The Story Teller
The stories father told while
touching the pages of books
proved
to Chris,
as a child, that the gray, lumpy
eyes could
really see. And he
wondered about father’s charade.
Over
many years of telling his son
the stories of great kings, great
deeds,
great evil, and great
good it seemed even to father as
though
he had never told
the same story twice.
Chris as
a young man went
back to those books for comfort.
The words
had been
rubbed off. So he boxed all the
books and put his
leather bound
father on the shelf in their place.
In
this Together
The circle scratched
into the
dirt was to
show her who I am.
She bent down and
added
eyes and
a smile--I misunderstood.
Playing in
the dirt
we were forming
a new language, a new
religion,
new lives.
Soon there was a real
little person:
real eyes, real smile,
real frown, real tears.
I
trace a circle in
the flour where you
are kneading the dough
and
you scrape away half of
it, leaving the rest for
me.
Uncle
One
day in the
park by the mighty river
my long dead uncle
sat
down next to
me on the bench
where I was enjoying
the
view of the small
ducks floating fearlessly
on the wide
river.
He had a beer can in his hand,
alcohol on
his
breath and stories about
just getting out of the
military.
Blood, body parts, pain
violence and rainy nights
wrapped
in cheap
woolen blankets.
Said he had just got
into town,
off the train, was curious about
my life and my
future career.
He got weepy talking about the
past
and he said he knew what
the line about rockets red glare
meant
now. He talked about the
mistakes of a life time as he looked
at
his almost empty beer can. He cried
and leaned on my shoulder. I
felt dirty.
Contaminated.
I left him with a
non-excuse, sipping
his beer, contemplating
the attraction
of the water.
Perhaps he would leave that way this time.
Anonymous
in the wide river.
Predictions
Ann
sits with her hands
on her eyes, and her elbows
resting on
the table
in the way she usually
does at night when
she
cries.
But she doesn’t cry.
She has dreamt
herself dry.
Her shoulders heave and
jerk with sobs of
laughter
which ring
against her breakfast
bowl – still streaked red
from
her morning meal.
Today
day and night
will
slip into each other
making life gray.
The smiling AMS man
on
TV told Ann so.
We Were Wrong
We
sat there and
got fat together
and I find it amazing
that
we didn't notice
it all then:
the sins
of
the family
and of sugar
in our blood.
The
red and white bakery box
sat between us on the red bench
seat,
sliding back and forth.
We tossed the sticky
deli wrap into
the box in turns.
You would rage and
yell at the
radio, beating
your hard hands against
the defenseless
wheel, over
the pains of others:
the unborn, the persecuted
believers,
the misunderstood
protester.
Stretched out and
sleeping
off the glucose high
on that warm, red bench
seat
my quiet contentment
was a dangerous consent.
Bountiful
I
sell myself
a pound of flesh at a time
to whoever happens
to
come along with a sad story.
My shop is a
bench
on Park Street, the
only one for miles
sturdy enough to
handle the load.
I sit with my knife and cut
away.
Each buyer gets a plastic fork
from my white cardboard box.
Sometime
I do get hungry myself.
But I save the best cuts
for the customers.
At the end of every day I close up
shop.
Count the tills. Weigh the lot
that is left. And I find that the
stock is just as
bountiful or more so.
I go home
thankful for the bounty
and the dreams of retiring.
Flying
Away in Pieces
Cardinal red feet with
White
gray claws
Click, click on the pavement.
Black-hole feathers
hide
Dark blue eyes and
Gray white beak.
A
man who doesn’t belong
On that bird filled fountain
Watches
the antics of
Black feathers and
Red Feet around his legs
And
the smaller
Twittering, flittering birds
Of all the dusty,
dirty
Shades in a smog tinted rainbow,
Mostly gray white or
White
gray. But spots of red, orange,
Yellow, green, blue, indigo and
violet
Peek through
In momentarily soot free zones.
The
man, amused with the
Twittering flittering and
Click
clicking rips bread
Off the full roll he
Would have thrown
away.
Little beak and little
Wing are barely able
to
Snap the bread
Off the table.
