Unforgetting

I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. But I cannot let the anniversary of last days of Peggy’s life go unnoted. I celebrated her birthday on May 2^nd and now I find myself commemorating the way she lived her dying four years ago. She lived 100 years plus 100 days.

Over our forty years together, Peggy and I created a soil in which our love watered and sunned a garden. I find myself imbued with that love as I embrace my remaining years. When she died, grief felt to me like self-pity. Instead, I celebrate the gift she bequeathed. When I go, she said of my future, go for it. I have.

While under hospice care she continued to write poetry until a week before the end on August t5, 2021. She faced the east window and communed with a hummingbird while singing along with the Irish folk group, Celtic Thunder. Below are excerpts of poems she wrote leading up to her death. All are taken from her chap book, Two Is A Sacred Number.*

I’ve taken some liberties with the lines I chose. I have conflated the overwhelming love she radiated with her embrace of the ultimate unknown. Both love and dying, I believe, are aspects of letting go, a mysterious transport.

 

A love that springs from nothingness, with opulence expanding,

To welcome each day in the flourish of this enormity,

our constant wedding.

Love has its own arithmetic,

Knows only how to increase.

 

From this window, larger than these years

you bring me vessels for the insistence of green.

Through your eyes I see rivers to remind us

what keeps moving, fluid as bodies.

You have traveled me here, out of a thirsty night

through advancing dark, into a moist

and sudden incandescence.

Love flares from its invisible yes.

 

Flesh answers more than desire

I/you forget to be old.

A Mozart rondo filling me with now.

 

Through the crack in the bedroom wall,

Green mystery makes its way.

When you enter among monarch butterflies

what I see comes to this:

The tree-lit park, touch of silk

The taste of tangerines.

 

Where we have traveled has carried me home.

I find my way to the orange sunrise

Even at the ebb of my long life.

* Peggy wrote under her maiden name, Peggy Aylsworth. Her poetry books are available from Amazon.

The Revolutionary Macaroni

Some words travel well and tell a slice of history in their migration. Take macaroni, for instance.

Yankee Doodle went to town / riding on a pony / stuck a feather in his cap / and called it macaroni.

We sing this song signifying patriotism. Yet I doubt many Americans have the slightest idea what they are singing about. Hint: it has nothing to do with pasta.

In the early 1700s, a macaroni was a word the Brits used to describe a well-traveled, sophisticated man. It then morphed into an effeminate male, foppish in his fashion.

By the time of the French & Indian war, circa 1760, the macaroni flipped again. It suddenly became a term of ridicule designating a country bumpkin trying too hard to look like a gentleman, thus meant to mock the American colonist.

In fact, it was sung in derision for the lowly rebel who thought he could stick a feather in his cap and call himself a dandy, a macaroni. Note that he rode a pony, not a horse. A doodle is a simpleton. And what, I hear you ask, is a Yankee?

The original Dutch settlers were the subjects of derision again by those nasty invaders from England. The Englishmen (John Bull) called those from the Netherlands, (Jan Kees), hence Yankees. Seems like everybody had names for the other. So much for the nonsense of national identity.

By the time of the Revolutionary War, the entire song was stood on its head. The tune of King George’s bad guys was adapted by us, the good guys, and suddenly it became a symbol of patriotism. When the Red Coats surrendered at Yorktown, Washington had his army band strike up a rendition of Yankee Doodle.

It was as if the entire war was fought over who owned Yankee Doodle. Or, as I’d like to think, it was a triumph of the common man. My other takeaway is how gusts of new consciousness move language and carry the seeds for revolutionary change. Keep your eyes on the MAGA macaroni.

  

Public Square

They have tables and they have chairs. We sit under our favorite ash tree and chew on big and small ideas over lunch. On weekdays my friends and I often gather in this public courtyard and order a choice of salad, pasta or pizza to-go for $9.00. The venue is Il Forno Restaurant on Ocean Park Blvd and 29^th St. It’s the best kept secret in Santa Monica.

