Dreaming Bob Wills

Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys performed

my life in a six song set in Tulsa

late in forty-seven. A dream, yes, but

they swung, they played San Antonio Rose

and Don't Be Ashamed of Your Age, Tiny,

Kelso, Smokey, Johnny and Herb playing

it dirty, dirty, Tommy crooning my

ups and downs and Bob, who put a fine point

on an uneven performance with a

running commentary of high “ahh haa's”.

Poem

How To Survive Winter

The clever thing about my long

vigil is systems redundancy, an

economic phrase on loan from

civil engineering. Most but not all

of my observations will be made

through artfully hung

windows framing fixed objects

cunningly arranged. Take

the two carved pumpkins placed

just so among bare lilacs

last November. Drinking coffee at dawn

at the kitchen table, leaning

only slightly to the left,

I mark their daily progress toward

soft shell abstraction.

With only a minor adjustment of perspective

an angle opens on a cold

shoulder of snow concealed

from the sun alongside the shed, winter

giving me the business.

The feeders, visible from any

number of windows, draw

the usual rag

tag flock, making observations

of their own, shocked

by the relentless decline

on view indoors. At some point I'll pull

on my boots and plant

myself on the patio. I'll stand

side by side

with the hemlock and we'll

watch the shadows

across the white lawn

take ever smaller

bites.

2011 Best Of List

The Ten Most Under-Appreciated Things of 2011

Gravity

It's still free, constant and in the public domain, thus ripe for privatization. The Supreme Court is scheduled to hear a challenge by free market advocates late in 2012. Justice Thomas is not expected to recuse himself despite his standing in the Gravity Denial community. Gravity has it's detractors. NASA, the major airlines and the PGA are among the most vocal. The Neckware Association of America, The American Society of Plastic Surgeons, and The National Pork Producers Council are among it's biggest supporters. Gravity was a big player in 2011. It kept the Republican side of the aisle seated during the State of the Union address but failed to keep Wisconsin State Senate Democrats in Madison in February when Governor Scott Walker decided to eliminate collective barginning rights for state employees. All are urged to enjoy gravity in 2012 while it's still free and available to all.

Words

Words are the main component of Tweets, texts, emails, blogs and to a lesser extent, Facebook, serving only as commentary on images of your nephew smoking a bong and kittens batting balls of yarn. Words failed Governor Rick Perry and spewed from Newt Gingrich like fracking chemicals from a gas well. The air above Iowa was filled with billions of words though none made any sense, stark evidence of their speakers' dire mental state. Words printed on paper became more and more scarce but were spoken in abundance by the couple seated in front of us at a screening of The Decendents. Money, not words, constituted the language spoken by corporations deemed individuals by the Supreme Court and as such, entitled to the protections afforded under the Bill of Rights. Words like job creator, Obamacare and job killing tax policies were repeated over and over and over and over again by Republicans. Words like craven, timid and spineless described Democrats. Use of words will increase in 2012 leading up to the presidential election, but we'll see a precipitous decline in meaning and veracity.

Man Made Fabric

It seems like only yesterday petroleum based fabrics were held in very low regard by the general public except for members of the life insurance industry and immigrant pushcart vendors. Now, one must stand in line and pay handsomely in order to purchase plastic clothing. Fabrics are calibrated to specific types of physical movement. There are pants for running, walking, sauntering, strolling or staggering. Underwear is specialized to a degree unknown outside of certain Amazonian reptile species. Shirts are engineered to wick, channel, absorb, filter, drain, desalinate and store water. Sports wear is a serious business. Cycling clothing provides the only comic relief. Yoga requires an entire sub-genre of fabric engineers working rotating twelve hour shifts inventing pants that render the wearer genderless as a Barbie or Ken doll.

