One Who Is Always Arriving
You arrive as a limping bird who can still fly.
You arrive as an inscribed leaf I need to read.
Amid morning uproar, you arrive, riven
yet complete. You arrive at night as admonition,
as apples striving for ripeness in their bowl,
as herds lapping at a watering hole, as a torrent
of warnings and blessings, as a stream of belief
so molton that the joys, grudges and griefs
your arrivals inspire require infinite disguises.
The Cure
Doing fantastic, thanks for asking! I just chugged
a glass of dinosaur urine and feel new-baptized!
If you’re ever lucky enough get your hands
on a quart of this stuff don’t be squeamish.
It makes penicillin seem like skim milk!
No virus can slay you with dino piss in your system.
Last night I participated in the 8 pm scream-out
again. For a quarter of an hour the two halves
of my neighborhood yell as loud as they can
across our little canyon to prove to ourselves
as well as the folks we can’t see anymore
that we’re still kicking after nine months
of pandemic lockdown. Now my throat feels
strip-mined, but I’m glad cause my sense
of connection got fed—not a whole meal,
just a handful of crumbs—but hey, that’s way
better than nothing. After yesterday evening’s
hoot and holler session, a dude on the far side
of the ravine lugged a pair of ginormous speakers
up to his roof and blasted excerpts from two
of Dr. King’s famous sermons, plus some lines
from a Cesar Chavez speech I could understand
only half of because alas my Spanish is not what I
might wish. Then he proceeded to DJ a weirdass
menu of songs, so loud the balcony was quaking
under my feet, ranging from “Stayin’ Alive” by
the squeaky-voiced Bee Gees (who do sound like
insects) to Aretha Franklin belting “Chain of Fools”
(a comment on the hopefully outgoing government,
was my guess). Joan Baez sang “We Shall Overcome”
in her reedy soprano. Then Aretha again with
“Amazing Grace.” When realized I could actually
see the ant-sized guy responsible for curating
this spoken-word-and-song broadcast from across
the arroyo, shirtless on his roof with a quartet
of friends, I admit I cried a little bit. Then I went
back inside and downed another mug of sauropod
pee. It’s a lovely amber color, with notes of gingko,
horsetail and fern. That drink sure has kept me
going during this dark time.
The Great Conjunction
The Great Conjunction took place last night
as Saturn and Jupiter almost touched.
Or so it appeared to the naked eye.
It's been 400 years since the planets passed
so close to each other, and 800 years since
it happened at night. Excited to see this celestial
event, he wrapped me in quilts and coaxed me
onto the freezing balcony. The planets were hard
to find, but he used his compass. Eventually, I saw
two bright points, slightly pulsating. Jupiter, larger,
shone boldly. Saturn, fainter, hovered above
and to the left. This morning we woke to frost
and a smiling lake. Clothes puddled the rug.
What looked like a fifth of ancient daylight resolved
into a bottle of gin. When he opened the curtains
the glare made me wince. Tucked in like this,
under thick quilts, I feel like a ring baked into a cake.
The previous night we’d forged an inviolate private reality.
Empires rose and fell as we wrestled in bed. Horses snorted
and reared. I tumbled from a great height in slow motion,
hair flying behind me. Later, we swam in a river. Did he
see these things too, or was he rinsed in different
visions? No way to tell. It’s funny how one’s spirits
can sink in a moment. Now he touches my shoulder
and asks, “Are you still with me?” His face like some
distant cousin’s in an old photo. I try to look at him,
my eyes weedy with dream. Dressing, he says,
“I’ll return with coffee.” A cart rattles down
the hall. Elevators ding, as the hungry descend
towards breakfast. Nearly impossible to roll out
of bed. Yet I aspire to be vibratingly awake, to pour
myself into whoever walks by and ride around
inside them awhile, to bundle up, rush outside
and huff up whiffs of mulch and cave breath
as well as the world’s perfumes, let all that act as
truth serums. The boy I can sort of see through
the window could be a young monk in his dark
blue hoodie, kicking at stiffened shrubs, pulled
along by the dancey dog he’s walking. I'd like
to slide inside his or the mutt’s mind for a while,
beam myself into them as a ventriloquist throws
his voice so that a hat left on a chair seems to be
telling crude jokes. I smear a porthole on the fogged
window glass with my fist and say, Take me with you!
But dog and boy, to my chagrin, just keep walking.
Pucker and Fizz
Poems are prophetic. Or mimetic.
Or eidetic or pathetic. Or regret-ic.
Or pleading. Poems can be free-
wheeling seas of molten feeling. Or
trance-inducing, corseted, or misleading.
Poems leave traces everywhere, as beasts
leave tracks upon earth and air with
wings and feet. Thank you, Poetry,
for protecting me from collapse, sack,
overthrow, and defeat. It was sweet
of you, Poetry, to invite me to dine with
the Society of Extinct Animals, hearty eaters
all, and each a fan, since their rise and fall,
of shouting into the obliterating wind.
Poetry, is it wrong for me now to break
my lifelong vow never to talk about Poetry
in a poem? And Poetry, from whence
do these fits of love assail me, as I watch
dogs slurp water, or when I sip a puckery
citrus fizz? Insistent as rip tides, where
do these spasma of love for all that is
come from? My guts? My shrunk-
to-a-raisin brain? These sudden loves drive
me bonkers and save my bacon. But what
am I to do when seized by wracking
transports of adoration daily, in ways I
can’t contain? Here, Poetry, you take them.
