Jay-Walker
June 15 2007
A grey expanse of asphalt
all cracked-up and pot-holed,
scarred with slick black strips of tar
— like stitches or stretch-marks.
And traffic whizzing past,
2 lanes in each direction.
This is how a man is tested
in paved-over cities in the new Millennium,
where the only prey walks upright
and carries a briefcase.
A calculated dash
calibrating speed and position and intent
in a game of mental chess
with drivers,
who are blissfully unaware of soft pink flesh.
Sometimes I catch an eye
like wildebeest and lion,
each of us gauging the odds.
And sometimes I glare defiant,
self-righteous in my right-of-way.
And sometimes, I hesitate
hoping the gorgeous blonde in her sleek red Mazda
tips-up her tinted glasses
and smiles,
or at least tosses her hair and laughs.
My path is start/stop and zig/zag
dodging obstacles like a friendly match
of murder-ball.
Or one of the first primitive video games
— where I’m the glowing green dot
who must plot his way across,
spotted so many points to begin.
So it’s either win big;
or a very quick finish.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Fatherhood
Sept 17 2003
Of
course we are all children
once,
and
a mother
who
offered-up her breast,
and
a father
who
may have missed our first wet breath,
tentative
, when we met
in
the blood, and sticky mess
of
motherhood.
An
outsider
who
would never dare confess
weakness,
so
unsure
he
was capable
of
that much love,
could
give himself utterly up
to
this helpless squabbling child.
But
we are susceptible to entanglement
and
this fierce mysterious attachment.
Amazing
how
fate can triumph over will --
the
conceit
of
romantic love we choose;
and
this other love
we
are powerless to refuse.
Dandelion
May 17 2007
Even in a sparse dry spring
I am forced to contemplate weeds,
silky yellow blooms scattered like cheerful winks
over parched brown lawns.
The definition of a weed :
that which requires no tending or cultivation
and greedily colonizes every open space
— the vacuum abhorred by Nature.
But their hardiness demands respect
however grudging;
as if they could prosper on next-to-nothing,
just air and sun.
I gleefully decapitate each one
before they burst into seed,
showering the world with insidious progeny
— a Malthusian horror unleashed.
But dandelions grow tenacious and deep,
long juicy roots plunging far beneath the surface
plundering the soil.
So the lawn is a thin green pin-cushion
impaled by weeds,
their sweet yellow blossoms like camouflage
— the innocent tips
of long invisible daggers.
May 17 2007
Even in a sparse dry spring
I am forced to contemplate weeds,
silky yellow blooms scattered like cheerful winks
over parched brown lawns.
The definition of a weed :
that which requires no tending or cultivation
and greedily colonizes every open space
— the vacuum abhorred by Nature.
But their hardiness demands respect
however grudging;
as if they could prosper on next-to-nothing,
just air and sun.
I gleefully decapitate each one
before they burst into seed,
showering the world with insidious progeny
— a Malthusian horror unleashed.
But dandelions grow tenacious and deep,
long juicy roots plunging far beneath the surface
plundering the soil.
So the lawn is a thin green pin-cushion
impaled by weeds,
their sweet yellow blossoms like camouflage
— the innocent tips
of long invisible daggers.
Black Ice
I am sliding on black ice
in a slow graceful pirouette,
a white-knuckle spectator with a helpless sense
of unreality;
slithering downhill backwards.
Adrenaline stops the clock,
each second packed with acute perception.
Like a physics experiment
in real time:
an idealized state of zero friction
and unstoppable mass,
this hulk of steel and glass
in an incongruous dance
according to the relentless laws
of momentum and mechanics.
Black ice,
the evil twin
to jolly snowmen and freshly-fallen snow.
The slow-motion choreography of winter,
accompanied by tuneless music
— the sound of tires spinning uselessly.
I am sliding on black ice
in a slow graceful pirouette,
a white-knuckle spectator with a helpless sense
of unreality;
slithering downhill backwards.
Adrenaline stops the clock,
each second packed with acute perception.
Like a physics experiment
in real time:
an idealized state of zero friction
and unstoppable mass,
this hulk of steel and glass
in an incongruous dance
according to the relentless laws
of momentum and mechanics.
Black ice,
the evil twin
to jolly snowmen and freshly-fallen snow.
The slow-motion choreography of winter,
accompanied by tuneless music
— the sound of tires spinning uselessly.
As Constant As a Northern Star
Feb 18 2007
Joni Mitchell sang
you were as constant as a northern star
in a clear bittersweet voice
already weary with love.
Because even with the best of intentions, gazing up
this star only shines in open skies
on perfect moonless nights
— its place in heaven fixed;
but most of the time
invisible.
And never in daylight.
I observe the constellations
as they wheel predictably across the sky.
But what draws my eye are the dark irregular planets,
an irresistible distraction
wandering erratic against the backdrop of stars.
Like danger, these vagabonds intoxicate me
— Venus’ brooding beauty,
the bloodied Mars.
Or Saturn, with its rings of hard pulverized rock
glittering like a fantastic confection of light.
Love smoulders warmly for years;
as constant as Polaris
so it never truly dies.
But infatuation is fierce;
erupting like supernovae, and leaving black bottomless holes
that suck the universe dry.
Feb 18 2007
Joni Mitchell sang
you were as constant as a northern star
in a clear bittersweet voice
already weary with love.
Because even with the best of intentions, gazing up
this star only shines in open skies
on perfect moonless nights
— its place in heaven fixed;
but most of the time
invisible.
And never in daylight.
I observe the constellations
as they wheel predictably across the sky.
But what draws my eye are the dark irregular planets,
an irresistible distraction
wandering erratic against the backdrop of stars.
Like danger, these vagabonds intoxicate me
— Venus’ brooding beauty,
the bloodied Mars.
Or Saturn, with its rings of hard pulverized rock
glittering like a fantastic confection of light.
Love smoulders warmly for years;
as constant as Polaris
so it never truly dies.
But infatuation is fierce;
erupting like supernovae, and leaving black bottomless holes
that suck the universe dry.
An Atheist Learns to Pray
July 22 2007
An atheist does not so much fall in love
as willingly suspend his disbelief
— giving-in to grace for as long as he is able,
and then falling head-first into it.
Because a natural skeptic finds it hard to surrender,
even in affairs of the heart.
He will always doubt
that out of all those billions
she is the one to make him complete.
Or that all along
his soul-mate was the girl-next-door.
But open him up to it
and chemistry takes over,
oxytocin and dopamine scorching through his veins like nitroglycerine;
making her a goddess,
and every quirk and obstacle
insignificant.
