COFFEE NEWS
My horoscope says: "A person you admire returns the compliment & could reveal
their true feelings for you." Hmm. That would be Pierre Joris. Pierre?
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
HOW THE MIDDLE-AGED GOT THAT WAY
In order for the hair to be sparse & coarse
The hair had to first be lustrous & silky
In order for the women to walk across campus
their clothes shaping their bodies
The women had to first be girls
their bodies shaping their clothes.
In order for grey
there had to be nut-brown
or auburn
or shining black
or gold
In order for leach & bleach
there had to be peach
In order for the pate to show
the skull had to be covered
like a secret
to be discovered
only by the most loving lover
In order for you to look
like the job has sucked
every last drop out of you
you have to serve yourself up
like fresh fruit
to the job
with a label: eat me
In order for the hair to be sparse & coarse
The hair had to first be lustrous & silky
In order for the women to walk across campus
their clothes shaping their bodies
The women had to first be girls
their bodies shaping their clothes.
In order for grey
there had to be nut-brown
or auburn
or shining black
or gold
In order for leach & bleach
there had to be peach
In order for the pate to show
the skull had to be covered
like a secret
to be discovered
only by the most loving lover
In order for you to look
like the job has sucked
every last drop out of you
you have to serve yourself up
like fresh fruit
to the job
with a label: eat me
THE ORDER OF THINGS
I have more time tonight than I will have tomorrow morning
plus I'm wide-awake now
plus I'm standing here in the kitchen
plus I have eaten a lot already
so I will just eat my blueberry muffin now
& save time tomorrow thank you
I have more time tonight than I will have tomorrow morning
plus I'm wide-awake now
plus I'm standing here in the kitchen
plus I have eaten a lot already
so I will just eat my blueberry muffin now
& save time tomorrow thank you
ROSE-COLORED GLASSES
Every now and then I check in my rose-colored glasses to test the rougher selvages of life. Yesterday I went for a walk a little out of my neighborhood. I was scared. A very mean-faced white pimp pulled his car across the sidewalk in front of me. He wanted to talk but I kept going. Something about his demeanor suggested rabid dog. There was a power outage when I got home. Back out on my street I could hear the tortured screams of a child, high, recurrent, the same frantic notes played over and over. After the lights went back on there was a powerful smell of skunk. Whole neighborhoods crumble when I take off my glasses. My own face crumbles, the kitchen floor, memory. Small clear patches loom out of the fog. Reality can be the closest imaginable thing to delirium tremens. Come to think of it, another name for rose-colored spectacles is car.
Every now and then I check in my rose-colored glasses to test the rougher selvages of life. Yesterday I went for a walk a little out of my neighborhood. I was scared. A very mean-faced white pimp pulled his car across the sidewalk in front of me. He wanted to talk but I kept going. Something about his demeanor suggested rabid dog. There was a power outage when I got home. Back out on my street I could hear the tortured screams of a child, high, recurrent, the same frantic notes played over and over. After the lights went back on there was a powerful smell of skunk. Whole neighborhoods crumble when I take off my glasses. My own face crumbles, the kitchen floor, memory. Small clear patches loom out of the fog. Reality can be the closest imaginable thing to delirium tremens. Come to think of it, another name for rose-colored spectacles is car.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
CHANGED TIMES
In Ireland before I immigrated my best friend was a two-bar electric heater.
What is a two-bar electric heater, you might say.
Now my best friend is google.
In Ireland before I immigrated my best friend was a two-bar electric heater.
What is a two-bar electric heater, you might say.
Now my best friend is google.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
HEY HEY HEY
a b c d e f
r s t u v
g h i j k l
w x y z
m n o p q
a change of routine is always GREAT!
j j j j j j j j j j j
k u i d r t w
f r h k l o p
d f g q a z x
b m n k j g i
sock it to me
sock it to me
sock it to me
momma!!!!
MoMmA
MOMMA
MQWYhgTslOYPHtxvysttttt!!!!!!!
a b c d e f
r s t u v
g h i j k l
w x y z
m n o p q
a change of routine is always GREAT!
j j j j j j j j j j j
k u i d r t w
f r h k l o p
d f g q a z x
b m n k j g i
sock it to me
sock it to me
sock it to me
momma!!!!
MoMmA
MOMMA
MQWYhgTslOYPHtxvysttttt!!!!!!!