Beach Junk

The sea; deep, blue, inspiration for novelists, singers of shanties and Discovery Channel programmers sure coughs a lot of crap up on the beach. If you walked down a beach in 2011 you were likely to find an impressive collection of medical waste, fecal material of all stripes, sealed but leaking 50 gallon drums, plastic bottles, panties (see above), nylon rope, treated lumber, personal care and contraceptive products, tires, in fact, whole late modal automobiles. We've all seen photos of Hemingway in his library, posed in front of shelves stuffed with huge conch shells, shark jaws, whale skeletons, life rings from the Lusitania and so on. What beach was he walking on?

Brand Stickers on Fruit

It's important to remember that apples, tomatoes, bananas and oranges are industrial products manufactured by multinational corporations from petroleum and other chemical compounds. Tomato may or may not be a fruit, but there's no mistaking the sharp tang of the Periodic Table of the Elements when you bite into one. The ubiquitous stickers remind us we're not eating a ripe, juicy Jonagold, but rather a manufactured widgit designed on software that, with a few coding tweaks, could create a clone army of Komodo Dragons. Be loyal to your brand. Don't remove the sticker. It's no worse for you than the banana hidden underneath.

Infused Liquor

Mad Men recalls a time when liquor drinking was uncomplicated. Morning, noon and night, sleek, flanneled ad men enjoyed an unassuming menu of distilled beverages. Honest tubers or earnest grains providing grist for eye openers, pick-me-ups or the proverbial hair of the dog. Market research revealed that adding sweeteners and artificial flavoring to our old friends bourbon, vodka, whiskey and gin would make them appealing to women, children and puppies. This discovery led to increased market share and profits. Walk into the liquor store and you will find Butterscotch/Marzipan Kentucky Bourbon, Cheese Cake n' Banana Puddin' Tennessee Sippin' Whisky and Capn' Crunch Russian Vodka with Crunch Berries. Public schools are replacing fruit juice and water vending machines with open bars. The effect is not unlike watching a remake of the Dirty Dozen, the Lee Marvin and Telly Savales characters made up to resemble the Olsen twins. Scotch appears to be the only distilled beverage that has escaped the ignominy of flavor infusion. Single malt aged in Shamrock Shake cups can't be far behind.

Direct Meat Sales

Milk delivered daily from the dairy to your house? Long gone. The daily newspaper? On it's way out. The Postal Service? In hospice. But you can still get frozen meat delivered to your doorstep. As business plans go, it recalls the heyday of Fuller Brush or Good Humor. Two men who appear to have once been deckhands on Deadliest Catch arrive on your street. They're driving a '94 white Ford Ranger equipped with a morgue approved ice box mounted in the back. Perspiring, they go door to door offering a variety of vacuum sealed, frozen beef, pork, chicken and sea food products. Does anyone ever buy this stuff? Where does it come from? Where does it go? Do these men do their own butchering? At least Good Humor trucks entertained us with catchy jingles. “Get Along Little Doggie”, anyone?

Hipsters

Like the Supreme Court justice struggling to define pornography, the best definition of hipster remains, “I know one when I see one”. Hipsters generally are youngish to not so young and tend to congregate in the hipper parts of town. Brooklyn is a hipster haven. Fargo is not. Mitt Romney appeared at a rally wearing skinny jeans. This may have signified many things, but not hipster cred. Newt Gingrich may in fact be a hipster at heart but no clothing manufacturer makes the uniform in his size. The look includes tiny jazzman hats, Alan Ginsburg eyeglasses, pocket tees with a suit vest, Clarks Desert Boots, and polyester pants (see above). Fidel Castro facial hair for men and Dorothy Parker makeup for women. In 2011 hipsters could be found smoking at Occupy encampments, dive bars, on urban campuses and living with their parents after college graduation.

The Battle of the Spectrum

A war is being fought between the leviathans of the telecommunications industry. Cable companies, phone companies, computer companies, wire line and wireless entities, game designers, all the little companies that bury cable, string wire, retail cell phones, the FCC, the ICC, the Justice Department, content providers, Disney, Google and Facebook are the combatants. I don't understand it. No one does. Two things are clear: the winner will get lots of money. The money will come from us. In exchange, we will be doomed to forever walk around clutching little electronic flasks, compulsively sipping a cocktail of entertainment, diversion and corporate propaganda as gospel.