And you have to admit, falling is pure exhilaration,
like sky-diving or free-fall
— spread-eagled on a cushion of air, soaring effortlessly over the earth,
howling, ecstatic, for all that you’re worth.
While the wind’s ungodly roar
tears every sound from you throat,
‘til even your own inner-voice isn’t heard.
. . . No, it’s not the fall,
it’s the sudden stop at the bottom
that hurts.
And of all people, it’s the atheist
in his cold indifferent universe
who truly appreciates how powerfully belief can console.
How leaning on undiluted faith
the incomprehensible might suddenly start making sense,
and evil only seem to get away with it.
And how belief might redeem a man, as well;
not just romantic love
in all its monotheistic fervour,
but belief, too, in kissing frogs and goddesses.
As if you had placed her on a pedestal
all the better to worship,
high priest to your lover’s commandments.
Or you were David
slayer of giants and writer of psalms,
praising her beauty in song.
July 22 2007
An atheist does not so much fall in love
as willingly suspend his disbelief
— giving-in to grace for as long as he is able,
and then falling head-first into it.
Because a natural skeptic finds it hard to surrender,
even in affairs of the heart.
He will always doubt
that out of all those billions
she is the one to make him complete.
Or that all along
his soul-mate was the girl-next-door.
But open him up to it
and chemistry takes over,
oxytocin and dopamine scorching through his veins like nitroglycerine;
making her a goddess,
and every quirk and obstacle
insignificant.
And you have to admit, falling is pure exhilaration,
like sky-diving or free-fall
— spread-eagled on a cushion of air, soaring effortlessly over the earth,
howling, ecstatic, for all that you’re worth.
While the wind’s ungodly roar
tears every sound from you throat,
‘til even your own inner-voice isn’t heard.
. . . No, it’s not the fall,
it’s the sudden stop at the bottom
that hurts.
And of all people, it’s the atheist
in his cold indifferent universe
who truly appreciates how powerfully belief can console.
How leaning on undiluted faith
the incomprehensible might suddenly start making sense,
and evil only seem to get away with it.
And how belief might redeem a man, as well;
not just romantic love
in all its monotheistic fervour,
but belief, too, in kissing frogs and goddesses.
As if you had placed her on a pedestal
all the better to worship,
high priest to your lover’s commandments.
Or you were David
slayer of giants and writer of psalms,
praising her beauty in song.
A Sudden Gust
April 26 2007
I feel small
in the stillness of morning
under high freshly-rinsed skies
— as soft as well-worn denim;
as hard as a porcelain bowl, up-ended,
glazed blue inside.
Which would ring true, struck just so;
a pure clear note.
Then wind, a sudden gust
from nowhere,
rustles the leaves and ripples the lake,
strong enough to lean all my weight against it
— arms out-stretched,
how it feels to fly.
In an instant, transparent air transformed
to a solid wall,
as substantial as bricks and mortar.
As if the earth had absent-mindedly shrugged,
unleashing unimagined forces;
breaking morning
and plucking me up
— as lightly as a speck of dust.
April 26 2007
I feel small
in the stillness of morning
under high freshly-rinsed skies
— as soft as well-worn denim;
as hard as a porcelain bowl, up-ended,
glazed blue inside.
Which would ring true, struck just so;
a pure clear note.
Then wind, a sudden gust
from nowhere,
rustles the leaves and ripples the lake,
strong enough to lean all my weight against it
— arms out-stretched,
how it feels to fly.
In an instant, transparent air transformed
to a solid wall,
as substantial as bricks and mortar.
As if the earth had absent-mindedly shrugged,
unleashing unimagined forces;
breaking morning
and plucking me up
— as lightly as a speck of dust.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Umbrellas in a Snowstorm
Dec 31 2007
They’re forecasting snow showers
with gentle gusts.
And I picture a naked man, all lathered-up
whistling cheerfully,
standing outdoors as the flakes come down
scrubbing his back with a sudsy brush.
Or southerners, prepared for showers,
mushing through slush
bent under black umbrellas,
the fabric strained
by heavy clumps of stuff.
Or white confetti,
showering its praise down on me, bent double;
because heaven smiles
on those who shovel.
In a blinding blizzard, driven by wind
snow bites hard
— stinging the eyes,
and freezing naked skin.
Like a cold shower in a monastery,
distracting the mind from sin.
Dec 31 2007
They’re forecasting snow showers
with gentle gusts.
And I picture a naked man, all lathered-up
whistling cheerfully,
standing outdoors as the flakes come down
scrubbing his back with a sudsy brush.
Or southerners, prepared for showers,
mushing through slush
bent under black umbrellas,
the fabric strained
by heavy clumps of stuff.
Or white confetti,
showering its praise down on me, bent double;
because heaven smiles
on those who shovel.
In a blinding blizzard, driven by wind
snow bites hard
— stinging the eyes,
and freezing naked skin.
Like a cold shower in a monastery,
distracting the mind from sin.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Berlin Jazz Festival, 1964
Jan 29 2008
Martin Luther King
once gave a speech
“On The Importance of Jazz”.
I should have known
that the man who broke the back
of segregation,
who moved the people, both white and black
with his trumpet blasts of prose,
was a lover of jazz.
Almost as much as he loved beautiful women.
Because how appropriate
— the music of sharecroppers and slaves
and bodies in motion,
the music conceived
in the miscegenation of New Orleans,
the music that out-lived Jim Crowe.
Where it’s all give-and-take
and improvisation,
passed-on with a nod or a glance.
Where the great soloist preens,
then resumes his seat in the back.
Where you must listen as well as you play,
and the music is never the same.
He was a womanizer, a flawed man,
whom we excuse because of his greatness.
He orated and proclaimed,
and like jazz
made it all sound spontaneous
— his cadences, rising and falling,
his listeners
rapt.
And like all the fabled jazzmen
he remains forever young;
a dead composer, instead of living jazz,
silenced by a one-note gun.
Jan 29 2008
Martin Luther King
once gave a speech
“On The Importance of Jazz”.
I should have known
that the man who broke the back
of segregation,
who moved the people, both white and black
with his trumpet blasts of prose,
was a lover of jazz.
Almost as much as he loved beautiful women.
Because how appropriate
— the music of sharecroppers and slaves
and bodies in motion,
the music conceived
in the miscegenation of New Orleans,
the music that out-lived Jim Crowe.
Where it’s all give-and-take
and improvisation,
passed-on with a nod or a glance.
