This Trajectory Life #4

This trajectory life, despite evidence to the contrary,
will continue to reassert itself and insinuate itself
into the common denominators of our senses
the dormitories of our insecurities
withering detractors with a sleight-of-hand
reminiscent of those who, following a late night phonecall,
assemble at the bedside of the dying
to accrue frequent flyer miles for a one-way trip to Neverland.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Anonymous Battleship Aground

That evening the bonfire was enough
to light up those moments
that make life easier to swallow.
The gulls of course sang of methane -
their love for the garbage
at the landfill matched only
by the love the Captain expressed
for his two daughters.
He talked freely about his dreams for them.
The daily rag picked up on this
and ran the story as a welcomed change
from its typical reportage.

Woman VIII

She conducts symphonies
and directs traffic
and swallows swords
with arresting delicacy.
Security gives her a headache
and a wide berth.
Cars rubberneck.
Busy intersections wait
for her to cross.

Gumshoes

We kept notes on cases in ledgers
lifted from a paper mill
that caught fire one evening,
some said the owner burned it down
for the insurance,
and we smoked paper rolled into cigarettes
during that baseball-laden summer,
trailing anyone who wandered
into our neighborhood -
a girl with a baby carriage,
an old woman folded over a shopping cart,
a drunk toddling his way to salvation.

We were detectives.
Our detective agency
with telephones made out of plastic spools
from a local knitting mill
was located in my friend's cellar
where the sweet smell of bell peppers
filled the air, and where my friend's uncle
home from Korea with a plate in his head
spent his days working out
with shiny metal exercise equipment
in a pine-paneled back room
off-limits to us.

Of course we used aliases -
Booferous Boggs and Herbie Small -
and longed for adventures to rival
Holmes and Watson's
which aired every Saturday morning
on a round-screen Stromberg Carlson
in my grandparents' doilied parlor and
in the window of the neighborhood furniture store
where the owner had placed this new invention
that no home should be without
for all to see, in order to lure customers
into a monthly payment plan.

Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce

The Secret is in the Source

The performance began with lapsed Catholics
cavorting on the head of a pin
hedging immortality
phoning a friend for reservations.
That should have been enough
to stave off the hordes of true believers
clamoring at the gates
ears glued to the speaker's mouth
many with the heebie-jeebies
ring-tailed from a traveling medicine show
that passed through here last summer
hawking this, that, and the other thing
eyes fixed on the hereafter.
So many artists perched on trapezes
you'd think the inner dome of heaven.
But think again.
The secret of course is in the source:
white-washed lofts with unmade double beds
overlooking a wintry river,
Carver-country characters
working on jacked-up wrecks in weedy front yards,
the earnest tracking of memoirs
written in rolling ball black on yellow legal pad
read by onlookers who rubberneck
on their off days.
Things look pretty good now
but stick around.
At any moment hash-slinging could take on new meaning
particularly with a five-cartoushe pileup on the Interstate
and miles to go before the next confessional.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

In the Night Kitchen

Moments before the door opened
and Sadie and Amy rushed after the schoolbus
in a blur of plaid,
several amanuenses appeared
with their notebooks
for some frantic last-minute jotting,
unfiltered cigarettes painted
flamboyantly
dangling hither and yon.
Never at a loss for words
they stood there as dapper as
spigots among the lawn ornaments
gauging the celibacy
of artichoke hearts.
Unfazed, grandmother continued
to stare resolutely
at the innards of grandfather's clock
as familiar to her
after so many years
as the crannies of her night kitchen.
It was time for her to unveil
the nitty gritty: the butterfly collection
we'd all heard about
held back for a year or two
in the lower grades.
The first hint of it had long
been forgotten
buried under tons
of paper-weighted paperwork.
Meanwhile, several others
seemed to be in the final stages
of their journey
back from who knows where.
It was the last thing she remembered
before getting up and leaving
the room without fanfare.

