character,
and a
second spotlight
picks out a
telephone
not ringing, and
the second character,
who could
call the first,
but doesn't.
Between them,
the few metres of
darkened stage
represent the cold,
separating sea, or
their emotional
estrangement, or
the shadowy uknowability of
the inner self, or
something.
They don't elicit sympathy,
these characters, only perhaps
an intellectual empathy,
critical and objective.
They are devices
by which we might learn
some abstract lesson about
the human condition.
They cry, or don't,
soliloquise about their fears,
their guilts and their woundings,
or are silent;
they damage each other,
themselves, and seem
incapable of learning
from pain.
But they are not
real people,
only symbols,
only the roles
they occupy:
Father,
Daughter.
It might be heartbreaking,
if it wasn't all so
far away.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
Candlelight is romantic, unless
you're in a dungeon.
Context changes everything.
Context makes you look down
at the bridges you build and realize
they are plywood: thin, cheap, but
soggy enough from this rain that
they're impossible to burn.
Realism is a myth. Everyone has a lens.
People believe what they want to believe,
or they believe the worst. Sometimes they
alternate, tense and relax at all the wrong
moments, a sigh of relief before the crime
has been committed.
Everyone loves a hero until they are up
against them.
The unforgivable becomes forgivable
in the right context, ****** as self-
defense, or in war. Fear and arousal
provoke identical symptoms in the body.
Sometimes the boundaries bleed together.
Sometimes ethics surrender in the face
of love.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC
Thaw
Today I cause erosion
I angle sand once perpendicular
to a half frozen lake
to a beachy slide
softened with shells
with starfish three hundred
miles away in an ocean
warm as the lips of a moray.
Earth stills below me
ten percent snow
thirty percent mud
fifty nine dirt
and one percent soles.
I carry a stick
I drag through earth
like a rudder through waves
and a clearing I swear
looks like it once
housed a UFO.
Remember the summer
in a three foot grass field
we used plywood and a rope
to make crop circles
that nobody would ever see
and had a fire
next to a creek and listened to water
scratch and sniff the shale.
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC
On Christmas Day we wake up
We've no stocking on our bed
We've got a plastic kit box
taking up space there instead
You see, we aren't at home with you
Even though you wish we are
We're celebrating Christmas
Over here in Khandahar
A big Merry Christmas to friends and family
of Cpl. Mike Cannandale of St. Louis, Missouri, USA
We have our turkey dinner too
Stuffing, taters, pumpkin pie
We all sit here telling stories
And it's hard just not to cry
so, we do, because we're not back home
Having Christmas like you all
But, we're over here in Khandahar
Because we all answered the call
Merry Christmas to all friends and family of Liuetenant James Mc Caskill
of Great Grimsby, Lincolnshire, England
We have a snowman by our tent
He's made of plywood, painted white
Thank god, we made no snowballs up
We'd get splinters in a fight
We go to church and pray for peace
And wish we could go home
But, over here at Christmas time
There's just no where to roam
Merry Christmas to friends and family of
Captiain John Watson, PPCLI, in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, Canada
We made our videos last week
To send you our best wishes
We'd all love to be back with you
Washing up those Christmas dishes
For now, we are one family
Joined in heart, and soul and mind
Having a Christmas meal in Khandahar
The best meal of it's kind
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to friends
and family, of Marine Master Sgt. Tim Wilcox, Plano, Texas, USA
Next year we will be home with you
Having Christmas as we should
Praying for peace, hope and prosperity
And all things that are good
for now though, we are over here
missing you this Christmas Day
We just hope you're thinking of us
As we keep the foe at bay
Merry Christmas to all the friends, family, co-workers and supporters
of all the soldiers in War Zones everywhere, who can't be at home this Christmas
May they all get home safe.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
The house broth trickles onto the plywood floor
Filtered by fiberglass cotton candy
A humid breeze slams the oblong door
and knocks over the table I found so handy
This storm has brought my ceiling down on my head
The rafters are surely next to fall
Thunder sings songs with words never said
That entices the slugs to climb the wall
A deathtrap, a battlefield, a childhood home
have fused to form this cocoon of mold
The flies have settled, no longer to roam
and I'm left for the winds to bend and fold
This leaky old roof that Grandfather built
can barely now stand, let alone shelter strays
But if I leave in the night, I drag only my guilt
My body goes wandering, but my dream world stays
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
Back and forth
Battered ball flys
Launched from a cheap
Plywood bat
Expected eyes follow on
Full of hope, crying
For their own
Players tense
As ball sails low
From left to right
To and fro
Loosening only when
It goes fast off the
Other side of the table
This is much more
Than just a game
This is wrong and right
Black and white
This is who to blame
When the real game
Goes to ****
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
Some very good friends sat around in their basement
I think we've all been here before
The room of course was smokey and wasted
The four buddies were bored right out of their gourds
They all thought they should do something special
So they decided to build a rocket ship
Throwing a bunch of old plywood together
They then sat around, smoked some more, and planed their spacey trip
Jody spoke up first and said let's go to the moon
But they'd heard that had already been done
That's when he came up with the brightest idea
I know what! We'll go to the sun!