Organized Religion

It's as if Chapstick tried to revive sagging sales by advertising their product caused fever blisters or Mrs. Pauls held a press conference to trumpet their fish sticks were made from sea snakes and eels. All the Big Box religions are suffering from declining enrollment. To turn things around they have embarked on a campaign to drive away even more people by becoming more rigid, backward and reactionary. The Mormons, counter-intuitively, hired a Madison Avenue PR firm to help them shed their cult overtones. In 2011 some of the more well known brands busied themselves undoing reforms made over the last forty or fifty years, hinting that the Inquisition was only a paperwork error. In the meantime they have to import clergy from the Third World, a neat reversal of corporate America's habit of shipping jobs overseas. Fundamentalists continue to be the horsefly on the ass end of democracy. Wealth ministries on the other hand, touting their ability to make investor/congregants rich, have seen their numbers sky rocket. God rendered in the image of Man or at least Goldman Sachs.     

Map

Map

Skin is a road map leading

backward to the beginning.

Every turn, fork and road

side attraction carefully creased

and pleated, trace of a journey

deliberate only in hindsight.

Ruddy record of unexpected

tragedy and chance grace.

December 24, 2011

Interview With A Job Creator

Fox News: We're pleased to have as our guest tonight a Job Creator. Praised by Republican luminaries such as Eric Cantor, Mitch McConnell and Mitt Romney. Reviled by Democrats like Barrack Hussein Obama and his cabal of socialist fellow travelers. This Job Creator has taken time out of his busy week to explain, in a straightforward, plain-spoken manner why he is the most important man in America next to Ronald Reagan and Christ, our Lord and Savior.

Job Creator: Thanks. Good to be here.

FN: How was the trip up?

JC: Great. How can you complain about a Booz Allen Hamilton corporate jet? The drinks were a little watery, but. . . meh.

FN: You must be very busy, trying to rescue the economy from the failed economic policies of this disgraced administration and a President, I might add, mired in Kenyan anti-colonialism.

JC: Well, actually, no. When your producer called I was watching season three of Entourage on DVD. I've never felt better. I'm thinking of taking a ceramics class.

FN: Surely you've been working long hours, trying to cut through knots of regulatory red tape, navigate oceans of uncertain tax policies. Right?

JC: Nah. I mean, yea, the regulations are a bitch. I haven't paid taxes in. . . let's see. It's been awhile.

FN: Let's talk about jobs. Your hands are tied. If it weren't for all the terrible, terrible uncertainty, you would be creating thousands of jobs, right?

JC: Actually, no. Too expensive. I mean, you've gotta pay 'em. Employee parking lots, bathrooms, surveillance systems. It really adds up. I'm sitting on a mountain of cash. Why spend it?

FN: The socialist liberal media would have us believe that unregulated banking and financial practices led to the Great Recession. A blatant lie, of course, when we know it was caused by Federal meddling in the free market and profligate governmental spending. Can you comment?

JC: We're on strike. As bad as unions used to be, the idea of striking for your fair share is ingenious. The best part is we don't have to walk in circles in the rain carrying stupid signs. Profits climb, we invest offshore and wait things out. Like Atlas Shrugged. Personally, I've never cracked it, but I gleaned the high points from listening to House Republican's quote it on the floor.

FN: A job action! How counter-intuitive, rebellious, a daring Gingrichian ploy!

JC: In the old days, the governor called out the National Guard when unions went on strike. Heads got busted. Not pretty. But we're golden. Both parties are falling over each other for a photo op with a Job Creator.

FN: What are your demands?

JC: Only what's coming to us. A level playing field, you know, low wages. Shift benefit costs to the employee, that's huge, that whole 'empowerment' thing (winks). An end to government regulation and taxes. Privatization of the public sector, send those Federal dollars our way. Snuff out the trial lawyers, that's a big one. Shift financial risk to the Feds, etc. It's a short list, but once we get what we want, we'll create more jobs than Carter has pills. Good American jobs (winks again)! So many jobs, people can have three or four at a time.