I suggest that Zelensky and Putin meet here and end the carnage in Ukraine. BYOB, bring your own borscht. Let them first have a food fight if they must and then settle in and save their people from further bloodshed and displacement. Nothing ever happens on an empty stomach, so go ahead, Vladamir and Volodymyr, keep eating. Share your salad and pasta. Nobody's looking. 

On another table Bibi, Trump and the Ayatollah could spring for falafel and then get real. After hostages are freed, Gaza can be declared a demilitarized free city with open access and reconstruction. Let them admit their shame as pasta slides off their forks. Then the three of them can start writing their Nobel Peace Prize joint acceptance speech.  

The tables are round, great for conversation. We huddle and think great thoughts. Basil expounds on pre-history and intergalactic speculations. Dean offers his views on Erasmus’s advocacy for humanism as opposed to Martin Luther. I sit in awe of my learned friends, busy contemplating the arrangement of broccoli and peppers on my vegetarian pizza.

There is much to be said for a public square. It wouldn't hurt if speakers on phones were banned as a courtesy. It is hard to find such a space without going to the park and dealing with picnics and flying frisbees. 

But for civil discourse on the meaning of life in a godless universe and other light subjects, nothing beats my courtyard on Ocean Park Blvd. where revolutionary plots can be hatched at the drop of Caesar salad, and you can't beat the price.

Off to the side, I spotted a rather stout man giggling under a bodhi tree. But that may have been an apparition.

 

Dick, Hank and Donald

The reign of Donald the 1^st has me thinking how he will be regarded by future writers and even those in our midst, when normalcy is restored.

This led me back to Richard the 3^rd, and how he was maligned by Shakespeare, writing in the service of Elizabeth, the reigning Tudor of the day. Dick was deposed by Hank, the 7^th, father of the next Henry whose depravity we can’t seem to get enough of.

This is the way it goes with a monarch. Fawning sycophants blowing sweet nothings into his ear until they stumble and lose their heads. It then takes someone like the Bard to set in stone the deviltry of his patron’s predecessor.

While Hank-8 is buried at Windsor Castle, Dick-3 rotted in Potter’s Field for five centuries and then got paved over as a parking lot. His skeletal remains were exhumed a few years ago and revealed a counter narrative to the one Will Shakespeare spun.

No twisted, withered arm, his back less hunched or humped into a mountain as Shakespeare had it, and no unequal, limping legs. More importantly, Richard III allowed for petitions of the poor and set up legal aid for them in a Court of Requests, later abolished by his successor, Henry VII. He protected merchants by prohibiting the importation of goods from abroad, exempting books which he encouraged for the people. Laws, henceforth, would be written in the common tongue.

Conversely, one wonders how the mountain of retrogressive acts by Donald will be remembered. Will Trump, the man-child,  become a dynasty like the Tudors? Yahweh forbid. 

16th and 17th century media in the hands of great pens could move minds just as Fox News and social media does today. Even in the 19th century Charles Dickens' Tale of Two Cities became the accepted version of the French revolution. 

I probably won't be around to have my question answered. My guess is it will take a generation or more to repair the damage done to the fabric of this once great nation. Even worse, Donald's push for fossil fuels and callous indifference toward the degradation of our environment may doom the planet irreparably. 

I expect there will be dozens of poets, essayists, playwrights and novelists eager to unravel Donald's gibberish and translate his jejune vocabulary to adult language. The challenge is to grasp the full extent of his appeal, where it came from, what sustains it and how a country embraced spectacle over substance, nescience over research, and how indecency, malice and incoherence became a virtue.  

I seem to have written myself to a summer / winter of my discontent. I allow this to happen on Tuesdays and Thursday. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday I convince myself that sane voices will prevail and on weekends I let the miracle of life wash over me and plan my afterlife. As Jimmy Durante used to say, Let me hear dat trumpet. Dat's no trumpet. Dat's no trumpet. Dat's a trumpet. 

 

Friends

As our country grows more unrecognizable each day, friends are poring over maps considering spots to relocate, at least till we collectively come to our senses. I expect to stay put and ponder about leaving this world for the next one. Do you mean there is no next one? In that case I’ll check out Emily’s List for an ice floe and be done with it. 

