And So the Skyclimber Climbs
The candles burned to mask the smoke
lingering in the air. He was certain
he'd been in this room before,
though it reeked of unfamiliarity.
From room to room he moved on,
entering in and out between them.
Like intercoursed taverns,
each phase was like a drunken
photograph; in one he found himself
gambling, shuffling his chips
with one thumb and four fingers.
The smoke and candles beaconed
him up staircases, sent him
dashing down hallways,
made him wait for an elevator
that reached an urban story.
Unclear how high the stories went,
on and on he scurried.
Up above, he swore,
lay reality; down below
was just a past that begged
to find a sniff of upward mobility.
And so the skyclimber climbs....
march, two thousand seven
Original Thoughts
He started telling me things, little things,
I had no business knowing. After a while
the little things mixed with the big things
and soon the important things seemed
to change, or not much matter. Of course
there were sweet kisses and group therapy
and kite flying. Every day, for over two thousand,
we did nothing but live apart.
When she started telling me things
I didnt want to hear, I pretended
to be stupid by shouting out something
incoherently. But now,
after so many years,
time has continued differently,
and I find myself drifting and regressing
toward the original intention.
january, two thousand six
Making Buttons
Tongue stuck out and twisting
Pepsi bottlecap between thumb and forefinger
pocket knife in other
spooning out the corking from the metal.
The rounded cork disappears
inside the T-shirt
reunited with the bottlecap
between the fabric.
Once in San Antone
Along the riverwalk my soul took turns
it had never taken before. The landscape
of skin and fowl and vegetation introduced
a program of thoughts of unfamiliarity
that encouraged oral and penless poetry.
The language inspired Latino rhythms,
challenged me to finds words similar
to cerveza and como se dice. And, as my
tennis-shoed feet encountered both concrete
and water, I almost believed I had lived
here before with some sort of importance.
I saw the Alamo but did not enter--
it was aboveground and therefore off limits.
No matter what the reason, I stayed below
and pretended to exist beyond belief.
Table for Four
That late summer evening turned dark and still
Two pairs of man and wife sat and conversed,
Consuming store-bought hors d'oeuvres and banquet beers.
For some reason our harmony synchronized
With the calming air outside the city
Where the stars were close and worthy of comment.
Everything that evening was unequaled:
The music and humor, the smoke and drink;
The very idea that affinity
Has no boundaries became clear to me
I was meant to fantasize all I liked
Without the care that whatever was said
Would be taken with complete candor.
Like wallflowers, we were admiring
The moment without sacrificing pride.
All the Alleys Lead to Sand and Saltwater
Walking away from the sunset, shopping
for the next place to sleep, the eyes remain
optimistic of a tomorrow promising pay.
All the alleys in this pacific coast city
lead to sand and saltwater. Within its realm
housing is made from cardboard and wire
And unfinished dreams. Familiar, open faces
unite and welcome the wonders of the day,
their table prepared to feed five thousand.
The Seedling
What we lost will always be a remembrance
even though the love can never be felt or shared.
The brothers and sisters of the unborn
stare with their blank faces at our explanation,
uncertain how to take their loss.
Watching a Petal
With exact timing the rain-soaked treelimb
released water-droplets; while below
a soft, geranium petal strained to reach
the four o'clock sun, its efforts deterred
by a consistent explosion of sorts.
The Route
Before the alarm sounds the route would be traced
In my mind. The wind and snow and ice reminds me
That one day efficiency will be gained
By the bike. In those days Mother or Father
Don't wake at five-thirty to afford assistance.
Never in the dead of winter do their warm,
Intimate bodies think of withdrawing from the
Warm bed. I arise nonetheless, finger touching
The "off" button just as the clock alarms,
My sanity wanting the singing birds that
Used to be my signal. The route could always be
Done in my sleep, so I contend, though
I had never tried once, not even during
The worst Iowa blizzard when the freezing wind
Prevents the bundle from arriving.
On that day, the rounds are made after school when
Friends form snowmen and throw balls at cars, their actions
Envied and shown by contemptuous
Paperboy throws. In the shorter days, when
The route takes twice as long than by bike, my first fonts
Evolved: paper-less poems and tool-less
Music self-absorbing like the Salem
I smoke: one every four blocks. At that hour
Only Judge Benton and Mrs. B.
Might see the glow or the breath from my air,
Slightly thicker than usual as I exhale
The noxious words. Even then I want
To be older than my age—an excuse
For cursing and smoking—believing without doubt
That to achieve immortality
Is to withstand the winter.
A Johnny B. Goode Interpretation
for my son, Jackson
The left hand slides up and down the wooden neck
fingertips pressing string combinations
the other hand motioning in time
a little plastic piece between thumb and finger
at times moving multiple strands
other times picking individual wires
the face making body english in unison with the amplified sound
seemingly programmed from the awry mouth
but actually streaming from a little black box.