FN: We here at the network salute you, sir, as you fight the good fight. Godspeed!

JC: Solidarity forever.

Old Man, Look At My Life, I'm A Lot Like You Were

When Kim Jong-un made his public debut last year, he was prepared so that he would look just like his grandfather. He was overweight. He wore his hair slicked back. He clapped his hands at party meetings and received kowtowing generals older than his father with a casual gravitas North Koreans identified with his grandfather.

New York Times, December 20, 2011

• In a highly staged event in April of last year, Kim Jong-un had an early dinner at the Down Home Cookin' Buffet in Pyongyang. Taking up two parking spaces with his Soviet era armored personnel carrier, he arrived accompanied by a cadre of generals wearing red hats. Kims' visit appeared timed to take advantage of the tail end of the lunch special and the beginning of the dinner special. Midway through the meal one general observed that Kim had made eight trips to the salad bar and was ordered drowned in a bowl of ambrosia. North Korean watchers speculated on the number of broasted chicken thighs Kim stashed in his fanny pack.
• At an official state dinner in his honor marking Fred Mertz Day, a seated Kim could be seen periodically pushing himself up on his left side and holding the position for several seconds. Generals seated on either side appeared very distressed and ate little. During a particulary long speech by a party minister, Kim offered a finger to the general on his left who hesitated only briefly before pulling Kims' waggling digit.
• Kim Jong-un was noticably absent from an important military parade in Pyongyang showcasing the latest generation North Korean medium range ballastic missiles. A South Korean Intelligence Services' analysis of Comcasts' Pyongyang program schedule revealed there was a two hour Storm Chasers special on the Weather Channel at the time of the parade. One old North Korea hand in the State Department speculated that Kim may have simply been waiting for local weather on the eights.
• Late one morning last summer Kim Jong-un was out hosing off his driveway when a neighbor boys' errant baseball landed in his backyard. Kim mobilized the five million member Peoples Army, throwing the entire Korean penninsula into a state of high alert. He sprayed the eight year old, pocketed the ball and went back into the house.
• An audio feed by a CIA drone in early spring recorded a verbal tirade by Kim Jong-un. He could be heard padding through the house, turning off lights in empty rooms and complaining about the electric bill. At one point, Kim could be heard to say, “who left the goddamn fridge door open. What are you trying to do, cool down the whole friggin' house?”
• A group of generals attending a Peoples Liberation Counsel event in July, snickered at Kim Jong-un who arrived wearing peach colored seer-sucker trousers, velcro Freeport Walkers and a baggy, stained cardigan. Kim sentenced the generals to public humiliation at a downtown mall where they were forced wear lycra tri-athlete singlets.
• A visiting Iranian delegation in early December reportedly suffered complications from over-heating. According to one flushed mullah, Kim kept the thermostat set at 88 degrees and insisted the Iranians use extra blankets.
• Kim Jung-un kept a telemarketer on the line for over an hour one evening last May, talking about his upcoming colonoscopy and sharing his frustrations about worsening Pyongyang traffic. The telemarketer finally fainted from starvation but Kim went on talking for another twenty minutes, ordering a set of steak knives and a Tug Toner flexible barbell.

poem

Spice Rack

I will make eggs in the morning, not too

early. Coffee in the cold of the back

room, windows on the feeders, half empty,

epicenter of an explosion of

small birds on film run forward and backward,

a mad scramble of egg-layers. Iron

skillet, butter, crack and whisk, yes to toast.

Salt, pepper in shakers, simple gifts, hymns

to a humble meal. Yet, the spice rack brims

with dormant fiery powders waiting

for a chance to ignite underneath our

mothballed rocket of a morning. Crushed red

pepper, curry, cayenne, chilis bristle.

