sweet
new and selected poems by
Dave Morrison
2006 JukeBooks
copyright© 2006 by Dave Morrison
All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by JukeBooks and lulu Press.
Grateful acknowledgements are due to the editors of the following publications where some of these poems first appeared:
Psychopoetica Sweet
Main Channel Voices October 1
Mad Hatter Review the Poet
Laura Hird Ready, Explaining Poetry, Truce, Whiskey, Good Day, Patricia
Cars and Food QuickieMart
Culture Star Reader My 2 minutes, My Dream, Award
remark Pep Talk
Thieves Jargon taking stock
many of these works were road-tested at www.spoiledink.com
Library
of
Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morrison, Dave
Sweet: new and collected poems / Dave Morrison
For more information about Dave Morrison please visit www.dave--morrison.com
Book Design by Luther MacNeal
For Susan.
And Pop.
And a special thank you to
Elizabeth Garber.
You say my poems are poetry?
They are not.
Yet if you understand they are not -
Then you see the poetry of them.
Ryokan
Contents
Advice 9
Another Serious Poem Shot to Hell 10
Award 11
Beautiful vision 13
Cain 14
Camaro 18
Danger 20
Do me a favor 21
easy 22
Failed Poem 23
Filling out the Poets and Writers form 24
gang 25
gone 27
Good Day 29
good one… 33
gratitude 35
Harlem Nocturne makes me want to cry 36
I have decided 37
I like that riff 38
I lose 39
jealous 40
Lake George 42
learning to grieve 44
Liar 45
Little bit mad 46
Long black hair 47
looking out to sea 49
Lucinda's back 51
Midlife 52
My Aneurysm 53
My Dream 54
my new Microsoft document 56
my 2 minutes are up 57
Night Out 59
No Problem 61
Oct. 1 62
Patricia alone after 14 years 63
Pep Talk 64
a poem is a song you write when
the band's gone home 65
the Poet 66
QuickieMart 67
Ready 69
Seed 71
Snow 72
stop me if you've heard this one 73
Sweet 74
Taking Stock 76
then one day 77
Today 78
trouble 79
Truce 80
When I go 81
Work 83
Whiskey 84
Advice
The fighter listens,
in his corner, back to
the ring, shuffling his feet and
trying to loosen his shoulders
and neck.
The fighter listens to
the trainer and
nods and thinks
"you do not know
what it's like
to get hit
like this
tonight."
Another Serious Poem Shot to Hell
Death said
"Mind if I
smoke?"
I told him it was fine with me.
"These days…" the smoke
curled in his rib cage like
looping grey gauze,
"…everyone gets so nervous."
A bit nervous myself, I
chuckled;
"Sorry – it's just that I figured you must be
used to that."
"True enough," he said, the
smoke wafting from his
eye sockets.
"So -" I uncapped my
pen," what else…?"
He flicked his ashes delicately.
"I jog with Taxes, sometimes I have
dinner with Glory, and I
manage the Seven Deadly Sins
bowling team."
Seeing my confusion, he said,
"Shit yeah – you should see our
shirts. Killer."
Then his pager went off.
"Whoop – that's me," he said,
stubbing out his cigarette.
"But," I complained, "I don't really
have anything!"
He shrugged, the sound like
bamboo wind chimes.
"So write a poem about
something else."
Another serious poem
shot to hell.
Award
It would be awesome if I
won that award. It would be great to see the
mailman carried to my front door on a sedan chair,
I'd know something was up, especially when he had to
use a small amount of
plastique to blow open the small
vault that held the letter
telling me that I had won the award.
How cool would that be? Him waiting for
me to sign for it with a
quill dipped in the blood
of a baby lamb that
bleated with terror as they
bandaged its neck, the letter passed to a man in a
hot air balloon wearing a
turban and an
eye-patch.
I've never really won anything, so
it would be so cool to
win that award. I've never even
seen a Secret Service man, let alone have
three in my house. Why they would need to
dig a tunnel under the house for me to
come and go in is beyond me,
but then again, I've never won an award like
this.
