O Diane [On hearing that Diane Wakoski will retire soon]

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O Diane,
the King of Spain has abdicated,
and sings beneath your window.
and the Father of our Country
has admitted his mistake, has dropped
the hatchet, and this very moment
plants cherry trees in recompense.
O Diane,
we're burning the motorcycle
Jason wants to take you to the movies,
and Ben Franklin is holding a seat for you
at the poker game.
Heck, we've forgotten where that sonofabitch is even buried.
O Diane,
I still hold a pen
because of you,
I still beat these keys into a pulp
because of what you taught me
O Diane
I've always been a hitchhiker
burning like mountain ash berries in August;
but did you ever realize
you picked me up
years ago?
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Detroit, Paris

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We were making out like 20-somethings

in a Detroit parking lot, tongues coiling

and uncoiling together, hands revealing new territory,
when somebody in a car honked and hollered.

As I grabbed her ass and pulled her closer, I thought:
they wouldn’t do this to us in Paris.

But then I heard her breath hot in my ear,
like a message from a country I’d nearly forgotten,
and I forgave my countrymen.

I’d forgive and forget
my state, my country, even my name,
given enough time like that night.

Her touch was the unspoken romance language,
heated and lilting, precise and luxurious.

One kiss, one touch, one caress
and I was on the Eiffel Tower with her.

Everywhere I looked, it was Paris.

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Howlin' Wolf

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I am working my way

to sing like Chester Arthur Burnett;

a voice that will stop trains,

will bring lightning onto smokestacks,

will send a hurtful woman on her way

or bring her back, even bring back

a little red rooster

whose absence has left the barnyard

in a state of constant agitation.

I want the dogs to moan at my voice,

the hounds to howl when I call.

When I call with this voice,

I may get water

or I may get gasoline

but my voice will call,

and there will be a response;

something in the dark calling back.

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9:40 pm

The words come slower.
No use watching the clock,
the rise and fall of tiny stars;
even the sliver of the moon
is an hour away.
The words come slower,
but this is not everyday.
Yesterday
the words came in torrents in the morning;
15 minutes in the shower.

Dream Tonight

In my dream last night, my father and I lived in a run-down house;

the wooden floor was crooked and soggy from leaky pipes 

that sometimes extended though the floor and ended in an open valve

that would spit water on occasion.

An inch of water would accumulate in the small kitchen.

Outside, I saw my nephew and several drinking buddies return

from a tavern in town; they tumbled out in 

German SS uniforms, black with pink pipping along the sleeves and lapels;

they were happy, drunk and wanted more.

I left for the tourist town nearby wearing only a short t-shirt 

and a hat that I held before me; no one seemed to care I was half naked,

except for the gang of latinos, who seemed to mistake me

for someone else. One pulled a snub-nosed .38 and swaggered it in my face;

I took it, checked that it was loaded, and brandished it back at them,

told them I'd use it if necessary...

Finding a small cafe, I ate lunch and paid with the pistol, returning home to find
even more of the wooden floor soaked and spongy

ready to be pulled up by hand and replaced

with a poorly laid brick floor.

There was still water in the kitchen.

Untitled

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I have a problem with fiction,
especially movies.
Each one I read, or especially watch
I wonder about the protagonist:
why the heck did they do that?
It's the conflict. So often,
everything could have been resolved
so simply, in so many ways
by the first chapter, halfway through the first reel.
But then, who would read, who would watch?
We do not follow the mundane
for the mundane is what we do every day.
Give us anger, a fist, a smoking .38
and we'll follow.
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How Much I Can Hold

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So many friends on the social network
(you know the one)
are railing against the future,
which is, I admit, quite likely and upon us in a coin toss;
corporate poison or greed, government greed or a poisoning
of a democratic republic, foreign interventions or the lack thereof,
the promulgation of bad language skills and not enough stray dogs saved today.

My email is even more determined; every interest group
asking me to sign, to call, to rise and be counted;
a dozen manifestos a day, so many I can't keep count
of how many fists I must raise.

I've only two to hold up in anger and rage,
and believe me when I confess
they've been held aloft so long
I wonder whether the clenched fist is of use.

But neither am I completely sure, yet,
of the completely open hand. Not quite yet.
But I can hold so much more this way.
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Media

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I'm listening to an oldies station
as it streams to my laptop.
The foundation of Graceland
was built on 45s,
but now they are more dear
as a valuable antique
than as a mode of communication.
By my count,
fully nine types of media surround me,
and eight could now go full fathom five
without my missing a beat.
What I would keep: this newish laptop
in plastic and aluminum
and the beat up Shakespeare
living on the thinnest of onionskin.
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Senior Discount Day at Goodrich Shoprite

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I walked into my grocery store for the first time on a Tuesday,
and it was packed at 2 in the afternoon.
Seniors. All of them.
It did not dawn on me at first,
until I went down several isles
and trudged my cart around a bad hip or two,
a cane,
and someone in the little electric cart,
which I had never seen used there before.
At the checkout, I asked
"What's the starting age for the Senior Discount?"
as I flipped through their pile of Senior Discount cards.
When I heard it was fifty five,
 I gladly signed up,
my signature still steady,
and my cane out in the car.
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Something Coming Up

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Sun to rain, then sun again.
Early April is a switch hitter,
and if snow shows up, even more so.
But I'll take this gladly,
even though there's frost on the car some mornings,
even though the all the winter's trash finally reveals itself
after months under the snow,
even though the funerals are almost daily now
at St. Casimirs across the street,
there is still
the sign of growth in the gardens;
something coming up through the dead leaves.
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Four Senryu

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It is such an honor
to be bored stiff listening to you.
Whose honor, I cannot tell.
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His approach was described as
"Rough around the edges."
All that's needed is a blunt object.
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He had no stomach
for the work, he said,
though his belly disagreed.
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She always took the elevator,
which was the only way
she could rise to the occasion.
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only a few days to go...

OK, so I write a bit during the off-months. Not enough by my estimation, but there is some writing going on. I don't put it up here; so far, I've saved this blog for my one-poem-a-day exercise in April. Not like there's a clamoring at the gates for more, but it's better leaving an audience wanting more than to give them too much. Perhaps I'll have an audience again this year--including (yes) hecklers. A brief review of last year's posts will reveal one heckler, and I was very glad to have him/her (GlassHammer, if you're reading this, come back!).
Having a heckler means that someone is reading, and is concerned enough to post. Every poet should have a few--indeed, most poets I read don't have enough. There's usually plenty of family and friends who will love your work. But there's so many people who have never had any critique of their work--not just poets mind you, but virtually anyone whose work is open to review. Simply watch the first few shows of American Idol to see how few people, supposedly dedicated to their art, have received any helpful criticism of their work before performing (and American Idol is just the most blatant example). And if you should indeed search out critique of your work, how do you weigh which to work with, and which to set aside? That is work. If you want to do anything of value, you cannot escape it.

test, test

This is a test. I'm dusting off the blog...