Untitled Musing #4

Four line poem, beginning now -
If I could, I would tell you how.
But if you knew, you might know who
Wrote this brief verse - would it be you?

Meditation

A friend invited me to a guided meditation class. The instructor told us to visualize someone suffering, then visualize ourselves alleviating that suffering. I saw a group of men leading dogs to a fighting ring. Then Jesus, Gandhi, Pamela Anderson and I took them by surprise. Jesus created a diversion while Gandhi whipped out his nunchuks and nailed each man in both kneecaps. Then Pamela called the dogs. They all came to her and started to growl at each other for a second but they were instantly calmed when she blew them all kisses. She lead the dogs outside to a Hummer that ran on recycled vegetable oil and then Jesus, Gandhi and I took out filet knives and cut out the entrails of the men who ran the fighting ring. They were still barely conscious so Gandhi covered them with gasoline and I threw down a match as we all ran out to the car where we shared a big tofu stir fry with Pamela and the dogs, and the dogs told us about their plans to channel their competitiveness into poker and donate all of their winnings to charity. This was probably not what the instructor had in mind, but I sure enjoyed it.

South Carolina

We were in fourth grade.
Another fall day in the suburbs,
shooting BB guns in the back yard.
Michael's dad, a short, slightly balding Vietnam vet,
stood by watching us.
He was still in his bathrobe, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee.
After we shot our fill of soda bottles,
we blew up some GI Joes with firecrackers.
The good ones severed the rubber cords inside the little soldiers,
releasing all the limbs and and the pelvis from the green plastic torsos.
After a while we ran low,
and started talking about where to get more fireworks,
as they were still illegal in Georgia.
Alabama was one option.
Michael's dad suggested South Carolina.
"Really? They're legal in South Carolina?"
"Yeah," he said, with a little squint and a little smile,
taking another sip of coffee.
"Everything's legal in South Carolina."
We faked a knowing chuckle,
having no idea what he was talking about.
I'm actually still not sure what he meant.

In the Middle and Outside

A small black boy on the subway,
his knees squeezed tight
between mom's big bag and
Aunt Sheri's new boots,
wants out.

iPod vines sprout from mom's bag
stray over his chest,
dance on his arm but
don't stay, never stay long,
thin arms reaching ever beyond.

Mom is jamming,
Aunt Sheri's stomping,
and the boy is rolling
his eyes, can't wait
for the stop, for it all
to stop, for his song
to play, outside.

Sixth Grade Dance (revised)

It's the same now as then
the way we're all standing against the wall,
amateurs, unsure of what to do with our hands
or where to look;
big hungry babies,
naked in our awkwardness,
scanning for eye contact,
hoping we'll find a brief embrace
here in the dark labrynth of the dingy arcade,
the muffled moans tickling our ears,
the smell of bleach poking at our nostrils,
and the blue light flickering from underneath the doors.

Saturday Morning Music

No need for a stereo here,
not with the crows in the distance
the songbirds in the near bushes
that dog a few doors down
the hum of the refrigerator
the taps of buttons and zippers in the dryer
and all of the other vague mechanical articulations of the house.
There's plenty of music here
to sit and listen to for hours.

The Hudson Hotel

Let's live in the Hudson Hotel
where everything is simple, neat and compact.
Stylish efficiency will be our new religion
as we pad down the narrow hallways
with the serenity of monks.
I'll wear the same black suit everyday
and you'll wear the same black dress.
We'll hang them up at night
and sit on the low bed in our white robes
and eat sushi
while we quietly scan The Times
and pretend like we're Japanese businessmen.
We'll watch one hour of television on the thirteen inch set,
and then have room service bring up two martinis.
After drinks we'll make love for ninety minutes
before we get our eight hours of perfect sleep
under the warm covers in the cold room.

Zarathustra of the Pen

Last night
I wrote myself a hero.
My pen
dropped forty pounds from my body,
re-grew the hair on my head.

I wrote myself
a stunning Irish girlfriend
and fat bank account;
artistic friends
and a mercenary’s history.

