May 4, 1970

 

May 4, 1970

All our earthly tie-dye rags plus
a mason jar of muddy Mississippi water
because we’ll never see that river again—
you, me, one dog crammed into a Volkswagen
aimed at Vancouver, Canada for permanent exile—
when we hear the news on crackly AM radio:
Kent State. Four dead.

A truck stop, Little America.
As we walk in, we see jaws clench.
Tough crowd. Could be my T-shirt—
    STAY HEALTHY
    AVOID DRAFTS
Waitress—cowgirl boots, red white and blue
sash on her neck—pours us coffee, two cups.
“I’m so sorry,” she says and glares
at a trucker who is flipping us off.
You add cream, and it curdles. Spoiled.
Waitress without asking dumps your cup,
brings another and fresh cream.
“My bad,” she says. “Shit. Ohio.
I’m so upset. Sorry.”

Just that, fresh cream. A little warmth
from a waitress who is doing her job.
You touch my hand. “We can’t go,” you say.

Future can change so fast. Ours,
steering east, Saint Lou, re-dipping our toes
along the cobblestone levee among
seagulls and cigarette butts as we pour
the mason jar back home.  

Four dead. We stay.
In kindness, we work for them.
And that waitress.

Note: On May 4, l970 the Ohio National Guard fired into a crowd of Kent State University anti-war demonstrators, killing four and wounding nine students.

…..

First published in Moss Piglet. Thank you editor John Bloner

Coming Out of Retirement, Age 70

 

Coming Out of Retirement, Age 70

A milestone
like re-losing my virginity
as I crawl under a deck
among spore-puffing dirt,
as duff prickles my navel
as I jack up a beam, then pound and pry
with unsure muscles to remove a rotten post,
install another, then lower the jack again.

Humping toward me over curling fern,
a woolly bear caterpillar who knows inborn
of construction, of transformation,
who seems to say —

Welcome back to funky earth,
to sawdust in nostrils,
to splinters under fingernails,
to blood-seeping scratches
    discovered in the shower.

Welcome back to a world
built better by your body.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you editor James Lewis
Photo by Micha L Rieser

The La-la of Life

 

The La-la of Life

Grandson,
unlike most of humanity
enjoys the sound of my singing,
so together we make up songs.

He with green eyes, jug ears
and the occasional goofy smile
is an honest audience, a toothless critic
who enjoys lengthy vowel sounds:
    ooo ooobie  
and
    gree-een eyes, green eyes,
    gree-een eyes, green.
He frowns upon hard consonants.

Did Beethoven sing to babies?
Did Buddha? He shoulda.

I compose, grandson edits,
new melodies fill the room.
Don’t listen.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual —Thank you editor James Lewis
The photo: yeah, that’s me in 2007. The grandson is now driving a car.

Airport, Burlington Vermont

 

Airport, Burlington Vermont

Two men in T-shirts are sun-roughened,
muscular in the non-gym way.
They know physical work.

On the window glass the older man
with smudgy finger sketches a map
from memory. He speaks of a trickling spring,
a field cleared by hand, a fence of stone.
A grandma who swore she was a virgin,
a grandpa who swore she was not.
Twin graves on a hill. Sold.

The younger man says, "That little farm,
every time I set foot on it, I felt hugged."
Embarrassed, they each look away to the tarmac
where jets are rolling for Newark. Chicago.
Some damn city. Now boarding.

…..

First published in Califragile—thank you editor Wren Tuatha
Photo by Dan Petit

If I see one more fucking Zen poem

 

If I see one more fucking Zen poem

I will scream.
Enough with the footprints in moss,
the happy crickets.

I’m repairing a burst water pipe
next to a Buddha statue
on a McMansion lawn
in a soppy hole I’ve dug  
as twilight darkens
while the client frets at my hourly expense,
tells me my fee is “unconscionable,”
he a psychoanalyst whose fee, no doubt,
has conscience.

The rising moon is my lover’s breast
with shadowy crater her nipple,
those night clouds her fragrance,
the winking jet my desire,
the meteor my sperm.
As I solder copper pipe, boots in mud,
in this labor in my anger
I am strangely happy.

…..

First published in Anti-Heroin Chic—thank you James Diaz, editor