Again the Rain

Darkness triangulates the room.
Her silk blouse and investment portfolio
slow dance in the corner,
the mirror reflecting their music.
My hard drive spins out of control,
purging files, flagging me
as an extra in search of parts unknown.

And the crows. Always the crows.

This Trajectory Life #3

This trajectory life arrives early with a backup
and in the flick of a wrist fills the afternoon
with a throbbing sequence of unremitting tones
freezing passersby amid a cluster of clouds thick
with the forecast from weatherunderground.com.

On His Partial Deafness

          for Dennis Sullivan (with apologies to John Milton)

My kids and close friends get annoyed with me!
Can you imagine?
They get annoyed with me.
They with me.
They pump up the volume
shake their heads
grimace
roll their eyes
look heavenward
then, with wrinkled brow
and an expulsion of air,
tell me to forget it.
It's not important!

Like I wanted this.
Like I get off on frustration.
Like I have this thing for hairshirts.
Like I've elected to have surgery
to switch from stereo to monaural.

OK, so I've stepped on a few toes in my time
refused occasionally to give someone the right of way
cut a few people off
flipped some the almighty bird
maybe even climbed over one or two or possibly three or four.
Who hasn't?

But was this really necessary?
Aren't the hammer toes enough?
The hammer toes and the nearsightedness?
The hammer toes and the nearsightedness and the postnasal drip?

Why this?
When there are so many other ways
to chastise a lapsed pilgrim -
like a hangnail perhaps
or a smidgen of intestinal distress
even a root canal!
Yeah, even a root canal
would be easier to swallow,
a tad more palatable.
But this?
Hobbling along on one ear
so it's like I'm hearing only half of what's said
if that!

I've become the resident expert on Closed Captioning
a speedier reader
a multitasker of pictures and words
annoyed when a film's vintage
predates the closed captioner's keyboard.

Maybe if I distance myself as the third person
à la Mr. John Milton
"On His Blindness"
Who was he kidding?
On His Blindness
His three wives?
I don't think so!
Yeah, maybe then I'll be able to sail through
Kubler-Ross's stages of loss -
and accept the fact
that the sausages frying in my left ear will never be done
that the appliance in my ear looks like a chewed-up circus peanut
that it makes me feel like I have swimmer's ear
or a massive head cold
or that I'm living in Seattle
or better yet London
or that I'm hearing sounds through a tin can
or a pillow
or ear muffs
or that I have a potato sticking out of my ear
and everyone's looking at it.

The fact that I can't hear my alarm clock though
when I sleep on my right side
isn't necessarily a bad thing.
Maybe I should assume a Buddhist perspective
and regard the glass as half-full
look at its bright side
an opportunity for growth
in that now
I can smile and nod at my supervisor's rants
walk past a panhandler without feeling guilty
overlook my kids' loud music
my neighbor's loud dog
my relatives' loud mouths
but mostly
bask in the knowledge that some lips are better to read
than a good poem.

When I Consider How My Light Is Spent  by L. DeFoor

Three Squares and Then

Surely the previous tenants would know the combination,
the end point, the whole ball of wax,
and why this margarine is putrid.
Find another justification.
I'll bet there are plenty in the pantry,
alphabetized, in three-ring binders.
Living in a clapboard has its moments
and this is one of them.
Passersby seem secure enough
with their notion of the daily grind.
I, however, am not so sure.
I guess you've got to apply some elbow grease
otherwise it will pass you by.
And I don't have to remind you what happened
the last time we tried to board without a ticket.
They still talk about it at Luigi's.
Which reminds me.
Check the circulation desk for the latest perennials.
I wouldn't want to miss the next installment.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Strange Evening #8

Did you wait for that strange evening
to leave the Airstream with a card mechanic
cutting at the crimp? The others
at the table are bottom feeders,
pomegranate growers from Weehawken
with letters of introduction
from your former associate,
a house dealer who burned spades
until the eye in the sky blinked him out.

