Archive for March, 2007

Shades for Fazulito (shortstop for the Alhambra High School Moors)

Sittin’ on the dock of the bay,
well, a deck, anyway,
the fog has lifted, a bell’s clanging,
and I’m wonderin’ about the tone.
Rock Hudson’s young look-alike was worried.
Would he stay in the picture?
His line readings were lousy,
but Red just smiled and looked away.
Security was tightened again;
the office workers could no longer leave for lunch.
At least we understood the reason
behind those oversized softballs.
They were for exhibition games.
Fat as pumpkins they were easy to see,
but they didn’t travel very far
no matter how hard you walloped ‘em.
Piazza, the professional catcher,
was working the concession stand
worrying about his wedding plans.
Would they be foiled by his rival, Indian Jim?
Jim had darkly predicted UFOs, so
when the hailstorm hit the reception room
we raised our eyes to the ceiling
and tried to sing a hymn
but nobody could remember much
besides something about Ezekiel,
or was it Elijah?
The tide was going out and yet
the water came crashing in.
Was the season changing or just the weather?
Hours before the sun was hot
as we lunched on the rocks
and jumped in and out of the chilly drink.
The cold shock clears your head
I always said; now I pull hard
on my cigar and let the dark thoughts subside.
If your feet are cold, put on socks.
In the dusky distance across the road,
an old friend, the dada scholar,
was hitting hardballs into the power lines,
where they stuck in the spaces in between.
As he dislodged them with his bat
ribbons of recording tape unfurled
in the deepening shadows.

Dear Sis,

What was inside the giant white tank perched on the on the hillside like a cartoon spaceship? We turned the valve, some vapor blew out and the old woman shot from her office in the trailer like we egged her car or something. That gal gets around—I remember her from a big shiny waiting room in midtown. Boy was she mad. But if her car had hit our propane line before it crashed through the kitchen wall, she wouldn’t have been alive to fuss at us, now would she? Serves her right for trying to light out before the cops came. Anyway, we had us a time, giggling in the bushes. That’s all for now.

love,
Happy

In our industry, there’s nothing wrong with being predictable. In fact it can be critical. Don’t ask me why. We strive to provide the highest quality products and services at a competitive price. But, dammit, we just can’t do it, and we don’t really care anymore. Well, you know, it’s not that bad, but that’s how it feels sometimes. How about a coffee? Something stronger? A little unprofessional, I know, but we’re the only ones here. Right? And I really like you. We’re ready to put our quality commitment to work in the form of engineered solutions to our customers’ problems. However, we might just say the hell with it.

PORTENTS

Did the tarot reader disappoint?
Get a second opinion
or read the signs yourself.
For example, a leopard menaced me
outside the camping lodge, luckily
a sheep ambled up, a little old
for a sacrificial lamb
but I was in no position to be choosy.
I went down to the lake
as a black ribbon of cloud
twisted into a tornado.
People panicked and ran for their cars.
I grabbed my son and jumped into a ditch.
It was a close call, but how nicely
everyone was dressed down there.
Cable knits in autumn reds and ochres
with bright silver wickerwork buttons.
The boy said get up I was squashing him.
Storm over.

Your Evil Twin is crashing the job market, sending a flurry of resumes to august institutions of instruction all over our fair city. Be forewarned! One day your sons and daughters, neices and nephews may receive a glossy university promotional brochure featuring fiendishly clever come-hither prose from a ne’er do well fantasist whose foul-smelling cigar smoke they would flee from on the street.

EDUCATIONAL

First day of class confusion
at the school carved out of stone
but our amiable young French professor,
Juliette Binoche,
is relaxed as we sit around a long table.
Leonard Bernstein is beside me,
a little anxious about being late.
He gives the class a certain cachet, n’est-ce pas?
I couldn’t wait to tell my friends about Lenny,
when I noticed the hungry baby in my arms.
The teacher shared her lunch,
gently offering crackers and fruit salad
to the hungry little lips.
She held the baby on her hip
and carried a sound-mixing board in her other arm.
The principal was at the bus port.
The faculty was pissed.
Back in the classroom the teacher smiled
and poked her head through a hole in the floor.
I was on my way home
when I remembered my brown loafers.
It took awhile to find them.