Go to the sun?! We may be high but we're not crazy!!
They replied, this ships made out of wood
That's when Jody explained his brilliant idea
Nodding like Bobble Head dolls they all understood
As Jody dug deeper into his intricate plan
All the guys seemed to like it a lot
They would go when it's dark in the middle of night
When the suns put out and it isn't so hot
Since Jody's the genius, they put him in charge
He seems to have a grasp on what's left of his brain
There were four of them but only room for two
They drew straws 'cause they were having difficulty remembering their names
The straws turned out to be the same length
Cutting them, somebody forgot
So they picked Jody as their Captain Kirk
And Jason as his sidekick Spock
Out in left field, the excitement was contagious
Jody yelled, 'To infinity and Beyond'
They knew that quote came from some famous movie
But had a memory lapse so they gave him more Bobble Head nods
At that point they realized they had no engine
Being impaired, not a one of them cared
They all went back down into the basement
And took another kind of trip without going anywhere
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
little tike,
kite thread,
strung out
pulling hands, body, fear
into sky, clouds, air,
beyond
chicken skin chill
wind shiver cold
fear
stop! mama! scream
little older now,
kites, dreams, birds, feathers
flights, mountain crags
song, soar
mama, now, screams
rolling, plywood floor
no kite, big hand man
grab, spit, roar
tears heave breath
face, mama hands
cry, side, no more
said to floor
metal fireplace
hot, don't touch,
arrow poke fire,
heavy hurt stick
**** big hand man
make mama scream
stop thumping body
slap, flesh, red burn
heavy arrow stick
fall down, thump
face, floor
big hand man
take, this or that
hot scrap belly
bone, angry kite
throw living-room
bed, heavy hands
burn bones, dreams
eyes
morning light
mama scoops
legs, arms, teddy
"we're getting out alright"
subject matter partially stolen from http://hellopoetry.com/-peachy/
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
I've said that I'm a drifter,
I've said it for many years.
When the hardest time in my life started,
my bark was stripped off.
I want to be strong, like oak
but I have become insecure.
I agree with things I would not approve of
just so people will not chop me down anymore.
I need to be grounded.
People come and go.
To me, this means I have to drift.
I must not get too attached.
I have trouble trusting anyone.
I don't know what my roots are either.
I don't know what my real personality is.
I get bits and prices of others and incorporate it into mine.
my branches have been carved and broken.
I have become plywood.
Plywood that does not fit anyone's needs.
I have a hard time using words like
"Love" or "Best"
to describe my feelings.
I see them as reserved words.
My heartwood is getting stronger
but my heart is not.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Just mahogany and horsehide glue,
machine heads and a ***** or two.
Plywood top, solid sides and back,
bone and fake ivory, ebony, and shellac.
Steel and bronze wire, to make her ring.
A well placed sound hole to let her sing.
But for love or money I played here every week,
for 30 years she has earned my keep.
Four star restaurants, or beer soaked bars,
or serenading a lover under summer night stars.