Alas, cumin, just a pinch, my hand, stayed,

a cook wise to incendiary meals.

poem

The Death of Marat

Some art history classes behind me, a

flimsy soapbox on which to

stand, flattered, blathering who knows what about

Caravaggio to the

question, which famous painting would lend itself

best to a class exercise

in color theory. Sinking in the shallow

pond of my knowledge, I loan

my copy of Boltons' Brief History and

disappeer beneath the waves.

Later, dry, revived, hand on helm, riding high,

Bolton reappears. The Death

of Marat over Caravaggio, a

choice I applaud as I sit

stabbed in my bath, rendered in classical pose.

December 19, 2011

poem

Record Store

Has anything bad ever been stored in a bin,-

forgetting for the moment

confined loonies, in for dark deeds or failure to

comply-not potatoes, say

or the solo mittens and knit caps living lives

of quiet desperation

waiting in vain in dark grade school Lost and Founds for

their young indifferent owners.

Bins packed tight with used record albums organized

alphabetically, canted

cardboard jackets, nothing up their sleeves save for sounds

committed to memory,

on the first hearing. Flat, carved, gleaming disks shot through

with notes, chords and one, perfect

hole through the center of all that noise and messy

creation. I sort through the

bins, a kid again, fingers slower, clumsier,

oiled with that fine patina

of filth, dust and grease, badge of honor bestowed by

Sam the Record Man thirty

years ago for dogged perserverance, combing

the bins for hidden treasure.

Now, pawing the wares in this new store in my own

neighborhood, flanked by youth hip

to wax, adrift upon the thinnest of pretexts,

hunting a pristine Kind of

Blue, some Bob Wills or John Fahey, I part mossy

layers. The bins release an

appeal to my senses, blunted by the perfect

cool of pure digital sound.

December 14, 2011

Poem

Pulp

Coffee table doorstop tips the scales at

nearly seven pounds of high grade paper

bearing photos full of heartbreak, beauty,

irony, three legs of a stool bearing

the weight of our short run on the planet.

Should we conclude that truth is sold by the

pound, turning a blind eye to the thumb on

the scale? I close the book, Elmore Leonard,

sixteen ounces give or take one or two,

four of them would fit just so inside the

glossy doorstop. Heartbreak, beauty and more

than a drop of irony in a pulp

full of double crossers, saints and sinners.

poem

Hey, Jude the Obscure

That sad song, from years

back? Hey,

Jude couldn't make it

better.

Never even tried,

wildly

distracted by the

claim one

could leave his lover

in one

of fifty ways. An

hour

of library time

confirmed

there were fewer than

twenty,

probably something

closer

to six. In his search

of the

records he was floored

to find

that everybody

need not

get stoned, but sat on

the news

until last April.

He did

something in between,

besides

driving cars for some

nameless

star, credited now

as the

guy who put all the

nahs in

Hey Jude and the Night

They Drove

Old Dixie Down, by

my count

fifty nahs or more.

Beginning Painting

Stroke pulled through wet field,

each hair cuts bold trace in time,

earth, oil, paired bright smear.

poem

What Passes For News

What news? Pirates cut

deals, madmen bury

bombs, pols crave love,

princes rob paupers,

gods rain fire, men rape

hamlets, mothers bear

children, lost children

stare, kings rob princes,

mobs sacrifice scapegoats,

kings reward mobs, madmen

pitch plans, gods feed masses,

pirates trade inside, dupes

devour trash, all want more,

pols reap treasure,

pirates garner power, gods

crush minions, pols sell

books, zealots starve towns,

pundits rape facts, madmen

coopt God, gods starve many,

mothers weep buckets,

children lose innocence, pols

lie smiling, voters cast blindly,

Believers rain fire, paupers

garner blame, fools covet

baubles, Others stand

accused, thieves invoke God.