Where the great soloist preens,
then resumes his seat in the back.
Where you must listen as well as you play,
and the music is never the same.
He was a womanizer, a flawed man,
whom we excuse because of his greatness.
He orated and proclaimed,
and like jazz
made it all sound spontaneous
— his cadences, rising and falling,
his listeners
rapt.
And like all the fabled jazzmen
he remains forever young;
a dead composer, instead of living jazz,
silenced by a one-note gun.
Under Ice
Jan 28 2008
We walk on water
in heavy winters
— a hard black slab,
so thick it feels like the last ice age
crossing over.
This is rare,
the deep-freeze winter
the north wind scouring the surface clear.
As if this little lake was the kernel of a thousand year glacier,
about to freeze solid
— ice
all the way down.
Underneath
the lake is dark, motionless,
silver fish hovering, holding-on ‘til spring.
Like a lost planet,
so far out in its orbit
the sun is a thimble of pale light.
Where mysterious life forms shelter beneath the surface
moving slowly;
the way molecules approaching absolute zero
come to a stop.
It’s the snow that makes it treacherous
— a warm blanket over thin ice, despite the cold,
creaking and groaning as you cross over.
Looking back, you watch your boot-prints fill with slush
the water rising-up
its winter sleep interrupted;
as grumpy as dark January mornings
when the alarm jangles you up,
2 hours before the sun.
Jan 28 2008
We walk on water
in heavy winters
— a hard black slab,
so thick it feels like the last ice age
crossing over.
This is rare,
the deep-freeze winter
the north wind scouring the surface clear.
As if this little lake was the kernel of a thousand year glacier,
about to freeze solid
— ice
all the way down.
Underneath
the lake is dark, motionless,
silver fish hovering, holding-on ‘til spring.
Like a lost planet,
so far out in its orbit
the sun is a thimble of pale light.
Where mysterious life forms shelter beneath the surface
moving slowly;
the way molecules approaching absolute zero
come to a stop.
It’s the snow that makes it treacherous
— a warm blanket over thin ice, despite the cold,
creaking and groaning as you cross over.
Looking back, you watch your boot-prints fill with slush
the water rising-up
its winter sleep interrupted;
as grumpy as dark January mornings
when the alarm jangles you up,
2 hours before the sun.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
60% Threat of Rain
May 22 2007
I look directly into the sun,
a pale yellow disc, smudged by scudding clouds.
The smell of dry earth and dust
and a sense of energy, pent-up
— something hovering
just beyond the horizon.
The world is all gauzy light
and buzzing lethargy
and limp and faded greens;
about to be washed clean.
They called for 60% chance of showers
and a muggy SW breeze.
It feels like a phony war,
both sides posturing
— false charges and feints,
a minor skirmish,
bored troops itching to engage.
Impatient for the clash of thunder,
and horses drowning in muddy fields
deluged by rain.
May 22 2007
I look directly into the sun,
a pale yellow disc, smudged by scudding clouds.
The smell of dry earth and dust
and a sense of energy, pent-up
— something hovering
just beyond the horizon.
The world is all gauzy light
and buzzing lethargy
and limp and faded greens;
about to be washed clean.
They called for 60% chance of showers
and a muggy SW breeze.
It feels like a phony war,
both sides posturing
— false charges and feints,
a minor skirmish,
bored troops itching to engage.
Impatient for the clash of thunder,
and horses drowning in muddy fields
deluged by rain.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Sound Proof Room
Nov 13 2007
They say there is no such thing
as total silence.
Even in a padded chamber
sealed-off from the world.
You begin to hear the swoosh
of hot red blood
filling your ears.
And stiff joints creaking
as you squirm on the hard wooden seat.
And soon even your eyelids
make noise when they blink,
and thoughts ricochet around your brain
crackling
like live wires spewing sparks.
Even in outer space
where no one can hear you screaming,
hurtling through the void with 2 hours of air left:
the stiff pneumatic suit
filled with terrible sound,
as every rasping breath counts down.
You are a bright white speck
barely visible on a moonless night,
quickly passing from sight.
When the phone rang
it jerked my head back, startled,
and I was suddenly aware of deep dense silence
broken,
and the hush that hangs in the air
expectantly
in the space between the rings;
which come insistent
impatient
almost painful,
jangling me from the luxurious eternity of thought.
My hand hovers over the phone,
which refuses to stop;
a wrong number
or selling something, I hope.
Because everything can change in an instant.
And at some point, in every life
it does.
Then the silence stretching unnaturally
as I wait for the ring that never comes,
wondering who, or what, it was.
And it’s in the silence
when my heart races,
I can hear the blood rush.
Nov 13 2007
They say there is no such thing
as total silence.
Even in a padded chamber
sealed-off from the world.
You begin to hear the swoosh
of hot red blood
filling your ears.
And stiff joints creaking
as you squirm on the hard wooden seat.
And soon even your eyelids
make noise when they blink,
and thoughts ricochet around your brain
crackling
like live wires spewing sparks.
Even in outer space
where no one can hear you screaming,
hurtling through the void with 2 hours of air left:
the stiff pneumatic suit
filled with terrible sound,
as every rasping breath counts down.
You are a bright white speck
barely visible on a moonless night,
quickly passing from sight.
When the phone rang
it jerked my head back, startled,
and I was suddenly aware of deep dense silence
broken,
and the hush that hangs in the air
expectantly
in the space between the rings;
which come insistent
impatient
almost painful,
jangling me from the luxurious eternity of thought.
My hand hovers over the phone,
which refuses to stop;
a wrong number
or selling something, I hope.
Because everything can change in an instant.
And at some point, in every life
it does.
Then the silence stretching unnaturally
as I wait for the ring that never comes,
wondering who, or what, it was.
And it’s in the silence
when my heart races,
I can hear the blood rush.
Spending Life
Sept 26 2007
You spend your life
doing this or that,
as if there was only so much cash in the bank.
You could blow it all at once
on dancing girls in Vegas.
Or stuff it under the mattress for a rainy day.
Or keep track of all the losses and gains;
as if life was a zero sum game
and you, its bookkeeper,
entering numbers and names
in a pool of light at your desk.
You walk down Main St.
jauntily humming off-key,
a hand in your pants front-pocket
jingling change.
The coins are a reassuring weight
accompanying you like castanets and tambourines,
making music for free.
Sept 26 2007
You spend your life
doing this or that,
as if there was only so much cash in the bank.
You could blow it all at once
on dancing girls in Vegas.
Or stuff it under the mattress for a rainy day.
