Condition Avoided

Condition avoided

 

Tuesday morning I read the police attacked and

moved everyone out as the rest of us slept;

late Tuesday afternoon I read plays about

dementia, devotees and death; early Wednesday morning

I read Updike seeking synchopated sentences that were subtle in

descriptions of divorce, death and shattered idylls that left me senseless;

later. TMZ said Kim and Kris had been a sham and

Justin’s baby mama was still a mama but he wasn’t the papa.

OMG!

By Wednesday afternoon I’d avoided catatonia but not depression.

Was it the extra chocolate or the Salvation Army guy dancing to a boom box

instead of ringing a bell, or the random street fruit vendor who smiled and wished me well,

or the text that finished with x’s and o’s that hit with the precision of a guided missile or

perhaps it was the Asian guy serenely seated beside me on the uptown express

expertly folding a piece of red and gold origami paper into a miniature pterodactyl

oblivious to those of us who watched.

sounds that evoke

Sounds the evoke.

Grace notes from a cello serenade

a contrapunct to whalesong trills, hums, groans and clicks

join and echo in vaulted arches of sacred space

then return seek out and resonate in my solar plexus

encircle anticipation like night fog around a buoy – their

mellow sounds rendered piquant by brine, tide and moonlight filling space

between ebb and surge

sound that is felt, that is touched,

sound as rhythmical as our hips and breaths late at night,

as caressed as a well loved lover held close.

Willie Nelson joins the chorus, croons Stardust Memories in the darkness

their joined sounds  somehow evocative not dissonant,

that penetrate not invade

that summon memory from remote depths

then guides it past traps of analysis, second guesses and interpretation, and

leaves it -

as is -

at my heart’s vestibule where entry need not be sought:

the door is already prised open;

tears are already primed and positioned and

hang at nasal canthus like mussels on rocks in bitter cold tidal surges.

bon voyage to summer

I chuckled while thinking of cars full of people headed north to New England and upstate
speeding to watch colored leaves fall as I rambled through the beauty of Pelham Bay Park where
a brisk breeze blew across the lagoon and into the forest where
anglos, latinos, blacks and asians, alone like me,
or in units of varying integers passed and enjoyed the day
nodding their hellos to fellow seasonal naturalists
who also walked not hiked, and
none of whom sported a lick of LL Bean outdoor gear. 
The leaves were just beginning a riot of color diffusion above the peace
gathering themselves, brushing against one another, building to an explosive burst of color that will need
a week or two before, 
spent -
they fall.
The only honking came from geese in a landing pattern.

flight of angels

It was 6 pm: the bell tolled the angelus. I searched for angels and found they'd all flown.

Night Note

night note

i know as i write

that you are already asleep

gentle snore as you descend to where healing happens.

Awake i hold you in my heart

feel your breath on my cheek

your foot on my leg

your hand rests where it gently reached out and

found me; settled.

i watch you breathe

your eyes flicker and I

wonder what you are dreaming of and

where we will dance in tonight's moonlight:

it's like sex in the morning without the wine.

Game Day

Game Day

I’ve grown immune to dimension

a place enhanced by technology and pictures of tectonic plates

or smartphones smarter than those women who clutch them and who text

their bemoaned singularity and sobriety

even while bar hanging on a Sunday afternoon in places with multiple flat screen

televisions that display various sporting events all of which, regardless of team or event,

prompt commentary, jeers, cheers, swears and breathholding

from the team jersey bedecked boys they arrived with

as if any of those earnest exertions could influence an outcome

any more than their tight shirts – the ones that make their boobs, no matter how small

P O P –

and  their carefully coiffed hair can get them an engagement ring

from one of these lunkheads they’ve gone steady with for 5 years who’s yelling at the TV.

All is lost when a player is sacked or tackled:

shots are poured and gulped. Perspective is gone before 4 PM.

They too have sustained a hit, a loss of yards;

romance is gone even as they reluctantly follow the cheers,

dutifully put down their phones and clap carefully

so as to not ruin Saturday’s manicure.

The boys call for another round, yell “Fuck!” a lot,

fist bump, stomp their feet and slap each other on the ass

while yelling “WA HOO!”

My search for today’s dimension in context is solved.

This is NOT that which I seek.

It’s time to go.

Early Morning October Canticle

Early morning October Canticle

In the early morning of a premature October chill

I left my home where heat was pumping

the pipes hissing, coughing, protesting their call to duty;

I walked into sunshine, then into

a crowded train where the air conditioning still worked. I still had to stand.

I wondered about another cup of coffee before class until i yawned and

decided caffeinated would be the best answer.