It's not so much the
public part of it, but it would be awesome,
waiting to go up on a stage to accept the
award, beautiful veiled women in black, and all those
bagpipes making a horrible, beautiful
tidal wave of sound, the smell of
burning roses, the tolling of every bell in
the city, the maddening tension, and then the
elevator platform would lift me onto the stage, and
the giant pipe organ would play and the doves would
be released and go wild
in the rafters, and my chest would split open and
people would faint when they saw my huge beating heart with
the fiery eye in the center, and a burning white light would
scorch the whole auditorium and blind those who
had doubted me.
It would be so cool to win that award.
I hope I do.
Beautiful Vision
I ate the turkey sandwich,
sitting on the concrete
wall in the sun. Across the
avenue the hospital rose like a mythic flea-market
city, brick on brick on brick,
crowned with cupolas and smokestacks
and parapets, and I had a
beautiful vision:
it swam before my eyes, liquid and invisible
like a stone had been thrown in
a lake that wasn't there.
It swelled my heart, and reminded me
of something I didn't yet
know, some space to be
filled, some event not yet
in view, some heartache that will
come, and be healed, some
joy that will threaten to devastate me, some
sweet sad music in another room,
some quiet whirlwind of
love that I didn't have to resist.
And, unlike every other time I have
seen this beautiful vision, it did not
break my heart.
Tin foil balled in my
pocket, I
lay back in thanks and
let the sun blind me through
closed lids.
Cain
I
a great stone can be
cracked in half by the
slightest tap if
you know where the fault lies.
a tree can be split down the middle by a
storm, or by
one snowflake too many.
the stone becomes two stones
the tree changes shape
only in the human mind do
two halves of the same whole
become adversaries, struggling for
advantage, survival, when
all they have to
do is
coexist.
II
you can tell who
gets to write history, or
at least you can tell
who got to interpret certain
stories.
Cain was probably
smarter, stronger, and
needed less approval.
Abel probably did what he was told, didn't
make any
trouble, was unencumbered by
originality.
Cain won.
He was supposed to win, but
books full of rules are usually
edited by
people like
Abel.
III
It reads like this:
Cain was a farmer, and Abel had
sheep. Cain busts his
ass tilling, planting, hauling water.
Abel sits under a
tree and watches the sheep graze.
They both bring gifts –
Cain brings things he has
planted, cultivated, and grown, Abel
brings a lamb, born while he sat under a
tree.
God says,
"Abel? That is just terrific, that lamb.
Cain? Not impressed."
Cain is pissed and insulted. God says,
"Hey? What's with the attitude? Do your
job and you won't have any
problems, but watch your step."
IV
"Get over it, Cain."
"Fuck you."
Abel sat under a tree, eating a
pear. Cain paced.
"This is bullshit. I worked so hard. Why
do I get blown off?"
"Boy, he loved that lamb. I picked a beaut."
"I turned that soil myself. I irrigated the land. No one's ever done that, I
had to learn."
Abel shrugged.
"Whatever. Not good enough."
"Excuse me?"
"I don't know, but it wasn't enough. He loves me. He
chose me."
Cain hauled Abel up by his shirt.
"Hey! Leggo!"
"Take it back. You're no better than me."
"But I am, face it. He says so."
"I ought to knock that fuckin' smirk off your face…"
"Yeah, right. You don't have the guts. Go back to your fields."
And Cain hit Abel so hard that he rolled three times before laying very still.
And Cain kneeled over him, and cursed, and wept, because his brother was dead.
V
"Hey. Cain. Where's Abel?"
"I don't know."
"I asked you a question -"
"What am I, my brother's keeper? You know where every sparrow is, why are you asking me this?"
"You better watch how you talk to me, sonny. Wait a minute…you son of a bitch, you killed him, didn't you? His blood is crying out to me from the ground! You really did it this time, Cain. You know what? You are cursed. You're banned. You are screwed through all eternity, you bully- you killed Abel! You are going to wander, your crops will fail, you will never find a home, or comfort, you will be welcome nowhere."