My sloppy penmanship
did little to diminish my power
as Imam of Chinatown,
Grand-Poobah of the Masons,
Patriarch of Violent Fiction, and
Samurai of Ozone Park.

So much better than the poor soul
who fell asleep on the A-Train,
a hopeful dreamer there
to take my place-
alone, out of money,
a dead ringer for the poet.

Plagues and Praise: A Dialogue in Haiku

External locusts
of approval: you are what
the swarm says you are.

Beating wings lift me
above my expectations
flutter - glorious!

Endless droning buzz
afflicts my mind in vicious
winged infestation.

Social butterfly
that winged dangerous beauty
gain praise, lose your soul.

Grasshopper, red ant,
Black ant too -- all bow down to
The sole of my shoe.

Why I Don't Need an Alarm Clock

A foot moves beneath
covers, the Feline attacks
Claw! Bite! Good Morning!!

Facepaint and Weapons Don't Mix

Slashing innocence,
Clowns with knives do more damage
than they realize.

Best of Intentions

You wouldn't want to visit our house today,
Though you'd be welcome.

All the furniture has converged in the center of our bedroom
and hidden itself under plastic sheeting --
protecting itself from the "Storytime" shade of blue on the wall
and just a little on the carpet.
We had enough paint, but we ran out of weekend,
so for a few nights we squeeze together into the smaller guest bed
while the cat sulks because there's no room for her.

Also in the guest room are boxes recently in storage,
bags of baby clothes resting on their journey from one friend to another,
two ironing boards - one from each of our houses, neither ready to separate
stacks of gifts from generous friends and well-wishers
(awaiting thank-you notes before they can be put into commission)
invitations, ribbons, baskets and tulle for the upcoming wedding
hundreds of dusty books - too numerous to read, too precious to throw away
camping supplies, seldom-used sporting goods
box after box of photos and mementos...

all piled up, waiting
creating an obstacle course between the crowded bed
and the door to the rest of the world
it's a hazard, really.
Toes, shins, and balance -- beware!

Perhaps it could've been less dangerous
if we had not gone to the fireworks, the cookouts, the parties
If we had locked ourselves in until each coat was dry
each item in place, every room habitable and clean.
Yes, that would've been lovely --
convenience, accomplishment, cleanliness, godliness.
You might like to visit THAT house.

Still, I prefer the laughter of friends and a layer of dust.
Look for me wallowing in the chaos of happiness.

Garden Politics

Have you ever starved a hydrangea?
I have. The Government made me do it.
For four days, I have borne witness

As leaves first drooped in listless agony,
Then curled, like a burned child recoils into a tight ball
Of muscle, skin, and pain.

Royal-blue clouds descend
To crispy spheres of fibrous dust,
Beauty meeting truth, truth defeating beauty.

Neighbors on walks with dogs have glanced toward the victim
And at me. I slip between their ears to hear them acknowledge, judge,
Then remember to water their lawn when they get home.

But steps away, cool coiled compassion is stayed
By the rule of law - glibly imposed, weakly obeyed, silently abided.
And the flower falls farther from heaven, closer to earth.

Rattlesnake Run

In summertime, we used to scamper
Beneath the drooping wisteria
Over great boulders and a mossy meadow
Down steep slopes, using roots for ladder-rungs,
Through a canopy of fragrant cedars
to Rattlesnake Run.

We never saw a rattlesnake - maybe
A moccasin or two - but the name was old,
Older than any of us pink-cheeked explorers
Walking paths worn by so many and yet so few.
Rattlesnake was ours - Masons' - mine - a secret
Held by the owners of the Knob,
The high bare hill
Topped by a solitary willow
Keeping watch over the Run, over the house, over the fields,
Over me.

Rattlesnake ran five miles through Mason land,
Twisting a dozen times around Pleasant Ridge,
Running wide, slow, smooth, then
pitching swiftly down, falling twice
Into pools so expertly carved deep into slick rock
we knew that some Mason ancient had scooped them out
For six-year-olds to slip into.