Hail Mary, Full of Grace, when I get those ol’ panic attack blues, please remind me that they have nothing to do with the facts on the ground, but are only a bad chemical spill on the beaches of my brain. Right? That kind of pep talk bucks me up a bit, but here’s the rub: if I discount my black moods, what’s the true value of a wave of optimism or joy?

I’m trying
just to be a man of my own.
I’m trying
just to be a man of my own.
Imagine — all those years in my little hometown
and I had no idea we had subway service.
Narrow, white-tiled tunnels
where water flows beneath the tracks.
Small underground cafes at the stations
with tables beside black subterranean pools.

When I walk into a public lobby or waiting room where a TV is showing a 24-hour cable news channel, even with the sound off, I immediately feel a bit cheapened. It’s as though I’ve been judged incapable of occupying my own mind, and I resent the implication that the on-screen reporting is more deserving of my attention than, say, the paperback or crossword puzzle I have with me. Is it irresponsible, however, to ignore the news, especially during, as some might say, “a time of war?” Loaded question. Back up. Is there a general moral imperative to stay abreast of current issues and events, to learn the ins and outs of things that are happening far away and which have no immediate impact on your daily life? No less than visionary (albeit cranky) American hero Henry David Thoreau had this to say: “I am sure that I never read any memorable news in a newspaper. To a philosopher all news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over their tea.”

Over and above the admitted pleasure afforded by many a tea-swilling old gossip, male or female, if flood waters are rising, it’s good for those who live by the river to know how wet it’s going to get. If the forest is on fire, apply the same principle. However, does it make any difference to your daily round in New York City or Cincinnati or Seattle to be abreast of how many were killed in yesterday’s car bombings in Baghdad? The information should only matter insofar as you are compelled to act on it. Otherwise, the news is little more than half-decipherable static occupying your precious brain space, and which may add to your prevailing level of free-floating anxiety. Since the news can make you unnecessarily ill, why, short of impending catastrophe or political elections, pay attention to it?

Let’s say you don’t have an anxiety disorder–what’s the harm in daily distracting yourself with a morning TV news program, NPR on the bathroom radio, or a paper on the train? You’re bathing your brain in snippets of mostly indigestible information, the mental equivalent of junk snacks, but so what? Everybody else is on the same page or screen, and the news gives us something to talk to each other about, doesn’t it? Perhaps, but what desultory conversation. If your banter is derived from the short menu of topics determined by the marketing research conducted for TV news producers, I’d rather listen to my refrigerator hum. So do yourself a big favor, and limit your news consumption. Turn it off, tune it out and drop the remote. What’s the most beautiful thing you can think of? Let your mind go there for awhile, instead of to Baghdad.

Don’t Drink the Water

I said it was unwise to swim
while the beach resort was preparing for war.
But in you went, and see? You were attacked
by a sea monster and turned into a penguin.
It was startling as well as inconvenient
for you, of course, but also for me.
I hated that dumb little town
with its fake Yankee charm
and all the artists
drinking on the deck.
I wanted to go back to the city
but you were recovering
in bed with your flippers.

Ongoing renovations at the ancestral homestead:
Mom’s redoing the kitchen cabinets;
Dad’s replacing the floor.
The cars in the drive have become monster trucks.
Uncertainty is in the air we breathe.
There’s no use trying to suppress a cough,
especially considering that smell from down the street.
Is it someone’s cologne or roofing tar?
There are worse things
than public embarrassment.
I arrived at the therapist’s with stacks of lined paper
but stupidly neglected to bring a pen.
The statuesque doctor is friendly, maybe a little too.
She holds me in her arms and casually drops
German phrases I don’t understand.
The room fills with small children
dressed like miniature adults,
they prattle and preen.
Their problems are supposed to be instructive.
They can’t sit still and just be themselves, the doctor says.
My hour is up; I head back to reception,
then notice I’m naked except for knee socks.
I go back and find my pants
but where’s my sweater?
I frantically search through the toy box
till I realize with horror I’m wearing it
beneath layer upon layer of T-shirts in different colors:
red, blue, yellow, green;
I’ve got on so many shirts it makes me cry.

We want the sky to stay blue, blue, blue,
but the sky always does
what the sky wants to do.
In this game the dog runs
for a tossed piece of meat
and spectators compete
for a ringside seat.

He painted thunderbirds across his biceps
as he got ready to practice the play.
For once the script was handy;
he wasn’t worried about what to say.
Then the crowd was cheering
as tennis balls flew through the room.
He was a spectator for what was appearing.
Always the best man, never the groom.