Woman VII

Candles brighten my off-sides.
The book staring at me
from across the room
may as well read itself.
I've bought loafers to save time
and put pennies in them.
Her words swell my pockets.
My keyboard is tongue-tied.
I brew tea and read the bag.
Strolling through a Japanese garden
hand-in-hand
appears on my grocery list.

Kate Moss by Chuck Close

Business as Usual

[Rimbaud] just went about living each day as it came along,
with its own set of questions and phenomena.
          - John Ashbery

I want to begin by retooling my second act.
It's not as if I haven't been keeping apace.
My neighbors I'm sure would attest to my valiant effort:

up at the crack of dawn, counting my blessings,
thinking about the good things that the day can bring
oblivious to its ups and downs.

So much has happened since we last commiserated,
I feel overwhelmed by the need to fill you in.
Perhaps it would be better to take it a little at a time

and see what develops.
Nothing like a hot bath to put things in perspective
and to help keep one's nose clean.

Business as usual, isn't that what they say?
Of course, a few trips to the pharmacy could change that.
All this talk about cholesterol has given me a headache

especially with the fax machine so close at hand.

I'd like to put it behind us once and for all and move on,

if only for the time being.

Euthanasia

The apologies thicken.
The house quakes,
totters,
begins to slide
slowly
into the landfill.

He resumes life,
tries to keep busy.
Readies the garden
for winter.
Continues to consider
alternatives.

Remembers
the last time
they were together
in the rain
when one umbrella
was enough.

Dragonflies

          for Steve Jobs 1955-2011

Dragonflies fill the air
and our hands with wonder:
Etruscan artifacts
the importance of climate-control
everything we want to know
about anything.

Woman VI

She loves to fly standby
and make the most of it
tantalizing others
with word-of-mouth
and instructions
for otherworldly delights.
Her movements are pivotal
to her role
as understudy.

Hanna Paat

I’ll Have a Number Five

It seemed unreasonable on such short notice
but with the final coat of paint applied,
we began traipsing through in plastic bags,
recording our impressions on Post-its.

Trees bemoaned their losses as an afterthought.
We raised our glasses in dismay and let the cat out of the bag.
He bolted for the door, and hasn’t been heard from since.
Someone’s bridge partner was caught in the act.

I was miffed, but decided not to make a stink.
Who wants to be a fish out of water,
especially at night
when cats roam the streets with unfettered pizzazz?

I must admit, though, it is a far cry from the run of the mill:
the parquet flooring
the foundation as good a start as any
the walk-in water closets.

Having a backhoe at one’s beck and call helps, I suppose.
But there’s always something, yes?
The other day, for example, during a commercial break,
I ordered a number five without onions, and got them.

Number 5  by Jasper Johns

This Trajectory Life #2

This trajectory life weathers the tyranny
of the morning's commute
with the nonchalance of a grandmaster in control of the board:
leaping into the faceted grayness
sprinting for the newsstand past the remains of the day
hailing an uptown cab
taking on a crossword challenge
seducing a conductor into losing interest in a sinfonia
trembling an audience to a halt on the edge of their seats.

Surely this Day too will be Filled with Alternatives

Flabby rain-soaked arms welcome gulls the size of chickens
as rehearsals begin against the pounding surf.

The pool we so gleefully splashed around in
throughout the summer sits half-heartedly behind

Closed for the Season, mumbling, I guess we'll never know
(especially now with winter a stone's throw away).

Nearby an amateur phonographer points her Sony
ECM-MS907 at the fisheries commingling in the queue.

I bury myself in an instruction manual
hoping this time to discover the steps

that seem just out of reach. Around me, umbrellas bicker.
Conversations with flavors like fudge crystal

and ampersand swirl plunge headlong, splitting their seams.
A shortage of creamers irritates a few joggers

who begin traversing the lawn - minuet-like - before
skipping out for the much-touted continental breakfast.