A joyous birthday, sad funeral of a friend,
she's always been there, on one I can depend.
Drunken'- Dancin' New Years Eve bashes,
barbequed sun baked poolside splashes.
St. Valentine's Day love songs, wine and roses,
or a smoky old blues club that never closes.
A nursing home sing along on St. Patty's day,
a hurricane party till we all got blown away.
Christmas carols by soft candlelight,
I've played this guitar most every night.
From Florida to Canada, Vegas to NYC,
from Frank Sinatra, to Conway Twitty.
Zeppelin to Bach, JT to Pink Floyd,
anything to keep me from being employed.
One night in Nashville Greg Allman played on her,
And asked me to join him, oh what an honor.
We make people happy, we bring them together,
when I play on her I am as light as a feather.
Some fell in love, and got married from our tunes,
some nights we're alone on sugar beach dunes.
She's filled up my tip jar, and filled up my heart.
Because of this guitar my life got its start.
I've sat up with her all night, when she was sick,
changed strings a million times, broken many a pick.
Caressed her, strummed her, as she dashed my fears,
cussed her and ****** her, as she tasted my tears.
With her I wooed my lover, until she married me.
She has been my addiction, and she has set me free.
They applaud for me, but she's really the star.
I know it's just wood and wire, but she's my guitar.
###====(==O==== )###====(==O==== ) ###====(==O==== )
For my Takamine "Lawsuit" I bought in Nashville in 1982.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
Tile floors.
Blood in the creases.
Plywood boards.
Arterial releases
I nail you to the ground,
This soul in you.
Phantom ghost of specter.
I will never leave you.
I will eat what you ****
And be your skin.
Parasitic symbiote of prosthetics,
Entangled by bailing wire to every bone,
Our union refines combine tarsals.
I am you like the liquor,
Like Jesus' nails.
We rob stores,
Skip stones,
In the alley.
Mirror eyes mark your stretch marks.
Deep scratches of size.
Your iris is mine.
Becoming you is my charge.
In your innards I gorge.
Metastasize.
I want to feast on your skin.
Eat your flesh till your thin.
In the raw.
Exploit all your ****
I want to haunt your house and lick your thighs when you sleep.
Press through your skin.
Bend it out with my lips.
This last invasion will curse you for life.
I'm a cancer forever.
Hiding in your basement.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Each cold wave was starting to slap
me in the face and the grayness of morning
wasn’t lifting as the sun rose. Goosebumps
had made my legs slim sharks, heavy and rough,
so I swam to shore spitting out icy water.
I was thinking about coffee,
maybe crawling into my sleeping bag
and listening to loons’ far-off howls
until breakfast, and I reached the splintery dock
when I choked –
tried to struggle backward, without any splash
which might wash her in with me.
Dock spiders swim. Did you know?
They fasten long ropes of silk and dive
for their prey, something big since no horsefly
sustains a spider the size of a mouse.
This one was monstrous, motionless,
spiky black legs jointed white at her knees,
face-level to my wet bobbing head. She gripped
an egg sac, papery and white, marble-sized.
It held hundreds of tiny hers. It looked heavy.
I had come to her panting but now the water
or inertia maybe pushed my face close
to that enormous silent mother so I fought harder
to stay away, though if the lake had been still
I might have treaded at a distance, stared hard,
dared her to scuttle and disappear in the cracks
in the plywood-patched dock with its rotting ladder
and a dozen more spiders, probably,
white sacs strapped firmly to their bellies.
I flopped like I’d hooked a lip, gasping, desperate
for rough open water where depth
would deter any diving hairy creature.
Somehow I struggled to remoter shoreline
where I slid over boulders’ upholstery of algae,
shivering, legs frog-splayed, stringent and numb.