Or keep track of all the losses and gains;
as if life was a zero sum game
and you, its bookkeeper,
entering numbers and names
in a pool of light at your desk.
You walk down Main St.
jauntily humming off-key,
a hand in your pants front-pocket
jingling change.
The coins are a reassuring weight
accompanying you like castanets and tambourines,
making music for free.
The First Astronaut
Sept 22 2007
When the first rocket blasted-off
from Cape Canaveral —
a long thin pencil on a tendril of flame,
seagulls scattering and traffic stopped,
and men in white shirts and skinny ties
in concrete bunkers with their ears covered
by big prairie-boy hands
— they weren’t sure whether to count down
or up.
Because no one had ever blasted-off into space before.
The first astronaut,
bent over double
crammed into a hard metal capsule, like a monkey in a box
taking the ride of his life.
He closes his eyes
mouthing a little prayer he remembers from Sunday school.
He is looking up at clear blue sky
that will turn to glorious indigo
and then into mystery
— black
all the way out to infinity,
bangled with stars.
And underneath him, the engine shuddering
spitting-out forked tongues of flame,
and a white hot lake
of fire.
Sept 22 2007
When the first rocket blasted-off
from Cape Canaveral —
a long thin pencil on a tendril of flame,
seagulls scattering and traffic stopped,
and men in white shirts and skinny ties
in concrete bunkers with their ears covered
by big prairie-boy hands
— they weren’t sure whether to count down
or up.
Because no one had ever blasted-off into space before.
The first astronaut,
bent over double
crammed into a hard metal capsule, like a monkey in a box
taking the ride of his life.
He closes his eyes
mouthing a little prayer he remembers from Sunday school.
He is looking up at clear blue sky
that will turn to glorious indigo
and then into mystery
— black
all the way out to infinity,
bangled with stars.
And underneath him, the engine shuddering
spitting-out forked tongues of flame,
and a white hot lake
of fire.
Two-Lane Asphalt
June 30 2006
Two-lane asphalt on a summer night,
driving without lights.
The gauges glow green
and a sliver of moon flickers between the trees.
Fireflies caught on the windscreen,
their tiny tail-lights still firing
like batteries about to die.
And outside, more points of light,
as if heaven had descended in a shower of shooting stars.
Or handfuls of glitter, whimsically tossed
to celebrate a silly cause.
Or at the pyromaniacs’ Mardi Gras,
flicking lighters on-and-off
and lobbing sparklers carelessly.
Or behind the wheel of a flying saucer
as it ghosts softly through the Milky Way.
Or did I turn left by mistake
transported to some magical glade
where sprites dance under tiny candles
at the fairies’ weekly parade?
My windshield glows with rare constellations of fireflies.
Until the headlights are switched-on again
— back on a summer night on a country lane.
June 30 2006
Two-lane asphalt on a summer night,
driving without lights.
The gauges glow green
and a sliver of moon flickers between the trees.
Fireflies caught on the windscreen,
their tiny tail-lights still firing
like batteries about to die.
And outside, more points of light,
as if heaven had descended in a shower of shooting stars.
Or handfuls of glitter, whimsically tossed
to celebrate a silly cause.
Or at the pyromaniacs’ Mardi Gras,
flicking lighters on-and-off
and lobbing sparklers carelessly.
Or behind the wheel of a flying saucer
as it ghosts softly through the Milky Way.
Or did I turn left by mistake
transported to some magical glade
where sprites dance under tiny candles
at the fairies’ weekly parade?
My windshield glows with rare constellations of fireflies.
Until the headlights are switched-on again
— back on a summer night on a country lane.
There Was Music in His Head
There was music in his head from birth;
who didn’t talk
but listened early,
and danced before he could walk.
He slouched in the far corner at school
so he could hear more clearly,
and the drone of teachers’ voices didn’t interfere.
He grooved down crowded streets with a jive and a shuffle,
his fingers snapping from jangling arms
his body slack as a saxophone solo
and his eyes half-closed, conjuring notes.
A jazzman lives from gig-to-gig and hand-to-hand,
in smoky clubs and packed-in dance halls
and fancy ballrooms
when there were still big bands.
He loves fat Cubans and skinny women
who are mostly suckers for a slick musician
and get loose-limbed and easy as the night gets old.
There are endless temptations in after-hours bars,
like boot-leg whisky and crooked cards.
And young men
sprawled-out in eye-glazed bliss, just bone and skin,
one sleeve rolled-up to the elbow.
But if he minds the dangers
even a jazzman ages gracefully;
because while the women don’t, the music stays;
and time’s so-slow-and-mellow when he plays.
An old man in a snappy suit and a black fedora
— pounding honky-tonk piano in a back-street bar,
or hitting rim-shots
in a strip-club
after dark.
There was music in his head from birth;
who didn’t talk
but listened early,
and danced before he could walk.
He slouched in the far corner at school
so he could hear more clearly,
and the drone of teachers’ voices didn’t interfere.
He grooved down crowded streets with a jive and a shuffle,
his fingers snapping from jangling arms
his body slack as a saxophone solo
and his eyes half-closed, conjuring notes.
A jazzman lives from gig-to-gig and hand-to-hand,
in smoky clubs and packed-in dance halls
and fancy ballrooms
when there were still big bands.
He loves fat Cubans and skinny women
who are mostly suckers for a slick musician
and get loose-limbed and easy as the night gets old.
There are endless temptations in after-hours bars,
like boot-leg whisky and crooked cards.
And young men
sprawled-out in eye-glazed bliss, just bone and skin,
one sleeve rolled-up to the elbow.
But if he minds the dangers
even a jazzman ages gracefully;
because while the women don’t, the music stays;
and time’s so-slow-and-mellow when he plays.
An old man in a snappy suit and a black fedora
— pounding honky-tonk piano in a back-street bar,
or hitting rim-shots
in a strip-club
after dark.
The Happiness Test
June 26 2007
According to this questionnaire
the experts prefer “subjective well-being”
to “happiness”;
which, I agree, sounds much more scientific
than that banal and shallow word.
Anyway, I took a stab at the quiz
and found-out I didn’t pass,
too far down
even to be rescued by the bell curve.
So all I could hope for was credit for term work
and good attendance
to make up for the final exam.
Apparently, I’m a dark brooding introvert
who isn’t cheerful first thing in the morning,
and hasn’t quite yet
nailed-down life’s greater purpose.
I also don’t mingle enough
and despair too much at man’s persistent folly.
So I have resolved
to stop reading newspapers
and volunteer at the local food bank.