Insinuation

One has to have the thoughts one has, one can't just
have the thoughts one would like to have.
          - Jasper Johns

His puppy dog threatens to throw in the towel
so you rewrite the dialogue for the water closet
talking heads deconstructing attachment
sounding more and more like separation anxiety.
His puppy dog is cute, yes he (she?) is
but when the pizza of the day is Mexican,
you deserve more than a break.
Have a small one, with, as they say, the works.
The parking lot bit is a hoot, I'll give them that,
as well as a refresh button to segue into a parallel life.
But that's it. I'm tapped out.
OK, maybe the upbeat is over the top,
but really, amigo, what’s the alternative?
Gloomski and doomski?
And please enough already with the Facebook.
It's in there, trust me, along with whatever.
Oh, and, by the way, who said jowls are the new black?
Lately, everything seems over the top, hyperbolic.
But, then, what lies ahead, lies ahead, yes?

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Tenement

A knee floats high above a kiosk-splattered byway, a knee untethered from the brittleness of the brilliant end run, a knee familiar with the barleycorned lights of the harbor, a knee soon-to-be-the-subject of a full-length feature film directed by a cohort, presently in disarray, talking up a titanium replacement with a pair of bosomy twins who are here to audition for the choir of an intricate chapel at the behest of a man of the cloth who just now ducked out to get nipped and tucked. Why risk chronic stiffness? colors the quartet's first jabs as a bird of a different feather nests on the roof of a tenement pockmarked with air conditioners trucked in by mobs of Teamsters in the high heat of summer stock's seasonal playoffs. There's an Old World charm to this, and to the alopecia-plagued hound chasing a Brussels sprout across the linoleum floor laid down several scores of years ago by unemployed steeplejacks contemplating midlife career changes when all else failed. The commonplace has arrived on the scene as well, replete with contortionists hawking cut rates along the bus line, their timeworn notions inhabiting sultry nights when little else of interest is scheduled to air on the local cable. Desire overwhelms several emergency shelters. The lights throb and pulse with metaphorical otherworldliness. At times like these, it's best to overlook the cereal stains in the breakfast nook left by the stranger who at first appeared whimsical almost desultory in his buttoned-down oxford but later metamorphosed into a high-pressure hair-replacement strategist taking us aback when without asking he flashed his credentials, drank too much, and wouldn't stop talking. He'd wanted to get to know us better but we were onto him this time and late for work besides.

This Trajectory Life #1

This trajectory life distributes a list of FAQs
provoking an award-winning display of support for what
is yet to come from Richard Burton
lookalikes, their challenging roles
trumping the darkness of cineplexes everywhere.

The World According to (Your Name Here)

But what if you're not sprung from sleep by the light?
To gurgle along merrily with the flow?
Snatching a banana or an orange
from one of the many overhangs?
Gabbing with the locals?
Have you finished the book you've been reading?
The one you couldn't put down?
I saw you at the supermarket in the canned soup aisle
comparing sodium levels with a metronome.
You were so engrossed I didn't stop.
The word on the street is that you're up most nights,
pacing, in your new white bucs.
Disgruntlement is a no-no, you know.
At least here in the center ring.
Your white Honda Prelude - Sil3nt 1 - sits in the parking lot
of the latest development, assuming a different persona
for every Tom, Dick, and Jane.
And if he (or she) can do it, so can you.
It's time to bee-line for the rest room
where an open mic of horn rims is about to begin -
a Rimbaudesque excitement filling the water closet,
the sand waiting to smooth wrinkled souls.
You've seen those enjambments before, you know.
But so what?
At least there's comfort in the familiar.
In the tried and true.
And with the clock ticking down it's bishop to queen four.
White on right, right?
Yes, start whistling now.
It will carry you through the atelier
resurrecting that night when inappropriateness held sway.
It was fun, wasn't it?
So what if the constable paid us a visit?
Let the swags move to the center, I say.
They'll soon be off the radar
traveling east along a bumpy two-lane
trying to absorb the changes that have occurred
in the four months they've been unlooped.
And don't forget to keep your eyes peeled
as you weather the ramifications of your latest tailspin.
Keep a pad and pencil handy, too,
next to your bed, even,
for those late-night archetypes
that are sure to emanate from your collective unconscious.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Buying Trout Fishing In America at Megabooks

big hair perky breasts coltish
micro-mini'd legs moist
full red lips perfect pink-tongued
white teeth cashiering
at Megabooks
takes my outstretched ten dollar bill
purrs Do you fish?