This brought to mind phone calls from a couple of my dear-departed but wacko friends a while back. She left a message on my answering machine: Sorry I missed you but maybe you’re not back yet from Mexico. Hope you are having a good time in San Miguel Allende. I thought to myself: Did I forget to go to Mexico the way some folks forget to have children? Maybe I should hop a flight and look for the expat community. 

When she reached me, she apologized saying she was thinking of somebody else who went to Hawaii. This is the way it works with octo and nonagenarians. I told her I couldn’t make it to Mexico but I’d been drinking margaritas to make up for it. I was glad not to have gone to Hawaii since I have a profound dislike for all things coconut. 

She said she was sorry to hear about my allergy to peanuts. I was also sorry to hear about it since I’d just had some peanut sauce with Chinese food. Was my body beginning to itch all over or was that a reaction from the coconuts I didn’t eat by not going to Hawaii? At least I didn’t have jet lag. 

I thanked her for saving me a visit to the dermatologist as well as an intestinal disorder from suspicious lettuce where I might have perished from dehydration in an emergency room, an unclaimed body with a tag on my toe. 

We need friends like this in our twilight years to check up on us as our diminishing memory turns into galloping senility and other childhood diseases. The phone is ringing again. This time from a friend who started telling me about the time he set fire to the shower curtains while his mother was taking a bath. He was seven and apparently a very curious boy. I didn’t ask when he was weaned from the breast. It was 1934 and times were tough. I’m sure this is not why he called but I forgave him his trespasses. How we segued to this defining moment neither of us could recall. That’s how life works. The chronology turns to mush. 

How I ever got to my ninety-third year when just yesterday I was eleven can only be explained by missing a plane to Mexico because of the skin rash I didn’t get from not eating Chinese food in the bathtub with burned coconuts or was it caramelized walnuts?

Even as the specter of a dictatorship looms large, I plan on living out my shelf-life blabbering in blissful incoherence. Flights of imagination will be my letters of transit out of this world.

  

In Search For Beginnings

Nostalgia has a bad name; always has. Longing for the imagined past can be a delusional exercise or at least a sentimental journey. In the 17^th century it was regarded as a sickness, a form of melancholia suffered by seaman who couldn’t wait to return home. Try getting your HMO to cover that.

Yet, raise your hand if you replay those glory years. That home run I hit in the schoolyard is still orbiting a distant galaxy. The older I get, the better I used to be.   

I like a beer now and then but can’t tell the difference between Schlitz, Pabst, Miller or Modello. Yet, I also can’t forget one of their old commercials…which shows what sort of programs I watched. We only go around once in life and should therefore (spend our remaining days drinking Schlitz beer) or as he put it… live it with all the gusto you can.

What about harps and wings sprouting from my shoulders? Sounds like heresy to me and I’ll drink to that.

One man’s gusto is another’s big yawn. At the moment my attention is turned back to how I got from there to here; the breadcrumbs of my madeleine. I have always associated the recovery of time past as a personal detective story and a comedy. I think of Peter Falk as Colombo - Columbus in his crumpled overcoat discovering the new world called Truth or beginnings. There’s just one more thing…

Maybe this comes from seeing too many movies as a kid. The intrepid sleuth snooping, the black sedan trailing him, the goon holding up the lamppost across the street, getting bopped in the alley, everyone a suspect and all of them assembled in the last scene. The detective deduces and detects. He unravels the essential mystery at the core as if now I know why my brother died early, why my father could barely read, and my mother trusted no one or... how I was gifted with three loving daughters having stumbled and bumbled my way along and then got so lucky.

It's not fair that we’re allotted only one childhood, and we are too busy living it to have taken notes. Maybe that’s what old age is for. To rewrite everything I should have said and the dumb things I shouldn’t have, those years of zits and scars.

Julian Barnes wrote, A child wants to see. He was able to walk and could reach up to a door handle. He did this with nothing in mind that could be called a purpose, merely the instinctive tourism of infancy. A door was there to be pushed; he walked in, stopped, and looked.