I will ladle-out thin green soup
the colour of peas left to boil;
and listen to mashed potatoes glop
onto mismatched plates;
and smile through the steam
at shabby gap-toothed men
who are wary, but grateful
to be in out of the rain.
They hunch over dented trays
and eat in silence;
some quick and furtive,
others slow
— paying close attention,
savouring every bite.
Because unlike the rest of us
the penniless have the luxury of time.
We are all happy, here
in this exact moment.
Which is really all you can hope for.
June 26 2007
According to this questionnaire
the experts prefer “subjective well-being”
to “happiness”;
which, I agree, sounds much more scientific
than that banal and shallow word.
Anyway, I took a stab at the quiz
and found-out I didn’t pass,
too far down
even to be rescued by the bell curve.
So all I could hope for was credit for term work
and good attendance
to make up for the final exam.
Apparently, I’m a dark brooding introvert
who isn’t cheerful first thing in the morning,
and hasn’t quite yet
nailed-down life’s greater purpose.
I also don’t mingle enough
and despair too much at man’s persistent folly.
So I have resolved
to stop reading newspapers
and volunteer at the local food bank.
I will ladle-out thin green soup
the colour of peas left to boil;
and listen to mashed potatoes glop
onto mismatched plates;
and smile through the steam
at shabby gap-toothed men
who are wary, but grateful
to be in out of the rain.
They hunch over dented trays
and eat in silence;
some quick and furtive,
others slow
— paying close attention,
savouring every bite.
Because unlike the rest of us
the penniless have the luxury of time.
We are all happy, here
in this exact moment.
Which is really all you can hope for.
Oxygen
June 15 2006
Living in a tinderbox
you learn not to play with matches.
But just scratch us
and underneath this fear we are all pyromaniacs
— eyes glinting with incendiary light,
hypnotized by the flames licking higher.
Two tips to survive fire:
stay low
and have an exit plan.
Because if you don’t die by heat or by smoke
it will be suffocation
as the inferno sucks all the air from the room.
So it’s oxygen that’s the poison gas
and we are merely fuel.
It slowly consumes us,
corroding the body from the inside-out
like creeping rust.
And just a little too much
would tip the planet into spontaneous combustion,
entire forests exploding into fire
with the sound of a thousand locomotives bearing-down at once
— leaving underground
the last safe place to run.
The very first life was anaerobic;
so that in the beginning
oxygen was instant death
and the earth uninhabitable.
Yet anaerobes still thrive underground,
in the soil, and in deep subterranean strata;
shielded from the toxic atmosphere
of this rare blue-and-green planet.
June 15 2006
Living in a tinderbox
you learn not to play with matches.
But just scratch us
and underneath this fear we are all pyromaniacs
— eyes glinting with incendiary light,
hypnotized by the flames licking higher.
Two tips to survive fire:
stay low
and have an exit plan.
Because if you don’t die by heat or by smoke
it will be suffocation
as the inferno sucks all the air from the room.
So it’s oxygen that’s the poison gas
and we are merely fuel.
It slowly consumes us,
corroding the body from the inside-out
like creeping rust.
And just a little too much
would tip the planet into spontaneous combustion,
entire forests exploding into fire
with the sound of a thousand locomotives bearing-down at once
— leaving underground
the last safe place to run.
The very first life was anaerobic;
so that in the beginning
oxygen was instant death
and the earth uninhabitable.
Yet anaerobes still thrive underground,
in the soil, and in deep subterranean strata;
shielded from the toxic atmosphere
of this rare blue-and-green planet.
Joint Custody
Dec 17 2006
Two people who were once in love
with each other
can be rubbed raw,
growing calluses as hard as armour.
And they possess the intimate knowledge
of soft underbellies
and cutting words
that are sure to draw blood.
So she can no longer bear to be touched,
and he is inured to her suffering.
In a cold war
you dehumanize the enemy,
watching through binoculars across a blasted no-man’s land.
And like Dr. Strangelove
there are madmen who make plans for doomsday.
But civil wars are deadly
all scorched earth and poisoned memory,
fighting brother-to-brother and hand-to-hand;
the same bonds of blood
that make you go blind with anger.
And there can be no innocent bystanders,
just collaborators and collateral damage.
Because in a civil war
everyone is forced to take sides;
even the children
who also face-off across battle-lines.
Or like prisoners and spies, get traded
in a frosty formal exchange
— on weekdays, to the place that was home,
and weekends to a lonely high-rise.
Dec 17 2006
Two people who were once in love
with each other
can be rubbed raw,
growing calluses as hard as armour.
And they possess the intimate knowledge
of soft underbellies
and cutting words
that are sure to draw blood.
So she can no longer bear to be touched,
and he is inured to her suffering.
In a cold war
you dehumanize the enemy,
watching through binoculars across a blasted no-man’s land.
And like Dr. Strangelove
there are madmen who make plans for doomsday.
But civil wars are deadly
all scorched earth and poisoned memory,
fighting brother-to-brother and hand-to-hand;
the same bonds of blood
that make you go blind with anger.
And there can be no innocent bystanders,
just collaborators and collateral damage.
Because in a civil war
everyone is forced to take sides;
even the children
who also face-off across battle-lines.
Or like prisoners and spies, get traded
in a frosty formal exchange
— on weekdays, to the place that was home,
and weekends to a lonely high-rise.
Date-of-Birth
Dec 29 2006
Date-of-birth works just fine for clerks
and interrogators.
But birthdays come with wrapping paper
and beaming faces bearing cakes
all made-up like firecracker day.
There is that shifting age
when you go from giddy anticipation
to ambivalence,
coyly evasive as they press
but secretly hoping the guess will flatter you,
and suspicious
of bathroom scales and mirrors.
Nevertheless, as it’s said,
another birthday sure beats the alternative!
Death is an impossible abstraction,
as hard to grasp as infinity
or the temperature at the core of the sun.
Yet I’ve never agonized or wondered
about how the world happily went on without me
before I was born;
so why any different after I’m gone?
Every year, another candle
— that much harder to extinguish the light.
Which is a nice metaphor for a long and fruitful life,
but hardly reassuring when you run short of breath.
So why not a layer for every year instead?
Cake piled high to the ceiling
carried-in by 10 men
swaying and leaning precariously
like some concoction out of Dr. Seuss.
Enough to feed a battalion
of friends.
Dec 29 2006
Date-of-birth works just fine for clerks
and interrogators.
But birthdays come with wrapping paper
and beaming faces bearing cakes
all made-up like firecracker day.
