August Ticking Away
New Work- 2017 From new audio collection intended release in the Fall – details pending in Cold Millers
The 18th Sunday of Ordinary Time
After going to St. Agnes for early morning mass that Sunday with Edna
Next we stopped at the IGA
And I happened to run across by chance one of my poems
in the frozen food isle.
It was about 70 years no and hand on a pink pin striped shirt w/ button down collars and gold wire rim glasses sporting a dignified full head of neatly cropped
Snow white hair that when it spotted me out of the blue years exclaimed in pure
Wonderment as I crossed his path near the potato chips
Exclaimed- My God……are you still alive ?
The nature of the observation was delivered in anything far from a
Congratulatory intonation or tone.
Stunned I merely shrugged checked out thinking about this
after in the parking lot as I returned to the car to put away the groceries in the back seat and told my mom I forgot something inside the store and would be right back.
Marched right into the IGA again. Quickly scanning all the isles asking for it.
Spotted that sorry SOB
at the end of the succotash aisle
Ran that Poem down- and he saw me coming too none to happy about it.
I confronted it and introduced myself and forced it to shake my hand and
Asked just what the hell as the meaning of previous remark ?
At this point it got real sheepish, with lower eyes mumbling something
About Lucky Ward hastily shoved off to meat counter.
And I couldn’t resist I yelled after him-
Yeah well- you always were a lousy poem anyway
Long Island Sound
Now in this past of a punched ticket
at low tide I drink down this July sun.
Cathedral afternoon of canopy blue
in an endless awning sky;
Myself looking at the sealed plastic bag
of fiddler crabs as bait
thinking how hot and doomed it was inside
Now after the rituals were observed
and completed nude solitary on the beach
Walking as elderly on the thousand stones
toward the water
wanting into the cold salty stinging sound
Your balls drawn up into a hard sphere
The waves at you ass the erect nipples
the water licking everything in degrees at once.
The excitement form the prospect of entering her
as she enter you.
These ten years past her flesh now sea better yet sound
Under this sky, bright bare to the shoreline shoulder
I’m dunking. Going under. Full immersion. Opening my
eyes underneath. The pressure of the silence has its
tongue in my ear. I’m coming up for air. I push off
and explode in high white foam.
I look back on the beach
to see who is lying under the makeshift driftwood
lean-to as the Sound breeze chops the darker blue
waters white while fluttering the contour sheet
in animated penciled in ripples.
And I recall falling into your eyes that moment
and never looking down
still finding I never, ever hit the bottom.
Another Rubber Eden 7/91-2/93
July will linger just near the door
as it is time now to go
and in a sigh or perhaps that an ordinary roar
informs the waning afternoon in the calendars
numerical voice that your number is up.
What startles you with all its whispering are
concussions that wakes the waves to break
and erode the short eroded rocky bug infested
I hear strange voices in this ardent insistent wind.
I feel a tongue just inches from my ear that speaks
‘in that sigh or ordinary roar that these years I
was assured I wouldn’t be able to hear anymore.
All about this hazy animation of dirty white foam
driven madly on and upon.
So parade a secession of walkers across the face in
the beach. They nod or speak appearing as apparitions
that drift windblown on the most silent of feet.
Only some will find the courage to speak.
Scraps of paper and fragments of prose difficult to define
whip by in a helpless driven fury.
Now expression has little opportunity for introspection
or reflection. The art of language has been lost in
the stiff insistence of a brisk lake gust of wind.
And the sky above is so blue and blank
and it’s almost like time herself has slipped out
of her harness and has run on the shoreline
riding on the wind, being blown all over the beach
naked, wild and free of the sigh or that ordinary roar
of us as July lingers near the calendars door.
Another Rubber Eden 7/95
Her Roll Of Lost Pictures.
So then his thunder was exposed as an endangered species.
Your brief downpour of words soaked the situation to everyone’s
dissatisfaction. They have this sure fleeting flash of
momentary light. Illumination to a la carte
Sure shows everything up. You can count on it.
But only so far for tonight. (and of course there are
expressly no substitutions.)
Move this night like a set of negatives never exposed
within aperture. Seems the film just never became tightly enough
twisted in a circle about the housing.
Much was missed. Still no one had the guts or the smarts to
question the intent. . . . but near the end I seemed to over
hear some smug talk from somebody so very intent on making
a point to everyone’s satisfaction.
Or was that barter: trade you your cross to bear for my axe
to grind: or Sure… you can remain the foremost expert in the
following category: most likely to be lost in translation.
I can’t change the way you waste one of the last few good
days at the start of September (like you had lots).
Let’s just try a small voice then saying, “if you have to
go, make the most of the season. Fall into October’s arms
already ablaze intent upon.
And if you find you don’t have anyone’s name to call
when autumn’s dream coat flashes some spectrum vivid;
remember how I once waited up for you call
while dropping plenty like the number of thunderstorms
left you could count on your
right hand after August.
Another Rubber Eden 9/97