"I'm out, I'm banned? Why? Because I'm stronger than my brother? Because
I don't like you playing favorites, because I wouldn't accept the bullshit?"
"Go."
"I'm sorry about Abel, I didn't mean it, don't you think I'm suffering already? Give me a break, it was an accident!"
"Go."
"Sure. Go. So I can be set up again. You know as well as I do that I might as well have a bull's-eye on my back, I'll get ambushed and brought back as a trophy. I'm a fucking dead man, is that it? What else should I expect, right?"
"No, you're wrong. In fact I'll mark you. No one will mess with you."
And God put a mark on his forehead.
And Cain went away to the land of
Nod, East of Eden.
VI
Cain's wife tended the fire.
"No one ever asked you your side, about
what happened?"
Cain shook his head.
"I still don't understand why God favored him."
Cain shrugged.
"I hear all sorts of things – people don't think I can hear them, or
they don't care but…"
"It doesn't matter. There's no point living in the past."
"I suppose you're right."
"You know what's funny? Not funny ha ha, but…I loved him. Still do. More than anyone did."
"I know…" she whispered.
VII
The descendants of Cain became wanderers, and musicians, and artisans, and though it was not visible to the eye, they still bore the mark. In an ironic turn, God later decided that the only man worth a damn was Noah, one of Cain's descendants, so he wiped out everyone else. We are all descended from Cain. That's the story.
VIII
It takes so little to split a stone, or a tree.
We struggle so much with our
separateness.
Camaro
At seventeen he got a job,
convenient store, across North Main
from Marshall's, Mobil, PowerTest.
Behind the counter, skinny, bored,
the graveyard shift, cash register,
gum, cat food, milk, and cigarettes,
he dreams about a '69 Camaro.
The night wraps black around the store,
reflections in the window show
the aisles of Pampers, soup, and chips,
a rack of discount paperbacks,
and pantyhose, cheap sunglasses,
the freezer and the dairy case,
young clerk who dreams a '69 Camaro.
Lonely, with no customers,
lonelier even when they come,
'cause no one sees him, no one stays,
all in motion, destinations,
stopping just to buy some smokes
or Lotto, milk, or motor oil
(to lubricate a '69 Camaro?)
The morning cashier's Beverly,
she's someone's sweet Italian mom,
she wears a shag, false eyelashes,
blue eye shadow, she smokes too much,
it keeps her thin! she always laughs,
her son's autistic, no complaints
she tells the teenage boy who dreams Camaro.
At 2:15 Christine Perrine
a quiet, budding, brooding girl
his triumph is, he makes her laugh
the glasses make her eyes so big,
her cash-out's always on the nose,
one day she'll take men's breath away
and won't recall the boy who dreamed Camaro.
The owner shoots the sidelong glance
suspicious of each customer
he counts and recounts every coin
no trust for those who work for him,
the weed has made him paranoid
his wife betrays him with the smile
she gives the new kid, dreaming of Camaro.
From seven on he rings them up
the stream of people, thinning out
until by ten the only ones
are tired, red-rimmed, dinner-cold
or on their way to graveyard shifts
their money spent on diapers, beer
and day care, not on '69 Camaros.
The world inside his head in fact
is realer than the empty store
is realer than North Main at night
is realer than Christine Perrine
his hope, desire and lunacy,
his ignorance, his buoyancy,
his blood the gasoline that fuels Camaro.
somewhere a small-block Chevy sits
somewhere his father hacks and spits
somewhere the suit that doesn't fit
somewhere the options, counterfeit
someday he slams the factory Hurst
from lifelong neutral into first
he vaguely plans
a ragged stand -
Camaro.