In highsky and dry August afternoons,
When the cattle would wander low into the valley,
The Run would lay bare centuries
Of slate, granite, gneiss,
Yesterday's pebbles sitting in frozen peace atop smooth slabs,
With feeble fingers of water sliding around the sides,
A straightfaced comment on the eternity of Running,
and the damning consequence of not Running.

On those days, we would run
Across the rocks, the same way you might run
Across a parking lot or a cul-de-sac.
Sara would chalk out hopscotch squares,
Or David would bring his blue marbles.
When a flood would throw downed trees against a turn in the bank
We would fashion a fort, call it Sumter or McHenry (or Mason),
Fly David's shirt from a long branch and assault it for capture
'Til we heard Mom call down from the willow
Or saw the shadows fall up past the cedars.

Climbing the winding way
From Rattlesnake to the Knob,
Our soft, heavy breaths mingled
Among the last calls of the mockingbirds
And the first of the whippoorwills.

First Beer

Someone's parents were gone
so some older kids up the street were having a party.
We tried, probably unconvincingly, to act casual
when our host uttered the holy incantation:
“Hey y’all, there’s still some beer over there in that cooler.”
The labels, soggy from the melting ice,
were sliding off the slick, brown glass
as we twisted off the caps
and delicate wisps of white vapor uncurled
into the hot August night
and lingered, just for a split second,
like tiny booze genies,
ambassadors from the adult world
welcoming us into the fold.

His Passing

It was quiet.
The family was there
at the hospital.
He was calm.
He just sighed and took one last look around the room,
the way you might at a restaurant
when you’re paying the bill
and at the same time wondering if what you ordered
was what you really wanted.

The Snore

The deep, slow snore
creeks and sputters
out of those flaring, glistening black nostrils
carrying with it
the weary longing
and sweet, oaky satisfaction
that has been fermenting in the chests of dogs
for thousands
of years,
unchanged since the first days of their friendship with man
when night would fall
and leave no trace of light in the valley
save the last embers of a few cooking fires
and the eyes that would spring open
at the snap of the smallest twig.

Betty

None of us realized
that no one had seen her,
it’s just not something you think about
when you're living in a ten-story anthill in New York.
A lot of paths crossed there
but there was no pattern to interrupt.
And even if there had been one,
most of us would have missed it.

The first day,
it must have been Aaron cooking something weird again,
as wildly experimental vegetarians are wont to do.
The second day,
the dogs were beginning to claw at the baseboards,
and it must have been someone’s garbage
or rats
or both.
But the third day,
it had taken on a life of its own;
a complex bouquet of fermented shit,
old flowers, and sour milk.
The dogs started whining early that Saturday morning,
as the building’s newest tenant demanded to be acknowledged
and we realized that no one had seen Betty since Wednesday.

Mr. Crespo, the Super, optimistically offered the formality of knocking
before walking in to find her
in her armchair, TV blaring,
an unfinished beer still on her snack tray.
Her skin was mottled and green-black.
and her arms were raised up high,
like a referee signalling a touchdown.

Birthday

Running through a Stepford subdivision
I pass a birthday party for some kid, looks like two or three years old.
Just a few family members out in the yard
with sun and balloons and cake
and party cups with Pixar characters.
The kid's on a shiny red plastic tricycle
but it's one of those special ones with a long handle on the back
so grown ups can keep him safe.
He goes down a mole hill, peddling furiously
while dad secretly steers.
I pass by again twenty minutes later
and the party's over.
The tricycle is still in the yard
but everyone's inside
except mom and dad.
They're in the driveway.
She stares daggers at him
from those tired former-prom-queen eyes
and all I hear him say, exhaustedly, is
"Fine"
as he tosses the cigarette butt from his plump, hairy fingers,
gets into his shiny red Corvette
and roars out of the driveway.

Paving North Georgia

Driving up 575 north to Ellijay
Christmas morning
and they emerged in the rearview,
a neon green armada.
They kept tight ranks,
with three in the left lane
and three in the right,
hauling who knows how many tons
of liquid civilization.

After I turned off the highway
just past the first Burger King after the Sam's Club,
across from the Waffle House but before the Hardee's,
I watched them roll on,
like giant robotic mollusks from some midnight sci-fi flick,
off to pour more driveways and parking lots.