Slightly air born
the bird
Wobbles under the weight of
The bread. Other
twitters
Dive at the lucky one;
They all hope to win the
prize.
A full stomach is a full life.
The man
watches intently as the
Bread is knocked to the ground.
Here
the black feathers own
The bread. The man laughs
Deeply and
satisfyingly.
As the chuckle leaves
His throat a
Snow
white sea bird
With pink toes and
Pink beak swoops
Down
while cawing
In almost human tones.
The gull tips his wing
to
Scrape the back of the black feathers as
One last snub.
Arcing
into the air
The bread bobs down
The inside of the bird’s
neck.
The black feathers and
The twittering flittering
Learned
long ago not
To look up and
Wish for what is gone.
No
longer amused
The man tries to shoo away
A twit peddling
peace
Of mind through charity,
Hope through a handout.
Unable
to dispatch the twit
And unwilling to endure
Beady stares,
the man rises to leave it all behind.
One lands on his
nose.
The man snuffs and puffs
To try to blow the little
thing away
But the bird pecks purposefully at his eye.
Blind
and in pain the man drops to the ground and is
Instantly dumped
upon by the flocks of birds.
The birds quickly do their
Work
and fly away.
The cleaned bones clatter
To the ground.
The
only witness is the
White sea bird.
He already has a full
stomach,
Full life. So he leaves, content.
At A
Time Of Having Too Much
The gray dust has settled
in front
of the black wall,
in our hair,
in our eyes,
in
our lungs.
And we have now completed the harvest
The
grain and the chaff have all been separated.
We wear the dust of
separation.
The full baskets sat before us
in the
cool dawn and
when we picked them up to
toss the contents
into the air
you showed me
just how high to throw them.
And
there was a lot of chaff.
Children playing in the leaves of fall
We
scattered it around us and over all the fields
With the help of
the wind.
And this chaff was a lot of waste;
It
concerned us.
But you gave me the most important lesson:
There
will be a few sprouts here and there
in the fields next spring
and
we will be timid around them
as we plow to plant a new crop.
Escape
One
hour before dusk
the lot of the local market
becomes the
staging area
for the pseudo-military
operation of going
home.
The long holiday weekend
together didn’t
make these
troops any more synchronized.
The family members
divide
haphazardly among the two vans,
three rusty trucks,
and two woefully
small imports.
Some cradle
pillows that will be
stuffed into the space between their
head
and the window. What wonderful
dreams they will have of going
home
only to have them become true.
Plastic
Jesus
One year I was
a cloud...
well a
lamb but
the costume didn't fit right.
I was a
cloud
looking in on the birth.
As the plastic Jesus was
delivered
to the manger
I began to laugh.
In the sky I was
closer
to the angels and I did
not hear them signing.
The
wise men couldn't
pronounce the names of their
gifts--from
restrained laughter
I had a tough time standing.
The
animals started to
horse around and I took
the cue; I
rained
on the plastic Jesus and
then softly I heard
him cry.
On
a Pedestal
We sat together in
back of the class
and we both
had
our eyes
on the same girl.
short sandy
blonde hair,
a pretty smiling face,
shiny blue bell bottoms
made
from some sort of plastic,
pink coat over the red plastic chair,
and
heavy dark blue sweater
You sketched her in your
notepad.
Ink on paper,
her form and her
draping pink
coat. A big pocket
and some buttons visible.
And
you focused on her back. That is
what you could see.
I
wrote a few notes about her,
lines of poetry.
Ink on paper,
words
and ideas and emotions
and images that capture that moment and
all
of us in it.
A Band With No Rhythm
Six
year olds on the verge of
turning sixteen,
so much about
the world they
will not know,
so much about themselves they
should
never know.
Humans who live so close to the
ideal
that it
is impossible to spend the day
with them
without
finding the truth in our
old desires
to never grow up.
Peter Pan
and Jeffery the giraffe.
Yet anger at
the creative powers
of the universe
are also mixed in with
this awe.
Care free lives
are minimal compensation for
being
made
to stand so close to the truth
that it leaves timeless
scars.