Trout Fishing in America  by Richard Brautigan

The Yellow Jacket

          after Vermeer's "A Lady Writing a Letter"

She is not the first young woman to sit for him.
Yet tonight, again, he has been awakened by her image -

an image that occupies his dreams
tugs at his bedsheets,

numbs him to his all-too-comfortable life.
She will sit for him again tomorrow.

He will suggest that she rest a moment,
that she stand near the window

so the light seduces the contours of her face.
He will ask if the yellow pleases her, if it captures

the radiance of her jacket, the weeks of sittings,
the furious grinding of pigment.

A Lady Writing a Letter  by Johannes Vermeer

Woman V

She's had sidemen
multi-instrumentalists
whose virtuosity
I've been told
is unparalleled.
And she can solo as well
with the best:
head back
eyes half-closed
unfocused
conjuring sounds
from composition books
not sold in schools.

Replaying the Code

He had this thing about rice.
Box upon box.
Carton upon carton.
Stacking them
throughout his apartment.
At night
visions of rice paper
wrapped his dreams
turning them inside out
exposing their plaid lining.
He became preoccupied.
He would walk into a room and forget.
The keys to his car
had to be rescued.
Word got out.
His friends suggested counseling.
He consulted several books
and websites.
He even plugged himself
into a search engine
to see how many hits he would get.
Nothing helped.
He became distant.
Got lost in conversations.
Eventually moved away.
Years later we found out
there was a worm.
It would enter his crawl space
encrypt his password
tease his logic
slip away.
And he'd be gone
replaying the code
unreachable.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Thirty-Two Short Stanzas about No One in Particular

1
He is quick to point out that he is not above
rolling up his sleeves and pitching in.

2
He once aspired to the position
of news anchor for a cruise line
having read somewhere that cruise ships
were in dire straits
without up-to-the-minute news.

3
He likes to walk to the farmer's market
to pick out a few pieces of fruit for lunch

4
and he's a whiz at juxtaposing garnishes
the texture of which fascinates him.

5
His forte is expert testimony on incidentals.

6
He welcomes technological progress whenever he can
and, on off days, thinks about the merits of fiber optic cable

7
though his penchant is for off-the-cuff commentary
on matters-at-hand.

8
He loves Satie, and gets carried away.

9
He can whistle in three-part harmony
and keep five balls in the air.

10
He reportedly sawed a woman in half
while drinking a glass of water.

11
He is awed by the Great Houdini

12
and spends hours with catalogs
of handcuffs and leg irons.

13
His room is an assemblage of mismatched chairs
from failed marriages
and other short-term investments.

14
By day, he inspects the city's little-known landmarks
jotting notes in a steno pad
with a disposable ballpoint.

15
He periodically consults an instruction manual.

16
Most evenings, he sits in the blue glare of the TV
stuffing olives with anchovies
waiting for a break in the action.

17
At bedtime, he reads the personals
with a highlighter and magnifying glass.

18
He keeps his favorite fetish locked in a closet.

19
He alternates stepping in and out
of his five o'clock shadow.

20
Despite his therapist's advice
he continues to spend time
with black and white photographs.

21
He reads into everything -
recipes, TV listings, the dog's bark.

22
We've told him it's unhealthy
that it can lead to a political appointment

23
but he read into that too
buttoning his button-down shirt
over his overcoat
reprimanding his trousers
in full view.