CATHOLICISM
Taught
Bethlehem
Nazareth
Jerusalem
Gethsemane
Not
Gaza Strip
West Bank
Golan Heights
East Jerusalem
Taught
Bethlehem
Nazareth
Jerusalem
Gethsemane
Not
Gaza Strip
West Bank
Golan Heights
East Jerusalem
Thursday, June 17, 2004
HUMIDITY
What is it?
It’s the humidity.
No—what is it?
Humidity.
But what is it?
Humidity?
Oh what’s humidity!
What’s humidity!
What is it?
It’s the humidity.
No—what is it?
Humidity.
But what is it?
Humidity?
Oh what’s humidity!
What’s humidity!
HUMIDITY
What is it?
It’s the humidity.
No—what is it?
Humidity.
But what is it?
Humidity?
Oh what’s humidity!
What’s humidity!
What is it?
It’s the humidity.
No—what is it?
Humidity.
But what is it?
Humidity?
Oh what’s humidity!
What’s humidity!
HUMIDITY
What is it?
It’s the humidity.
No—what is it?
Humidity.
But what is it?
Humidity?
Oh what’s humidity!
What’s humidity!
What is it?
It’s the humidity.
No—what is it?
Humidity.
But what is it?
Humidity?
Oh what’s humidity!
What’s humidity!
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
POETRY
Grasping at the straw of poetry
Grasping for the floating log of poetry
Grasping for the life raft of poetry
Grasping for the armada of poetry
Grasping for the fleet of poetry
Grasping for the aircraft carrier of poetry
Grasping toward the skies of poetry
Dandling down to earth dangling from
The parachute of poetry
Grasping at the straw of poetry
Grasping for the floating log of poetry
Grasping for the life raft of poetry
Grasping for the armada of poetry
Grasping for the fleet of poetry
Grasping for the aircraft carrier of poetry
Grasping toward the skies of poetry
Dandling down to earth dangling from
The parachute of poetry
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
BRUSH-OFF
Even if you did hang cobwebs all over my school
No-one liked those very small kisses, as I recall.
When buttons fall off I bet you’re really golden
But still I don’t want you to call.
Even if you did hang cobwebs all over my school
No-one liked those very small kisses, as I recall.
When buttons fall off I bet you’re really golden
But still I don’t want you to call.
Monday, June 14, 2004
PITCH
Okay. So it’s the mid-17th century in Holland right. There’s this ah 46-year-old fuzzy-headed arthritic maid-of-all-work and she goes to work in the home of a famous painter, sort of like Vermeer, actually it is Vermeer. And the 46-year-old fuzzy-headed arthritic maid-of-all-work and Vermeer develop this extraordinary friendship based on their mutual reverence for art. Yeah. Even though the fuzzy-headed 46-year-old arthritic maid-of-all-work is totally uneducated & poverty-stricken she just has this natural talent for composition & understanding the artist’s soul. Vermeer recognizes it in her & reverences her for it. I mean Vermeer reverences her reverence for it right. It's very beautiful. But Vermeer the artist (thirtyish) is married to this 25-year old woman who’s already had like 5 children, 3 of whom have died and she’s pregnant again. So Vermeer takes her great big pearl earrings & gives them to the maid-of-all-work so he can paint her portrait. For this patron. Who’s a disgusting rapist character totally unlike the refined artist Vermeer. (Of course nobody remembers the patron’s name. Van something or other.) But the shadow of suspicion falls on Vermeer & the 46-year-old fuzzy-headed maid-of-all-work whose name believe it or not is Grits. Everybody thinks things are smoking up there in the studio between Grits & Vermeer. But actually they’re just mixing pigment & pointing out nice things about light & shade. It’s very realistic. So in the end Vermeer gives Grits his wife’s earrings. Oh yeah and Grits loses her job. Whatya think?
Okay. So it’s the mid-17th century in Holland right. There’s this ah 46-year-old fuzzy-headed arthritic maid-of-all-work and she goes to work in the home of a famous painter, sort of like Vermeer, actually it is Vermeer. And the 46-year-old fuzzy-headed arthritic maid-of-all-work and Vermeer develop this extraordinary friendship based on their mutual reverence for art. Yeah. Even though the fuzzy-headed 46-year-old arthritic maid-of-all-work is totally uneducated & poverty-stricken she just has this natural talent for composition & understanding the artist’s soul. Vermeer recognizes it in her & reverences her for it. I mean Vermeer reverences her reverence for it right. It's very beautiful. But Vermeer the artist (thirtyish) is married to this 25-year old woman who’s already had like 5 children, 3 of whom have died and she’s pregnant again. So Vermeer takes her great big pearl earrings & gives them to the maid-of-all-work so he can paint her portrait. For this patron. Who’s a disgusting rapist character totally unlike the refined artist Vermeer. (Of course nobody remembers the patron’s name. Van something or other.) But the shadow of suspicion falls on Vermeer & the 46-year-old fuzzy-headed maid-of-all-work whose name believe it or not is Grits. Everybody thinks things are smoking up there in the studio between Grits & Vermeer. But actually they’re just mixing pigment & pointing out nice things about light & shade. It’s very realistic. So in the end Vermeer gives Grits his wife’s earrings. Oh yeah and Grits loses her job. Whatya think?