In my infantile tourism I am at a window about three flights up looking down. A car is on fire, and I hear sirens coming. Across the street there is a derrick moving dirt and bricks are being laid. Another apartment house is going up.

I’m not so sure anymore about the car fire because I may be confusing it with my Little Red Fire Engine book. The dirt-mover is certain. It is on Talbot Street. in Kew Gardens, and I am between 3 and 4. Why that image while thousands of other sights have been shredded? It was unusual enough to be retained and when I see bricks mortared today it comes back to me. How does this figure in the detective story?

Guilt. Something went wrong. I wonder what I did or didn’t. I was a poor eater. I violated the clean plate policy. Serious stuff. People were starving in China… because of me. I wasn’t listening. Didn’t wear galoshes. That third sweater. Went out unprotected. No wonder I got measles, mumps, whooping cough, even scarlet fever. What about polio? Don’t go swimming. And head lice? Don’t lean back on the movie chair. Don’t. Don’t. How will I ever remember all these don’ts?

The don’ts get embedded. I fight for every Do. The derrick moves the dirt. I climb the hill, gradually find my gusto. Case closed………but not so fast. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

Poetry and Populism

If Walt Whitman lived today, what song would he hear America singing? In his day he must have heard the agony of the lash and sound of sweet chariots coming. He had an ear for the suffering as he tended to war-wounded and he heard the rattle of gold amassed during the Gilded Age. 

He knew the commonweal. Untamed himself, he sounded his own barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. Whitman contained multitudes. He gave voice to the working man, to each leaf of grass, to this cradle of democracy endlessly rocking.

The decline of our country can be marked by the radical change of what we used to call the masses. In Depression days after the 1929 Crash, the rural poor seemed aligned with an urban working class. They may have been largely uneducated, racist and Bible-thumpers, but they understood exploitation and bank foreclosures. And they understood that their staunchest friend was the federal government.

In addition, they could smell a demagogue when Huey Long was renounced as he tried to establish a mobocracy in Louisiana.

Credit the Republican Party with dumbing down the underclass, keeping their collective minds off their own well-being and turning their animosity against the single institution which has always benefited them the most, the government in Washington, where any semblance of a safety net was given birth.

Informed populism scares corporate America; but an aggrieved, ill-informed and misled populace is a grave danger to the very welfare of the masses and to democracy itself.

Would Whitman be mourning that our fearful ship is done, as he grieved over the loss of, Oh captain, my captain, Abraham Lincoln? Would he further write that the lilac last in the courtyard bloomed? Or could he find the cadence that beats jubilant our feet. He wrote that the future is our masterpiece as yet unwritten.

As Eliot wrote: There will be time for you and me to drop a question on our plates / a time for a hundred visions and revisions. / There will be a time for us to wonder and to dare.

To answer the tragedy unfolding in the fields and the streets where we now shackle the huddled masses, I turn to Stevens' line, After the final No, there comes a Yes. 

The Rectangle and the Round

 A baseball is exactly like an orange except one gets crushed and the other squeezed and the one is filled with cork and the other with pulp but otherwise they are identical in size and shape and every other way except for the rind in the orange and the yarn in the other covered in cowhide and stitched and if you threw the orange to a batter you'd get juiced, pulped and pitted and I don't imagine the orange would curve or sink or flutter like a knuckleball but otherwise they are indistinguishable in the dusk with the light behind them.

If you stick a band-aid on the orange, it might fetch triple figures and become a museum piece as a decontextualized construction demonstrating the use of two disparate objects in juxtaposition causing a shift in our way of seeing and our conception of space.

The distinction between art and life has been closed. Pause is music. Sitting in a chair can be a dance and a clothesline is sculpture. Baseballs and oranges have a kind of beauty but beautiful is no longer the operative word in Art. We are suspicious of prettified images. Poetry is criticized for being too poetic. The pendulum has long since swung away from ornamental, classical forms. Museums might as well remove their walls... Chris Burden's installation of Urban Lights adorn the entrance to the L.A. County Museum of Art and in the rear is a 340-ton boulder, Levitated Mass.

