1
the forest
went for a walk on a wooded island
where no one lives
heard a wild turkey
turkeying in the bush
saw a rainbow
of coloured mushrooms
the sun was shining hard
for mid morning in early September
and I could hear
a cornucopia of mosquitoes, flies, gnats
nothing has changed for me
I see the beauty
as nature rarely lets anyone down
but it doesn’t matter
what I hear on my soundtrack
is my Uncle’s laughing taunts
the sounds of my childhood
around my ankles in a weep
2
Delmore Shwartz said
my dead mother appeared in my dreams last night
and I was so happy to see her
she’s been dead and dust these twenty-three years
so you can imagine my surprise
what ever joy was quickly abated
by the guy playing me in my dreams
he started yelling at my dead mother
that she would “never understand”
the aware and awake me horrified
that I’d wasted the opportunity
mortified that I just didn’t hug her
and hang on
Delmore Shwartz said
that responsibility begins in our dreams
and Delmore
was one clever guy
but the asshole who played me
in my dream last night won’t be invited back
my mother didn’t seem
to like him at all
3
the snore
my wife of twenty years
lying snoring beside me
soft, quiet, napping type snores
you don’t fall in love
because of snoring
or any of the other
innocuous sounds
life brings bounding into marriage
I like to think
that her snoring
comes from a deep reservoir
of calm
the love sighs
of the secure
we are at a lake, it is summer
my wife in repose in a black bathing suit
whispering sibilant greetings
from that place we go to slumber
a code deciphered over two decades
of sharing a pillow
4
another Christmas Carol
it was the weekend before Christmas
I’d returned to the town I grew up in
for a funeral of sorts
an old friend had died too young
and his clan was gathering
to fete him out in style
hundreds came
sang
raised a glass
on the same trip
I went to the local hospital
to see the man who raised me
the man I called Dad
I’d seen him several weeks ago
and he’d been okay
in the intervening days
he had tumbled
he’d fallen headfirst
into his own
deathwish
he’d quit
talking
taken out his teeth
and given up
this man and I
don’t share a name
or blood
the space between us
has always been tempered
by my mother, my sisters
as death approaches
slower than my father would wish
it seems all pretense is gone
I’ve called this man Dad
for fifty years
and when I arrived
and asked if he
wanted a visit
he said “no”
knowing it might be our last
I said those things
I wanted him to know
attempted to say my goodbye
longed for some connect
some eye contact
my voice echoed around his room
and I sat there listening to it
until it was time to leave
I kissed his balding head
and watched his eyes
not watching me
I said my sad goodbyes
and then
walked quiet down the hall
he’d never said
another
word
5
that moment where she smiles
it’s almost midnight
in a few minutes I’ll pick up a book
and head up to bed
I usually read a book of poems before sleep
tonight it will be the Collected Poems of Lenore Kandel
when I get into bed
my side of the sheets will be cold
I’ll cuddle with my sleeping wife for a moment
it is a sleeping ritual, she’ll wake, smile, kiss me
and then curl into my back
as I turn the pages, read those poems
in the morning, she’ll be up for an hour
before she wakes me to shower
I’ll drive her to work
and then back home
where I will make the bed, do the dishes
cook the supper
and then wait for that moment
that comes late at night
where she wakes up again, smiles
loves me
6
Valle de Vinales
we drove out of the city towards the mountains
as the haze of Havana disappeared in the mirror
a ’51 Ford cut in front of our path
belching black smoke
out of its’ sixty-three year old muffler
we rolled through the country side
past the proposed grand canal ditch
and into those hills
that we were told looked like China
at a small private diner tucked off of the road
my wife ate the chicken
and I had the shredded beef
there was lots of salad, beans and rice
tender yucca with sweet oil
in the mountains we found the caves
and in the caves a river
and on the river in the cave
we took a motorboat
the motorboat went down that river
and out the other side
of the mountain
where a man was offering rides
on a saddled long-horned oxen
the beast didn’t seem to mind
driving back to the city
we were quieter
sated
as we watched the Cuban countryside
roll out and away from us
in every single direction
7
Comrades
you are travelling
with a large group of people
guilt by association
idiocy by proxy
it’s simple math
in any large group
you are going to have
a Larry, a Curly, a Moe
the average age on our bus of fifty
is fifty, or more
plenty of years to hone idiosyncrasy
no one is worse than any other
just louder or more devious
or more out of place
my seat mate and life partner
we are not immune
we have our own silliness
our own aging flaws
our tourist bus magically
arrives at our next destination
our group spills out
like wilted flowers
searching for a stream
8
the Beatles
the Beatles tore the 20th century apart
the 2nd World War tore the 20th century apart
Dr. Martin Luther King tore the 20th century apart
the mercury soaked lips
of the beautiful Yasar Arafat
tore the 20th century apart
Michael Corleone tore the 20th century apart
Nazis tore the 20th century apart
Mao Tse Tung tore the 20th century apart
John Wayne Gacy tore the 20th century apart
Woodstock and Biafara tore the 20th century apart
Henry Ford and the automobile tore the 20th century apart
Coca-Cola tore the 20th century apart
Little Joe and Hoss Cartwright tore the 20th century apart
the Berlin Wall and the Great Wall tore the 20th century apart
Women’s Liberation tore the 20th century apart