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Saturday, June 12, 2004
I HAVE DEDICATED MY LIFE TO WRITING POETRY
I've been writing poetry for 30 years now. Well really more like 1 year if you count the actual time spent writing.
A long time ago a poet named Paul Durcan told me to write every day, even if only for 20 minutes. I decided 20 minutes was a spurious amount of time to spend writing. I wouldn’t insult poetry with such a paltry assignation of time. So I can’t say I’ve written poetry for 20 minutes every day for 30 years, even if you only count weekdays. If I had though, I would have written 219,150 minutes worth of poetry, factoring in 7.5 Leap Days (doesn't factoring in sound good, I hope it's correct usage). That’s 91 40-hour weeks plus 1 hour and 15 mins left over if I’m not mistaken (and I possibly am). The point is: that’s damn close to 2 full years of poetry-writing, given 3 weeks vacation time per year. And if you use the more general 35-hour week, you get 2 straight years no holidays—or with holidays 2 years and 6 weeks (again presuming I’m not mistaken which is more than possible). Mind you I’m making these calculations based on 20 minutes a day 7 days a week because I believe that’s the way Paul intended it, that’s the kind of guy he was. He told me once that he worked only one full day in his life: as a reporter in the Irish Press, I think. He meant a day straight, though he may have resigned on the following day, if you consider that work. But whatever way you look at it, 40-hr week or the more relaxed 35, that’s a lot of poetry writing. Okay so 30 years is also a lot of years. Fair point. That’s the time it takes to pay off a mortage on a house. A 30-year mortgage that is. But if you think of it, it’s not so long because the time spent actually paying off the mortgage is relatively short. It can’t be more than say 5 minutes a month. I mean how long does it take to pull out a checkbook? Okay maybe a little longer. There can be psychological barriers & domestic turmoil. But seriously, maybe 5 minutes to find your checkbook, 5 minutes to find the bank’s demand letter, 5 minutes to wince, 5 minutes to write the check, 5 minutes to wince some more (did you ever notice some is almost an anagram for more except it would be mose instead of more?), 5 minutes to find an envelope & I’m not going to count the time looking for a stamp or going to the post office because:
a)You may just have a stamp handy
b)You may have stumbled across a stamp in the course of all your other fumblings
c)You were probably going to the post office anyway or at least saved the mortgage payment letter
until you were
d)You may not have used the double time to wince or even if you did you may not have used the full 5 minutes each time because let’s face it that's a lot of wince more of a wrench or a cramp even so you could use that freed-up time to find or even buy the stamp (presuming you were in the post office).
So there you go: 30 minutes maximum a month to pay a 30-year mortgage (hey and I’m 30—this is getting spooky...). That’s 6 hours a year and 180 hours over the life of the mortgage (as they say) which amounts to 4 and a half working weeks at 40 hours per week or 5 full weeks and 1 hour at 35 hours a week. So don’t scoff at 2 years writing poetry! It hands down beats just a little over a month to pay a 30-year mortgage. And it’s not nearly so consuming of resources, in any way shape or form no matter how much light or heat you use or how much whiskey you drink.
But anyway, I never took Paul Durcan’s advice. For most of those 30 years, writing poetry has been a pretty desultory activity for me. That's changed in the last year. Now I write every day, even if only for a few minutes on the run or in the car or on the way to a neighbor's backyard to pick up Clio from a birthday party or whatever or wherever (the notebooks I’ve ruined in the tub … ). Still, my total time spent over 30 years is probably less than 1 year of 35-hour, no maybe 40-hour weeks. To be fair, I cannot complain. Today my book is ranked 997,731th on amazon.com. If I was a piano-player—that doesn’t sound right: If I is a piano-player—that’s not right either… Were I a pianist, I’d have been practicing every day for 6 hours. Over 30 years that pretty damn near amounts to—30 years. I’d be off the poetry charts at amazon. People would be queueing…queuing … qeu… lining up to hear me play. I’d know all the Halls – Carnegie, Joan, Faneuil, Royal Albert. I’d wear only dicky-bows. But anyway (finally) I’d say I write now for about an hour a day. That means in the course of 1 month I could pay off two 30 year mortgages. And they say poetry doesn’t pay. That blows my mind.