24
He once insinuated himself
in a hotel's Olympic-size pool

25
and later, while jotting down
the keynote speaker's address,
he was seen stuffing condiments
of all shapes and sizes
into his collapsible pockets.

26
He loves to fill notebooks with indecipherables.

27
His passion is the art of noise.

28
He plans to retire to a walled city
with underground labyrinths
inhabited by television personalities
posing as used car salesmen.

29
He enjoys contemplating austerity.

30
He often loses his place mid-sentence
and gives himself over to worry.

31
He routinely googles unknown quantities

32
and becomes animated
whenever he dials a wrong number.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Late but Little Matter

Purple barrels populate his dreams,
enough to threaten confusion -
remnants of strange sightings in the foothills:
immense bird-like contraptions
orange, with leathery projections
unlike any seen in the northeast.
Staves are choreographed and bronzed.
Forcing calamity, he takes to the corduroy
roads surrounding the aquifer
incidental to cartographers.
Nothing has been leaked to those in the
know - a centuries-later Google search would yield.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Animazione

Each cel's
departure
from its predecessor
is key
to the illusion -
the elegance
of a grasp
the ease of a stride -
captured
seamlessly
by halving it
again
and again and again.

Dancing (Fancy)  by Eadweard Muybridge

Perpetual Care

The ancient yellow bulldozer
chuffs up the hill
past weathered tombstones.

          The dead need more room.
          They will always need more room.
          See how they spill out
          onto the road.

The ancient yellow bulldozer
uproots greenery
rips out trees
clears another ten acres of woodland.

          The dead need more room.
          They will always need more room.
          Arms, legs, torsos
          tumble about
          obliterate shoulders
          clog culverts
          create road hazards.

The ancient yellow bulldozer
pauses. The groundskeepers take out measuring sticks
and begin to dissect the clearing
into four-by-eight foot plots.

          The dead need more room.
          They will always need more room.
          They are desperate.
          They are insistent.
          Their eyeless sockets scan the horizon.
          They will take action
          if necessary.

The ancient yellow bulldozer
moves on
under a shroud of blue smoke.

Clearing a Space

I clear a space.
          -Matthew Arnold

When asked
how he found time
to practice
the piano
he replied
I clear a space.
I like that.
I clear a space.
That's what
I need to do.
Clear a space.
Take stock.
Trim the fat.
Decide
what's important.
What I can't live without.
I've got to
clear out a corner
in my room
prepare the
surface
assemble the tools
and
leave them there
ready
out in the open
for moments
so intense
I'm hurled into that corner
exploding.

Some Bells  by Joan Mitchell

Second Position

Yesterday's walkabout went quite well, the three chairs in the olive grove welcoming the visitors who had boarded the bus as a last resort with open arms which turned out to be stuffed with aspiring actors and cotton batting. The ballet dancers in the second position were the first to point(e) this out, while the rest of the company caught unaware at the barre noted that the invitations had been printed with an error which spelled disaster as far as they were concerned but once the stage hands were idle and the curtain was raised, all fell into place as if nothing had happened which in fact was true. It was a bit of a stretch, even for ballet dancers, to assume the worst case scenario, and later someone was seen jotting down a reminder to have security look into the ingredients of the house specials for the night of October 10, 1996, a night of incidental amusements and wilted lettuce. With all this finally behind us we sat back eager to dive into our popcorn awaiting the performance which to our wrinkled disappointment was cancelled because a leek of all things was found in the soup.

Cataloging the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa

Bernini saw it in three-dimensions -
head thrown back, eyes half-closed, lips parted.
Tons of marble floating.

Cataloging the ecstasy of Saint Teresa
you cross over
and find yourself in a choral group

performing Arvo Pärt’s The Peace.
This is good. This is really good.
The puzzle at the foot of your bed?

You try to recall the connection.
The mystery of happiness without remorse
or something like that. You’re not sure.

Here’s how it’s done, the caped magician told you
after your eighth birthday party.
Misdirection. Misdirection.