my sister Sally tore the 20th century apart
AIDS tore the 20th century apart
the Kalashnikov tore the 20th century apart
racism tore the 20th century apart
greed tore the 20th century apart
Elvis Presley tore the 20th century apart
Richard Nixon tore the 20th century apart
and so on
9
Che
in Cuba
he is present everywhere
perhaps loved most
because he didn’t live
long enough
to diminish his legend
being a revolutionary
is romantic stuff
building a nation
and an ideology
as Fidel will tell you
can be hard on one’s reputation
Che’s beautiful charismatic face
never ages, never compromises
the old Grandmother sits under glass
behind the old palace
as tourists get sunburns in sandals
spend their hard currency
on cigars and hats
they will never wear again
somewhere in Bolivia
the ghost of Che cringes
crumples his fatigue coloured cap
in frustration
10
it’s so hard to know what is true
it’s so hard to know what is true
this is the same all over the world
burning monks try to tell the truth in Nepal
the Berlin Wall is now in pieces
in a million different homes
scraps of painted concrete
sold by East Germans
and enterprising Poles
ghosts sing silly songs in Rwanda
and the Taliban still shoots school girls
Nelson Mandela, who was so angry
he saw black and white and red
walked out of that stone-breaking prison
and turned the other cheek
while somewhere in Serbia
a monk, desperate and holy
forgives himself in a sea of pivo
Leonard Peltier may have been at Wounded Knee
he sure as hell was at Little Big Horn
now, well, you know where he is now
it is so hard
to tell the truth
like the butcher with his thumb on the scale
we try to balance
what we know
with what we need
we try to reckon with reason
tell ourselves the story
that makes us feel best
dogs bark their barky bark
and cats meow and growl
I’ve even seen
a cat who could bark like a dog
when the occasion called for it
although she felt guilty about it
when discovered
it was the first time I saw
that animals are liars too
11
“We Are Dust”
Mujahedeen saying
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness
Is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last.
Charlotte Bronte, 1847
in our country tolerance is waning
as the world turns right
all those long battles for human rights
papered over with short-sighted dogma
heartless theory where
ideology trumps reason
historically, we know all these things
just ask the Jews of Berlin
all those crazy Russian cats
playing jazz in those cool gulags
ask the Cree how ideology
worked out for them
as the Jesuit crows descended
like black rain
as the future faded fast and final on Hiroshima
in the bright light of a promised dark
we are dust
specks under the illuminating sun
what we take from this earth
and each other
the measure
of our complicity
what we give back
our only chance at grace
12
who the smart people are
“The truth is, most wisdom is embittering. The task of the wise person cannot
be to pretend with false naiveté that every moment is new and unprecedented, but
to bear the burden of bitterness that experience forces on us with as much
uncomplaining dignity as strength will allow. Beyond that, all we can ask of
ourselves is that bitterness not cancel out our capacity still to be surprised.”
-Phillip Lapote
so Nelson Mandela is now
where he’ll never have to crush
another rock
so is Tito, so is Jimmy Stewart
“we are dust” cry the Mujahedeen
“Ask the Dust” suggested John Fante
it’s hard to know
who the smart people are
I suspect the best of them
never reveal a thing
they keep their wisdom
to themselves
hold their cards close to their chests
never raise their hands
at home
in their quiet rooms
they lament over idiocy
put their pants on
one leg at a time
wait, patiently
for the next thing
to happen
13
worms
there are enough
stars in the sky
for all of my wishes
and all of yours
too
my reasoning
is no better
than yours
we climb over
one another
like we were monkeys
in a puzzle
like we were alligators
in the reeds
our big bug eyes
breaking surface
all that menace
underneath
you need what I have
and vice versa
we all want
our version of joy
the apple in the tree
doesn’t recognize the picker
doesn’t care about much
at all
apple sauce or gravity
we will eat the apple
or the worms will get it
if we eat the apple
or not
the worms will get us
eventually
14
Rock Haven Motor Hotel
she got into my cab at the train station
knew where she wanted to go
it was a motel just west of the city
I was much younger then
and she seemed very lonely
we talked the few miles
talked through the red lights
and the green
and when we arrived at the motel
the Rock Haven Motor Hotel
we were on a first name basis
and for a tip
she asked me into her room
it was clear what she wanted
what she needed
and I was willing
to give her some of it
but by the time
we were through
it was clear
I didn’t have what she needed
she cried while I got dressed
and cried some more
when I kissed her goodbye
I closed the door softly
got back in my taxi
turned on the light
let the dispatcher know
I was back in business
rolled the big car softly
over the noisy gravel
and back out
onto the street
15
how else would we get through the night
ghosts can hold you in your dreams
those voices you hear on a windy street
the reflection on a store window
when no one is passing by
we all see them, hear them, ignore them
we are tired, distracted
but when did you think they’d appear
our ghosts know when we need them most
I hear dead poet friends
reading their dead poems
see my mother in every
Judy Garland movie
It is the same for you all
they watch over us
while we sleep
how else
would we get through
the night
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