What good's a mountain view
if you haven't got anyplace to shop?

The Man Who Had Nothing To Say

A grizzled old man once said,
"There is nothing here,"
and everything listened.
And once he had its attention,
he explained nothing,
as if it were something,
in fact, as if it were everything
and more.

The man said
that all that is
is man
and man creates all
that is,
including that which created man
which man has made
nothing,
just like itself.

Man likes to make things,
said the man,
even though these things
are nothing at all,
but simply things
that the nothing
(man)
wants to make.

So the man made things,
telling other men
to tell other men
to do everything,
since all was nothing,
said the man,
and men needed something to do.

When questioned,
the man said
the questions
(like everything)
were nothing,
and he was everything,
since he was right.

And after the man said everything
something came
out of the nothing,
something that was always there,
but hid in the nothing
watching everything,
including
the man, who had said
the something
was no longer anything.

And the something
made the man
into nothing.

And everything
except the man
was still there.

And the man had nothing to say.

The Guilty White Hush

You hear it in a lot of places
but it's usually in an office.
Some white person is talking about something
just going along talking and talking
and then it comes up in some way or another
and their voice drops to a whisper
just when they say

black

or sometimes even to say

African-American

kind of like we did when we were kids
if we wanted to get away with swearing
while the teacher was in the room.

Downtown Birmingham at Midnight

Sodium lights cast pale peach
over the rain-glazed granite, brick and sandstone
as a few overlooked flourescents still hum behind greasy factory windows.

The coarse concrete of the bridges
is chipped away here and there
exposing the rust
that bleeds from the iron rebar.

By this hour nearly everything’s closed –
the courthouse, law offices, banks,
the jewelry stores with heavy cases and medicinal smelling proprietors,
the body shops, the formal wear outlet and the cosmetology school.

The shop signs with blocky business names and brushstroke slogans
are still such sources of pride
for the shopkeepers' ghosts, leaning in the doorways of places that used to be.
But no one sees them.
The day shift beat a hasty retreat at 5:00,
the lawyers to their Pottery Barned homes in Mountain Brook and Vestavia,
the clerks to their cheap apartments in Southside and Tarrant.

The only ones left
are a few homeless, a few roving cops,
and, swaggering out of the karaoke bar,
a group of restless young men,
each one with his hand on his crotch and a chip on his shoulder,
eyes and jaws set hard.

Trains
and bass from the trunks of lowered Mustangs
rumble in the distance
as red warning lights
blink from the smokestacks of the old steel mills,
the too late protest of a drunken party host
begging the guests to stay.

Driving Through Bumblefuck at 3 AM

Seventeen degrees.
Crystal clear above and pitch black ahead.
No signs, no billboards, no nothing.
Just high-beam headlights blasting like shotguns
over the never-ending snake of asphalt
as thick heat rolls through the black plastic vents,
a fevered preacher rails through the radio
and the green ticks of the gauges glow on chapped knuckles.

A Hunter's Haiku

She's magnificent
but she's more magnificent
dead and on my wall.

Meditation on a Potted Plant

It was once the pride of my bower:
A bastion of growth, an emblem of success.
But today, I stare wanly and know full well -
It's just another potted plant.

The leaves are still green, but
They show their age in brown crackle,
Lining the edge of their variegated blades -
Not death, but a notion of it.

Weekly, the verdant resident mumbles its outrage,
Sags in meek folds towards the blotter,
Demanding more, expecting better;
I mostly comply, if only out of guilt.

What was once rising
Has settled;
What had been soaring
Now skids.

It's becoming a nuisance, really -
The tendrils stretching sardonically
Here over a neglected file, there over the edge
Of the desk, seeking oblivion.

And no, pruning won't save it;
The center can never be reclaimed; only
Dangling legs outgrowing, paler leaves out of place,
Reminders of what was, and what was not.

Stopped

He stands serene
in the officer’s spotlight
on the side of the highway
as the din of the traffic tries unsuccessfully
to eclipse the crickets and the tree frogs.