Saint Teresa in Ecstasy by Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini

Icarus's Ghost

          after Auden's Musée des Beaux Arts

Three hours into a four-hour meeting I see it -
shrunken, bird-like, flying around the room

swooping in and out of PowerPoints
pausing near Vincent's Sunflowers

hovering above the presenter just in from Secaucus.
He should have listened to his father.

He should have stuck to the flight plan.
Two counties over, a farmer milks cows

in a frigid barn, puffs of breath linger.
A fisherman drills a hole through the ice.

The fish have been watching him for years.
They too know the sting of the barb

the punishing yank into sunlight
the gasping amidst the cruelty of words.

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus  by Peter Bruegel

Long Distance

He celebrates his new life
with the vigor of a vaudevillian
tap dancing through the hole in a fence
for the fortune in a cookie
willingly confiding his obsessions
to eager ears without
so much as a wrinkle.
A pleasant rain soundtracks
most of his evenings.
He studies the migratory patterns
of horizons, and on weekends
loses himself in memorials
to wetland heroes -
whimsical affairs with nests
of loons resting upended
in multi-colored tablet-treated
water fountains.

Mount Colden's summit:
each step
a chess move

The Last Hill

We all knew it was there.
We'd come down it the first mile
of this out-and-back half.
For the next 11, though,
we forgot about it,
losing it to the vexations of the race,
the small victories and defeats
of each step,
the undulating bike path,
the splits, surges, water stops,
camaraderie, colors, conversation.
And yet it stood there
waiting for us,
waiting to greet us again at 12 miles,
to mock us,
to sap our strength
our determination,
to squeeze our lungs,
reducing stride to shuffle,
to tempt us
with Eden's garden of walking paths,
to test us now
when the smell of the finish line
fills our nostrils,
overwhelms all consciousness,
to remind us
that no one is ever home free.

Keepers

We'd work the pools on the Schoharie
between Burtonsville and Lost Valley

scrambling over rocks
trying to avoid the slippery ones covered with slime

crisscrossing from shore to shore
in and out of the water

in cut-off jeans
worn-out Keds with felt glued to their soles for traction

fishing vest pinned with flies
baseball cap.

We'd be out there
just about every day of bass season

late afternoon July through September
when the elusive smallmouth were feeding

searching for the perfect cast
the perfect throw

perfecting the art of laying the fly
on the riffling surface

to lure the smallmouth from their cool darkness
with its mimicry of life.

All this for the hit, the strike
the bending of the rod

tightening of the line slicing the surface
as it followed an ancient mariner

whose occasional leaps
through a rainbow of glistening scales

were better than fireworks on the fourth.
We'd let him run

hoping he wouldn't snag the line
between rocks or under driftwood

playing him, giving him slack
until fatigue led him to the net.

Then, we'd let him go.

9/11/2001 - 9/11/2011

Woman IV

She calls me Ishmael
and choreographs
a dance from the pages
of Moby Dick.
Her costumes mimic
the South Seas.
Her toenails
are the color of whales.
I experience restless legs.



Strange Evening #7

Did you wait for that strange evening
when your nametagged double approached you
at the intersection of parties
with an update on the cast and crew of your old life
when friends came together weekly
to compare fonts
and share experiments in words?
Your former self was there too
and your lover
retracing the mistakes you both made
on a street map
the high points bolded in pigment
doors opening as you passed your fingers over them.
There is still time, you know.
There always is (at least we’d like to believe).
Your trusty steed awaits.
You can travel to whatever farther reaches
appealed to you when you saw them -
for the first time was it? - whiteboarded
alphabetically in Ben & Jerry’s on Lark.

End of Summer

His voice fills the squawk box:
a Westerner in a white, ten-gallon hat

like those worn by Saturday morning superheroes
who battled outlaws, recovered the gold, and won the girl.

He says the obelisk in the center of town
reminds him of Donald Duck.