There is that shifting age
when you go from giddy anticipation
to ambivalence,
coyly evasive as they press
but secretly hoping the guess will flatter you,
and suspicious
of bathroom scales and mirrors.
Nevertheless, as it’s said,
another birthday sure beats the alternative!
Death is an impossible abstraction,
as hard to grasp as infinity
or the temperature at the core of the sun.
Yet I’ve never agonized or wondered
about how the world happily went on without me
before I was born;
so why any different after I’m gone?
Every year, another candle
— that much harder to extinguish the light.
Which is a nice metaphor for a long and fruitful life,
but hardly reassuring when you run short of breath.
So why not a layer for every year instead?
Cake piled high to the ceiling
carried-in by 10 men
swaying and leaning precariously
like some concoction out of Dr. Seuss.
Enough to feed a battalion
of friends.
City Girls
May 6 2007
City girls
clack down crowded sidewalks by coffee bars
in stiletto heels,
posing
behind the dark reflective shades of movie stars.
How that minor lift
smooths-out the line of her calf,
puts the swagger in her ass,
and gives every curve
that slight exaggeration.
So she is at once coolly unattainable
and fragile,
teetering tall and lean
on pinched high heels
that gleam like polished ebony.
A country girl looks corn-fed,
with callused hands and sun-bleached hair
and blue jeans
she could have been poured into.
She pilots giant tractors
and rides horses and heaves saddles
and doesn’t need a man to change a flat.
She dresses in plaid and denim
and boots of soft tanned leather
and would kick your ass in a second
if you let her.
The suburban girl just looks harassed
chasing kids with a bus to catch,
and a hasty shower
when all she craves is a long hot bath.
Her kiss is automatic
— more peck than ravish —
when her husband’s back,
dragging his tail after the boss had his ass for lunch.
She wears practical shoes,
lined-up nice and tidy beside her side of the bed.
Where she lies,
still, but wide awake;
listening to his breathing,
facing away.
May 6 2007
City girls
clack down crowded sidewalks by coffee bars
in stiletto heels,
posing
behind the dark reflective shades of movie stars.
How that minor lift
smooths-out the line of her calf,
puts the swagger in her ass,
and gives every curve
that slight exaggeration.
So she is at once coolly unattainable
and fragile,
teetering tall and lean
on pinched high heels
that gleam like polished ebony.
A country girl looks corn-fed,
with callused hands and sun-bleached hair
and blue jeans
she could have been poured into.
She pilots giant tractors
and rides horses and heaves saddles
and doesn’t need a man to change a flat.
She dresses in plaid and denim
and boots of soft tanned leather
and would kick your ass in a second
if you let her.
The suburban girl just looks harassed
chasing kids with a bus to catch,
and a hasty shower
when all she craves is a long hot bath.
Her kiss is automatic
— more peck than ravish —
when her husband’s back,
dragging his tail after the boss had his ass for lunch.
She wears practical shoes,
lined-up nice and tidy beside her side of the bed.
Where she lies,
still, but wide awake;
listening to his breathing,
facing away.
A
Small Green Frog
June 12 2006
Frogs
live in shallow pools
with
muddy bottoms, murky water
that
grow stagnant and warm
in
short hot summers.
They
breath through their skin,
like
a porous membrane
exposed
to fetid air.
It’s
as if the dark recesses of the inner body
were
revealed
-
a small green frog
hopping
about the pond
turned
inside-out.
He
is a raw neuron of this fertile swamp,
flinching
with
every molecule floating by,
susceptible
to
the slightest change in weather.
Drifting
in the fertile broth
a
frog peeks-up,
lids
clear, unflinching eyes.
Warm
brown water
that
seems to pass clear through him
as
if he’d slipped inside.
Friday, January 25, 2008
A Man Chasing A Hat
Dec 25 2005
There is nothing so foolish
as a man chasing a hat.
Like a kite set loose in the breeze
jerked by its invisible string
you dart, start/stop, and weave
and cut and veer and careen
over uneven ground,
a raggedy-ann man
tumbling like crumpled paper.
You feel exposed
your naked head cold
your hair wild and wind-blown,
like static charge
— or what’s left of it.
And coming so close
only to be snatched away by unseen hands;
because a man in mid-life knows what it’s like
to be tantalized
and exasperated.
Straw hats are hardest to catch,
levitating weightless
just out of reach.
And broad-brims wheel crazily,
like run-away hub-caps
or frisbees on speed.
Ball-caps are as erratic as tumbleweeds,
until they’re flattened by traffic
on impassable streets.
Chasing a hat is one thing.
But what to do when you catch it;
your snazzy piece all battered
and humbled
-- the way a decent man muddles through.
Do you wear it defiantly?
Or take pity,
and let it go free?
Dec 25 2005
There is nothing so foolish
as a man chasing a hat.
Like a kite set loose in the breeze
jerked by its invisible string
you dart, start/stop, and weave
and cut and veer and careen
over uneven ground,
a raggedy-ann man
tumbling like crumpled paper.
You feel exposed
your naked head cold
your hair wild and wind-blown,
like static charge
— or what’s left of it.
And coming so close
only to be snatched away by unseen hands;
because a man in mid-life knows what it’s like
to be tantalized
and exasperated.
Straw hats are hardest to catch,
levitating weightless
just out of reach.
And broad-brims wheel crazily,
like run-away hub-caps
or frisbees on speed.
Ball-caps are as erratic as tumbleweeds,
until they’re flattened by traffic
on impassable streets.
Chasing a hat is one thing.
But what to do when you catch it;
your snazzy piece all battered
and humbled
-- the way a decent man muddles through.
Do you wear it defiantly?
Or take pity,
and let it go free?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Most Famous Cemetery in the World
Jan 2 2008
In the City of Lights
in the Père-Lachaise
the luminaries of France are interred.
Where acolytes and devotees
leave offerings.
Flowers, of course.
And brushes still wet with paint.
And 1st editions, open to a page
where passages are underlined in fierce black strokes
and the margins filled with notes
— like chicken-scratch,
accusing this, rebutting that;
and the odd triumphant stab
of vindication.
On the weathered blocks of stone
sharp edges have been smoothed by polluted rain
and the names smudged grey by smoke;
Citroens idling on narrow lanes,
a million Gitanes exhaled.
And admirers have etched graffiti;
words of solidarity and praise
crudely engraved.
So dead Communists
and bohemian poets
and rock stars destroyed by excess,
all lie in their crowded rows
like a book-case of treasured tomes
— dog-eared, and full of marginalia.
