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Collected Poetry
(rd king dot net)poetry and digital art
The Big Picture
Groups of short poems—expandable table of contents. Click on title to view poem. Click on title to close poem, or use [ next poem ] link. Occasional use of scroll bar may be necessary to reposition poem location. Press (ctrl) F5 to refresh table of contents, or [ refresh page ] link.
April
1: Still Life with Creek
Sunlight broke upon the cows
that stood beside the heady creek.
Cumulostratus dappled the light.
The oaks brought down lacy shadows
where buckeyes shimmered like deity.
2: Quail
Something is bothering
the quail—some drama
outside. But I can't see
what it is from this window.
3: Still Life with Rain
Rain adheres to our window
and lenses the early evening
light: red bark, green leaves.
I finger a window where
an olive lights my martini glass.
4: The Window
Beneath the tree-of-heaven
the old brick building stands.
Beside the old brick building
I see something in the shade,
something ephemeral and sweet.
5: April
Something has leafed upon the oaks
in a green too, too exuberant
for life. Even reflected off the quiet,
spreading forebay, my eyes, in
disbelief, are quick to grab this
startling intruder.
6: After Gyozan
Without much pain or hardship
I've reached my 35th year;
today I work in my yard—which
looks better: these orange flowers
or those weeds rising beyond?
7: Hindsight
Weeds pressed the broad leaves
and startling flowers of some
salmon-colored cannas against
the fox-gray wood fence. The walnut
had grown to shade them.
8: Virgule
Outside, a bird was singing.
Music played in another room.
Dusk... Suddenly I looked
at myself in the mirror.
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Sustenance
1: Spirit The breeze was an endearing thing that sank deeply in my heart. A lawn sprinkler splashed the markers. The pastor spoke some words about Christ. 2: Sustenance The sprinkler sends tendrils of grace taken by gravity upon the oleander's blossoms, the daisy and the rockrose. Sam Cooke sings on the radio. 3: Song The evening lingered with a moist heat—the windows open and only a song drifts in from my neighbor's open window. 4: Dusk The sprinkler on the lawn cannot keep it alive. Summer, I walk through the yard bare-chested, drinking beer, until it feels good again. 5: July At dusk the heat lingers; the lake turns pink. Cows herd by the still reeds. Driving by in a dark car I say to you, "Look." 6: August Brilliant and aloof, the zinnias' pompoms rose—glowing—like many, colored moons among the hellish, august weeds in the arid dusk. 7: Dragonflies The iris has bloomed. The heat has come—now the swords have bent and turned brown. Yet the dragonflies still visit. 8: Ruth's Funeral Most of the men wore dark sunglasses. The ladies grieved in light, summer dresses. The pastor seemed at peace with his work. [ close poem ] [ next poem ] [ refresh page ]
Acquiescing to Signs
1: Water
Many kinglets in the branches
of the little silk tree. A sprinkler
on the lawn beneath: water—
my cat watches the kinglets.
I watch the kinglets watching
my little cat.
2: Water in Motion
We walked out on the bridge
to look down at the river.
Over the rail we leaned
to see the water flow.
3: Signs
The yellow-blossomed sprays
from the rangy forsythia
fanned through the white picket
fence—ardent incipience, where
I drove down an unsigned street.
4: Cocktail Zen
As she sat upon a velvet couch
holding a glass of wine and cigarette
I did not know if her spirit would
live on—but I did see the way
an earring played against her neck.
4: A Party
The music was loud. Apt frenzy
emptied the singer's voice. A lot
of smoke filled the crowded room.
There were people trying to dance
a mostly awkward, heathen dance.
5: Down in Laguna
Quietly on the old hotel roof
we stood drinking tequila
and watching the traffic below.
Waves licked the salty beach.
In loud bars, men kissed other men.
6a: Homage to Frank O'Hara
Everything hardened by rock and
roll, all things shaken by drugs—
cheapened by the incontiguous access
to the sublime—jacketed and cold,
I ventured down the early street.
6b: Homage to Frank O'Hara
Stumbling down an early street, jacketed
and cold, not quite attentive, not quite
pissed or unhappy (wishing to piss)—
away from the blossoming trees and
that noise gathered in the ballroom.
7: The Big Picture
The morning was harsh.
My daughters were crying
and my wife was not happy.
I tried to stop. I tried
to look at the big picture—
but it was too big.
8: Government Buildings
There were three people walking
down a bright hallway in a government
building—which made the details
officious, except for
the purple corduroy trousers
the big woman was wearing.
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North Coast Travel
1: Highway 37 Across the mud flats we raced on a road laid upon brackish waters, a road too driven for safety and comfort. Across the mud flats we went among the zippy imports and the egrets. 2: Sand and Foam I took my daughters by the hand among the sandpipers and the kelp and walked along the shoreline. The seawash wet our pant legs. The sun changed color and shape. 3: North Coast Sunset Dispersed by a low-slung fog bank, the sun goes down. The sea turns a reflective, unsettled gray. Endless waves. Idle gulls. Two young girls sit shoulder to shoulder on the still-wet shore. It is most idyllic: the seals on the rocks, the pelicans feeding. 4: Fire Against that empty and colorless canvas, the Bishop pines darken to silhouette. Smoke drifts above our little fire. I am quickened by your face in the firelight and the black, black woods beyond. 5: Eel River Fever The wind blew. The wind blew and then it gusted. A fever came upon me as if readied by the wind. I did sleep a heady sleep until Mars appeared that night. 6: Eel River Serenade And I woke to various infirmities: I was beleaguered with ache and pain— but my spirit soon rose when my daughter sang her songs to me. 7: Parkland Operetta Through oak leaves and rubbery madrone a cooling breeze swept the canyon. Big trucks rattled on the highway. A shapeless old man helped his son to start a car. The river ran. 8: Aquatic Life In the rookery sea lions barked and seemed clumsy as we must have seemed groping about on the kelp-slick rocks— so many tide pool dramas we then found at the edge of the jade-colored sea. [ close poem ] [ next poem ] [ refresh page ]
A Trip Toward the Coast
1: Drift
The lavenders' lavender sprays like a lawn
being sprinkled. Wind through the pines.
This June light. The lavenders' sprays;
the lawn being sprinkled. A butterfly
swaying on the butterfly iris bud.
2: Being Eddy
I liked the fertile resonance
my life then possessed—the time
on my hands; the loose change
in my pants pocket; the kind way
the sun brightened the angles
on your pretty face.
3: Sand and Foam
Sea palms rocking on the rocks.
White water swells and backswells—
the continual agitation reaching
for my toes.
I found some seashells on the shore
and a finally cleansing meditation.
4: At the Lagoon
Ocean spray masking the summer's heat.
The wind keeping everything in motion—
an idle afternoon with children at
the woody lagoon. Dogs in the side
channels; the children's soap bubbles
burst by the swaying reeds.
5: Privilege
I found a condom on the beach.
I found a leg bone. All morning
I fancied Jesus as a speeding boat.
Choosing a pebble from the water's edge
I changed its location.
6: Carmel by the Sea
1st of July, the village swells
with perfunctory anticipation
and fog; those for whom the ocean
is a rare delight gather in clumps
on the main beach and marvel.
The old woman, the local, whose
pleasure it is to jog the wet shore,
moves quickly through the throng.
7: Ocean Frolic
Water playing on the rocks, water
prancing; water racing upshore
like boys from their mother—hydro-
dexterity. A small swell quietly rises,
and with a slap, surprises his brother.
8: Day at the Beach
Her disarming breasts, a cut foot,
the endless patience of young men
in wet suits; waves. A day
at the beach—beachlight; the pseudo-
munificent gesture of the ocean's exquisite
offerings.
9: Soledad
Something growing there on the alluvial
fan; something domestic. Something
also in the exchange between agriculture
and the left-alone. Lettuce, cauliflower,
the elusive in neat geometrical planes.
10: Seen and Not Seen
I found a bird nest by the oak.
I saw a water snake in the creek.
During the hike my mind slowly
emptied. Only later did I note
the photograph I had just taken.
11: Shift, Uplift
Hiking now on the knuckled ridge. Dwarfed
by the jumble and exposed tectonics—
wearied by summer sun, embellished
by the wind, to that ruddy place
where the uplift rises in ribbed cliffs
succinctly toward something.
12: American Summer
Stained glass window in the side door
of a lengthy motorhome. Pin striping,
trout decals, the allure of the open road.
An ancient relative with cigarette and cocktail
bent armed at the dining table, regarding
the rush hour crawl.
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A Trip to the Southland
1: Road Work
Massive works of generic agribusiness
squeeze the interstate's itinerant length.
August & green—all the stirring way
to these golden, central hills
worn smooth by the summer's haze.
2: Mirage
Given a chance the land shows
no sign of water—just dying brush,
refuse, dusky tumbleweeds; strings
of pylons running off and
disappearing, finally, in the vaporous
horizon.
3: Highway 41
Cattle in the dry creeks
of the cattle-colored hills.
Long, fenceless stretches of open land:
little oaks, outcrops, arroyos,
the wind—old music of the west.
4: San Marcos Pass (Old California)
Mountains rise in majestic ranges
feathered by the august air,
fronted by crumbling foothills—
rock-scarred, brush-bare, and plain
in deference to the handsome woodland
there.
5: US 101 (Old California)
Wood-rail bridges, ancient eucalyptus,
oleander dwelling in the median
where two lanes should be four.
Bougainvillea lacing into the palms;
offramps leading to pale haciendas.
6: Laguna Niguel
One bright morning I took your photos
alongside your several smiling cousins—
the din of the freeway below you,
Mount Mojeska, behind, rising above
the visible air.
7: In a Recess of the Mall
As if someone waited for this,
expected it: your casual stance
beneath the recessed lighting—plain
youth, beauty, sun-rich skin, garments
waiting to mimic the bank of monitors
above your head.
8: Movement Relative to Movement
Gazing down at the stalled freeway,
its continual animation transfixed
by pylons, hawks on the powerlines,
gunships and jetliners overhead; sporadic
trains crossing—I fall back on the bed
only to feel it move.
9: Immigrants
Condos and townhomes, townhomes, condos,
the otherwise large dwellings tethered
only by an excess of exotic flora—the articulate
landscaping slowly devours the undeveloped:
opuntia spreading in fleeting clusters
among the sun-worn chaparral.
10: High Desert Saturday (Old California)
Miles of sagebrush running off to reach
the alluvial fanning, mountains. This distance
altered only by little outposts springing up
or dying under a western sky, spilling
its quintessential clarity.
11: Mono Basin
Ruddy boulders and sagebrush, outcrops
breaking the skin. Piñon and aspen.
Aspen dying in bands. Range upon range;
spiritual giddiness, grace. Ancient
volcanoes still resting in the airy heights
above Mono Lake.
12: Retinal Plunge (Sonora Pass, Old California)
Imagining the shift, feeling the uplift,
the glacial tearing, the pull of gravity,
water's crush. The sun upon us, the lessened
air. Its touch gathering at our feet
and entering there. Immaculate youth,
hard beauty, augustness.
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V.I. & B.V.I.
1: JFK
Dissolving now into the time/place delirium
of airports. Corporate ingenuity, travelers'
kiosks, haze, the multi-cultural repatriation:
"Please, sir, take me there. I wish to visit
my mother who will not leave the forest."
2: Sugar Beach
Palm fronds rustle in the evening's trade wind.
Moored sailboats eddy on the little swells.
A silhouette of unzoned power lines runs
past the beach resort and down this spit
of utter third worldliness.
3: Portrait of the Artist as Tourist
I found a wallet in the surf.
I found a turtle shell. All evening
I played out the matrical combinations
of their elective affinities. It was haughty,
ambiguous and dense.
4: Birdsong
The ceiling fan's propeller silhouette
beneath the skylight—brick veranda
open onto the bay. The first notion
of light, then someone starts his long solo
of commentary, happenstance and commentary.
5: Distant Thunder
Spotlights on the palm trunks. Coconuts.
Trade wind rustling the fronds again—a brief
intrinsic pause. Same stars. Same desires
and something else, inarticulate,
flexing, elusive.
6: Roadtown
The cock crows in the midday heat.
Standing water stands in the deep gutters
and vacant lots—lizards, chickens,
refuse and blossoms. Heavy musics
move by the lime green shanties
now coral or yellow with violet roof.
7: The Night
Night tide drumming on the breakwater.
The ceiling fan with it's quiet heartbeat.
A little time to spend awake
after a brief, morning rain.
8: A Day at the Beach
Flesh by the pound—tourist flesh—
sailboat white or coral pink
or honey-tanned and well-fed. Sultry
pageant of beachplay and string bikinis
and plain desire smeared across
this palm-lined apparition.
9: Old Slavery Days
Thick black faces. Thick black songs.
Drumbeats only missionaries hear.
Hard labor and separation and fear
whipped into hatred through the long,
long misery of sugar.
10: Same Things
Hiking now through jungle forest.
Tree roots tripping our feet. Loving
this wind and shade—plain, plain things.
I'm thinking back 100 years, 400 years,
4,000 years: same thing—wind, shade.
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In Autumn in California
1: Near Malibu The red and yellow sun sat upon a power pole. Weakly, the naked hills erode onto the highway. The bay, having gone flat, left some sun-worn surfers to loiter the sandy parking lot. Surfboards standing in the sand. 2: Down in Monterey On rocky cliffs some young men had removed their shirts to sun; joggers shared the skinny bike path. Six slim boats sat upon the bay. Shoreline houses enjoyed the golf course view. Eucalyptus, cypress, yellow iceplant spread the bluffs while kites climbed the pushy wind. 3: October In the luminous evening light, little finches found the tallest summer weeds and bent them until their seeds spilt among the zinnias whose blooms were now hampered by the night air, having gone from bold brightness to cool and fading pastels. 4: Marin A camphor smell slips away from the wistful eucalyptus. Everywhere little houses cling to the hillsides. Lanterns sway upon the decks. Bubbles. Bubbles well up, and some from the glass stem—how lovely your wife is leaving our little tub. 5: Near Big Sur Covered only with brush, the mountains ran down to the water in steep gradients and the sea bit back at the rock and the yellow sandstone, thus keeping its share of the earth flat and supplicant. 6: Mono Big, big paws knelt before the water. Birds stood in repose, the water lapping. It was an old happiness, awe, standing in the presence of Mono Lake. 7: Highway 33 Light that fell through the nut orchard was broken. It strobed across the road and our car. It made the utility pole shadows long. The tilled fields would have been brilliant if brown could be brilliant; in the low distance more nut orchards rose up in low clusters of close fans. 8: Orr Creek Is it just light that washes across this morning landscape and brightens my daughter's face: I see the glass cowpond, the dead-brown pastures, the very yellow trees. [ close poem ] [ next poem ] [ refresh page ]
Haze
1: December, San Joaquin
All things harbored by the interstate's
narrow perspective—distance
a mere collar of low, wintering trees; seasonal
fauna, stilled egrets. Here, all that thrives
thrives and collects in the enveloping haze.
2: December, San Benito
Broad, tilled fields exhibit majestic brown,
that neat magic of furrows—plus two, captive,
winter oaks. Through the filtering haze
the hills rise in sweet, dreamy tiers
as in reproductions of 18th century prints.
3: Winter Fields
Shadow-furrowed black fields spill
across the ditchless blacktop; crows. Old barns,
old sheds, lofty windbreaks—somber, back-bent
bracero life. The listless mountains rise
in misty plates, like in old, Japanese landscapes.
4: Winter Berries
Unsuccinct, alien, wrapped in black plastic,
the plowed hillsides shine in cruel excess.
Pylons tiptoe through, quietly, above
the nascent, afternoon traffic. Across
the agricultural plain the ancient mountains
rise in hazy panels.
5: Hatton Canyon Reverie
At dusk the willows turn goldleaf—bronchial, a
gray lattice-work beside husky, green pines; pampas
hillside flagwork, pampas epaulets and plumes; lessening
winds and sirens. Beyond this the Santa Lucias
bronze in the gull-breached, asservate light.
6: Monterey
Monday night at the mall, final Monday
of the millennium—untenably bargainesque and
munificent: I watch Mexican girls move in pairs—
thick-hipped and giggling—adverse to gang boys
circling the parking lot, eyeing, bumping, wielding
red-hued laser lights.
7: Hatton Canyon Reverie II
Morning—goldleaf flaring from the canyon mouth;
the Santa Lucias backlit, blackened and layered.
Brisk ocean breeze; small birdsongs; exhilaration.
An old collective of broad oaks on the knoll
beyond the commercial center—their preceding
shadows.
8: Ocean Gray
A boy and a girl knee-deep in the sea
screaming at waves that collapse
into saltspray and foam—beyond that
the sea is calm, listless, and flattened.
Slowly the sun settling upon it.
9: Ocean Blue
Now lifted and perching on sand dunes,
beyond the ice plant and salt spray,
admiring the handsome and spreading bay—
below: the kites, hang-gliders and gulls—
noting the noteworthy largesse, the ocean blue.
10: December, Pissaro
Late December, late Pissaro—car-crowded
and car-direct: sun-browned fields lying
fallow and caressed. Clusters of cropped
red almonds; tangle of leafless, gray walnuts.
The long, quiet line of languid, ascetic poplars.
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Spring
1: Spring
The Japanese maple stretches
its new, maroon leaves
above the golden spirea—
and is witness to the lavish
palette of spring, where robins
hunt.
2: Turf
Something is bothering me
but I can't gather
what it is. Listless, at odds,
I approach the kitchen window
only to find two deer foraging
near the roses.
3: Nigiri
Only a few, simple things
have been more surprising
than this: a small filet
of blood-red tuna resting
on a bed of sweetened rice.
4: Temptation
Cruel April, first warm, lustrous,
and heartily flowered; now
cool again with a chilling wind
and still lustrous: aureate dusk—
song—my cat enchanted by his prey.
5: Light
Tall, slender trunks of the
stately ponderosa increasingly
illuminate in the late April
light. The oaks wear their
new leaves like young girls.
6: Dogwood in an Industrial Park
The sky hindered with ice crystals.
A cottonwood struggling to leaf.
A warm day with a cold wind—April;
poppies blooming in the sidewalk
cracks where hefty workmen sit
at lunch.
7: Women in Spring
A sky weakened with cirrus, oak leaves
gorging on light. A group of cyclists
pausing for water; two blondes in jackets
waiting patiently on patient horses
where a mail truck starts slowly down
a narrow, dirt road.
8: Girls
The afternoon spent watching some girls
rally a ball over a net, hoping to avoid
defeat. It's a tough thing to consider.
One day I want to live forever
and the next day I don't.
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Alone in the Afternoon
1: Nominal Perfection
Water droplets on the lupine
leaf, diamondesque. White iris,
bearded white—flawless astonishment.
The Spanish lavender in low ascension:
tiny angels, purple wings, nacimiento.
2: May
Morning chiaroscuro: ill thoughts,
quiet rage, anger and frustration; I take
the long way to work. Lingering, I notice:
on a morning like this I think otherwise,
things could change.
3: As Love Continues
The dry heat of summer comes too, too
soon. Yellow weeds line my yard
in mid-May. My wife sighs and takes
to her bath. And again I marvel at her
glistening submersion, the aureoles.
4: The Sway
Middle of May—mid-afternoon; sunlight
filtering through the maple's leaves—the sway
a journal of breezes: butterflies, poppies,
dragonflies, English lavender. A spotted Towhee
sings, it seems, with my neighbor's string trimmer.
5: Outright
The world is full of little beauties especially
outright in May—the Scotch broom
blooming, a road ditch bank of red hot pokers,
the black dog riding in a white pickup truck,
the young woman behind the steering wheel.
6: Catalpa
Years ago, in a smoky workshop
a woman read a poem titled Catalpa.
An unfamiliar tree in an obtuse poem.
But on this warm morning in June
I clearly see it bloom.
7: Day Off a Work
I take a day off of work, decide
to go for a jog; I find the park
empty of its usual crowd. It's only me
and the sun (my struggling to breathe),
the birdsongs, the dog poop, the horse shit.
8: Wind Chime
Alone in the afternoon—sitting in a chair,
thinking, drinking, sweating, renewing life's
irritants of work, friends, and promises—
not hearing the wind chime, not hearing
the birdsongs, not seeing the breeze
vibrate the window blinds.
9: Remembering Susie
Her father died in the war
in France, by a dirt road
behind a row of elegant poplars
that could not save his hurried life,
on a June day much like this one.
10: Nominal Eternity
June 5th: the wild grass long dead,
now moving into the mullein, the mustard,
the wild sweet pea already dustblown
and quite haggard where I then paused
to wonder: might this become a memory?
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Morning
1: Hybrids
The cactus on the windowsill
is a grafted hybrid, a thing
I've disdained for so long—
but this one, this one basks
like a dusky mulatto.
2: April
Thick, gray skies return—slowing
the advance of the dogwood
bloom: assiduous erections;
the lawn's first mowing; dreams
in which my heart is broken.
3: Pink
Mourning doves morning upon
the telephone wires—small engines
hum in this series-April light;
the early bloomers gorge
and illuminate—asservate white
or pink.
4: Cut Flower
Could this now be the backside
of life? The gradual increase
of diminishment, or just more of
what-is-less: the living room seems
quiet, well-appointed—the lilac stem
in a slender, glass vase.
5: Spring
Narcissus in March. Lilac
in April; first poppies, the iris
in April; the iris in May—
rockrose, poppies, lavender sprays
in June. Peonies.
6: Brief Sunlight
Sunlight comes to this place briefly:
the burgeoning bloom on the dogwood,
the whitening burden of bent snowballs,
the increasing deciduous foilage. Sunlight
comes to this bright place and wells up
briefly.
7: Inland Travel
Tall reeds rising at pond edge
separate the rife, cow pasture grasses—
scattered barns, scattered fences, power-
lines. The bland uncertainties in dull
repose; the small, agricultural brilliancies.
8: Adventure
Crop duster racing down an open field
in the style of a man balancing adventure
with regret—jumping powerlines, jumping
the interstate's large trucks, deftly, against
a backdrop of pylons, the occasional oak
or palm cluster.
9: Vineyards
Grape leaves swelling in a majestic layer
of grace, suspended, trained to live
above the brown, laboring farmland
and ditches. Trees weave a low curtain
behind. Mountains settle in the distance.
10: Fruit Orchard
Paired pylons topping the April hills.
Mustard swirling in the right-of-way
weeds. A cold wind, a warm sun
balances the stirring in the well-tended,
elegant, anticipatory fruit trees.
11: Morning:1
The morning spent toiling in the yard,
lost in the rhythm of heavy work.
Sweat, small engines, the wind's alliance—
then, a sudden change of venue—the swift,
staccato notes of the spotted Tohee.
12: Morning:2
In uncertain May, the clouds break
quietly—a sudden light floods the
bedroom walls. Through the window
quartets of birdsong drift. I get up,
shower, take the long way to work.
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Omens, Injuries, and Money
1: Isosceles
A tiny moth upon the wood siding
above the illumined, door bell
as I locked the front door
and moved on toward work—
Thursday, August 2nd, 2001.
2: In Transit
Wind-waves rippling the marshland
reeds; above, the exotic, sometimes
bulbous filigree of the refinery.
Heavy weekend traffic, the toll
bridge. Hunger approaching.
3: Backroad Adventure
East bay pastoral: the merely
undeveloped; a winding road
through the infrequent, coastal
trees. Two roadside leaves
dancing in the coastal breeze.
4: Homer, Achilles, the Silly Wandering
of Our Desires
A slow jog after a long, heel injury
I took—through the envious back streets
of an elegant beach town. My mind
awash; a small, off-centering pain;
one crazy male quail singing from
a cornice.
5: Homer, Achilles, the Meanness of the Spirit
A slow jog after a long, heel injury
I took through the envious streets
of an elegant beach town—scowling
young men brandishing surfboards;
clear plastic bottles clutched by the rich.
6: Tales of Brave Ulysses
A slow jog after a long, heel injury
feels good—I make a second loop.
This time I notice Matilija poppies,
an old couple walking, the sea breaking
into view; and I think: well...
7: Homer, Achilles, Crossing Paths with the Young
A slow jog after a long injury ends abruptly
as such: a young couple returns to their
truck. She gets in but keeps him locked out.
Gesturing, he displays the width of his tongue
—love, it now seems, becomes imminent.
8: Pebble Beach
Hoping to see what the sea
would reveal, we found the tide
high—so I turned my attention
to the rocky beach. There I discovered
a handsome stone within a stone.
9: Untitled
Love abounds in ways unseen,
unheard, unfelt, unthought,
unthanked, unspoken—lavender roses
my wife's mother buys
to place on the coffee table.
10: Homer, Achilles, the Place We Call Home
To emigrate to a distant place
simply for the weather is a choice
someone in the family must make.
As kin, we risk our one possession;
we draw straws to see who gets
tied to the mast...
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A Wet December
1: Clouds
An emu in the horse pasture with
some unsheared sheep, llamas.
Gray, stratocumulus light—orange
foliage here, there, while going
to select the Christmas tree.
2: Clearing
The afternoon warmed; the sky
clearing—broad vistas from
the slopes of the ambling tree farm.
A difficult hunt, an easy cut—then
quite a bit of tax wrought upon
the tree.
3: By Jingo
On the bumper of a septic truck,
American flag decal. Clouds
drifting against the familiar ridge
like a turban. A not quite removed
motto on the Post Office brick wall:
foresee yourself.
4: Merry Nights
Stepping outside, bare-footed,
for firewood I pause to enjoy the chill.
Stars twinkling in a moonless sky
or strung from my neighbors' porch rails.
5: Snow
Waking at midnight to rain, cold
shoulders; then waking again to quiet.
In a steaming shower I linger—
driving to work, snow on the ground
and rooftops, but the road is clear.
6: Northern Gauguin
A short jog on a cold, cloudy day
I took through the pines and tailings
of the old mine, whereupon I met
a dog I hadn't met before—orange-
furred, sweet-faced: Red Husky.
7: Winter Chores
Raking the lawn yet again, recovering
my little rectangle of questionable
success; placing the leaves in the yard
where the wild grasses would grow—
if leaves were nickels, I'd be...
(burdened with nickels).
8: Winter Sun
A short jog after a light snowfall
I took. Patchy clouds, patchy snow,
a bright sun with seemingly little
warmth—except for steam drifting
from one, sunny pine trunk: A Friday
before Christmas, 2001.
9: You Go to My Head
28 December, 2pm: Louis Armstrong
in the tape player. Sitting, drifting
on a wooden chair, staring out
at the rain--makeshift nacimiento;
I hear the heat click off once again.
10: Year-End Chores
29 December, 2pm: making the longish
trip to the mall—our thoughts drifting
to classical music, our own desires.
We pass a flock of wild turkeys
foraging in a cow pasture, in the rain.
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Lingering Moments
1: Venipuncture
In a room with two phlebotomists
noting the detail of the room—
I catch the protocol of phlebotomy.
A tap on the vein, her entry so sweet
my little fear bleeds in wonder.
2: Trust
I trod by a horse tethered
to a horse trailer, both of us
alone. I mistrust all horses
and she senses that—she lets off
a whiney in my direction, then
curses me.
3: Suicide of a Neighbor
A pre-dawn misfortune of fire trucks,
work lamps, sheriff cars—an ambulance
in no haste to leave. A black event
tangled in heavy rain. I stand
naked at the blind, wondering what
has happened.
4: Misfortune
Why I should feel such comfort
at the poker bar in a vast casino
is, admittedly, a misfortune
at best. Right now I'm $600 down
and one hand away (maybe two)
from the altered life.
5: At the Mall
Mexican girls in the Reno mall
drifting about the food court,
giggling, eating, while little
white kids run through them—
one with a napkin stuck
to his shoe.
6: At the Mall
Young moms breastfeeding
in the Reno mall—burdened
blue strollers like buffers at
their feet. A small girl tossing
pennies into a modern fountain
as we walk by.
7: Pre-Season (Coed)
Batting practice on an open field
edged by second-growth pine.
A woman lobbing to a woman
at the plate—strollers in the dugout.
Three men tossing a football
in the outfield.
8: After Gyozan
I've reached my 53rd year
without much pain or hardship.
Blinds drifting in open windows,
birdsongs fill the rooms
my daughters have left.
9: White on White (Sierra Crossing)
The tenth of May in 2003. Moving
a bed to our daughter's first apartment.
Heavy clouds. Vast beauty. New snow
at the base of the rocks and trees.
10: In the Beauty of May
A sky smeared with ice crystals.
Bright, new growth on the oaks
and ornamentals. Little birds. Sun
on the flags swaying on the flag pole.
11: Tree Sex Festival
Drawn outside to the warming
brightness of the sun—drowsy,
thick-headed sniffle of spring.
Tree pollen drifting like fog
through our weedy yard.
12: After Gyozan
I've reached my 53rd year
without much pain or hardship.
Blinds drifting in open windows,
my wife lingers on a chaise lounge
in the sun, having finished lunch.
13: Sunday Afternoon (Spanish Lavender)
The spa jets cycle to off. Only then
do I notice the lavender encroaching
upon the spa—with flower petals
like purple angels' wings, honey bees
attending to them one by one.
14: Doctor Visit
Re-reading Rexroth in the quiet
waiting room. My appointment time
now past. I see a skeleton in a hat
in the room with the office staff.
I wonder what led this man to here.
15: Everything in Place, and Yet...
Third day of a holiday weekend,
the morning drags its regret—
listening to Joseph Hill, reading
Charles Wright, pausing to hear
a Towhee—my wife on her couch.
16: Summer Signs
Hosing off the truck in the evening
heat—pollen trails down the drive
—tossing my mitt inside. Softball
at nine. Turning off the hose bib,
red balloon rings from years gone by.
17: Washoe Valley Reverie
Wandering again through the Reno mall
in this city of exotic wanderers. Diverse,
disaffected, here for whatever reason
—emigrants having paused to live
in this northern, desert light.
18: Road Construction
Squeezing a big truck through the Truckee
River canyon, past a string of swaying
bigger trucks. Cottonwoods spanning
the river's edge. Train tracks on the other
bank, the old flume hung from the canyon
wall.
19: Chile Verde
Sunday afternoon in a Mexican restaurant,
paintings of Mexican generals on the walls,
paintings of feathery native legends.
Tongue burn from fresh salsa, aroma
of burning sugar drifts through the room.
20: Thinking of Charles Wright
I sit where I always sit, away
from the house underneath the oak
beneath the pines under the crescent
moon—neighboring houselight, swath
of stars, the crickets muttering, night
heat.
21: June Night
I want to stand at the bar, see myself
in the mirror. I want to eat
at the bar. Then stroll over into town
and see a movie at the old theater
where Lola Montez once performed.
I want to do that tonight.
22: In the Forest
Riding a bike along the old canal
through the forest, no one around.
Drifting a bit faster than the water
flowing. Assortment of birdsongs,
soft headwind—forest light, tire
spin.
23: After Gyozan
I've reached my 53rd year
without much pain or hardship.
Today, sitting by an open window
drinking a beer, opening another—
listening to my neighbors toil
in the summer sun.
24: Coed
Crouching with my mitt in leftfield,
not seeing the ball like I once did,
not hitting the ball like I once did.
Even so, I'm standing with a mitt
in leftfield—watching the moon rise
above first base.
25: Reason for Doubt
I recognize the phlebotomist.
We were on a jury some months
ago, sharing the details of
a civil suit. We both agree,
even now, the layers were
unattendant.
26: Footfall
Jogging again at the old mine—
1pm, 98 degrees. I soon fall
into the cozy delirium of thoughts
and troubled thoughts. Footsteps
follow me to the car. I turn—there's
no one there.
27: The End of June
The happy notion of all things possible
encapsulated by abundant green,
and a flawless sky. Time to squander
still. Cars exit the church parking lot
into the morning's full length of heat.
28: Musing at Work
Suddenly I remember: playing over-the-line
on schoolyard asphalt with Rudy and Jeff.
Judging the topspin on a rubber hardball—
gettin' hit in the shin, bad hop past the face,
the occasional exhilaration of a mighty catch.
(Jeff's growing power)
29: War with Iraq
2pm, fourth of July, I place the ineffective
hose on my half-dead lawn—then sit down
with a beer, the in-laws napping. The girls,
home from college, find it so very boring—
or (I'm thinking) as good as it gets.
30: Reaffirming the Same Old, Same Old
What more was there to do
other than lie back and ponder
a handsome, Sunday morning
erection—whether anything
might come of it, or not.
31: Music from the Garage
Sunday afternoon, 6th of July—a lessening
of slog heat—breeze. In shifts the living
commence what they love to do. My cats
sleep on the lawn in the maple shade.
I pick up the string trimmer, and head
for the weeds.
32: The Beginnings
Monday after work, rekindled heat—
I stop at the drug store for beer
and kite string. Enough kite string,
I think, to last the rest of my life.
33: War with Iraq (Air Show)
Jogging again at the old mine—1pm,
90-some degrees. I soon fall into
the delirium of resurgent thoughts
of hope. Two war jets suddenly pass
above the tree tops—the frightening lapse
between sound and vision.
34: Thinking of Pollock and de Kooning
Driving again on the road I often travel
through a long, disturbed area of distress
and new growth. I see something I don't
often see: live oaks on the upper hillside
—juvenile, unfocused, the as yet unseen.
35: Neighboring Sonata
Wind through the trees, wind through
the wind chime. The neighbor's air
conditioner cycles to on. Incidental
musics of the neighborhood—a branch
falls, dog bark, the small noises that
birds make.
36: Virgule
Drinking a beer out by the truck, doing
little else than admiring the afternoon.
Blue jays in the pines yakking about some
mischief. I glance up: a trio of buzzards
circling up in an otherwise unused sky.
37: Comida Auténtica
Thursday afternoon in San Juan Bautista
á Doña Esther: in the men's room,
posters of handsome, latin movie stars—
above the john, posters of mustachioed
hombres with pistolas tied to their thighs.
38: Monterey
A thinning spit of thin land jutting
into the blue—topped with small tree
or small edifice (roof). A handsome edge
to a handsome bay where large hotels
nestle near water's edge.
39: Carmel
Steering a bike through the close-cropped
opulence in this elegant sea village, ah...
A touch of faux pas du cycle touches me
and the thick-chested surfer, wrapped
in a wet towel, unsuiting between cars.
40: The Unthinkable
Riding a bike down a coastal path
beside a calm, blue sea grayscaled by
drifting fog—doing what last week
would have been merely unthinkable:
I'm wearing a sweater.
41: Bike Riding After Sildenafil Citrate
Peddling with quiet abandon,
bursting down small hills, then
pausing for the wife—not sensing
until the ride back, my penis
riding like a dog in the wind.
42: Same Old, Same Old—Saved
I stand where I always stand
on the deck of my in-laws house
marveling (as always) at the lightly treed
Santa Lucias, or, looking down into
the canyon below—now saved (forever?)
from the freeway's broad roar.
43: Sand and Foam
Walking a small dog down a wet stretch
of beach, small waves reaching for
our paws. Weaving through a myriad
of other dogs—some chasing colored balls
into the surf.
44: Foam and Sand
Walking a small dog down a wet stretch
of beach, exoskeletons of the dead
wash ashore—seaweeds, feathers.
Moving now through the tourist bulge,
the things one sees at the beach!
45: In the Forest of Nisene Marks
Once again we do what we like
to do—amble through a forest
with very tall trees, currently
Sempervirens with tall ferns
at their base, gang tagging
on the trail markers.
46: Impacted Quietude
Racing my bike through the old
state park, with hardly a soul
around—just me and the sun,
my sweat and the red dust
and somebody's asshole dog.
47: Noon, Loincloth
In a darkened, summer room
where tilted blinds drift ever so
slightly, I Jah dance beneath
the ceiling fan to a tribal beat—
nothing more than dunk dunk-dunk,
dunk dunk-dunk.
48: Listening to Peter Gabriel
Now and then I hear a phrase from
a song I quickly grab, and admire
—that I wish I had written instead:
I remember how you held your goldfish
swimming around in a plastic bag.
49: Listening to Annie Lennox
My oldest daughter has moved back
home after years sharply broken off
with a boyfriend—she and my wife
walk her dog in the evening heat.
They return home through the front door,
sweating, lithe, so terribly beautiful.
50: Career Transition Workshop
8am in the casino mezzanine, wet-
haired gamblers scurry about, coffee-
laden. A tall blond in a red dress sells
cigars and blinking yoyos, quite madly
spinning a red one out in my direction.
51: Solo Lunch
Lunch at the bar (time to kill), lingering
for a second beer—my team baseball
on the TV, log rolling (first women, then
wispy, agile men) on the other TV, then
acquiescing to the bartender's bald finesse.
52: Room 602
1am—lying in bed, noting the contents
of the ceiling: track lighting, smoke alarm,
fire spray thingy and speaker shroud and
some other round thing I cannot name.
I request a wake up call when the neon
loses it's ceiling shadows.
53: Following Checkout
Waiting in the coffee line behind two
motocross boys in brightly colored pants
emblazoned with brand names, endorsements.
Very clearly the boys are wrapped in the heavy
veil of innocence while I count their number
of piercings.
54: Vehicular Melancholy
I have reached my 53rd year without
much pain or hardship. Today, driving
home through clouded mountains, thinking
about my long past, trying to remember...
The thing I miss the most is my eagerness.
55: Morning Foreplay
What more was there to do than disrobe
before her in a flushed, engorging light;
to watch the morning assemble
like so many edgeless thoughts—all
of which demand a certain, frisky patience.
56: August
Mid-summer afternoon, 2003, exceptional
weather. I remember, as a kid, thinking
ahead to being alive on various, distant
dates—and now that I'm here, it does look
and feel a bit different. I like it still.
57: August Light
Hiking now in the northern Sierra
past its rocks, lakes and abundant trees
—through its endearing moments of wind
(a bit of a struggle to breathe) joined
by the occasional jet engine drone.
58: On the Eastside
What more was there to do other than
hike along the rocky trail and to think
about life itself: yesterday, tomorrow.
What is it I'll regret more for having
done than not for having done so?
59: August Night
The long night was a loose collection
of sweaty things, some filled with
sleep, some filled with starch-heavy
dreams, some laboring to the slow
cadence of the fan's oscillations.
60: She Stands in Conversation
Window down, waiting in a parked car
in a supermarket parking lot,
beginning to sweat in the sun—
watching a woman on a cell phone
gesture with her hands as she talks.
61: Summer
I like summer because it is hot. Boys
drive around, bare-chested and browned,
in little trucks while the girls smile
and laugh, as if they can't foretell
the listless future.
62: At a Noisy Sushi Bar
Watching golf on a muted tv—aerial shots
of a little, white ball drifting oddly
toward a perfect green. Odd selections
of current music mute our conversation.
The itamis greet each new customer
with great enthusiasm.
63: Knee-high Dead Grass, Golden & Abundant
Pausing briefly at a service station
in a perfect landscape of commerce,
restaurants and striding pylons. The lot
next over remains undeveloped—all
that remains of what once was all of this.
64: Strip Mall (Youth in the Afternoon)
Shave your head, get a couple tattoos.
Loosen your pants till only the length
of your cock holds them up. Sit back
in a shiny, black car with tinted windows.
Answer the phone—bare your teeth when
you think to smile.
65: Nightfall
Gray-bottomed clouds in the August dusk,
drifting by. Most things now bereft of color.
The pines blackened to silhouette. The sky
gray or white or lessened to blue. The coming
night with a bat winging a staccato geometry.
66: Good Neighbor
7pm, trash night, darkening heat—collecting
yard debris into a second can. Sweating,
as they say, like a pig. But all the time
seeing, looking back at the dusky yard,
the handsome results of our small labors.
67: Drifting
Saturday morning—three-day weekend,
lingering in bed as long as we can,
opening our eyes on the long familiar.
Liking what we see from the top of
our bed—wishing our lives had more
of the same.
68: Beholding the Same Old
Saturday morning of a three-day weekend,
sitting in a chair with blended coffee—as
always, music fills the room. Reflection,
introspection—just looking at those things
that became my life.
69: Suzy and Andie at the Reno Mall
It's a photograph of them standing against
a patterned wall, brick. The light seeming
digital, warped, odd in a bilinear way. Andie's
right arm in a cast from recent surgery.
The concrete they stand upon cobalt blue.
70: September Light
Sunday morning—three-day weekend,
3am, 5am, 6am; 7am, listening
to distant thunder become less distant.
Brief periods of rain, then wind—dimmed
sunlight, an excellent background
for aging lovemakers.
71: Listening to Winston Rodney
His music sounds like a slow train
coming: a scratching, a rumbling,
a wailing of majestic horn sequence.
His music gathers like a long parade
where the exalted one slow dances
atop the final float.
72: Listening to Jefferson Airplane
On the black ledge of a sand bank
the white bird finds refuge. It's
Saturday afternoon (acid, incense
and balloons) with those empty
edges of what we do not discern.
73: After Gyozan
Tomorrow I reach my fifty-fourth year
without much pain or hardship—yes.
My daughters home for the weekend.
My wife in bed with the dog and cats.
Moths in the porchlight, I stumble
to bed.
74: The Rare Opportunity
Rough week at work in the hot end
of summer—an edge on most things.
I jog where I always jog weekend
mornings. A man my age asks me
to help trailer his horse—he points
to a whip.
76: Waking to Charles Wright
Thursday morning, 5am, I roll over
a hard-on that only hopes to pee: up
I get, into the shower: he uses the word,
isolate, as the condition of the verb—
it's result—as the thing to achieve.
77: Thinking of Sherod Santos
I then recall shooting baskets with
Charles Wright and Sherod Santos
on Orange County asphalt, 1978—me
27, Rod 28, Chuck just into his 40s.
Each of us seeking that one shot
the other can't reinvent.
78: For Hillary on Her 22nd Birthday
Leaving for work, pausing to say good-bye
to my daughter getting ready for school.
It's mornings like this where, stopping
to marvel, I wish I'd had a dozen kids
just to see what they'd look like.
79: Listening to Joseph Hill
Sunday morning coffee on the back deck
with a pug and a meat bee—finches
hanging from the birdfeeder, sweat
running down my arms. All things right
this morning, even the smoke-scented
air.
80: After Gyozan
I've reached my fifty-fourth year
without much pain or hardship.
I'm healthy, relatively wealthy and
arguably wise. Yet when I look at
the world, it doesn't shine as often.
81: Listening to the Stones
In those first nights with Suzy, 1974
—driving me home at 3am on a weekday,
then first hearing It's Only Rock and Roll
(but I like it) and still being this lucky
to remember it in that fine, young way.
82: Under the Lights
Last night of the season, late-night
doubleheader beyond the lingering
heat—the end of it all; I take a back road
and happen to see the quietly ineffable
—a corrugated metal shed illumined by
a yard light.
83: Marble Canyon, 1999
It's a photograph of my wife and daughters
standing in the shade of an enormous boulder
upon a stone pedestal near the Colorado River.
It was so very hot and the beauty was so
austere, so unlike what we knew—we
got in the car and left.
84: 25th Anniversary
I went where I'd often gone in the past
to select the birthday gift, the Christmas
gift (earrings and more earrings)—each
time getting more difficult, the selection
narrowing to this: a string of smoky,
lustrous pearls.
85: Above the Casino
Watching a construction site from the 30th floor:
the industriousness of activity—traffic flowing
on a broad interstate, little cars racing
the outlying roads, freight train rolling in.
Monday morning—a young couple below
swimming in a rooftop pool.
86: A Glass of Milk
Saturday morning, 4am—I quench
my heartburn with a darkly poured
glass of milk. Opening a blind,
I pause—the yard is draped with
eloquent moonlight, that other
drawn illumination.
87: Autumn
Saturday afternoon, second week
of October. The yard work changes
direction. Cloudless sky. The heat
thinned by a listless, cool breeze.
Watering the lawn begins to help.
88: Open Awning Doors
I stand alone in the pleasant mid-day
between two rows of metal buildings.
My daughter's car has an undiscerned
malady. Someone has driven it away
as I watch thin-waisted mechanics slide
in and out of cars.
89: Aging Lovers, 2003
It's a digital self-portrait of her and me
taken from the bathroom mirror
thirty floors above the casino hubbub.
A day or two prior to our 25th anniversary,
reproduced in ways we would never
have understood, then...
90: Perseverance Furthers
On the steep climb to Nevada Fall
weariness flags our spirits—dulls it, but
much beauty lies ahead. These stairs
seem sized for a giant—carved granite,
one imagines the labor, fatigue. Quiet
temples happen everywhere!
91: Glacier Point (pressed to her ear)
A slim woman dressed in black stands
in an open, dirt parking lot—listening
to a cell phone. Behind her the forest
rises, behind the forest a sheer, enormous
granite face rises only to establish
a base, a pretext of content.
92: Naked
Morning follows the long hike.
I struggle from bed to mirror
to shower. No longer a boy,
no longer a man—I still require
my excellent, skeletal planes.
93: Fragile (Mariposa Grove)
Once again doing what we love to do—
lingering at the base of large trees—these
being enormous. Felled in the past
for grape stakes, for shingles, pencils or
toothpicks—one merely imagines
the toothpicks.
94: Smile
A photograph of my wife leaning against
a metal rail—having climbed to Vernal fall.
Another thin woman standing behind her
looking over the rail, down at the falls—a
woman who, at the time, seemed so quietly
determined to be there.
95: Time Spilling Water
Time like water spilling down a rocky
ravine—water flow, the sound of water,
water in action. The action of time
spilling down a rocky ravine—the welcome
and the unwelcome event, forgotten. Time
less like a stone than water.
96: Standing Outside a Garage in an Alcove
Raindrops landing on the windshield
of a car—its hood a map of water beading
and water flow—a map of water isolate,
and water in consort with water. Two beads
on the windshield converge. They clear
a path down the glass.
97: Three Men on Crutches in Babylon
Saturday morning—feeding the dog,
listening to Israel Vibration sing
their sweet songs (quivering background
harmonies) warning the old slaves—
those who still listen—to be wary.
98: Smoke
Thursday evening, November the 13th
I light the first fire of the season
to please my wife—flames dancing
in the woodstove. Rekindled appliance,
a new line of demarcation now drawn
for the dark months.
99: War with Iraq
Turning again to the evening news,
each night brings word of a few more
dead. The end of the war questioned
by angry crowds—the despot removed,
his absence fills with zealots, thieves
and killers.
100: Viral Eddy
Sunday morning—second weekend
of a nasty head cold. Again waking
with someone else's voice.
Scavenging the medicine cabinets
for old prescriptions. Growling
at the world.
101: Winter Blue
Leaving the house for work—yet again.
A clear, dry morning on the dark end
of fall, I pause for the odd moment
to note the ordinary: pine needles
bunched in the back of my truck bed.
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The Long Labor of Betting on Love
1: White Pectoral
A handsome man comes striding
out of a trailer park, into the sun.
Black sunglasses, unbuttoned shirt—
unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.
2: Long Labor of Love
The befuddled inkling of the moist unknown.
That second slap on the ruddy cheek. Slow,
pelvic thrusting—idyllic frenzy. Each
other day abundant with plump distraction.
And then, learning to let the daughters grow.
3: On a Windy Night
Watching a borrowed video tape of Neil
Young in late career. An odd selection of
selected songs, from so many. The band
looks rather old and haggard, as does Neil—
but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.
4: The View from Her Parent's House
What more was there to do other than
sit on the wooden deck in Shirley's yard
and ponder the marvelous view—the Santa
Lucia's rising beyond, clouds shredding
above, a tongue of fog slipping in between.
5: Hilltop Place & Inspiration
Once again doing what I love to do
when I get the chance to do it—
running the elegant streets of this
quiet beach town. Tipping my head
to honey-fed women whose breasts
jostle when they run.
6: Santa Maria
We visit my mother in her mobile home
park, wedged into a Latin neighborhood.
She talks of things past and offers food
as low riders drift slowly by—plates
on the walls vibrate.
7: Things Long Past
I recall being younger and driving across
the desert—the thrill of the long expanse,
full of nothing; the youthful wish to see
something out of nothing. Today we meet
too much traffic, irresolute clutter, too much
careless debris.
8: Forty Thieves
Shit-faced, but starry eyed in the Aladdin
Hotel—wanderer in the bright, desert night.
Wishing I was younger. Wishing
I was luckier—but thrilled, nonetheless,
by the excess beyond ruthless excess.
9: The Morning After
I wake up naked in a cold, dark room
with a window opening to an extravagant
view of sun bathers: I ponder a sexual
encounter—here the locals peddle
performance enhancing drugs.
10: Bone Shadow
Lounging in the pool at the Aladdin Hotel
—early poolside, pool shine evening heat
(sightseers on the Eiffel Tower). I see
a man's spine ripple into his trunks
as he sunscreens his wife's scapula.
11: At the Poker Bar
My luck is fleeting. My bartender
unattendant; my money is fleeing
while my luck is fleeting at best.
But the woman across the bar—a
studious player—has bared vast tracts
of her breasts.
12: Desert Passage
A big man walks on crutches through
the casino. The casino opens onto
a themed mall—rain falls on the hour,
the night sky turns into day. Bursting
out into the parking lot, the heat seems
largely out of place.
13: Highway 95
Dust devils spinning across the desert,
we're accompanied by intrinsic and squat
powerlines headed to somewhere unspecific.
Low brush scattered across the dry lake bed.
Mountains, rocky and barren, rising
in all directions.
14: Western Summer
Like fishing in a rocky stream.
Like wading in a mountain creek.
Smoke circling the evening campfire.
Men walk with their fishpoles and wives
through the rocks and cottonwoods
to the river's edge. Dusk...
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Centos (Po Chu-I)
1: Small Matter From the southwest a faint breeze comes— never stop to think where it comes from. Windows darkened, the whole room still: using a small matter to illumine a big one, to a lifetime sleeping in an empty room. 2: Separate Ways Outside the gate, a shop selling wine— advancers and laggards go separate ways. I'm not pressed for clothing or food thus I can follow youthful inclinations. Under purple wisteria, twilight bit by bit draws on. 3: Autumn I close my gate, let autumn grasses grow. Peaches I planted are old trees now, the sound of autumn wind in the branches. The mind wants nothing more than satisfaction; I come home to drink my cup of wine. 4: Alone Bleakly I make my way home alone, a fine night is hard to come by. North wind sharp as a sword— I'm a boat bouncing on the waves, all my life I've longed to roam the waters. 5: Attendant A green-robed attendant guards the palace gates; shoes with pointy toes, a close-fitting gown, never stop to think where it comes from: windows darkened, the whole room still, using a small matter to illumine a big one. 6: Change People and things day by day change and alter; from time to time I hum it over, how could I alone not falter and decline? By the west eaves I rest from drafting edicts, late autumn trees standing in the wind. 7: Prolonged Sorrow My mind I consign to emptiness. Moonlight is good, good for solitary sitting; owls hoot from pine and cassia branches. Autumn moonlight on bed curtains, peonies in the garden—springtime ache. 8: Moonlight I sleep alone facing the eaves, wake to find moonlight over half the bed. Form and shadow silently pose the question; under the pines, a wine cup in the moonlight —one who shares my heart has gone away. 9: Dream Once awake I knew it was a dream, half the river cerulean, half the river red; in a little room, quilts piled on, I'm not afraid. Affairs of the dusty world are no more my concern, in the bright moonlight, buckwheat blossoms like snow. 10: Comfort Beautiful spots have no fixed owner, drip drip, rain on paulownia leaves; windows darkened, the whole room still: springtime about to end in the emperor's city— once comfortable, you forget about comfortable. [ close poem ] [ next poem ] [ refresh page ]
Spring, Again
1: Spring, Again
Once again harbored in the
excellent sequence of a man
wearing red shoes in the early
moments
of spring—not yet dancing, not yet
ready to dance, but again... poised!
2: Anticipation
I recognize the phlebotomist from
a previous visit—a young man
with a southern accent and
a sweet disposition—but this time
he flicks, he jerks, he... stings.
3: At the Gym with Earphones
Six wall-mounted television screens
set to unique audio frequencies—a
child's show from Japan with elaborate
costumes, choreography & monsters;
golf, poker, playoffs, commentary;
planes collide over Ohio.
4: Sunday in May
And then, entering a room where
a favorite song is now beginning
the horn sequence—a daughter
reclining on the couch; launching
a champagne cork from the deck.
5: Black Queen
Two teams of men playing hockey.
A small crowd enjoying a softball game.
A family sits down to dinner. Arguing
over the TV remote, a boy and a girl.
Our group of four playing hearts.
6: After Gyozan
I've reached my 57th year
without much pain or hardship.
Some things now reveal themselves
while others still cause hard surprise
or wonderment:
I have fathered a phlebotomist!
7: Another Summer
My daughter has reached her 23rd year.
A windy dusk, I sit on my couch
in her new apartment, idling
in Reno, Nevada—enjoying life &
a beer, gazing at the unyet burned
Carson Range.
8: Time Is a Long Rope I Keep Pulling
What more was there to do
other than piss the night away
in a vast and smoky casino
in the middle of a vast desert
where all things such seem
vastly out of place.
9: Many People in Cars in Motion
Cars of all makes move along
the street—cars of all colors.
People of all colors in clothes
of all colors—people in motion.
Every action precise, perfunctory,
so joyous, so reckless.
10: It Gets Dark
She stops watering the garden
and comes inside to the kitchen
in the muted light—then takes
a bath. I stop by again to marvel
before she slides into our aging
bed.
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Smile
1: Top Down with Sunglasses
A woman wearing a bun
in an orange convertible
coupe, waits to make a turn
on a warm August morning—
while deftly chewing gum.
2: Late Evening Scenario
Slumped at the computer screen
swigging a beer, fooling around
with the graphics software
there suddenly appears an image
where clearly, off-center, lies
a glass of milk.
3: After Gyozan
I reached my 58th year
without much pain or
hardship—the house paid off,
the kids out of college,
retirement nearing—how now
brown cow?
4: Eh Hee
What more was there to do
than watch a music video
again, and again, and again—
an odd man singing (women
dancing) about our fractious
condition.
5: Musings
Is it a collection of cells?
Is it sentient? Does it elect
to measure time? Will it
consider the frail essence
of the self? Can it die?
6: Smile
What more was there to do
on any given moment
at any given location
than to gaze into the camera
about to flash, and to appear
bemused.
7: and a Bottle of Brandy
A warm afternoon in early fall
—bringing home for my wife
a bouquet of yellow flowers,
I pass a blonde in a sports coupe
apparently singing her brains out.
8: Gassing Up
What more was there to do
than stand beside the car
while the gas pump ran—
and to feel good about
the situation of this location.
9: God's Grey Earth
I so much do love how
an old song will make
everything seem all right
on a stone-drunk Sunday
morning,
driving home from somewhere.
10: Suspiration
A fountain on a desert lake
suspiring into an opening cone—
unerring grace of hydrogeometry—
the hydrodynamic phenomena,
a mist, rising briefly and then...
11: Currently
I've reached my 59th year
with little pain or hardship.
Days pass. The president is
a smug, dumb-assed idiot.
The youth, it seems, have run off
to join the carnival.
12: Ostinato
I've reached my 59th year
with little pain or hardship. I
still find myself in the bleachers
when the band starts to march
and I well up with emotion—tears of
I still don't know what.
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Flying
1: After Gyozan
I've reached my 59th year
without much pain or hardship.
So little has changed. I work
in the yard with my bottle
of beer—the birds sing to me.
2: Flying
My wife claims to have a fear
of flying. I have a fear to fly
with my wife. Did Li Po fly?
Did Tu Fu fly? Did Gyozan fly?
Po Chu-i consented to fly only to
return to his cup of wine.
3: Test Flight
We are now in the plane. My wife
is in the test plane. The plane is now
no longer a plane. Everyone seems
happy to fly. A few are drunk—their
wings droop like fallen bra straps.
4: The Landing
Our take-off is marred by a flock
of doves—only the co-pilot
shows concern. The wily stewardess
foils a terrorist plot—free cocktails
ensue. A woman wails into giving
birth to our new life.
5: The Landing Continues
An old man dies, so no charge is
incurred. The landing is made special
by no landing gear—applause develops.
I'm now free to go, to drift on my way—
once I realize how nondescript my
luggage is.
6: Heading to an Airport Outside a Large City
Driving to an airport in the sharp,
evening light, May: spring heading
from green to brown, from then
to now. All these many travelers—
in vague ways—heading toward a
dissimilar destination.
7: The Wait
Hanging around in an airport
coffee bar—reduced to watching
the incessant landing, takeoff—the
aero-mundane—and the very odd
aero-equipment moving carefully
about the tarmac.
8: Flying
I am now in the plane, my wife
beside me madly working a hand
puzzle. Time passes discretely.
Roar. Drone. Bump and hum.
From an aisle seat all I can see
is the crappy movie.
9: Puerto Vallarta
Above the beach and beyond
the pool, where a woman sunbathes
on a yellow lounge, the red palm
rises beside the tile veranda—
fanning its fronds in a mild breeze.
10: Time Spilling Water
Time like a seashell found on an
empty beach—the waves rise and
then the waves recede. The actions
of time and water. The welcome and
the unwelcome events arise and recede
less like a seashell than water.
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Deception, Self-Deception, Inarticulate Wonder
1: Indian Summer
Something is wrong with me.
I don't know what it is. I hear
birds in the trees. I feel the breeze
vibrating the window blinds.
Sunshine on the wall. I don't care.
2: After Gyozan
I reached my 66th year
without much pain or
hardship—my life runs
smoothly. I have money.
Yet a sadness seems to border
everything.
3: Deception
My daughter has been fooled
by a man—a man she loves.
His deception now revealed.
Everything comes to a halt,
reassembles, fills with hurt.
4: Phacoemulsification
A man I know—a surgeon—shattered
the lens in my eye with a vibrating
needle and aspirated the pieces—
replaced it with an artificial,
multi-focal lens (now I can see
like a million bucks!).
5: Self-Deception
My mother (85) is visiting, initially
for my daughter's wedding. She
says one thing, then does something
different—everyone says, everyone
remarks, I take after my mother.
6: Street Vibrations
Herds of bikers roaring through
the mountain passes. Leather-clad
vista photos—bikes en regalia.
Destination: Reno, Nevada. Run,
gun, fun—pose—rev and roar off.
7: By the Casino Pool
Small screams, merriment, the
conspicuous display brings
a sense of wonder. Gaudy pageant
of gaudy tattoos now brazenly
revealed, sunscreened and shining.
8: By the Casino Pool
Small screams, merriment, the
conspicuous display brings
a sense of wonder. Fathers trying
to drown their flayling, young sons.
Skinny boys splashing screaming,
shapely girls.
9: By the Casino Pool
Small bikinis on big girls—the
inconspicuous display brings
another sense of wonder. A
single crutch propped
against a hotel balcony rail.
10: A Moment of Change
I did not know if it had
a purpose—it did have
an imprint, an effect, and
then a history. Gnawing
at the raw edges, it was
what it is.
11: Liquor and Lotto
Squat in a parking space three
girls from the trailer park—in
the shade, talking, smoking. Idle
afternoon at the mini-mart where
I begin to consider plutocracy
versus oligarchy.
12: Wonder
Shit-faced and starry-eyed, elbows
on a poker bar in Reno, Nevada,
waiting for an attendant to spread
several dozen Ben Franklins across
my palm. Wondering, is this a problem
or not?
13: Nevada Tanka
Lingering at the seafood buffet.
The evening spent at a poker bar.
The immigrants begin vacuming
the carpet, brief moment of pseudo-
clarity—stumbling off to bed.
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July
1: Summer Song
Yet another evening summer.
The windows open. A fan
oscillating in a dim bedroom.
A woman singing, softly
(Blue Bayou).
2: An Old Photograph
We were surprised, somewhat,
to find Billy at the boat launch.
You wore a short dress over
your swimsuit. Billy coaxed us
to take our photo. We then
paddled out onto the lake
where a surely different view
of all things became apparent.
3: Tree Pollen
7am in a rented cabin—dense
sinus congestion—standing in
an unfamiliar kitchen
quietly drinking sake and watching
lovely women walk their big dogs.
4: Dutch Doors
A woman singing, quite earnestly
(Rodeo Girl). 1pm in a rented cabin.
My Grandson playing catch near
the aspen with my wife. She scratching
insect bites from the night before.
5: The Next Day
2pm in the rented cabin. Here
alone with a sudden sickness.
Reclined on the quiet sectional.
Nausea, chills, fevered reflection.
Anxious aspen leaves blur the
window panes.
6: Nominal Magic
4pm at the rented cabin, still
reclined on the couch, nursing
a beer. Listening to music captured
and replayed in a digital manner.
So many songs sung by the dead.
(So many good ones).
7: My Living Room Window
Drinking sake in my favorite chair,
8am. The morning walkers pass by,
some with dogs. Garbage trucks
rumble around—the sound of glass
colliding. My neighbor fetches
his paper—his two sweet dogs.
The lawn sprinklers cycle on.
Garbage trucks rumble elsewhere.
8: July
I like summer because it is hot.
Sitting in my chair, half-empty
glass on a coaster. Avid, joyfull
sweating. The oscillating fan
here and then not. My wife returns
from the garden, complaints: fawns,
turkeys, tomato worms, the evening
heat, life…: life as we know it.
9: Summer Song:2
Yet another summer evening.
The windows open. A fan
oscillating in a dim bedroom.
A woman singing, softly (Blue
Bayou). Half-empty wine glass
left on a coaster.
10: Bunk Beds:2
7am in a rented cabin—dense
sinus congestion—standing in
an unfamiliar kitchen
quietly drinking sake and watching
lovely women walk their big dogs.
In a loft above, my grandchildren
chortling.
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© 2018 rdking