It is enough to have our perceptions rattled. A bandaged orange forces us to see the imagined wound, the confluence of round and rectangle shapes and the natural and man-made incongruities. After being saturated with objects online, in magazines and on our tables every waking hour the effect is to grab us by the collar and LOOK but look with different eyes. The art is in the experience of looking. For a brief moment the orange and the viewer may be transformed.

Better yet consider a blue, orange and red Band-Aid. Or if the orange were a rectangle and the Band-Aid round it would alter our senses even further. If you showed a straw coming out of an orange-colored baseball as a source of Vitamin C it could also take its place on a gallery wall in exhibition and shift our perceptions and maybe that's the name of the game.

Now consider sharp rustbelt Pennsylvania poking into amorphous Ohio; the rectilinear against roly-poly Ohio, beginning and ending with O. Sparks fly or at least rust.

Hi diddle-diddle, see cow jump over moon or the long arm of ICE coming out of the Oval and stabbing its victims. Art and life,

both tumultuous. 

   

Fourth of July

Ironic to be celebrating the founding of our country when in reality we are bearing witness to an extended deathbed scene. Hour by hour the precepts which bound our nation are being overturned. Absent is the legislative branch. Usurped is the Justice department. Bought is the judiciary. Mocked is the Constitution and its amendments. In less than six months, we have descended into quasi-monarchy. Threatened is dissent and betrayed is the populist constituency which gave him their votes.

This is the day to be cherished, flawed as it is when Thomas Jefferson declared that all propertied white men are created equal. The rest of you guys, get over there. And you too, wives, sisters and daughters. You may be equal but we plantation owners are more equal. After all, there is cotton to be picked, stolen land to be tilled, bales to lift and barges to tote.

Falling as it does on a Friday, means we have an extra day to buy a mattress, set off senseless firecrackers frightening pets, igniting fires and causing Ukrainian refugees to deal with episodes of post-traumatic stress syndrome. 

Otherwise, happy 4^th of July. If backyard BBQs and picnics are the signifiers, count me in. Any excuse for eating and drinking with friends will do just fine. It’s the next best thing to Thanksgiving.

This is no year for fireworks. The country is already combusting. Let this 4th of July be a time to revisit and redress the omissions and injustices baked into our document's yeast. 

Three of our first five presidents died on this day. If they could be brought back, they would shudder to see how the birth of this nation has been subverted. How a home-grown despotism has replaced the monarchy they rebelled against.

The legacy of Independence Day is still aspirational. The descendants of Thomas Jefferson's 230 slaves have been emancipated on paper but not yet freed from economic suppression, disenfranchisement and daily indignities, Now, that festering worm of racism in the minds of the dominant class is directed against asylum-seekers of color whose ancestors once occupied this land.

The temptation is to buy that mattress and sleep for the next three years, but we may wake up in a state of shame, dependence and decay with our former document in tatters. Better yet, let that mattress spring us to action.

Walking the Walk

At age fifteen, I ran from one apartment house to another dodging superintendents while distributing leaflets against the Taft-Hartley Bill and campaigning for the Progressive Party in the 1948 election. A year later I stood tall at the Paul Robeson concert in Peekskill, N.Y. 

In the 60's I was out there in front of defense plants in silent vigils or at demonstrations protesting the Vietnam war and the draft. Before that the issue was fair housing.

These days, I just talk the talk.

For over fifty years as a pharmacist, I was on my feet all day, sometimes eating lunch on the run. I rarely sat down, performing miracle healings eight hours a day. (Hold down the applause). 

The problem with being 92 is that my architecture and entrails are also 92, beyond their shelf-life and out of warranty. Back at my 88th birthday I felt like I was 60 years into my 20s, racing around as caregiver for Peggy. Then, halfway to 89, just after Peggy died my ambulation hit the wall. People don't stroll much in L.A. anyway. One might get arrested for vagrancy. 

Up until about a year ago, I walked about ten blocks every day. Janice, my daughter dear, saw to it. She didn’t take any of my guff. I didn’t know I had any guff. In fact, I don’t even know what guff is except that I had it now and then, in resistance.