Danger
Of all the dangerous jobs I
could choose:
drunken steeplejack,
Pompeii fireman,
tired farmer fixing a thresher in the dark,
narcoleptic pilot, roofer
with vertigo, cobra
wrangler, palsied bomb squadder,
blind knife sharpener, missile silo
custodian –
Of all the dangerous jobs I
have chosen this:
to succeed where
I have been promised I would
fail,
to try again, and
again,
to look
in the mirror and
figure out what I see and
love it.
Do me a favor
If I lose it –
and you know what I mean –
if I become a
stranger to myself, and
to you,
do me a favor –
don't talk to me about my
history, even if you believe
it might strike some tiny match of
memory: don't tell me that I once did
this and that, wrote poems and stories,
played in a rock & roll band, any
of it. Don't make it worse.
Tell me that I was born in that
room, and that as
rooms go, it is perfectly
fine.
Introduce yourself as a
friendly stranger, and
make sure that I have
one good book
I can read
over
and
over.
easy...
steady...
there, a metal nipple barely
visible above the dirt of the path
find a spot with
no irregularities, nothing remotely
unnatural or threatening and
ease your foot down, shift your weight...
There. Another step, safely. Now...
easy, slow...watch for trip wires, or
any tiny triggering device -
whoever laid these traps was a bored
genius, using a daisy as a
detonator, a stone, a twig,
seemingly innocuous, seemingly innocent,
little everyday things waiting to
damage you,
there...a flat space...lower your foot
steady now, softly, now shift your weight
There. That makes two. Steps taken safely.
Keep it up, don’t lose your nerve, and
you can get through the
whole morning.
Failed Poem
The streetlight, shining on
a sway of telephone wire looks
like a golden saber hung in the
air.
The stars are candles in the trees –
but it is not a saber and they are not candles and my
heart is not made of worn leather and I am not
standing on a cold moon looking at a
distant earth –
I'm in a chair, in a room.
No rhymes, no rules, no rhythm –
nothing more than tiny sparks on
wet wires.
All I can say with any
honesty is that it is
Saturday night and I am
hungry.
My thoughts are not a swirl of
dried leaves, or mice gnawing wires in the walls, or
hornets –
My mind is not a rudderless boat or an empty steel
drum
or Grand
Central during a bomb scare –
it is nine pounds of
wet meat. My heart is a muscular pump, my
eyes are moist lens, just like
everyone else.
I don't want to play the
game tonight, take the
Artistic SATs; A is to B as
shrapnel is to corn flakes.
I just want to be empty, exorcised, scorched
clean.
Tonight I just want a cigarette and a
goodnight kiss, that's
where I'll find poetry.
not here.
Filling Out the Poets and Writers Directory Form
They will accept that I am a
writer, a poet even, but next they
would like to know if I consider myself (check one)
African American? Appalachian? Baltic American?
Christian?
Filipino American? Feminist? Hungarian?
South Asian? Romanian?
Next they ask if my work is oriented towards
a particular group; At Risk Youth? Mentally Ill?
Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Transgender? Environmentalists?
Prisoners? Seniors?
Out in the world of politics and business, there is resentment
and envy towards the White American Male, but in the
world of poetry that makes you about as interesting as
a 2X4. Your peers are more likely to watch
NASCAR or Antiques Road Show than read
poetry. But, if one is to market oneself one must have an
identity, a niche, an audience.
So I dedicate this to you, my faithful readers;
all you law-abiding Scots-American weak-chinned learning-disabled sober cigarette-smoking six foot O+ Caucasian forty-seven year old heterosexual rock & roll men. Thanks for buying both copies of
this book.
gang
We
were, all of us, strong as horses
impatient and ready to stand
our
dreams were so big that they sheltered us
and so small they could
fit in your hand.
We
never talked about failure,
now and then we would talk of the
grave
we fought about things that we couldn't express
and we
always, always forgave.
When
spoken-for we were loyal
when single we were stallions and
sharks
the life that we lived in the daylight wasn't
the life
that we lived after dark.
We
drank too much and didn't suffer
we drank too much and we died
we
didn't drink enough when the winter came
and everything froze up
inside.