I've been writing poetry for 30 years now. Well really more like 1 year if you count the actual time spent writing.
A long time ago a poet named Paul Durcan told me to write every day, even if only for 20 minutes. I decided 20 minutes was a spurious amount of time to spend writing. I wouldn’t insult poetry with such a paltry assignation of time. So I can’t say I’ve written poetry for 20 minutes every day for 30 years, even if you only count weekdays. If I had though, I would have written 219,150 minutes worth of poetry, factoring in 7.5 Leap Days (doesn't factoring in sound good, I hope it's correct usage). That’s 91 40-hour weeks plus 1 hour and 15 mins left over if I’m not mistaken (and I possibly am). The point is: that’s damn close to 2 full years of poetry-writing, given 3 weeks vacation time per year. And if you use the more general 35-hour week, you get 2 straight years no holidays—or with holidays 2 years and 6 weeks (again presuming I’m not mistaken which is more than possible). Mind you I’m making these calculations based on 20 minutes a day 7 days a week because I believe that’s the way Paul intended it, that’s the kind of guy he was. He told me once that he worked only one full day in his life: as a reporter in the Irish Press, I think. He meant a day straight, though he may have resigned on the following day, if you consider that work. But whatever way you look at it, 40-hr week or the more relaxed 35, that’s a lot of poetry writing. Okay so 30 years is also a lot of years. Fair point. That’s the time it takes to pay off a mortage on a house. A 30-year mortgage that is. But if you think of it, it’s not so long because the time spent actually paying off the mortgage is relatively short. It can’t be more than say 5 minutes a month. I mean how long does it take to pull out a checkbook? Okay maybe a little longer. There can be psychological barriers & domestic turmoil. But seriously, maybe 5 minutes to find your checkbook, 5 minutes to find the bank’s demand letter, 5 minutes to wince, 5 minutes to write the check, 5 minutes to wince some more (did you ever notice some is almost an anagram for more except it would be mose instead of more?), 5 minutes to find an envelope & I’m not going to count the time looking for a stamp or going to the post office because:
a)You may just have a stamp handy
b)You may have stumbled across a stamp in the course of all your other fumblings
c)You were probably going to the post office anyway or at least saved the mortgage payment letter
until you were
d)You may not have used the double time to wince or even if you did you may not have used the full 5 minutes each time because let’s face it that's a lot of wince more of a wrench or a cramp even so you could use that freed-up time to find or even buy the stamp (presuming you were in the post office).
So there you go: 30 minutes maximum a month to pay a 30-year mortgage (hey and I’m 30—this is getting spooky...). That’s 6 hours a year and 180 hours over the life of the mortgage (as they say) which amounts to 4 and a half working weeks at 40 hours per week or 5 full weeks and 1 hour at 35 hours a week. So don’t scoff at 2 years writing poetry! It hands down beats just a little over a month to pay a 30-year mortgage. And it’s not nearly so consuming of resources, in any way shape or form no matter how much light or heat you use or how much whiskey you drink.
But anyway, I never took Paul Durcan’s advice. For most of those 30 years, writing poetry has been a pretty desultory activity for me. That's changed in the last year. Now I write every day, even if only for a few minutes on the run or in the car or on the way to a neighbor's backyard to pick up Clio from a birthday party or whatever or wherever (the notebooks I’ve ruined in the tub … ). Still, my total time spent over 30 years is probably less than 1 year of 35-hour, no maybe 40-hour weeks. To be fair, I cannot complain. Today my book is ranked 997,731th on amazon.com. If I was a piano-player—that doesn’t sound right: If I is a piano-player—that’s not right either… Were I a pianist, I’d have been practicing every day for 6 hours. Over 30 years that pretty damn near amounts to—30 years. I’d be off the poetry charts at amazon. People would be queueing…queuing … qeu… lining up to hear me play. I’d know all the Halls – Carnegie, Joan, Faneuil, Royal Albert. I’d wear only dicky-bows. But anyway (finally) I’d say I write now for about an hour a day. That means in the course of 1 month I could pay off two 30 year mortgages. And they say poetry doesn’t pay. That blows my mind.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
PAYMENT
Even with the kisses,
the joys,
the good roof over our heads,
my life
could be considered hard.