When I say ten blocks, I mean five blocks and back and with my walker. In effect, I was rolling; I could barely keep up with myself when the incline was downhill. I might even have passed Sisyphus.

We took the same route every day, so I became acquainted with the sidewalk. It is a topographical adventure negotiating the reptilian roots and fissures. Levels change every few steps as if I was walking on the roof of an underground civilization bulging here and caving in there.  

My next move was to a park where the path was level. It is a passing parade with kids climbing trees, elbow by elbow. There goes a frisbee into the mouth of an Irish setter. I greet joggers and dog-walkers but pass unnoticed to most whose world is in their mobile phone. I'm also passed by women of color pushing strollers with white skin babies. Ball games and picnics are my distractions along with deep whiffs of pine needles and freshly mowed grass.  

That was then. Nowadays my arthritic ankle and knee along with some autoimmune disorder and balance issues makes walking more challenging.

At this point I pause, leave my keyboard and head for my favorite park to test myself. I walk the equivalent of about three blocks keeping pace with the snails. I can hear my several joints screaming as I put weight on them. It is bone on bone without any cushion from cartilage. I can still make some poetic leaps and jump to conclusions but, I suppose, that doesn't count.

Metaphorically, walking the walk stands in opposition to talking the talk. Action vs. lip-service. However, when I’m not grimacing, the two are complementary and each can be transformational. My imagination gets ignited as I mosey along. Poems get born. Walking can be an interrogation into shuttered regions. Any day now I may come up with the meaning of life. Until then I’ll keep meandering through the thickets and dunes of my inscape.

Joe Whose Coat Had Many Colors

When Joseph and Mary got to the inn 

God forgot to make reservations 

and there was no room except in the manger. 

That's what happens without Planned Parenthood

and Joe Biden out of office.

If the Big, Beautiful swindle bill gets through 

it may rouse Joe the Plumber.

Whatcha know, Joe? Do you still no nothin?

Eighty years ago, Jo Stafford addressed G.I. Joe 

as she sang You Belong To Me. 

After the good war was over Joe McCarthy 

in his drunken stupor thought he saw Joe Stalin 

in every movie studio, every barber shop, 

and the bottom of every bottle he drank. 

Senator Joe was born with Joseph Conrad's

Heart of Darkness. 

Joe DiMaggio and Joe Louis would have been next. 

Even Trader Joe could have been a traitor. 

It took Joseph Welch to ask if he had even an ounce of decency. 

How many cups of Joe will it take 

to wake America to the needs of the average Joe?

Joseph Campbell found heroes with a thousand faces

as he breathed new life into the archetypes.

Maybe the greatest Joe of them all was Joe Green.

Not Mean Joe Green, the football player 

whom I wouldn't want my sister to marry if I had one 

but Guiseppe Verdi, aka Joe Green,

composer of twenty-eight operas

including Aida to whose theme we dutifully marched

entering the auditorium at P.S. 99

with Joseph Koplowitz in front of me

and Josephine Palmeri behind. 

 

From My Pleasure to No Worries

The devolution from an expression of delight to two negatives traces our decline as a culture.

No worries? Bad enough the singular worry. Why would I worry? I came to this restaurant filled with gratitude for being alive, in good health with loving family and friends and now you are telling me not to worry. All I requested was a napkin or was it some bread and in return I’m told not to worry. Could it be there is a table across the room next to a suicide bomber which is the one to start worrying?

No Worries has me yearning for those good old days of No Problem, at least it wasn’t plural. When did You’re Welcome get dropped? Granted that didn’t make much sense but a welcome is better than a warning of impending peril.

Don’t mention it or Not at all, had a good run. I want to petition for the return of, My Pleasure or Happy to Oblige. With it might come the restoration of civil discourse and the end of road rage, incivility and vilifying public figures.

When I do a favor for a friend, I really do take pleasure for the opportunity to express my gratitude for their friendship. Is this now subversive in our country where empathy has been relegated to the sucker file and self-aggrandizement is declared a virtue?   