In
the clubs and the bars we were family
no enemies that I
know
bartender's blood brothers, and waitresses' champions
we
danced like young dogs in the snow.
We
were never alone, and still lonely
We were broke but never
poor
nothing was certain, but we were still certain
that we'd
find some way to endure.
Sometimes
thieves and liars and vandals
always brothers and lovers and
sons
novilleros, novices, prisoners
God's ragged and chosen
ones.
We were all of us, strong as horses
hungry and ready
to stand
our dreams were so big that they sheltered us
and so
small they could fit in your hand.
(for Chris, Jack,
Matty, Rico & Sonny)
(a novillero is a sort of apprentice
bullfighter)
Gone
He opened the doors to
the small balcony. The
rain slanted in and
began to soak the wooden
floor, where the
stain and warp suggested that
this had happened before. He
didn't seem to care.
He stood, waiting for
something to happen as the rain
ran down his neck, waiting for
some necessary change, some
small sign other than the
rain. His sweater
would be ruined. He
didn't seem to care.
The radio played, sounding like
a party in another room, sounding like
thoughtless seduction, sounding like
electric loneliness. Below cars
went by, slow bullets of
warmth and dryness; people
built umbrella roofs
over their heads and
walked. Everyone else seemed
to be in motion. He
didn't seem to care.
He was hungry and
bored with his choices. He
drank a glass of water. He
took off his shoes. And then, like
a man mounting a horse he went
up and over the balcony wall and was
gone.
Gone as if he'd never been there
at all, as if he'd never gone to
school, or had sex or held a job.
To do that; to
erase oneself, to go against the instinct planted in
each cell, to break oneself beyond repair…
He must have cared very much.
Good Day
It's a good day for
moving slowly. "No
false moves," as the bad guy with
the gun always
says.
It's a good day for
gazing, day-dreaming, time-travel.
It's a good day for
mind-drift, for
distraction.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong.
It's a good day to go to
Beech Hill, walk the
long spiral, see the coast
laid out like a model of the
world, walk down with
wind-slapped cheeks and
forget it all an hour later.
It's a good day to drive to
Rockland, buy some strong
coffee, smoke a cigarette and
watch the ferry come in, or
go.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong.
It's a good day to
cry. Or walk. Or
play the piano.
It's a good day for that
empty floating feeling, that
lonely noble feeling, that restless
unsettled feeling,
for waiting…
It's a good day to think the
wrong things, dream
the wrong dreams.
It's a good day for a
shadow-show, for
sleight-of-hand. It's
a good day for someone else's
daydreams, cobwebbed fears, long-gone
players on forgotten teams.
Sometimes you can push it,
steer it, shove it
back in the water.
I'm not sure this is
one of those days. I
don't feel like walking through the
burnt house saying
"This isn't so bad, we can
fix this…"
I just don't want to
fall through. I'm willing to
lower my sights and get through
the day without doing
anything heroic.
Some days you get
mail. Some days you do
not. In this case I'm not sure that
staring at the mailbox will
make a difference. I could be
wrong. Maybe I need to steer into the
skid.
It's a good day to
sleep. It's a
good day to
lie still. Draw the blinds. Curl
into a ball.
It's a good day to stare at the
pattern in the carpet and watch your
life like a
movie. It's a good day to
figure out what songs the
wind chimes are playing.
It's a good
day to weep; for
everything that was, for everything that
will be, and will never
be; to weep for the sorrow that
belongs to the World, and
the sorrow that belongs only to
you.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong. It's a good day
for sadness, but
it doesn't have to be.
It's a good day to wish. It's a good
day to want, to long, to
yearn, to hunger. It's a good day to
not know. A good day to
give in.
It's a good day for tasks. Meaningless
chores. Unimportant details.
It's a good day for cigarettes.
Coffee? So-so.
Liquor? Absolutely not.
I don't think it's a good day for
expecting, or demanding, or judging.
I don't think it's a good day
for measuring or comparing. Planning
or deciding.
