...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Monday, March 27, 2017

22. Currents

The obstacle predicts the angle of the flow,
if speed is also factored, which, of course.
Volume I imagine would be a key part
of the equation, with gravity filling out
the whole enchilada. Gravity's big.
I don't know all that much is what I'm saying.
The melted cheese flowed seemingly slowly
from my fork, around its tines down to my lap,
with more volume than I'd want on my new
corduroys, let alone those I wore specifically for
a first date. My face I bet was grave.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

21. Lush Spring

Some trails were tunnels of branches.
I used a shirt dipped in water to wipe

from my limbs poison oak oil.
We saw a frog beside the creek.

You nearly stepped on it.
We heard others as we walked,

a good sign. No poppies,
but small-petaled purple-blue flowers,

folded in on themselves,
and five-petaled lavender ones,

on vining greenery. A big bush,
almost like a tree, in full blossom.

You are as tall almost as me.
You were once here on my back

like that baby we passed in the sling
on the woman, she as young at least

as I was then. Several creek crossings:
Unsteady rocks, wet shoes.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

20. Written in haste,

composed over years, I made what I could
in the time allotted, which seems to be ever

abundant even as my span in it
decreases, like the space between walls

in an industrial trash compactor
in the belly of a DS-1 orbital battle station.

There are men with money making decisions
we'll have to live with, friends.

I make decisions we'll have to live with.
I need to get the transmission out,

use the comlink, let the people know
before I'm mush.

Yeah, I'm screaming--
in joy, in pain, why not both.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

19. Vocation / Vacation

The idea that's coming into my mind,
attached to this title, is one that is better

than my given vocation, at least as
currently conceived, can with the energy in me

muster. I need a vacation. Somewhere warm,
with waves, and three books. A bed in a room

on the second floor, with windows thrown open
and screens to keep out insects. Three records

for the turntable. Margaritas. No alarm clocks.
No clocks at all. No conception of time. Time.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

18. Variations

Right outside my window -- a small tree, then
golden poppies, a brick path, nasturtiums,
sidewalk, greenery, and the carless street. 


Next to my window there is a small tree,
golden poppies, a brick path, nasturtiums,
sidewalk, curb, gutter, and the careless street.


Outside my window, there is a small tree.
Beyond it: poppies, brick path, nasturtiums,
sidewalk, and the street, currently car-free.


Outside my window is a dying tree.
A brick path, poppies, other flowers frame
its slow decline for all who look and see.  

Illuminating my window is a tree
that sways in sunlit air and yet is dead,
or dying: Leaves gray, branches thin, no birds.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

17. Observations

The credenza that holds the tv and turntable
also holds a lava lamp and land-line phone:

Four devices outdated but sleek: The base
and top tip of the lava lamp are the same

dully sheeny silver as the base of the turntable
and the phone base station and phone's trim.

The tv's all black, reflective of the piano
and black, night-time window. Music,

like a pair of discarded mattresses
leaning against a black wall show up on

the screen. They resolve into clarity
when I turn my head toward them:

"The Entertainer," on the left.
Piano Adventures on the right.

The lamp above them, turned off, is that same
silver mentioned earlier in this poem.

Monday, March 20, 2017

16. Luke 19:1-ff

Here comes the one they call Jesus, the crowd
that follows him around blocking again
my view. That's why I'm climbing this old tree:
To see what others see in a man without
home wife children or property, without,
they say, much but authority to speak
in a voice that quiets mockers, heals the sick.
I hope, in short, up here to get the news,
to learn if it's true, assess for myself what's what.
Being laughed at is nothing I don't know.
My name means pure. I do my job each day.