But what if I want to worry? It's like my right not to Have a Nice Day. Even with my napkin and bread the planet is being choked with foul air and homeless people are begging for shelter. There are currently 43 million displaced persons in the world through war or famine. Equatorial regions have been rendered non-arable from global warming.  No worries indeed!

Maybe the servers are talking to themselves trying to make it through another day. Returning to my salad, I'm eating undocumented greens picked, prepared and served with an illegal smile. No Worries has become a mantra against being snatched up by masked men before the next shift. 

We live in an age of obliquity. Not only deviating from moral rectitude but also a time of indirectness. Can I get you a drink? I’m Good. I didn’t ask whether you’ve behaved yourself today or whether you are an ethical person or a good for nothing. I merely asked whether you would care for a drink.

Maybe all this is a form of poetry. It was Emily Dickinson who said to tell it slant. No Worries, No Problem, no really. I'm Good.

That Old Divide

Here we are living through the epilogue of the Civil War. The simmering embers of that conflict were never doused, never confronted and never resolved. Slavery was replaced by a virulent racism, lynchings, segregation and a persistent sickness in the soul of America. Even antebellum misogyny is having a revival.

Now, that inhumanity has been rekindled. The hoods of the Klan have been replaced by the masks of ICE agents. A mindless nativism is sweeping the country against people of color.

The degradation of human bondage which served to divide the underclass in 1860 continues today with misdirection of the aggrieved masses to vent their loathing against asylum-seekers. The malice of the administration toward immigrants serves the MAGA constituency not one bit.

There have been 16,000 books written about Lincoln and that war between the states. I’m currently reading two of them. Michael Shaara’s 1975 book, The Killer Angels is considered a classic as it profiles some of the officer combatants and brings them to life on the page. Particularly fascinating are their blunders, their arrogance and in one instance how the southern general, James Longstreet, saw the light in the aftermath and espoused the northern cause.

The other book I started I am unlikely to finish, since it is 725 pages. I was startled to learn that Jefferson Davis's wife, Verina, was opposed to slavery and regarded by some in the Confederacy, as being mulatto or creole. When Davis was jailed for two years after the Union victory, Varina moved to NYC where she worked as a columnist for Joseph Pulitzer’s newspaper, The New York World. It was Pulitzer who got Davis out of prison.

This book is called Lincoln vs Davis by Nigel Hamilton. Much is made about these two men and their wives. If Davis’s wife had abolitionist sympathies, Mary Todd Lincoln had siblings fighting for the Confederate cause.

We may have forgotten how families were ripped apart not unlike today. However, since the MAGA control of the federal government. the matter of state’s rights is now reversed. Instead of importing human labor in chains, we are exporting millions of laborers in shackles. Working people of the old Confederate states are once more being misled by the old fallen angels well-practiced in moral vacuity.

 

Two Kinds of Fathers

In the early 1970s I attended a Jim Jones rally in San Francisco. The followers addressed him as Father or Dad which is what he demanded. That People’s Temple cult took the lives of the two teenage children of my friends. A tragic ending for a couple who sought an alternative life. Amazing to me how some people willingly abdicate their autonomy, their selfhood, their decision-making to an authoritarian leader as if being an informed and discerning adult is too much for them.

I would suggest that this transfer of self is a form of regression. Daddy, the reigning patriarch, will decide what is right and what is true. Dying begins when doubt is forbidden. Take me, Father, Mr. President, Supreme Leader, Fuhrer. Tell me when to shout, what to wear, how to hate, whom to fear and to whom I am to swear fealty with unconditional obedience.

__________________

All the above describes who my father was not. He never raised his voice. If he got angry it showed in his eyes. He modeled a certain equanimity, a presence who listened and offered full reception. He seemed imperturbable and yet had strong principles. When the FBI came to the door, in the McCarthy era, asking for names he turned them away. His silence was his spine.

As a pharmacist, my father was accorded a position of authority. In those days the man who presided on a raised platform between globes of colored water was held in high esteem. He earned it by his deliberative temperament, his knowledge and the special assurance he generated to his clients.

Thankfully, I was the beneficiary of his fathering, his unconditional love. I hope to have continued further, father.

