Composing daily now lets me realize
I tend to set my pen to paper waste.
I’m using pages used to list supplies
I need, and positing iambs in haste.
It’s like I don’t expect much from my tries
until I see the fruit and have a taste
of draft, until I’ve edited enough,
and then I grant good paper to my stuff.
A year ago I bought a ceiling fan
as part of the remodel. Ever since
I’ve loved it, but five days ago a man
who’s dear to me exploded. I’ve had hints
he’s overstressed, but that was evidence
of someone reeling far out of control.
The shit will need more washing than a rinse.
The cry for help is obvious and whole:
I have to clean my walls; he needs to cleanse his soul.
Near 14 years ago, my dentist said
“You need a root canal,” and touched the spot:
“though nothing hurts, before this tooth is dead,
before the pain explodes. I kid you not.”
By then I understood my gum disease
(though I don’t own a perio diploma).
I saw my guy – he peers and disagrees,
and says “That’s actually a cementoma.”
I didn’t need that endodontic cure.
Since then I’ve undergone much gum repair,
extractions, implants, brushes, rinses, pills.
Now recent swelling makes my dentist sure
I need a root canal. Is this a flare
of gum disease? They have to run their drills.
The virus invaded our city.
The federal fuckup’s not pretty.
Germ load’s now our mess,
Aggravated by stress,
And everyone’s outlook is shitty.
A month ago, the music of the birds
was serenade from dawn to nearly noon.
Today to put the garden sound in words,
I hear the insect buzz and squirrel zoom.
The bees are drinking salvia and flies
are bumping window glass. The whine
of a mosquito makes me slap my eyes
and box my ears. The most disruptive sign
of spring is squirrels in the eucalypt.
A half a dozen spiral up the trunk
and down again, dislodging branches tipped
with twigs to clatter on the deck. They bunk
above, they piss from high in darting hurry,
and earn their term of venery: a scurry.
I worked for years with somebody so drab
and dull, I wondered how her weekends went.
For most the Monday lunches she would blab
about her social life: how excellent
that picnic felt; this party was a blast.
But then we took a business trip. She stood
alone against the walls until it passed,
and raved on our return that all was good.
It blew my mind. I’d seen she had no fun,
but she recalled and called it otherwise.
And ever since, when I hear anyone
enthusing, I don’t feel the old surprise.
I cannot know how purple looks to you,
when you’re confused, or if your joy is true.
When I lived here in 1968,
we drove old Volkswagens and ate low-cost.
We roomed with dogs and fleas and smoked a lot.
Some nights we heard explosive noises, late
and loud. We learned the sound of bad exhaust
would never rattle windows. Some forgot
how bullets boom, and think the claps we hear
are weapons aimed and ammunition tossed,
yet I can tell from memory they’re not –
they’re fireworks, but Nextdoor neighbors fear
gunshot.
Two months ago, I couldn’t find a roll
of toilet paper on a shelf or site.
An order of Feridies took a whole
three weeks at least to make it to my porch.
Supply chain tangles out of my control
induced in me not worry but concern –
attention to the shipment-tracking stole
good moments. Peanuts now come overnight,
and paper’s not a desperate shopping goal.
They said we’re free; we’re great; we’re number one.
I watched and felt too doubtful to believe.
When I complained, the world called me naive.
The war before my birth the allies won,
but since I’ve been, too rarely we achieve.
They said we’re free; we’re great; we’re number one.
I watched and felt too doubtful to believe.
Analysis and memory are spun
to serve some purpose petty to perceive.
I don’t know why compatriots deceive.
They said we’re free; we’re great; we’re number one.
I watched and felt too doubtful to believe.
When I complained, the world called me naive.
I never have liked gardening as much
as mother, brother, friends and cousins do.
My thumbs are beige; I seem to lack the touch
and patience. I prefer to read and view
the scene outside my windows. I don’t own
an inside plant. Bouquets can make me groan –
cut flowers are like cat-mauled birds to me:
a gift of fugitive morbidity.
But I adore the green outside my place.
I marvel at the dignity of trees,
appreciate the bees and birds and shade.
I live where roses thrive and sages grace
the yards. This spring I shrink from dread disease,
but stretch to use my pruning shears and spade.
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