Black Magic
Glance at
your picture
and the magician begins
tugging a silk kerchief
from
the black pocket
of memory.
Little soft squares
of
the past knotted together
at the corners; one after the
other
they keep appearing.
But I have seen this
trick
too many times to believe
that it will last forever or
have
a happy outcome.
And it isn't long before the
rainbow
display of silk
is bleached salty white.
And the
last square is black,
untied it flies toward the sky
and
through it no sun, moon
or stars can bee seen.
Tomorrow
I
do not want to wake up
tomorrow confronted with
reminders
of the past that
sits just through the windows:
the panes in
the wall; tubes on
the table; frames in the hall; and
flesh
shades held open in mortal
fear, fear of mortality.
The
clock approaches the witching
hour and my brain, a dog on a long
leash
circling the pole it is anchored
to, finally has spiraled close
enough
to the center so it can lay down and rest.
Sleep. The
windows are shut, the TV is off
the pictures are quiet and my
eyes are
peacefully shut. Tomorrow is here
without
confrontation.
Too Much Info
It
is important
to sleep past morning news shows
or I’ll have
no nerve.
Formerly Fat
I.
I
rise effortlessly
out of the chair
after the bell has rung.
I
have powerful legs
from carrying the weight
of it all—
all
these years:
your snorting laughter,
the unexamined pain in
your eyes,
future hope/past regret,
the fun we never had.
I
could not grow up
and leave it behind
so I grew out
became
bigger than
all of us put together.
a bigger container to
store
the pain.
It was a germ,
growing exponentially;
fed
poison,
it prospered.
II.
Now
I can
rise effortlessly
out of the chair
and run without
sucking
wind
I have power;
no one looks
at me with
pity.
I miss the
attention; miss the anonymity.
Only
the smallest
piece of you hasn’t
been given away.
My
burden is less,
yet is more.
In the cycle, guilt
follows
pain.
I rise out of the chair
and I run up the
stairs
pausing only to lock the
door behind me; the bell
has
rung.
Starry Night
I live in the place
between the twin hills
where the grass is green ocean waves on a
gentle sea
and cosmos and chaos have a battle of wills.
Some
people, foolish, weary and ill
stand and ask me how can it be
I
live in the place between the twin hills?
"Simple," I
say, "we all can have our fill
if we can remember that we are
still free
as cosmos and chaos have their battle of wills."
The
orange star light keeps me still.
And yet it is lonely for me;
I
do live in the place between the twin hills.
Most come
and go over those hills.
But, why climb every day to see
cosmos
and chaos have a battle of wills.
Stay here one night,
and let the light give you your fill.
Then tomorrow you, and she
and he
and I will live in the place between the twin hills
where
cosmos and chaos have their battle of wills.
I See
The Green, But Where Are You?
Miles of wrinkled
denim shirt,
Acres of cold hard ground
And immeasurable
expanses of time
Put too much in between us to bear.
When
I was younger, you were my world.
Now you are a distant star.
Seen seldom,
Never heard from, moving even farther away
And I
cannot even see the red shift.
Let me build a
telescope;
I’ll construct my own Enterprise
To see you shine
on me
Your picture, it causes tears-
Not because
of memories-
Because the one in my mind had faded
I
followed you, you followed me
Then our time together ended.
You
went where I couldn’t go.
I didn’t even hear your "I do."
Miles
of wrinkled denim shirt,
Acres of cold hard ground,
The
clouds up in the sky
Start rumbling down.
Drug
Store Receipt
1:15 pm
"I’m Kim. I’m here to serve
you
with our
‘7 service basics.’"
2121 S Push Str
Cash
10.00
Call in your prescription
Total 8.96
24 hours
in advance
Fuji Film 8.49
For faster Service
Change
1.04
Tax .47
Taxed, taxing
Taking
Changing
"I’m
service Kim
I’m here to serve you
7 Basics with
Cash
Thank
You
Cash
Faster Service
June 12, 2002
24
Hours in Advance
I’m here. I serve you. I thank you
I’m
Kim. I thank you for faster
Service.