Like any two enormous things—
an unmanageably long story
or a swimming pool stocked with exotic fish
by a radio deejay on Christmas morning,
the project inevitably invited a question:
Frame it or let it speak for itself?
Everybody was on my back
about taking too long to get my shit together.
But didn’t I iron Julie’s dress?
I fastened the front of my blue uniform
with broken brooches
missing glass gemstones.
In lieu of a hat I elected
to wear a powdered wig. My shoes
were powdered with mildew
that I hoped to brush off in the car.
Despite all the complications
(I had to wrestle the iron away from Julie)
my costume was complete.

The ancient gods were at war.
Liquids exploded out and up,
shattering our cocktails and coffee cups.
Solid rock cracked; walls tumbled down.
What a mess. On top of it all I had to pee.
We enclosed ourselves in multicolored body armor
and waited nervously for our powers to kick in.
What now?
Repair to the rooftop
and study the sky for portents.
Feathery remnants of rain clouds
burnt off by the sun.
Nice weather for the weekend crowd.
Next up, the sports report. Love, to follow.
Vipers and librarians, Virgos and Libras,
raise your hands.
Like digging a hole in the floor
of a fancy French bistro
we plug along, not sure why,
but committed to the task
despite the roar of the roller coaster next door.

Don’t ask me to explain how sidereal time is time measured by the apparent diurnal motion of the vernal equinox, which was yesterday—Did you balance your eggs on end? I didn’t get the circular diagrams while I was sleeping and I certainly don’t now. However, I can say that the elevators in the new glass office tower won’t stop at all floors. It’s tricky to get where you’re going. Once we all arrive in the shiny waiting room I’m wearing a white shirt and navy blue pressed pants and I lie on my old blue yoga mat (I still miss you, buddy) in front of the first row of folding chairs. I’ve got the text of my speech, which I’m not sure I’ve completely memorized. Double doors slide open and a small officious woman in a grey pantsuit emerges. “It’s so crowded,” she announces to no one in particular, and then she notices me and says hello. “You’re a father, aren’t you?” she asks. “Is your talk about fatherhood?” I’m confused. Is that what it’s about? Still I nod yes.

MAP MAN
He has a Soviet Union head
and Denmark pants.

All right, admit it: there’s something going on with pants here, and it’s not pretty. Though I do like the idea of those Danish slacks; sort of a muted yellow brushed cotton.

Noodles for sale,
two bucks a box.
Don’t wait for the Beatles reunion
in the booth at the trade fair,
buy today! Yet everyone saw
as clearly then as now
that a lesson of some sort
must be learned and understood
once and for all. The sacrifices
and supplications of the gods were excellent,
but were they everything?
Did the sacrifices give happiness?
And what about the gods?

You’re visiting Guatemala, perhaps, where your friends are relief workers who say the poor are oppressed. Your friends, however, are tanned and fit and Hollywood beautiful with their hair long and their shirts off in the sun. Inside an abandoned factory, a bare-shouldered bald man is neck deep in a hole, digging through concrete. What are you doing down there, like somebody in Dante’s Inferno, you ask. He smiles and says something you don’t get, but he seems so friendly you have to nod in agreement. You go along a dark hallway and you are alone until you meet Mr. Death, in his grimy tattered hood with only darkness inside. He takes hold of your arm and will not let go.

LIMBO

I watched as my wife
paddled across a small pond
in a packing crate
using a wooden spoon as an oar.
I jumped to the pier
from a big rock on the bank
and happily remembered how to fly.

At the counter in the street
I spoke to the man with the book.
He wore a thick dark mustache
and glowered like a tyrant.
I said bless me father for I have sinned.
My last confession was five years ago.
It was a lie but I didn’t care.
Still I got mad when a playwright in owlish eye-glasses
asked me why I waited so long.
That made me mad.
Why should even the mountains accuse me?
They have no right to judge.
I can look on them and feel free.
I’m someone who always does his work
or so the professor told me;
plus I’m a problem solver:
I packed up for the move
and covered the open boxes
with pink chenille bedspreads
and tucked them in at the top.
Still I panicked when I saw the old trunk
full of all my childhood stuff.
I’d forgotten all about it
and didn’t want to look inside.
Just load that one on the truck, boys.