The Year Of Not Knowing
This was the year of Not Knowing.
The bandersnatches of political theory
ran the country, pulling more and more
ugly tools and surgical instruments
out of their marsupial pouches.
This was the year of no explanations.
Disease and demons flooded the world,
crowding out poems and pretties.
Dying became the national pastime,
and all songs and all words mirrored it.
And I–where was I?
That hamster wheel that plagued
Kerouac and Stein, Brautigan and Berryman,
basted my inner ear as I tried to sleep,
reminded me that this was that year.
I kept to my allotted space,
stayed reasonably pleasant in demeanor
while the insanity of fear peeked out
from my shirt sleeves and suspicion
became the gospel of my flesh.
This was the year when Evil
ate up the phrases that came out of my head
(they wanted paper or prominence or both).
Dying became the national pastime,
and all songs and all words mirrored it.
This was the year of disconnect
and grievances fleeing the past,
exploring my present. This was the year
of believing that I had to learn everything
over again, not knowing where “everything” began.
Color Wheel
The color of my hands has changed.
I reached to touch your shoulder,
saw that my hand
was no longer opaline.
Now the skin resembled bruised fruit.
When did that happen?
From pearly to poignant;
what comes next
that I dare not think about?
Security Camera
Alone in the room, she’s talking to a nearby recliner,
shaking her head, gesturing wildly. She frowns at the chair,
lifts the footrest, pushes it back down, laughs.
She rubs her eyes, her face; she appears to be crying,
pulls a tissue from her blouse pocket and wipes at the tears.
She stands still as a stone for a minute.
She turns suddenly and looks toward the door,
hurries to sit in the recliner. The door opens
and a boy child enters carrying a plate
with a sandwich on it. She sits still as a stone.
The boy child puts the plate in her lap,
kisses her cheek and leaves;
he closes the door.
She sits still as a stone–
begins to eat.
Some Call It Hiking
~for Brian
I noticed that you cook in paths.
The onion skins lead to a paring knife
and a cutting board which leads to bottles
of spices–all with their tops off:
Turmeric, Ajika, Herbes de Provence,
Black Garlic and Soffrito–they are a trail
to the large aluminum bowl
which is just to the right of two Roma Tomatoes
which are just in front of the Salt & Spice grinder
which is next to the red wine (labeled Nebbiolo,
said to be an “elegant, ageworthy wine”).
The sink holds a bowl of Fingerling Potatoes,
peeled, sprinkled with black pepper and garlic salt.
They are dear little things with
grand possibilities. Near the wall
with the pothooks sits a measuring cup
with butter up to the ½ cup mark
and a second measuring cup with water–
another ½ cup. The path progresses.
Three bamboo mixing spoons
and one wire whisk rest on a carton
of Free-Range Eggs, unopened as yet;
I know they are umber in color,
and look formidable, reliable, at rest.
It’s a tasteful trail to be sure,
and calls for investigation.
I am a perennial walker of paths
and have followed this one to its end.
On a stool on the other side of the counter,
I sit with my outback hat,
my canteen of wine,
my sensible shoes,
my mountain staff,
my animal nose sniffing
the redolent atmosphere
to see what comes next.
I Wish You Wouldn’t Lie to Me
There used to be a candy–
a “jawbreaker” I think it was–
it was called Fireball:
round, sweet and hot in the mouth–
a test of courage more than fun.
It’s a possibility that you
may have indulged in 2 or 3 too many
of them in your childhood.
Your words are trying to break your teeth–
do you not feel that?
What you say is red
all the way from your heart,
over your tongue,
behind your teeth
(which are beginning to chip).