A taxing
5.5%
Change in Advance
I’m here to tax you with faster
service
Store Phone # (555) 555-0452
Call in, call me
I’m
Kim, here to thank you, serve you
Kim, I’m here to
change you with basic prescriptions
Of change.
Thank
You
1:15 am
Gray
Of
white or black
I do not see
I only see
gray.
When
some say "yes"
and others say "no"
I say maybe.
Right
and wrong are
small concerns when we
grow ears and eyes and
open
minds.
Under Escher’s Sky
The
clouds,
in columns,
and rows
repeat to the
infinity
point.
The water
in the creek,
a mirror.
The
fish
Swim in lines
too. The birds
fly under the
clouds
floating
along
the line of
the wind are birds.
M.C. must be
in
charge today.
Though the clouds
Refuse to
to change
into
birds
or fish.
My mind,
disconcerted,
repeats
the observation
for an infinity.
And I make the
connections;
I
understand that
this is the normal way
in which a cloud
becomes
a fish and a fish becomes
a bird.
We,
The Snowmen
Find the spot in
yourself where
the
flakes pile up and
blow around---form
drifts and
banks to
block your windows
and doors, keep you
buttressed
against the world.
Make a snowman--make
it the
person you want to be--
grab a handful of snow, make
a ball
and throw it at him
Repeat
until satisfied.
Lay down
and become
an angel. Stand up and
be a devil—destroy it.
Meditate
in the snow
feel the ice in you,
shake it and hear the
icicles
tinkle as they fall.
Revel in the cold,
find the
sled you had
or wished you had as
a child, ride it down the
hill,
ride it down again--over and
over until you go too
far
and crack into the creek,
only lightly frozen over.
I’m
Sorry I Didn’t Reach The Sun
The wind blows.
I
reached for my goal;
It was the sun.
The light pulls me up.
I
get so close to it.
Then someone cuts off my hands,
And
The
wind blows be away.
Life
The
heart beat of trees is a
signaling drum music
even in the
white of winter.
The breathing of the waters is a
calming
rush and whoosh of
the planet's respiration.
The
angels sing to me
wisdom even when I
am deaf.
Yet
the swaying arms of the
tree cannot reach and touch
no
matter the life in them.
Angels perched in high
choir
stalls cannot hit
the notes and form the words
my heart
desires.
I tell myself that bad
company is not
better than
none. Alone leaves no
unfulfilled expectations.
Rubbernecking
I
blocked an ambulance
trying to turn left;
it didn't have
the siren on
only the lights.
It was one of those
movies:
the world became still as I rolled
past the car
wreck and the music
suspended to painful silence.
I
doubt our relationship now
I think I'm drawn to
you like a
car wreck--and
vice-versa, we do this
naturally--it is
easier.
We rubberneck at each other
throughout
life and I keep a
collection of twisted pieces from
the
automobiles.
Shiny metal pieces on the mantle
on
the wall, embedded in
me.
Mountain of a Man
Grandpa
you sit, nearly deaf, in your chair
and ramble about stupid
politicians
or stupid people from the past
and I know you
never see me.
He has been here much longer
than
you but he never complains.
He lets me look through
his eyes
on the past.
I see naked or animal-skinned men
running
along sandy beaches and I
hear the sticks of their game clacking
as
they run back and forth.
You never told me about the
games
you played as a child.
I believe that you never were
childish;
though I know that is false.
In the fall when his
greenness is
gone he shows his true age with
white whiskers
mixed in with the
black. But he has played.
He
was born with great effort too. We
know your mother nearly died
giving
birth it was 1919. His mother labored
what must have
been milieu.
He would recline on the beach when younger
with
the river waters at his feet.
The sun gleaned off his granite
chin.
He still reclines
but he has moved farther from the
water
and the angle of his cheek bones have dulled.
A
blanket that changes colors with
the seasons keeps him warm in old
age.
Would you understand and finally be
able to
explain the significance of
life if I took you up with me and
sat
with you on the hand that he
keeps clutched close to his chest,
where
the lives and loves of
generations are written?
Waiting
for the End
Time stutters if you
sit with
your fingers in its
nose, pulling along.