It's a better day for wishing than for
hoping. It's a better day for
poetry than
prose. Better for listening to music
than for making it.
I don't think it's a good
day for writing, but I
could be wrong.
Good One
…and the stars said,
"shhhh…here he
comes…"
They crouched behind
houses and barns
and balanced on the
branches of trees,
holding their breath.
They held hands and
draped themselves from
pole to pole, just
behind the telephone wires,
they nestled under
crow's feathers, and
watched him come down
Mechanic street.
Blinded by headlights,
head full of confetti,
stubbing his toes in
sidewalk cracks,
thinking about this
and that and then
this again, not happy or
unhappy, but stuck in his
head like a man who wakes up in
a deserted movie theater
after closing.
Yellow hydrant means
left on Park, and then…
he hears a snicker from
above him and he
looks up –
nothing. Just the ancient
oak tree that had grown around the
rusted iron bracket, just a sky that is
blacker than gray,
grayer than black.
Collar up, head down –
What the hell? It
sounds like laughter, straight up, and
he looks and GODDAM IF
THE SKY ISN'T A RIOT OF LIGHT!
He stands in the middle of
the street like a
yokel seeing his first
airplane, mouth open, eyes
wide, mesmerized by
a billion billion
billion frozen flash bulbs.
Then
he smiles and says
"good one", knowing
full well how
hard it will be to
top this prank.
gratitude
thank you for the fever
thank you for when it breaks
thank you for the lightning that
spider-walks in my skull
the muscular fist inside my chest
cage built with feathers
doll made of wet leather
thank you for the fever
thank you for when it breaks.
thank you for the heartache
like a hot pan set in the snow
thanks for the tear in my memory
that makes old things seem like new
thanks for the days like bright gold coins
the stillness, the violence
the fury, the silence
thank you for the heartache
like a hot pan set in the snow.
Thank you for the vibrations
that make me rattle and hum
thank you for the bright white dreams
that blind me like an eclipse
transmissions that pierce my tissue shell
the time that destroys me
the flame that enjoys me
thank you for the vibrations
that make me rattle and hum
thank you for the distance
between here, and a lasting peace
thank you for the nagging need
to define and describe and explain
the lens of memory, the lens of desire
a promise spoken
a charm, a token
thank you for the distance
between here, and a lasting peace.
Harlem Nocturne Makes Me Want to Cry
Harlem Nocturne
by Mink DeVille
makes me want to
cry.
As I listen to the sax
that is hoarse from shouting its
desires all night, and
getting no answer, I
feel my heart laboring with that
tired desperation, like
a runner at the end of a
too-long race.
The piano is haughty and
withdrawn, its real feelings stuffed
under that gleaming black lid.
The bass is drunk –
can you blame it? I
certainly wouldn’t bear up under the
weight of all that
lavender sadness.
There is a microphone, but
no singer.
Promise hangs in the air, then
drifts, fades, disappears.
You will not
find her tonight.
You have enough money for one more
drink, or
cab fare, but
not both.
It’s
cold out there.
Harlem Nocturne makes me
want to
cry, unless, or course,
Harlem Nocturne has
nothing
to do with it.
I Have Decided
I have decided that
I will be a
poet, at least for
the next hour or
so.
I will claim that, I
will sculpt with
my hatchet, I will
craft a crayon
miniature, I
will forgive myself for
trying to catch a
mosquito in a
fifty-five gallon
drum.
I will try not to
lie, I will try not to
elaborate or
simplify, I
will try not to
care.
I have fifty minutes
left.
I Like That Riff
One poet says to another
that's a good line –
like a guitar player might say to another
I like that riff -
How great it is when you
listen to a solo that is one
long liquid line,
a vine that wraps around your heart and
flowers,
beautiful quicksand that
embraces you like a Mother,
a ladder of branches that
takes you so high you can
see
everything.