But I get paid also in poems.
Even with the kisses,
the joys,
the good roof over our heads,
my life
could be considered hard.
But I get paid also in poems.
CREDIT CARD
This slim
wafer
swallowed
2 jets
Stop & Shop
Blockbuster Videos &
Rhode Island Housing Mortgage & Finance Corporation
This slim
wafer
swallowed
2 jets
Stop & Shop
Blockbuster Videos &
Rhode Island Housing Mortgage & Finance Corporation
Monday, June 07, 2004
OGAM-DO 3
by Yi Sang
trans. Sun-kyum Hong
Apersonwhofightsisapersonwhousedtonotfightanda
personwhofightswasalsoapersonwhodoesn'tfightso
ifapersonwhofightswantstoseefightseeapersonwho
usedtonotfightfightsorapersonwhodoesn'tfightsees
fightorseeapersonwhousedtonotfightorapersonwho
doesn'tfightfights.
by Yi Sang
trans. Sun-kyum Hong
Apersonwhofightsisapersonwhousedtonotfightanda
personwhofightswasalsoapersonwhodoesn'tfightso
ifapersonwhofightswantstoseefightseeapersonwho
usedtonotfightfightsorapersonwhodoesn'tfightsees
fightorseeapersonwhousedtonotfightorapersonwho
doesn'tfightfights.
PROBLEMS DOUBLED & HALVED
Rats.
Feral cats.
Lead poisoning.
Cancer.
Job loss.
Recapture Tax.
Debt.
Death.
Rats.
Feral cats.
Lead poisoning.
Cancer.
Job loss.
Recapture Tax.
Debt.
Death.
Saturday, June 05, 2004
WEIGHTING THE SCALES
The rats are coming through the back door
& I'm throwing Chopin
at them
like so many
little glass clogs way
too adamant to crash
The marmalade cat
I wanted is overgrown
& feral & lives
underneath my deck
with the black & the grey
& all other cats
I did & not want
I'm hosing down the deck with
sunshine
my lashes like
long breaths
let out
after shock
or storm
The war leaks through my vents
& faucets & sockets
balloons up through registers
& sweats out of plaster
I'm planting flowers furiously in
straight glass holders
vases
with hands folded over bellies
expectant
flowers made of paper
cream
& crimson roses
from the laundry
with baby's breath &
weird nodules on leaf's back
& soon I'll be hoe-ing
or sometime I'll be hiring
a rotovator and man
to make a Charles Wright poem
from my lumpy backyard
magnolias
& Chopin
pulsing from radiant conch-shell
tilted to window-sill
& the war
suppurating beneath the deck
& the cats
& Norwegian rats
& the mat
a woman with a kind heart gave me
to warm my house
The rats are coming through the back door
& I'm throwing Chopin
at them
like so many
little glass clogs way
too adamant to crash
The marmalade cat
I wanted is overgrown
& feral & lives
underneath my deck
with the black & the grey
& all other cats
I did & not want
I'm hosing down the deck with
sunshine
my lashes like
long breaths
let out
after shock
or storm
The war leaks through my vents
& faucets & sockets
balloons up through registers
& sweats out of plaster
I'm planting flowers furiously in
straight glass holders
vases
with hands folded over bellies
expectant
flowers made of paper
cream
& crimson roses
from the laundry
with baby's breath &
weird nodules on leaf's back
& soon I'll be hoe-ing
or sometime I'll be hiring
a rotovator and man
to make a Charles Wright poem
from my lumpy backyard
magnolias
& Chopin
pulsing from radiant conch-shell
tilted to window-sill
& the war
suppurating beneath the deck
& the cats
& Norwegian rats
& the mat
a woman with a kind heart gave me
to warm my house
Friday, June 04, 2004
PEEL-A-WAY
The fear of black
peels away to lay bare
the fear of lead paint
peels away to lay bare
the fear of duplicity
peels away to lay bare
the fear of rats
peels away to lay bare
the fear of ruin
peels away to lay bare
the fear of cancer
peels away to lay bare
the fear of cruelty
peels away to lay bare
the fear of responsibility
peels away to lay bare
etc etc etc etc etc
The fear of black
peels away to lay bare
the fear of lead paint
peels away to lay bare
the fear of duplicity
peels away to lay bare
the fear of rats
peels away to lay bare
the fear of ruin
peels away to lay bare
the fear of cancer
peels away to lay bare
the fear of cruelty
peels away to lay bare
the fear of responsibility
peels away to lay bare
etc etc etc etc etc
Thursday, June 03, 2004
WHAT’S UP
I get up.