I don't see it.
Bill's Bicycle Shop now has a phone.

We can call in our reservations and drop off our resumes.
I'd like a quiet table overlooking the aquifer

with enough intimacy to exclude bike messengers
who keep insisting that rowdy riding

is what good deliveries are all about.
Some have even taken to the streets on rollerblades

wearing helmets, elbow and knee pads, gloves.
I think it started with Madonna.

The screenwriter's guild is a presence worth emulating
especially when the wait staff keep us waiting like this.

The blackberries along the bike path
were delicious in the nineties

but most likely will be gone when we return
from our trip to the hinterland

where the locals claim to have seen fish fly
and restauranteurs cower.

He said he'll keep riding until it snows.
Good for him!

She introduced a touching anecdote about pussy willows
which sped the meeting along

until a hireling in sequined cummerbund announced
that the buffet was ready despite rumors to the contrary.

Induced Amnesia

You count brain shards from the dislocation,
the uncoupling
galloping across the landscape
swollen with rupture.
So, it just won’t happen.
Something about pealing.
The bells in the village, perhaps?
The village dismantled.
The village as nitwit with Styrofoamed beans’ brew.
You’d be better off returning
to your position in the fold, in the field,
in the fray, as they say, awaiting the confluence.
(Insert Beckett’s "I’ll go on" here.)
But this time to live with another
and the other
dancing to the parroting
of the coldly clinical.
Really?
Perhaps not (Guffaw!)
tallying the lesions of war
waxing nostalgic
swimming upstream with all your might.

Drowning in a Labyrinth of Words

Was this a warning for the approaching storm
the storm that would lose you in its sheets of rain?
There were moments of calm.
Expected I guess.
But then the galleys arrived
and correcting them
I found numerous errors
and reached for my green Sharpie
but then thought What the hell,
don’t we each construct the furniture for our decks
and secure them for unseen moments?

Woman III

And she can be monochromatic
in a colorful way
trumping cards
unceremoniously
while edging forward in her seat
to expose her hand.
Her whimsy attracts bees
and keeps acquaintances at bay.
Grocery clerks love
to check her out.

Lily Cole

Strange Evening #6

Did you wait for that strange evening
when the lights dimmed on cue
to run out of the house
and into the backyard
celebrating the emptiness?
The echo was your friend.
You walked along the dark streets
painting Xs on lampposts.
Too bad they fell off the truck.
Too bad they lingered a moment too long.
The delivery man lost your address
and failed to radio ahead.
Your cell phone tracked you here
to this theater
where the audience sits
masked and silent
waiting for the organ recital to begin.

Fading to Black

Unannounced inspections are chatted up.
Someone botched the last job
and that someone is back again today
to take another crack at it
board game tucked
into his Harley's sidecar.
There's little doubt that merriment
will begin again shortly.
We've always been able to count
on that around here
picking and choosing
from both columns
which over the years have arrayed themselves
in colorful, alphabetical order.

Casual Friday Field Guide

1. Seersucker
2. Gabardine pocket protector
3. Wide-whale cords
4. Keyboarded memoirs with footnotes, addenda, and full-color graphics
5. Self portrait as still-life with mangy hound and carport
6. Crayolas
7. On-again off-again love-interest
8. Malted Milk Balls
9. 1000 free text minutes
10. Inflatable passengers

Somewhere, the Sun is Conversing

Somewhere, the sun is conversing.
Flip-flopping window-shoppers sip Styrofoamed lattes

while texting Facebooked friends,
their children living happily in bedtime stories,

looking for the prize in every box.
Fortunate bakers bag dozens for engineers

whose diesel locomotives chuff lazily through crossings,
semaphores signaling clear tracks ahead,

the big picture memorialized for Flickr.
Even the birds have hung up their aprons

testing the surface for the usual kinds of things
as time strolls lopsidedly through evergreened neighborhoods.

Dear Reader, the figure at the edge of the screen
has something to tell us, if only we would listen.