News? Only

human nature played

out on a sublime stage.

poem

Morning Huddle

Before we start another busy day of

osmosis, transmissions, conversions and

moments of rapt incredulity might it

not be prudent to review our mission

statement, essential document bearing one

simple imperative, unamended

since our inception? So elemental, so

humble, prone to ginning up when we blazed

with righteous indignation and less noble

appetites, good, again, to recite it

in unison. I won't give my speech about

equality, we all know better. The

heart, four chamber rhythm section with a no-

break clause and skewed genetic pedigree,

the whole operation depends on you, you

wonderous metaphor for crazy love.

Pancreas, spleen, sundry schincters, lungs, glands, teeth,

kudos, but lets be honest, for you it's

just a job, if not this, then barista at

Starbucks, greeter at Walmart or direct

sales. A moment of silence now for our hip

and her replacement, bearing up, I trust

under the wear and tear. I'll wrap this up, the

fingers are drumming, feet are tapping, oh

and prostate? My office in ten. I don't care

about numbers or units or climbing

graphs. If my feet hit the floor in the morning

everyone gets a vacation in Spain.

They're Playing Our Song

They're Playing Our Song

Mitt Romney is ready to rock. The Republican presidential candidate will use Kid Rocks' Born Free as his 2012 campaign theme song. The patriotic pick, first reported by the Detroit News, comes as Romney tries to shake the image that he's a buttoned up elitist who has little in common with the average American.

New York Daily News, December 8, 2011

December 9, 2011 Kid Rock tweets, “Mitt is one fucking awesome dude. Dude's got rock chops and some awesome licks. Rom's great live. Incredibly fucking awesome.”

December 9, 2011 Mitt Romney moderates a round table at the Corktown bar in Munising, a small town in Michigan's Upper Penninsula. He poses for photos in Carhart coveralls and wide brim homburg, does schnapps shooters with locals.

December 11, 2011 Newt Gingrich's team announces that it has selected Howlin Wolf's Three Hundred Pounds of Joy as it's 2012 campaign song. A spokesman for the campaign said “Newt's proud of his body, particularly his lower abdomen and thighs. We think the song strikes the right note at a critical time in America history.”

December 13, 2011 Kid Rock tweets, “Woke up after partying all week. How did my car wind up at the bottom of the pool? Worse, did I endorse Mitt Romney?”

December 14, 2011 A spokesman for Republican presidential hopeful Michelle Bachmann announces she has selected Katy Perry's I Kissed A Girl as it's 2012 campaign song. “Ms. Bachmann's been planning on coming out for some time. The timing just seemed right, just before the Iowa Caucus and we wanted dibs on the song before Herman Cain snatched it up.”

December 14, 2011 Herman Cain reminds America that he only suspended his campaign, he never kissed a girl and gave an icy "no comment" to the word snatch. “The American people know what they want, the Searchers, Love Potion Number Nine, Nine, Nine. It's simple, it's catchy.”

December 16, 2011 Kid Rock tweets, “Romney is driving me nuts. The texts, friending requests. Can't he just leave me alone?”

December 17, 2011 In a bold bid to court the Hispanic vote, Governor Rick Perry announces he has selected Mexican Jumping Bean by Paul Whiteman as his campaign song. In a statement from his Texas hunting club, Person of Color Head, Perry said “I may not be schooled and all, but I know the good Lord must love Mexicans because he made so many of 'em.”

December 20, 2011 The remaining seven candidates for the Republican presidential nomination were embroiled in a heated exchange at a Las Vegas debate over claims to the Procol Harem song, Whiter Shade of Pale. Herman Cain, in a written statement, adopted the Beatles Revolution Number Nine, Nine, Nine, ironically from the White Album. Later, Cain said he thought it was from Magical Mystery Tour.

December 24, 2011 In a bold move to court the Christmas spirit vote, Governor Rick Perry announces Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer by Randy Brooks as his 2012 campaign song.

December 26, 2011 Kid Rock tweets, “Partied with Mitt just to get him off my back. I must admit I was pleasantly surprised. Dude's got an awesome look! He promised to hook me up.”