He doesn’t hear the hollow, rubbery pitch
coming from the oversized off-road tires
of the country boys’ trucks
or the airbrakes on the flatbeds
as they downshift for the hill
or the crackling voices over the officer's radio.
He's lost in the breeze
sliding through the pines
and the tall grass covering the hillside on mile 17.

His eyes are fixed on the moon
as he alternately folds each outstretched arm
back to his body
slowly
and somehow gracefully.

He lifts one foot
and he’s a crane,
waiting to take flight
over the pines
and the hills
away from the flashing lights
and the cars
and for that matter,
the billboards
and the bottles
and the taxes
and the papers
and a woman
who is fast asleep in someone else's house
a thousand miles away.

Trying to Get Fired

I swear, at first, it wasn't intentional.
I don't really know what drove me to it.

I'd crawl in a few minutes late in the morning,
complaining about traffic.
I'd sneak out at 4:55 in my gym shoes,
and linger over lunch.

Then came the doctor's appointments.
I had an eye exam, a dental exam, a trip to the gynocologist.
It's been a while since I had a checkup and a cholesterol check--
Healthy workers are happy workers, right?
Got my oil changed on the way back to the office.

I'm not sure at what point it became a game,
a battle of inertia - theirs and mine.

I started yawning in meetings whenever the boss talked
humming to myself and doodling with an extravagance
beyond what is politely accepted.
Sometimes I would pull my phone out of my pocket in alarm
leave the room as though something pressing had come to my attention
and simply not return.

After hours, I became an stealth nuissance
shifting files from one person's desk to the next,
turning family photographs on their heads
stealing the soap from the company restroom.
I took papers from the recycling bins and returned them to inboxes.
Each day I moved the wall of my cubicle an inch
until my neighbor had an extra two feet of space.
Then one night, I put it back.

I have to admit the rest of it came as a surprise, even to me.
I began asking others to do things I'd been assigned,
flatly refusing new tasks without explanation.
One day I dumped my entire filing cabinet on the floor
and sat rummaging in the contents for over two hours,
scowling at passersby as I looked for some non-existent file.

Of course, I made the intern put everything back.

As time went on, my fear faded entirely
and I began even to relish the day I would be caught
I prepared myself to handle any consequence with an absurd indignance -
I was ready for anything, but I will admit
the promotion came as a surprise.

What We Do

Sometimes people ask me, they say "Bob, what does your company do?" And I say "Nothing. And everything." That's usually about the time they look at me like I'm crazy. And they're right. I am crazy. This whole company is crazy. And we have to be. Know why? Because the world is crazy.

You see I can't say "What we do" by saying the name of some category of business or some particular form of communication. What we do is really an amalgam of so many different things in so many different aspects, there's not a single term or phrase that can describe it.

It's like what Louis Armstrong said when the reporter asked him to define jazz. He said "Man if you have to ask, you'll never know." But let me give you the closest approximation that I can, just so you can start to get your head around this thing. If you take what Louis Armstrong did for jazz, what William Faulkner did for the novel, what Julia Child did for cooking and what Abraham Lincoln did for the slaves, mix it all up in a blender with some hot sauce and some pancake syrup and some textured vegetable protein and then take that mixture into your body by means of an enema after wrapping your head with seaweed that has been soaked in vodka, that's the tip of the tip of the iceberg of what we do.

The Crash

We lost engine power
and then cabin pressure
so the pilot came back to say a few words.
He apologized profusely and said he felt personally responsible,
and everyone really appreciated that.
He said it was OK to smoke if we wanted to
as he lit up one for himself.

He was very fatherly,
and did a good job of keeping everyone calm
and acknowledging all faiths and cultures.
He briefly shared some of his favorite memories
of growing up in a small town in Texas
as our jumbo jet hurtled towards the Pacific.
He quoted a Bible verse
and a line from a Talking Heads song
and looked at each person on the plane
as if he had known them for years.

The flight crew made sure everyone had a wine glass
and then we started passing around the bottles.

We raised our glasses for one last toast,
which was made by a very eloquent, flamboyantly gay flight attendant named Richie,
originally from Savannah.