"What do you want to hear next?" he would invariably ask.
Fragments
Near Credit Island I remember a junkyard
where as a boy I'd search alongside older brothers
who lacked pieces of chrome and mag wheels.
Back then you could buy a Mustang gascap for a quarter;
take it home and bring it back to life with mother's
silversoap and a cloth--sell it to a friend for a buck.
Even within the junkyard there was order. Cars stacked
two high formed aisles like in stores, some with doors
or hoods or bumpers long gone; and if you peered inside
Most likely would see that seats or stickshifts or even ashtrays
were taken for near to nothing. My curious eyes would look
for something unusual in these once ordinary machines,
Saying to myself that one man's junk is another boy's treasure.
There would be times when I'd meet up with my brothers
empty-handed, but more times than not I'd be fostering
A fragment that would spark the retelling of a true story.
Instant Replay
An inside energy aspires foreign motivation
To find new places resembling cool intentions
That will allow remedies to century-old habits.
the allusion allows the mind's eye to flit
along winding stone steps and digress
into a deepening pool of true change
Even while away the doubts remain--
As if the distractions can replace
The memories of sure, familiar space.
the progression remains unchanged
while the path continues to turn
bringing new and welcomed perils
Such thoughts bring an incompletion
To the progressive forward movement,
Sanctioning reviews of instant replays.
Nothing but a Vestigial Drawing
Thousands of miles from home, viewing gardens
I had been meaning to plant, I sit and sketch
with charcoal on textured paper a perfect,
utopian presence like that place in Genesis.
The hotel makes me honestly welcomed
from the "Sirs" to the stars to the telephone
in the commode. In the drawing I see myself
never leaving ever. I am drawn to be within
The shades of grass and green, contemplating
the reasons why I should ever leave the stone
and glass and fabric and hospitality
that has enveloped me in this lofty balcony.
Below the waters are warm. The bodies
are near and brown, living out temporary
and simple days, their imperfections hidden
from the night's light, their conversation distant, calming
And inviting. It takes almost nothing
to remove myself from the world that has me miles
away; takes a conscience effort to check out
and return with nothing but a vestigial drawing.
Even in Iowa the Night Can Bring Surprises
Though winter comes early in Iowa, it never lasts,
like a malted milkshake shared by two little sisters.
They ask me why it's called Indian Summer; I answer
with a wink and two straws standing stiff in the beaker,
asking them if they can see the leaves beneath the snow
as I look through the picture window at the thermometer
Reading fifty-five. El Niño is the culprit this year I say
a fortnight later, walking with the blower in the backyard,
their laughter as loud as the motor, their legs moving
just enough so the leaves seem to fall out from their heels.
Their navigational instructions produce a mountainous
pile of dried leaves that become widespread in minutes.
Soon after the last Thursday in November, the Indian Summer
still warm in their hearts, they dream of holiday programs
and maybe a day away from school. Even in the morning,
as the routine takes me from bed to shower to suit to necktie,
do I realize it would take shovels before backing out the car.
How their eyes exclaimed when explaining why I woke them!
The Conversation
The airconditionedless house always gave way to the sound
of the whole-house fan, somehow making the still night
bearable in our beds in white underwear and without sheets.
Underneath the floors and through the ceiling from below
we could hear the laughter of adults, the card shuffling
and bidding muffled beneath the laughter and stories,
the smell of lager and nicotine circulating
through the house (compliments of the fan),
putting us to sleep with ambitions of one day being old.
The things we learned when the house hosted cardgames
will remain forever: just as important was the food
to the drink; more important than the drink
was the conversation worthy of remembrance
which was passed on from one friend's father to us.
(We always admired another boy's dad, but never
quite understood why he did not share the same sentiment,
and in the same breath complimented our own.)
Late in the summer when the nights sometimes chilled,
my father, dressed liked a ghost, stormed into our room
after midnight to disengage the whole-house fan.
Even then I'd be wide awake, wanting to ask him about the game.
Had I known as a child that the preoccupation of adults
was but an extension of our younger selves,
it is without question I would have started a conversation.
The Hypnosis
Before opening up, believe in going back
where you would understand most clearly
the reasons for soliciting past-time travels.
The tarnished, brass pocketwatch pendulums,
testing your peripheral and recessive vision,
it's motion repetitive, pleasant and soundless.
Even insomnia can't match the power
of preoccupation as the mind questions
suggestions from the holder of the timepiece.
During the reverie certain epiphanies
are revealed; they stand alone and with merit,
their underlying truths in need of discovery.
Consequently, the hypnosis will never end.
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