i love it when a colleague
tells me that English majors
are the smartest people
in the world. to me, it makes sense,
everyone, everywhere has to eventually
read and write and on and on–
i aver any language major is smart,
but especially if you want to
be a writer and write about your
life, it is wise. tho i suppose if you
want to make money and eat
you had better study finance,
because even dilettantes
can write Moby-Dicks, and even
heartbroken bums can write supreme poems,
and even the most crossed-jaded can
write an eloquent essay of purpose sometimes.
so if you want to stay full and paid and happy
and moderately sound safe sane,
you had better study some finance.
there is smart English logic for you.
and iced sidewalks
and the black of night
and how the nights come later
and later I’ll be home with soup in my belly
and watching House of Cards
and OK googling that
and then Moby-Dick or the Art of the Deal
and think about friends
and pretend not to notice that the ones that love you to the end should remain in close focus.
Animal. Me. That intelligent malagmity. Moby Dick and Donald Trump and Ferris Buehler and me and everyone between times three. A moment’s notice in a moment, missed it. Caught looking –over there. God’s hand at justice, the opposite: hands-on. Irascible. Some men go bowling. Other men stay at home at a window watching for what’s coming, listening for their mobile phone. In all fairness my older poems were more publishable, marketable, and I was still unknown and alone, that was a long time ago. Animal. Man. Unknown. Lost. Prone. My brain is dying from those around me and their’s shirking and they can’t understand it, and I can’t explain it any better or expand it. There are no more people to avoid or unfriend or be afraid of. No more. I am more defined by my paystub. Only people, like robots, but with subjective morals and fragile rules and safe things to say everywhere about everything every time. Animal. Umbilical cord. Blood. Pain. Passion. Please tell me to act better, but no one tells me to be me better and do what I believe better and be free better, only explain what I mean better. I better I guess. Some say be at ease but… And I should know better about how Shakespeare said the whole world is a play, or something like that. Animal. Actor. Father. Dad. Boy. Man. Child. Prisoner. Observer. Provocateur. God. No one. Neighbor. American. Writer. Reactor. Patient. Person. Colleague. Victim. Happy. Thinker. Doer. Innate. You. And still I’m always changing, so I might be something else too depending on when you see me next and how my day went.
a tree removal company rolled up in two trucks in front of my mother’s house. one with a hydraulic lift to scale the tree, the other with a chipper to change its form. they both sat on ice; my mother talked of salting the drive. we watched from the window, Bella the doodle most concerned. earlier i had noted morning light orange of the highest limbs of trees and a bluff black and white back drop before anyone could be called awake, no stirring. and men jumped from their trucks–muffled steps resounded, figured the positioning, lifted, tied ropes, ran trailers into the snowy ground and began to saw, saw, saw. the owner, anal about his law, came out to discuss the future of each blade and which way trees fall in the city. and then it happened. the fall. no “timber” for timber. silence as a shock wave, through the centre, through the top of the tree sending it swaying in a sickening bow back and then forth. i imagined a whole life ruined for a moment; i imagined the rings of a tree and its age are only revealed after death. nextly. chips and dust and exhaust and noise and cutting and chopping and tossing happened in enough cool to make each exhale seen, almost tangible. some authoritative hollers. aside from that, i wonder, how they do it. i could cut down trees too. i wonder what they pay.
i guess well here’s
a christmas story,
the presents were piled
’round the tree,
in my heavy coffee mug
pumpkin spiced liqueur
for bailey’s irish creme.
and i say happy holiday!
cheers, cheers cheers!
I walked on the wrong side
of the Washington Ave. Bridge to see a wall
never to be built,
Covered in movement art,
in cool sunlight of a warm
day just because.
Why not? For me, by myself,
no one to change that,
going east and who knows where else.
Counter, kind of backwards,
Where there is no need to fret.
Where all bets are undecided.
And he asked, how’s it going?
Good. And trying to keep warm.
perhaps heavy layers
truth is what
and salt will
kill the snow.
cold & flu relieve.