Sunday, June 18th, 2006

P.A.

A pair of sunglasses at gate C9;

A cell-phone ringing at A4;

The litany of lost things

Rings for everyone,

Hoping to catch those few

Too hurried to realize they need it

Before they leave the terminal.

A blue and gold umbrella, no gate;

A notebook at B2;

But never a package or case.

Never a bag, not now

In this age of useless gesture

Where they may as well announce

Our sense of security, B4;

Indignance with the charade, A2;

Our sense of humor, C4.

Monday, June 19th

Heartless

Louie's robots seem so small:

Spindly and sleek,

Their parts easily rearrangeable,

All interchangeable,

Round-edged plastic

Heroes that never fail,

Villains that always return.

My robot was sheet metal,

Wrapped and welded

With spring motor guts

That made it buzz,

March, and shoot sparks.

A fearsome creature

I never let roam after dark;

A toy I never requested

And suffered uneasily;

A soulless brute

That would have stomped

These plastic whiners to bits

And would have set

My sister's hair ablaze

If mom had not intervened.

A relief for all of us,

My metal man still writhing

In his garbage bag

In the early morning rain,

Meeting his match in the maw

Of the sanitation truck:

A mad scientists broken dream;

Santa's little lapse.

Tuesday, June 20th

Long Days

Summer disappears

When I forget the blinds,

The length of the day

Hollow and broken,

Or hunted ragged

By the dogged overcast,

A grip I don't resist

Until the day surrenders

Or the nosey shadow

Of an airplane

Blinks my open eyes

And I look up

Half expecting

The darkness to remain.

Its winter's face I see:

Her frozen hand

Lifted to her lips,

A blur of ice

And a holy loneliness

That makes of the eclipse

A solid breathing thing

That will sit with me

As long as I allow,

Invited out of season,

Night eyes shining,

Cold and pale,

The whole day long.

Wednesday, June 21st

Where Next?

Why not Kentucky?

You like horses.

It's famous for horses.

Rolling hills teeming

With picturesque grazers,

Statuesque as any bronze

But brown and black

As a hole against the green:

A calm emptiness

Waiting to be filled

With grass, apples,

And occasional sugar cube,

And turned half human

By the details

Only you can see,

Maybe the way one looks up

When you put your foot

On the fence,

Tilts her long head

And offers her neck

For your fingers,

Letting you kick

Little furrows of dust

Up on her hide

Just under the mane,

The stains on your fingertips,

And even the smell,

An honor

You cling to

For hours.

So what of the spider

That stowed away

In the rental car,

So big you swear

You could hear it breathe,

Peeking out

Of the dashboard vent

When the air was on?

It saw you didn't it,

And had the sense

To duck back in

And wouldn't come out again,

Waiting for the odds to change,

There on the highway,

The gravel shoulder,

Door flung wide?

At least you bothered to stop.

The two of you sizing

Each other up:

Ten eyes unblinking,

Ten legs set quaking.

Short of a tow-truck,

You figured it out,

Scratching on the window,

The shadow of your finger

Cast to crawl along

The hunter's pit.

And still you shrieked

When he pounced at nothing

And you pounce at him.

You won.

The difference

Of one place or another:

Snowcapped,

Dune ridden,

Or ocean bound,

What does it matter?

What's the difference,

One big furry beast

Or another,

But the will

To hear their heart?

It's just the luck

Of perspective

As to who could step

On whom.

Thursday, June 22nd

NONE!

No poem for today. Tonight, my partner and I drove up into the foothills toward the Pacific and found a nice Italian restaurant in the middle nowhere. With a full belly that included a couple glasses of wine, I was more than half asleep by the time we got home. It didn't seem right to break the spell and force myself to work.

Friday, June 23rd

I didn't intend this as a commentary on yesterday's miss. I've been meaning to write one of these for some time. It's the obligatory "anti-writing" poem that most poets eventually write. My favorite is Billy Collins' "Shadow"

Vacation

The inkling mopes around,

Grows up an impulse,

And sets up a dirty shop,

A persistent nagging

That this has gone too far,

That this whole business

With words is simply enough.

There should be days,

Maybe even weeks without

Catching sight of their squiggles

Marching in formation,

Lines of literary ants

Working the corpse

Of some sweet symbol.

Stretches where

The tooth of the page,

The shape of letters,

Their underlying sharpness

Saws other minds than mine,

Rasps on other tongues.

Go ahead, it itches,

This rough idea,

Tape a sign on the door

And walk away.

A sign the muse

Is sure to understand:

One that says

Absolutely nothing.

Saturday, June 24th

Nervous Wreck

It could have been worse,

Breaking loose on the ramp,

Front end going around

And spinning through

All four lanes

Crowded with shock,

The wheels of the car

And the wheels of my brain

Equally useless,

Their chorus confiding,

Out of control,

"This is it."

Sidelong, backward,

Panning around a blur

Of faces, bumpers,

Doors and grills,

I skate my wild pirouette,

Thundering through

Clear to the far median,

Rocket up on the shoulder

And to the dividing wall

Where I stop unscathed,

Resting right

And simply wait

Another chance

To mash the gas and go.

A shadow on my window

Warns me of the tapping

Where a witness

More amazed than I

Begs me not to go

Until I've had a proper chance

To come back to my self,

My senses, and my world.

Should my hands be shaking?

Should I be moved

To prayer or tears?

Tell myself

It could have been worse--

Should have been worse?

Look with terror now

At every turn?

I pull away when I can

And it's years

Until I come to wonder

With a better perspective

Than mine,

Just how long

He remained.