Where the living go seeking answers
from heroes who speak from the grave;
and the secrets of the long-departed
stay buried with their remains.
Jan 2 2008
In the City of Lights
in the Père-Lachaise
the luminaries of France are interred.
Where acolytes and devotees
leave offerings.
Flowers, of course.
And brushes still wet with paint.
And 1st editions, open to a page
where passages are underlined in fierce black strokes
and the margins filled with notes
— like chicken-scratch,
accusing this, rebutting that;
and the odd triumphant stab
of vindication.
On the weathered blocks of stone
sharp edges have been smoothed by polluted rain
and the names smudged grey by smoke;
Citroens idling on narrow lanes,
a million Gitanes exhaled.
And admirers have etched graffiti;
words of solidarity and praise
crudely engraved.
So dead Communists
and bohemian poets
and rock stars destroyed by excess,
all lie in their crowded rows
like a book-case of treasured tomes
— dog-eared, and full of marginalia.
Where the living go seeking answers
from heroes who speak from the grave;
and the secrets of the long-departed
stay buried with their remains.
The Red Army Looks Up
Oct 9 2007
In 1957, I turned 2.
The year Sputnik went up,
proving
that Russia’s German scientists were better than our Germans.
The first satellite was no bigger than a basketball;
although something else I read
had it closer to a beach ball.
Which strikes me as improbable;
because if there’s one thing for sure
Communists are never frivolous,
and I just can’t picture a Soviet colonel
cavorting on a sandy beach someplace.
So as I learned to navigate on 2 feet
this tiny aluminum sphere circled the planet,
sending out its ominous little beep
— the Russians triumphalist,
America panicking.
And no one imagining
how beautiful –- and fragile –- the earth could look from space.
And 10 years later, the first man stepped-down on the moon;
a decade which makes us all feel
like horrible under-achievers.
But we were dauntless then,
when even Apollo 13 could get the thumbs-up
— no skipping numbers,
like elevators
or apartment blocks.
Although no one ever commemorates
the day Sputnik fell.
Of course, it could never really return
— plummeting to earth, flaring-up as it burned,
annihilated in a few brief seconds of light.
As brilliant as the first shooting star,
that caught a little boy by surprise.
Oct 9 2007
In 1957, I turned 2.
The year Sputnik went up,
proving
that Russia’s German scientists were better than our Germans.
The first satellite was no bigger than a basketball;
although something else I read
had it closer to a beach ball.
Which strikes me as improbable;
because if there’s one thing for sure
Communists are never frivolous,
and I just can’t picture a Soviet colonel
cavorting on a sandy beach someplace.
So as I learned to navigate on 2 feet
this tiny aluminum sphere circled the planet,
sending out its ominous little beep
— the Russians triumphalist,
America panicking.
And no one imagining
how beautiful –- and fragile –- the earth could look from space.
And 10 years later, the first man stepped-down on the moon;
a decade which makes us all feel
like horrible under-achievers.
But we were dauntless then,
when even Apollo 13 could get the thumbs-up
— no skipping numbers,
like elevators
or apartment blocks.
Although no one ever commemorates
the day Sputnik fell.
Of course, it could never really return
— plummeting to earth, flaring-up as it burned,
annihilated in a few brief seconds of light.
As brilliant as the first shooting star,
that caught a little boy by surprise.
A Man Feels His Age
Dec 16 2007
A man feels his age
when old friends start passing away,
dropping-off, one-by-one
— sometimes a mercy,
sometimes far too sudden.
There is the old-man smell of hospital beds
and funerals in the dead of winter,
cutting graves into frozen soil.
He grows more and more detached from the world,
its desire, its self-importance;
remembering old jokes,
replaying penny-ante poker,
accompanied by disembodied voices.
Which is not madness or delusion
but a kind of truth
— that memory makes us immortal,
for the time being.
He no longer fears death,
and suspects he will only fight it meekly.
Because he’s grown weary of life
— the aching joints, the hard breathing —
and the isolation of a place where he feels like an alien;
this world where nothing really changes
but everything appears to,
and the less time left
the faster it seems to move.
He tries to contemplate oblivion,
and knows no friends await him.
But he hopes the conversation will continue
in another man’s head;
where voices somehow persist,
defying even death.
Dec 16 2007
A man feels his age
when old friends start passing away,
dropping-off, one-by-one
— sometimes a mercy,
sometimes far too sudden.
There is the old-man smell of hospital beds
and funerals in the dead of winter,
cutting graves into frozen soil.
He grows more and more detached from the world,
its desire, its self-importance;
remembering old jokes,
replaying penny-ante poker,
accompanied by disembodied voices.
Which is not madness or delusion
but a kind of truth
— that memory makes us immortal,
for the time being.
He no longer fears death,
and suspects he will only fight it meekly.
Because he’s grown weary of life
— the aching joints, the hard breathing —
and the isolation of a place where he feels like an alien;
this world where nothing really changes
but everything appears to,
and the less time left
the faster it seems to move.
He tries to contemplate oblivion,
and knows no friends await him.
But he hopes the conversation will continue
in another man’s head;
where voices somehow persist,
defying even death.
Road Games
Dec 24 2007
Country roads are gravel and sand
rattling with potholes and washboard,
and thumping-big boulders
heaved-up by frost and thaw.
But after fresh snow
and the grader comes and goes
scraping the surface clean,
it gleams snow-blind white
— flat enough for bowling balls or billiards,
ricochet-shots
caroming-off the massive banks on either side.
And on I drive,
playing bumper-cars
as far as it goes ‘til black-top.
At night, the ploughs are blinking beeping beasts,
smoking through diesel
churning-up snow,
their glinting blades shuddering
on rock-hard ice,
and monster tires leaving tread-marks like dinosaurs.
And in daytime, they are bright yellow Tonka toys,
a grizzled driver riding high
tipping his cap at cars.
Folks in brightly coloured parkas
with fur-trimmed hoods
are out walking dogs,
straining at the ends of their leashes
excited by cold.
In the country, dogs bark;
and passers-by wave warmly at strangers,
as if just anyone could be your neighbour.
So I slow down as I pass
peering through the steamy glass
and sheepishly wave back.
Like a friendly game of tag,
passing it along.
Overgrown kids
on the frozen roads
of winter.
Dec 24 2007
Country roads are gravel and sand
rattling with potholes and washboard,
and thumping-big boulders
heaved-up by frost and thaw.
