Pictures

I placed pictures
of us
on my wall.
(a white wall.)

From trees came
steps,
frames,
doors.

I set a soft gray rug
in the entryway,
and if you arrive

(after I've gone to bed)
I'll hear you

sigh 
and take
the first stair.
_____

Francisco

He kept Plath in his beard--
Pound in his pocket.

He was a big, round, officially endorsed cargo ship
carrying Crane, Yeats and Cummings
to and above all our upturned mermaid faces.

How we adored him as he
orbited above us,
tossing us enjambments and sandwich crumbs.

Everyone I knew that winter
was on some sort of diet, slowly
starving themselves to get more
love
looks
and saints' medals for self-denial.

He alone moved through our world consuming it
even as he fattened it with all he stuffed us full of.

He said, "I have the reputation of being unapproachable,
but come to my office any time."
He had The Bard on the wall, Ferlinghetti on the book shelf.

He saw that I was famished and gave me loaves and fishes,
bound with glue and published by the University Press.

I let him down, you know, in the end.
My depression settled in and I gacked the final paper.
His appearance that last time, shocked me.
He said, "You're smart, but you don't try."

Gods kill themselves,
and when they do, nobody can believe it.
I thought it was my fault.
It wasn't, but

I grew all that spring and summer, even after he was gone.
My parents' lips hard-dried in a thin line.
Friends put their palms on me.

I never told anyone, and they all assumed it was some college boy.
Now I have one of my own, but when he was little
I would bitch at him to go sledding,
make a snowman,
play hockey,
anything, but just get your nose out of that book.

Then I'd feel bad and apologize to the air, and to Francisco
for all of my shortcomings
and the poems--the poems unwritten. 
______

For Magaly's "Carpe Jugulum" challenge at the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads. Some of this poem is true, the rest is my imagination.

So Much

So much depends upon
the curve of the horizon

at night

on the other side of the world.

Take it as an act of faith--
believe that your lover is there in the darkness
breathing
like sea birds on an updraft

in some harbor you've never seen.
______

For my own Fireblossom Friday "Red Wheelbarrow" challenge at Real Toads.

Several of you have asked me how I am. I guess I've been scarcer than usual. My doggy, Skittles, is having some health concerns, and that, along with returning to work and all that goes with delivering mail in Michigan in February have left me little energy for composing very much. Thank you to everyone who asked after me. I'm fine, and I am working to get Skittles that way, too. 

Book Review: "From A Buick 8"

From a Buick 8 by Stephen King

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


"From A Buick 8" is vintage Stephen King. A 1950s Buick Roadmaster is abandoned by a sketchy man in a black coat and hat at a gas station in western Pennsylvania. The local State Police Barracks puts it in a shed for safekeeping, but there is nothing safe about this car. In fact, it isn't even really a car. The battery isn't attached to anything, the controls are all for show, and it can heal itself if it gets a scratch.

That's only the tip of the iceberg, though. This Buick occasionally spits up hideous creatures, or causes human beings to disappear without a trace. It's really chilling, engrossing, and absolutely entertaining. Recommended.



View all my reviews

POCHEMUCHKA

I have lots of questions
as the nukes come flying in.

Did you borrow my sweater? The neck is fucked up.
How long are you going to hog the computer?
Are you even listening to me?

I wonder if our shadows will be burned into the concrete?
There goes my to-do list.
Whoa! What was
______

a flash 55 for Kerry.

Weaver Bird

When I was young, I had the words
but nothing to wrap them around--
I was a weaver bird with the instinct to build, but not the flock memory.

Now I am old, and still have the words,
but find that I have said most of what I needed to say.
I no longer bleed as much, nor yearn so hard. The seasons change by themselves.

In the middle of this oddly mild mid-winter,
I set out, by myself this time.
My favorite dogs are gone, but I have this new one, and she wanted to come along.

I wore new boots with purple laces
and a stick I've grown attached to, and sometimes really need.
The sun stayed low but bright while we walked, and time turned easy and slow.

I didn't know, when we set out,
how much I would love that walk and the cold air in my lungs.
I called to my friend; she came back from the trees and we turned back.

Now I hate to have left that walk behind--
taking off my boots inside the door, I wonder when I can wear them again,
but somehow, aches are assuaged, and there is sometimes balm

for all the things we lack.
_______
 

Recurring Dream Of My Childhood

Alone in a strange city at night--
everything dark, wet from recent rain,
lights too far away or just reflections in the damp pavement;
buildings empty hulks, yet somehow watching,

indifferent,
unfamiliar,
no sanctuary.

A car pulls up to the curb--
a late 40's or early 50s model,
black, maybe a Buick or a Hudson,
and though well out of date, shiny as a snake.

A woman in red dress steps out of the passenger side--
she's vaguely Hispanic,
wearing pearls and heels.
her cheekbones are high, she's almost pretty, but cold,
pretending to be helpful. A man sits in silent shadow behind the wheel.

"Are you lost?" she asks me. Yes. The curb feels like a cliff.
"Get in," she says, gesturing toward the car.
I don't want to.
It feels like a shark's mouth, a precipice, no good end in there,
and yet, I am lost and by myself,
in this strange city at night.

Sometimes I get in, and then it gets much worse--
they drive me to a doctor, a doctor who is not human,
whose treatments are misery, and who cures nothing.
Other times, I have some sense of a memory warning me
not to go with them, and I refuse.

My temporary escape is no joyful thing, but rather,
a stay of execution to be taken up on another night.
_____

Not really a poem, but an accurate description of a recurring nightmare I had as a child.

For Bjorn's "nightmare" mini-challenge at Real Toads.