I never felt it when I scratched my legs crashing
through buckthorn, the way to the cabin, though I saw
the lines later when I put on soft clothing
in a warm inside corner where spiders are smaller
and at least have the kindness
to keep out of sight.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 6:44 AM UTC
rusty knees folded under a
quilt weaved by the calloused hands of
particles of grandmothers' grandmothers,
head heavy on a
down-breasted pillow,
rising and falling softly
in a bedroom den,
whispering relative semantics of
a testament revised
while outside, tornadoes uproot trees
and displace plywood houses
with charred pies frozen on the windowsill,
entombed from the harsh winter's frost
and incubation in false ovens;
i recall seasonal naps of
drifting and wakening
and colourful mosaics
painted across the dreamland sky,
drinking cups of melatonin-laced chamomile
steeped in an angel teapot that induced
psychosomatic apparitions in constant relay
from earhole to earhole and
assisted with pulling an endless rope out of my
mouth which had been tied to the pit of my ulcerated stomach,
my head twisting in a corkscrew spiral,
meeting a longing gaze
and twisting back again,
oh! my bottled neck!
you retell poems softly spoken loudly
with my kisses on your heavy eyelids,
before we drift through the sheer veil
into unified consciousness,
taking a glimpse at our crowning home in
an infinite land,
enveloped in time-honoured Love
bestowed upon us in
pure, Divine fate,
watching endless words of
'i love you', 'i love you'
trickle like sand though a
heavenly hour glass figure;
to wake, a chance to celebrate,
to die, a chance to find each other again.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Grind & Pivet
Leveled out playgrounds buried in the valley
Foaming mutts pursue for as many yards as their yard allows
Old campers, corrugated fibre-glass plates and upside down canoes
Piles of plywood piled in meticulous patterns
St. Aidan's Church
A beat up old Buick
Nostalgialand
The Palo Alta Vista stretches and yawns in the morning
The crack of joints
Black arches over the horizon, cumulus towering
The sun, ready to ****
Anoyone not ready
For rebirth
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
He glanced over at the counter,
Knowing exactly what was there,
This is the only way,
It made sense.
“No...”
The thought circled--
the voice;
"yes, do it baby, nothing is as sweet, everything will be better."
Euphoria.
A deep breath
and another
and another
fury engulfed his being
knuckles hit wall
again
again
again
blood flushed through the newly opened skin
****
Shaking
The urge was strong
Disabling
He was weak
No match for this devil.
On his feet, he walked to the counter
Reached behind the plywood
His prized casing.
Simple, silver.
Cold.
Freedom.
His hand throbbed
His mind paid no attention
I have you now
You are worthless.
You are mine.
What am I waiting for..
Trembling hands
Another breath.
Concentrate.
These were his best friends
They knew him better than he knew himself
The blades.
Exhale.
Careful.
He lifted one out
Thin
Long
Sharp
Perfect
Freedom
Twirling it in his fingers
Smiling ear to ear
DO IT
He positioned the blade
Held it steady
Pushed
Let it sink into his skin
He threw his head back
A small yelp of pain
No. This is what you wanted, remember
It will make everything okay again
The tip disappeared
The blood gushed
Steady
He dragged it
Slowly
Enjoying every second
destroying himself
bit by bit
Freedom
Almost halfway
Good. It’s deep
He dragged.
Index finger balanced on the side
His thumb grazing his skin
The blade disappeared
Given time
It would become him
right across.
his eyes shut.
The were no tears
He sat in silence
Feeling the blood swim
Instantly.
Dripping down his arm
Onto the floor
AGAIN
the taunt continued
There wasn’t anything left in him
You aren’t worth my time.
Use some of that fat energy, and finish the job
What will they think?
Nobody will miss you
Nobody cares
They’ll be glad to see you’re gone.
The blood didn’t stop
It wouldn’t
This would be the last time.
He picked up the blade.
Again.
It sunk into his flesh like butter
This is for the best
I just can’t
Push
Drag
This wasn’t about self control
This was the end.
Freedom.
A wimper
"Are you happy?"
"Are you?"
A constant battle
Dizziness.
He stood up.
Turned the taps on to hot.
Starred into his own eyes.
The ones he hated so much
The very reason he couldn’t go on
His legs gave out
It seemed like a dream
Crashing.
He hit the floor.
It was over.