But after fresh snow
and the grader comes and goes
scraping the surface clean,
it gleams snow-blind white
— flat enough for bowling balls or billiards,
ricochet-shots
caroming-off the massive banks on either side.
And on I drive,
playing bumper-cars
as far as it goes ‘til black-top.
At night, the ploughs are blinking beeping beasts,
smoking through diesel
churning-up snow,
their glinting blades shuddering
on rock-hard ice,
and monster tires leaving tread-marks like dinosaurs.
And in daytime, they are bright yellow Tonka toys,
a grizzled driver riding high
tipping his cap at cars.
Folks in brightly coloured parkas
with fur-trimmed hoods
are out walking dogs,
straining at the ends of their leashes
excited by cold.
In the country, dogs bark;
and passers-by wave warmly at strangers,
as if just anyone could be your neighbour.
So I slow down as I pass
peering through the steamy glass
and sheepishly wave back.
Like a friendly game of tag,
passing it along.
Overgrown kids
on the frozen roads
of winter.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Little Fixer-Upper
Dec 3 2007
I’m a flim-flam man,
a scamp,
a shenanigan.
I live as I can
in a crooked house on a crammed-in street,
with a ramshackle yard all overgrown
by wild flowers
and woolly weeds.
Where flimsy doors stick
off-kilter on stiff brass hinges;
and wooden floors creak
cut from dark old mahogany;
and the loose change that spills from my pockets
rolls unstoppably into the same cockeyed corner,
where it glitters in a mound of silver and gold.
The water comes out cloudy,
in frantic gurgles
and great hiccups of spray,
while copper pipes thump and rattle.
The ancient furnace clatters
sucking-up coal by the tractor-full,
as hot air blows dust-balls clear across the place.
The roof is steeply raked
all broken slate,
topped by a rickety chimney
a pinch of wind could tip.
The cladding is jaundiced brick
crumbling,
and the window panes are peeling paint
with glass so old it waves.
Not quite the little old lady who lives in a shoe;
more, the little old lady unlaced.
Dec 3 2007
I’m a flim-flam man,
a scamp,
a shenanigan.
I live as I can
in a crooked house on a crammed-in street,
with a ramshackle yard all overgrown
by wild flowers
and woolly weeds.
Where flimsy doors stick
off-kilter on stiff brass hinges;
and wooden floors creak
cut from dark old mahogany;
and the loose change that spills from my pockets
rolls unstoppably into the same cockeyed corner,
where it glitters in a mound of silver and gold.
The water comes out cloudy,
in frantic gurgles
and great hiccups of spray,
while copper pipes thump and rattle.
The ancient furnace clatters
sucking-up coal by the tractor-full,
as hot air blows dust-balls clear across the place.
The roof is steeply raked
all broken slate,
topped by a rickety chimney
a pinch of wind could tip.
The cladding is jaundiced brick
crumbling,
and the window panes are peeling paint
with glass so old it waves.
Not quite the little old lady who lives in a shoe;
more, the little old lady unlaced.
Lighting-Up
Dec 15 2007
She smokes like a pro,
slipping the smooth white cylinder from its pack,
flicking the lighter the way a girl tosses back her hair
— casually, automatic.
There is the first long luxurious draw,
breathing-in the smoke so it fills her
mainlined into her soul.
Then releasing it, eyes almost closed:
twin trails, pencilling out of her nose,
her lips exhausting smoke,
her body deflating
as all the air goes out of it.
The first inhalation is bliss,
and I think of a glassy-eyed chinaman
lounging in a gloomy den,
sucking-up the bitter scent of opium.
Or a junkie, all jumped-up,
slumping into sweet oblivion
with his next hit.
She smokes the rest almost impatient,
as if the taste was thin
and the jolt, imperceptible,
tapping-away the ash absent-mindedly.
Because it’s the waiting that makes it so good:
her craving
like unrequited love;
then hot anonymous sex
lighting-up.
Dec 15 2007
She smokes like a pro,
slipping the smooth white cylinder from its pack,
flicking the lighter the way a girl tosses back her hair
— casually, automatic.
There is the first long luxurious draw,
breathing-in the smoke so it fills her
mainlined into her soul.
Then releasing it, eyes almost closed:
twin trails, pencilling out of her nose,
her lips exhausting smoke,
her body deflating
as all the air goes out of it.
The first inhalation is bliss,
and I think of a glassy-eyed chinaman
lounging in a gloomy den,
sucking-up the bitter scent of opium.
Or a junkie, all jumped-up,
slumping into sweet oblivion
with his next hit.
She smokes the rest almost impatient,
as if the taste was thin
and the jolt, imperceptible,
tapping-away the ash absent-mindedly.
Because it’s the waiting that makes it so good:
her craving
like unrequited love;
then hot anonymous sex
lighting-up.
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Jan 17 2008
He was in the wrong place at the wrong time
walking after dark,
when a taxi jumped the curb
or guns went-off
or a piano slipped its cable.
If his back was turned
his final thoughts were likely the same as ours
— a warm body in a waiting bed,
tomorrow’s breakfast,
work, again.
But if he saw it coming
I suspect he might be dead calm;
disbelieving,
watching from a distance,
a man’s arrogant invincibility
to the very end.
They say he died instantly,
not long enough to feel the pain.
But I think this is more reassurance
than certainty,
because how could they know better than me?
Of course, if he lives, he will surely suffer,
his body broken
his psyche inconsolable.
And if he dies, his survivors will suffer instead
— every lover, eventually lost,
every gain in life its cost;
and yet
we keep wanting more of it.
Even without falling grand pianos,
or icicles, poised above the pathway like daggers,
there is no right place or time.
At 32 feet per second per second,
always caught by surprise.
Jan 17 2008
He was in the wrong place at the wrong time
walking after dark,
when a taxi jumped the curb
or guns went-off
or a piano slipped its cable.
If his back was turned
his final thoughts were likely the same as ours
— a warm body in a waiting bed,
tomorrow’s breakfast,
work, again.
But if he saw it coming
I suspect he might be dead calm;
disbelieving,
watching from a distance,
a man’s arrogant invincibility
to the very end.
They say he died instantly,
not long enough to feel the pain.
But I think this is more reassurance
than certainty,
because how could they know better than me?
Of course, if he lives, he will surely suffer,
his body broken
his psyche inconsolable.
And if he dies, his survivors will suffer instead
— every lover, eventually lost,
every gain in life its cost;
and yet
we keep wanting more of it.
Even without falling grand pianos,
or icicles, poised above the pathway like daggers,
there is no right place or time.
At 32 feet per second per second,
always caught by surprise.
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