December 29, 2011 Michelle Bachmann denies her campaign has selected Bitch by the Rolling Stones and Witchy Woman by the Eagles as her 2012 theme songs and condemns those responsible for the hoax. In a statement, Ms. Bachmann said “Like the Dude in the Coen brothers hit movie The Big Lebowski, I hate the Eagles.”

January 2, 2012 Newt Gringrich only smiled enigmatically when asked by a reporter if he was the subject of Carly Simons' hit single, You're So Vain.

January 5, 2012 Herman Cain drops out of the Republican presidential race, suspending his suspended campaign,declaring “Lord take me downtown, I'm just lookin' for some tush.”

January 7, 2012 GOP presidential hopeful Dr. Ron Paul, slow to adopt a campaign song, selects Search and Destroy by Iggy and the Stooges from the Raw Power album. Dr. Paul commented “The song perfectly exemplifies my approach to dismantling the Federal government plus James Williamsons' guitar attack is fucking awesome.”

January 12, 2012 In a bold move to reestablish his evangelical credentials, Governor Rick Perry announces he has selected Stairway To Heaven by Led Zeppelin as his 2012 campaign song. In a statement, Perry said, “I uh (long silence), I think (long silence), um, um, you know (uncomfortably long silence), if there's a, you know, bustle, um, in your, in your, your hedgerow, um (very long silence), don't be alarmed now. It's just a, a, a, sprink, sprinkling for the, um, um (interminably long silence) May Queen.”

January 12, 2012 GOP Presidential hopeful John Huntsman selected Spooky Mormon Hell Dreams, from the cast recording of the Broadway hit musical Book of Mormon by the guys from South Park, then announced he is dropping out of the race.

January 15, 2012 Kid Rock premiers his new song and video, Stiff As A Board. In the video Rock and Rom are seen driving around Salt Lake City in a Lincoln MKS sipping Diet Coke and coming to complete stops at intersections.

poem

Don't I Know You?

If you resided in my memory at all you must

have been squatting in one of the abandoned

store fronts on the two lane running straight as

a nail past the defunct rail yard parceled into

lots never sold, survey flags paeons to dreams of

manufactured housing. I apologize for relegating

you to the outskirts of town, but property here is

dear, boundaries fixed, all the prime locations gone

to family and friends and enemies and Lacy Webb

from fourth grade and Jerry from my first job who

sprinkled pot into the wedding food we

made. That, and I've begun to notice whole

neighborhoods razed, scraped clean, returned

to meadow, only birdsong and shallow cellar craters

to the horizon. You sprang fully formed, swiveled

on your bar stool, sly trick of synaptic algorithms,

like the misfired launch of an ancient Sputnik

transmitting a Good n' Plenty jingle into my

brain, taut and sweating with the effort of reading

E.O. Wilson. You entertained me with an impromptu

before and after, the former hazy, the latter frightening

with your hunched back, eyes like odd and even dice and

your mouth slowly kneading words into doughy vowels.

Your town is populated by ghosts. We shook hands,

said goodbye and you returned to your haunted stool.

December 8, 2011

Haiku

Walking

Marks our trips' first step,

bows to new, fast modes. Quaint march

spurs us toward the end.

December 7, 2011

Poem

Finger Tips

The World At Your Finger Tips she promised,

a pretty young girl

in red, cooing something about Gs and

4s or was it 5s

in big blazing font in the Sunday Times.

A right fielder by

inclination, the world, I complained, that

wobbling, spinning sphere,

was more than I could handle, man my age.

Fearful of bobbling

earth, old girl gasping her ragged last breath,

I pled my case for

the pebbled skin of oranges, the bark of

old growth white pine trees,

Rings of Saturn grooves round a Band LP,

wrapped bike handlebars,

the cool, smooth shell of hand blown glass holding

Argentine malbec,

a sharp Dixon Ticonderoga on

fine, white sketching bond,

the still smooth hands of the woman I love,

my finger tips pledged

to touch lesser worlds I'll remember with

my ragged last breath.

December 6, 2011