I Lose
I’m trying to break a diamond
by hitting it with a rose
I’m trying to clean a baby’s ear
with steel wool, and a fire hose
I’m trying to build a hummingbird
with a hammer, and sheet-metal screws
I’m trying to do something beautiful,
and when I try, I lose.
jealous
I am
jealous of people who
have less than me.
I am jealous
of the unhandsome man in
the mirror who seems less
burdened.
I am jealous of those who
get what they work for, jealous
of those who get something for nothing,
I have everything I need and
I am empty and
heartbroken.
I am
jealous of thieves who
didn't
get caught. I
am jealous of those who do
stupid things and
feel no shame.
I am jealous of the dead for
their reduced workload, jealous of
newborn babies for their
clean records, I am
jealous of the outwardly
crippled for the sympathy, jealous of the noisy and bold, the silent.
I am jealous of those who
have tunneled deep
into love and jealous of
those who are tied to no-one, no-thing.
I am jealous of myself – I
want what I have.
Jealous of the
stars for burning so long
after they're dead.
I am jealous of
animals who
fight and fuck and
devour.
I am jealous of angels
for their lightness.
Librarians have all the answers.
Hardware stores have all the tools.
Telephone books know everyone, and how to reach them.
Ministers know God.
Doctors get to see everyone naked.
Hawks can float motionless above everything.
Poets daydream and try to cover expenses.
Jealous.
I'm jealous of
mediocre rock bands and
good boxers. I'm
jealous of those older than me for
what they know, and those
younger for what they
don't.
I'm jealous of the power of
beautiful women and
ugly men.
I'm jealous of carpenters and
charter boat captains and
house painters in nice climates and
writers who get
paid.
I am jealous of dogs who don't think
about living, or dying, they just
do.
Lake George
We sat with our drinks
and watched out the window
as the boats pulled up to
the restaurant dock
they thrummed through the mist
of a twilight Lake George
mahogany hot rods from
some bygone marina
dapper old couples
with fine silver hair
he with a captain's cap
she with a kerchief
the boy on the dock
in Izod and deck shoes
tied each boat to a cleat
valet parking, stevedore
the beautiful boats
waited like thoroughbreds
with V8 Ford engines
small flags on their bows
long heavy Chris-Crafts
from the 20's and 30's
impossibly elegant
shaming the fiberglass
drinks gone, the food came
and the shadows enveloped
the docks and the boy
and the boats at their hitching posts
the mountains were shadows
even darker, huge, lurking
porch lights across the lake
were small yellow stars
we watched the old couples
stroll back down the docks
men patting their bellies
women patting their hair
and the boy helped them step
into their long wooden speedboats
put the ten in his pocket
engines growling and burbling
I watched as they vanished
from the glow of the dock lights
and imagined their journey
across dark Lake George
How their hair became auburn
their skin smooth and firm
and the balance shifted
between plans and accomplishments
by the time they tie up
and climb the dark stairs
they're alert and hungry
for something other than dinner
there's so much to do
is that the clock ticking?
or the ice box dripping
into a zinc-lined pan?
learning to grieve
It goes against your
instincts, your
training, it is an act of
will, even though it should
be as natural as falling
asleep.
Empty your
breath in a trail of
bubbles. You
were born here, it is not a
hostile place.
Let go, if you
can, of your need to
thrash and defy, there's
no one watching.
There.
Welcome it, and wait for the
feel of the solid
bottom. Now you have
something to
push against.
Liar
If I admit to you that
I am a liar, is there
any point in going on?
Even though I may have
distinguished myself as your
frankest of
friends, I will always be
suspect, no matter how
much of my beating heart I
cut through my
ribs to expose. And if I
deny it, I
prove it.
The difference between a
liar and a
truth-repeater is like the
difference between a
high-wire acrobat and a
man walking down the sidewalk holding a
child's hand;
the two acts require
different
skills.
Little Bit Mad
Too much voltage
too much pressure in the pipes
the path that branches off in
the dense woods only to
rejoin the main trail further up ahead
the skipping record
a page torn from a book and