Freedom.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
I hadn't meant to spy on them; just one of my evening walks along the beach. Moonlight gleaming on wet teenage backs. Horseplay crackling in their young male voices-- “King of the Hill” from a rusty life guard chair. I like these memories, the ones that just occur-- when everything is there again....
Coming to find myself again in October. Long trudge to the “Shanty Village” gets me thinking about the wrinkled hand that first took me close to the ageless roar and seething. Skirted bathing suit, indelible tremble of voice-- the woman bringing me beyond the fear that had watched all day from those cautious castles, after being so rudely trounced! She helped me make my peace with what I could neither own nor tame— the sea and me. We walked along the channel then, watching slender fishes in their school-- that even fish would go to school! We had to laugh. Scorching the soles of my feet in the parking lot! Oo-ah-oo-ah! Forgot my flip-flops!
_____
October now, piling sand along the roadside.... First kiss at Cooks Brook Beach. Surf breaking over this jetty, could have been my heart. I think his name was Stan....
How can people leave their flowers still blooming in window boxes? In the cottage quiet, I can almost picture... bicycles leaning by dripping shower stalls. Beach umbrellas, the smell of suntan lotion, kids roving in barefoot bands.... Fall packs them all away.
While cold advances on the struggling song of crickets, a man, wearing a painter's hat and whistling, does the unthinkable-- hammers plywood over his shanty's windows. I think that summer people can close their eyes. We, of October, have vivid memories-- savoring sources that linger in their endings. Coming late—staying long beyond the leaving-- sleeping warm in winter sands.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
passing into morning
barely hidden by a t-shirt
hammering the tires off the wheels
skittish darts under plywood
smells like pizza & motor oil
can you dial for me?
one box hollow point bullets
finger pinched off in the chamber
federal ammunition
federal eagle is covered in blood
against a ****** background
a well-oiled machine
what can I getcha?
what is the boss having?
ontological, ecological, illogical
wildflowers bud, blossom, wither
& decay in a sandstorm --
are ****** into a twister--
lightning strikes them--
they freeze and snap like dry twigs
no television for five days
crying--eviction notices--not much time left
gonna go soon anyways
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
You have to start
by finding things
to burn.
Turn the island
into a tinderbox.
Fill your truck with driftwood
and detritus hustled up from
derelict construction sites.
Scavenge plywood scraps
and lengths of two-by-fours.
Find a spot beneath the dunes
and dig into the still-warm sand,
your rusted shovel syncopating
with the rhythm of the waves,
crunching into the cool dark
hollow of a deepening pit.
By dusk, the hole will be capable
of containing everything you want
to burn.
Set the shovel down.
When the darkness
finds you all alone,
take the lighter fluid
in one hand
and a match
in the other.
Wait for the
wind to die.
If you do it right,
the orange embers
will crack and rise,
truant children
ushered home
by pacing stars.
If you do it right,
the smell of salt and smoke
will stay with you for days.
If you do it right,
the bonfire will
bloom like a flower
and consume itself
all night long.
In the morning,
your work will
have healed, doctored
by persistent currents
and the extinguishing
sweep of high tide.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
He was a drug addict, they would tell me
He was "malo," they would say
Until a policeman lost his patience
beat him
so bad that he was in the hospital for months
And never walked again
"He had it coming" was the way they'd end the story
But as I visited with him
I discovered more
He read through the entire Bible while he was getting treatment
His spirit changed
And when he was well enough to leave the hospital bed he was taken home just to be laid down again, yet I suppose that
Sometimes he had a wheelchair
He had a job
wheeled himself across miles of dirt road to get there
people would come in, greeting and asking him, "che, como andas?" which is Argentino for "dude, how are you doing?" but a closer translation would be, "dude, how are you walking (or going)?" he would always smile from his chair and say jokingly, "i don't go, i sit."
He was married and had a little boy, Alejandrito (which means little Alexander)
And i would watch him and his family
in their little tin house patched with plywood
His wife loved him; she met him after his accident
and she was never cross about doing everything for him
they had nothing
yet enjoyed everything their poverty had to offer
my favorite phrase he ever said was:
"if your problems have solutions, why worry? and if your problems don't have solutions, why worry?"
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC