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Collected Poetry
(rd king dot net)poetry and digital art
The Big Picture
Groups of short poems.
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—ariel 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. back | ToC | next
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