I get up.
I get up.
It’s morning.
Wash.
Eat.
Teeth.
I go out.
Drive.
Drive.
Music.
Eat.
I come back.
Pee.
Pee.
Pee.
Pee.
Eat.
Eat.
Work.
Work.
Work.
Go out.
Come back.
Work.
Pee.
Cook.
Eat.
Write.
Teeth.
Sleep.
Dream.
It’s morning.
Get up.
Poop.
Eat.
I get up.
I get up.
I get up.
It’s morning.
Wash.
Eat.
Teeth.
I go out.
Drive.
Drive.
Music.
Eat.
I come back.
Pee.
Pee.
Pee.
Pee.
Eat.
Eat.
Work.
Work.
Work.
Go out.
Come back.
Work.
Pee.
Cook.
Eat.
Write.
Teeth.
Sleep.
Dream.
It’s morning.
Get up.
Poop.
Eat.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
AT THE Y
fierce dark triangle
at junction of thighs
smooth body streaming
from cubicle—
oh glorious sight
fierce dark triangle
at junction of thighs
smooth body streaming
from cubicle—
oh glorious sight
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
I CLAIM ALAN DUGAN'S LITTLE TOE
The world does not contain Alan Dugan any longer which is just plain wrong.
The world is a worse place without Alan Dugan & from what I've been reading can ill afford to be Dugan-less.
So seeing that Dugan's gone & his space is going to waste I claim his little toe.
I will become a little bit of Alan Dugan. A little bit of Alan Dugan will become me: His little toe.
It is old. I am old. Alan Dugan's little toe is so old it makes me look fresh as a rose.
But it's Dugan's toe! Age shall not wither. Nor fortune stale. This Brooklyn-Truro toe!
This toe which went first into many battles.
This toe on which the twirling Dugan en pointe did not toe the line.
This toe lost track of.
This toe lost connection to.
This innocent abused toe.
This affectionate uxurious toe that went snuggling in blankets when the wind howled through the house boards.
This toe that went toe-to-toe.
Is my toe now.
I say so.
The world does not contain Alan Dugan any longer which is just plain wrong.
The world is a worse place without Alan Dugan & from what I've been reading can ill afford to be Dugan-less.
So seeing that Dugan's gone & his space is going to waste I claim his little toe.
I will become a little bit of Alan Dugan. A little bit of Alan Dugan will become me: His little toe.
It is old. I am old. Alan Dugan's little toe is so old it makes me look fresh as a rose.
But it's Dugan's toe! Age shall not wither. Nor fortune stale. This Brooklyn-Truro toe!
This toe which went first into many battles.
This toe on which the twirling Dugan en pointe did not toe the line.
This toe lost track of.
This toe lost connection to.
This innocent abused toe.
This affectionate uxurious toe that went snuggling in blankets when the wind howled through the house boards.
This toe that went toe-to-toe.
Is my toe now.
I say so.
ANGST ANTIDOTE
The soldier who sold me this house may have looted every door-knob & lock from more than a dozen doors who knows.
The road-widening committee that will bring the tide of cars to my door & my door to the tide of cars may be meeting next Tuesday or never who knows.
The parking lot at the bottom of my street may be turning into a mall a casino a fast-food outlet or strip-joint this instant who knows.
The state’s lawnmower-blast-off competition may be slated to be held on our street next August with heats every weekend till then who knows.
Everything that’s been done has been done badly & things will get worse: This is America.
But for now
The sun is plastering hot kisses on my face
Great green feather-dusters jive in parks
The sky a broad blue smile behind them
Even the war dead are rattling their flags in the cemetery
& my good old car jumps into action—
telling me it wants to go to Maine
& is up for it
The soldier who sold me this house may have looted every door-knob & lock from more than a dozen doors who knows.
The road-widening committee that will bring the tide of cars to my door & my door to the tide of cars may be meeting next Tuesday or never who knows.
The parking lot at the bottom of my street may be turning into a mall a casino a fast-food outlet or strip-joint this instant who knows.
The state’s lawnmower-blast-off competition may be slated to be held on our street next August with heats every weekend till then who knows.
Everything that’s been done has been done badly & things will get worse: This is America.
But for now
The sun is plastering hot kisses on my face
Great green feather-dusters jive in parks
The sky a broad blue smile behind them
Even the war dead are rattling their flags in the cemetery
& my good old car jumps into action—
telling me it wants to go to Maine
& is up for it
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