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There's a full moon over the garage.
Happens this time of year.
Four months ago it was Orion, the lout,
with his stinking winter pelt
and bloody club.
Only too happy to see him fade in the West
and leave the sky open
for this fume-y disk, which tonight shows
either the face of an old man
or a rabbit running a treadmill,
depending on your eye or culture.
I'm happy to see either,
welcome for the change of face again,
happy to have this morose orb back
(the moon is only happy when you rhyme her with June).
You can stay over my garage all night, I tell her;
tho your heart is fickle, and will
eventually invite
Orion back--
that's months away.
I'll wait until you next appear full
before I bring out the basil seeds
to plant them in your light,
cursing at each one as the Roman did*.
Tonight, I'll just enjoy
your bare illumination
through my open window.
[Note: The ancient Romans were said to plant basil seeds only at night during a full moon, and curse at each seed as they planted them in order to ensure a large harvest.)
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Friday, April 30, 2010
Poem #27: Don't Tell My Neighbors
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.
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An email this morning from the neighborhood association;
sixteen unlocked cars robbed last night.
Two cops tracked down one of the kids.
One accomplice remains at large.
None of the loot has been found.
I put on some clothes and checked my car.
No theft, but I check the premises;
I've found empty purses stuffed in my bushes before,
vacant wallets, scattered small change,
even a Carhartt jacket, almost new,
crammed behind the fence.
I kept the jacket.
Don't tell my neighbors.
.
.
.
.
.
An email this morning from the neighborhood association;
sixteen unlocked cars robbed last night.
Two cops tracked down one of the kids.
One accomplice remains at large.
None of the loot has been found.
I put on some clothes and checked my car.
No theft, but I check the premises;
I've found empty purses stuffed in my bushes before,
vacant wallets, scattered small change,
even a Carhartt jacket, almost new,
crammed behind the fence.
I kept the jacket.
Don't tell my neighbors.
.
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Poem #26: Going Somewhere Else
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.
.
What are you doing up there,
she asks, why aren't you down here?
Oh, I'm trying to write, I say.
But I don't mention
sitting by the open window,
listening for the freight train,
going somewhere else.
.
.
.
.
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What are you doing up there,
she asks, why aren't you down here?
Oh, I'm trying to write, I say.
But I don't mention
sitting by the open window,
listening for the freight train,
going somewhere else.
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Thursday, April 29, 2010
Poem #25: Zack at the Door
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Zack drops by every day this week.
He doesn't mention it,
but a 14-year-old dropping by, asking for yard work
on a weekday morning in April
must have been suspended from school. Again.
Again I tell him to come back on the weekend,
I'm busy, I have no money, and
no I don't have any cigs
(I lie).
But he's cool with that.
He's a scrawny, snaggle-toothed punk,
and by punk I mean
he's into skateboards and the Ramones;
says he lives with his dad and grandpa.
they used to live in the neighborhood,
but were evicted from their rental
two weeks ago, and are now holed up
in some flea-bag motel on the west side of town.
He walks the four miles to my neighborhood
because there's more homeowners, like me,
for whom he's done work the past year,
and every now and then he can still be handed
a rake or shovel or broom or mower
to do some yard work for a couple of hours.
He grins his set of cartoon teeth
and says "Hey, no problem, I'll be back!"
And he will, and he'll work, too.
Even this anarchist-punk junior high dropout
embraces a work ethic I admire.
It's me that's a slacker,
wanting to get another hour of sleep in this weekend
while I hear him rake the front garden.
.
.
.
.
.
Zack drops by every day this week.
He doesn't mention it,
but a 14-year-old dropping by, asking for yard work
on a weekday morning in April
must have been suspended from school. Again.
Again I tell him to come back on the weekend,
I'm busy, I have no money, and
no I don't have any cigs
(I lie).
But he's cool with that.
He's a scrawny, snaggle-toothed punk,
and by punk I mean
he's into skateboards and the Ramones;
says he lives with his dad and grandpa.
they used to live in the neighborhood,
but were evicted from their rental
two weeks ago, and are now holed up
in some flea-bag motel on the west side of town.
He walks the four miles to my neighborhood
because there's more homeowners, like me,
for whom he's done work the past year,
and every now and then he can still be handed
a rake or shovel or broom or mower
to do some yard work for a couple of hours.
He grins his set of cartoon teeth
and says "Hey, no problem, I'll be back!"
And he will, and he'll work, too.
Even this anarchist-punk junior high dropout
embraces a work ethic I admire.
It's me that's a slacker,
wanting to get another hour of sleep in this weekend
while I hear him rake the front garden.
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Monday, April 26, 2010
Poem #24: Tyrannosaurus Sex
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Back in the late Cretaceous period,
Tyrannosaurus had their own Vegas in Utah.
Every day was a gamble, but T. Rex
usually ran the table, the food was free, and
the views were much better.
T. Rex was the Pit Boss,
and so what if their sex
was loud and awkward?
What happened in Utah
stayed in Utah.
The Mormons would change all that,
of course,
but only after
the late Cretaceous period
was a petrified stain.
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.
.
.
.
Back in the late Cretaceous period,
Tyrannosaurus had their own Vegas in Utah.
Every day was a gamble, but T. Rex
usually ran the table, the food was free, and
the views were much better.
T. Rex was the Pit Boss,
and so what if their sex
was loud and awkward?
What happened in Utah
stayed in Utah.
The Mormons would change all that,
of course,
but only after
the late Cretaceous period
was a petrified stain.
.
.
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Sunday, April 25, 2010
Poem #23: Four Senryu
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Crock full of wooden spoons;
I can stir things up
as long as they're not on fire.
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.
Radio on all night.
Fervid pundits put me to sleep,
but I wake to a light rain.
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.
She insisted she was chaste,
but the ethics of her perfume said
leather, smoke, bruised lilac.
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.
.
The oxygen machine has
a 30-foot hose.
Beyond that, you're in your own atmosphere.
.
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.
.
.
Crock full of wooden spoons;
I can stir things up
as long as they're not on fire.
.
.
.
Radio on all night.
Fervid pundits put me to sleep,
but I wake to a light rain.
.
.
.
She insisted she was chaste,
but the ethics of her perfume said
leather, smoke, bruised lilac.
.
.
.
The oxygen machine has
a 30-foot hose.
Beyond that, you're in your own atmosphere.
.
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Poem #22: Tree, Car, Tree
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.
Catkins from the hop-hornbeam tree
cover the car like green worms.
I just had it washed
[the car, not the tree]..
But inside
[the car, not the tree],
it still smells of lemons
and scrubbed vinyl.
But even at this time, especially at this time,
I enjoy sitting under it
[the tree, not the car].
.
.
.
.
.
Catkins from the hop-hornbeam tree
cover the car like green worms.
I just had it washed
[the car, not the tree]..
But inside
[the car, not the tree],
it still smells of lemons
and scrubbed vinyl.
But even at this time, especially at this time,
I enjoy sitting under it
[the tree, not the car].
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