As we polished off the wine,
sealed plastic baggies containing ether-soaked rags
dropped from the ceiling.
We buried our faces and took long deep breaths
and then curled up with our fellow passengers like a big litter of puppies
for our final descent.

When we hit the water
our bodies broke apart like starfish
each arm tumbling off on its own trajectory
into the vast mumble
leaving little trails of fizz
that dissolved almost as quickly as they had formed.

The One Good Thing About Winter

With the branches bare

you can see the moonlit shadows of the sleeping trees

cast on the ground;

the dark, secret souls

stretching out

to spend a few silent hours

lying close to the roots.

Alfred and Janie

They built the house themselves
back in the early fifties.

Little attention was given to decorative details
but the structural ones were subjected to the highest scrutiny.
There's not a loose nail in the place.
No creaks. No squeaks. No cracks.
Every joint and every seam is perfectly flush.
Every board in the house
was hand picked,
measured twice,
and cut once.

Every piece of furniture is still in the same place.
The same painting of the barn in the country hangs over the mantle
which also serves as a perch for the same porcelain birds.
Out in the shed, it still smells of damp, packed down dirt and sweet grease.
The same sturdy tools
hang against the same peg board, their wooden handles
rubbed smooth over the decades.
The handwritten labels on the drawers of the tool chest
haven't changed since the day were so neatly crafted,
all caps on tiny fragments of index cards,
and the shelves still house the rows of mayonnaise jars
which hold so many parts and assemblies
soaking in oil
like organs in a lab.

The swing set still sits in the yard,
without a speck of rust,
anchored by concrete
on all four corners,
another monument
to Alfred's war against chance.

All of these things are the same,
but Alfred and Janie
aren't quite.

Another evening settles over Fairburn,
and the streetlight slides in between the slats of the blinds
that cover the eight-foot picture window.

Their thin soft bodies pad through the house,
cleaning, arranging, and moving without segue
between observations about belongings in the house, the vegetation outside of it,
and recollections of meteorological events;
that storm, this chair, that tree,
as if the concrete nature of those things
gives comfort
even as the differences between them
start to fade.

Alligator Days

There's an alligator in the sewer.
I don't care much, but
Apparently I am alone.

I'm looking around at the people
Now crowded around the
Now-open grate
That used to separate them
From the harmless, overgrown lizard
That hissed and thrashed, trapped and helpless
In the puddle of nasty water
Way down below the street.

The people have been here
Since that kid Corey asked me why
I was face-down, looking in the storm drain.
He left, and they came:
Mothers ordering other mothers' kids
To get away from there for God's sake;
Two policemen, leaning back against their cruiser,
Chuckling and sipping sodas;
A fat sweaty man from the county,
Pulling against the grate.
They all kept one eye on that gator, though.

They've let me stay and watch
Since I was the one who heard that grunt and splash
As I rode by on my metalblue bike,
Just trying to make it home from school.
They haven't noticed that my bike
Is missing its brand-new yellow pads.
The first two sets were stolen.
They were stolen again today --
But I guess they wouldn't know that,
Standing over the grate,
Staring a gator in the face.

Two weeks ago, I was staring into the sewer:
Lying flat against the grate, watching
Drops of blood falling from my face,
Way down into a pool, making runny rainbows.
I couldn’t hear it splash, but I heard
My friend Joey's helpless grunts, choking
With each strike of the bat.
I could hear him thrashing, trying to dodge
Every cut of the knife, crying out when it struck
(He told them to go to hell).
We were trapped. We were helpless.
When it was over, I got up off the metal bars
And ran, but looked back at Joey,
An orange and blue lump against the pavement.
They tell me Joey couldn’t get up.
I haven’t seen him since.
There wasn't a gator in that sewer, though.

I really should go home now --
There's nothing to see here.
They'll help this lizard prisoner out of his cell
And into the canal that runs behind my house.
And they'll go back to their houses
And do it all again tomorrow.
And I'll get on my bike
And try to make it home again
For another day of sunshine and orange trees
And of gators, free and caged.