Celebrating The Succulent Round

Yes, of course, coins, and wheels and the lunatic moon but discs are risky, tires go flat, the moon is pocked and the three ring circus that rolls and roils us to despair are no match for the roly-poly, squishy peach or cherry berry and behold the apricot, the color of dawn and then there are plums to plumb before they turn to prunes and melons like volleyballs, or open the cantaloupe and watch the sun spill out and honey dew like dew that’s been honeyed as big as basketballs but don’t try dribbling, go ahead and open the watermelon and part that red sea, pits and all these ahead of summer’s lease, a ring-around-the rosy time, so take a bite of the plump and fuzzy peach, let it slurp, juice yourself Prufrock, let it drip and then you’ll hear the mermaids sing above the din of marines in our streets and if there is blood let it drip from those Satsuma plums; it’s all we have in this land of sticks and stones, parched of our precepts, going from grape to raisin.

 

The Fact Of the Matter

I’m a sucker for trivia. In fact, Ken Jennings, the host of the quiz show Jeopardy wrote a fine piece in the N.Y. Times reminding us that the word trivia used to mean the three basic courses taught 600 years ago, grammar, rhetoric and logic. The word itself has been trivialized.

Facts have taken a big hit from the MAGA mind ever since so-called alternative truths were introduced in 2016. And that’s a fact. They have made deceit a virtue.

Here are some tidbits I’ve recently come across which have found their way into my memory bank. Now I have to casually work them into a conversation.

I tried that the other day with the startling fact that three of our last five POTUS were born within six weeks of each other, Clinton, Bush and Trump, in the summer of 1946. Could it be that Mercury was in retrograde, or maybe nuclear fallout radiated the air?

How can I ever move a conversation to lead into the stat that only 17% of roads in this country were paved by 1935. The other 83% were gravelly or dirt. And that includes Easy Street and the Road to Riches.

The other day I learned there’s no such bird as a seagull. They are just gulls. Just as sardines don’t really exist but can be herring or many other short fish under six inches. I don’t know what to do with this info.

It is also true that the violin was saved from extinction by Catherine de Medici, Queen of France in the 16^th century. The instrument was first deemed by the Church to be licentious, too screechy and for scandalous dancing. Maybe they felt its sound resembled the seagull which doesn’t exist.

Here’s another scrap of knowledge to drop at a dinner party: ten million trees are felled annually just to manufacture toilet paper even though 70% of the world population does not use it. On second thought, better save this for another occasion and try the violin material for the party if you want to get re-invited.

Blame the Internet for all this. Folks before the millennium didn’t have the cargo we have to sort out. Has it elasticized our brain or must we forget something to make room for each new fact? I wonder what Google has to say about that.

Now, of course, we don’t need to spell, multiply or memorize anything. It’s all there waiting to feel the call of the click. I’m beginning to feel bad for my remembering brain. It may become vestigial and slough off. All that’s left for us is to never forget our Social Security number, pin and passwords and even those essentials are already well-known to hackers and to DOGE.

Why do we remember what we do? I knew the answer to this but I forgot. If I could only un-remember our current presidency I might live happily ever after. I’d even gladly delete all I just learned about gulls, sardines and violins and focus on the meaning of life. I swear I was on the verge of unlocking that mystery but it just slipped away.

 

The Autobiography of My Name

There we are fresh from that embryonic sea with no say in the matter and they name us.

Am I my name?  Yes, I must own it. No, I also disown it.

Norman contains No and Nor which I accept as a card-carrying contrarian. Sometimes I don’t disagree so much as I want more, of which I can claim 3 letters. Other times I don't even agree with myself.

I shiver and shun when I hear Normal. In my college days the word normal caused a brief panic. The term was often used in chemistry to describe a certain molecular state of solutions or a string of carbon atoms. I always thought I was being called upon with that first syllable.

There is also a yes/no in the common usage of the word normal. Early on, I probably wanted to be normal even though I knew I was dropped to earth by a spaceship. The word seemed elusive, and I doubt I was ever admitted, thankfully, into the normalcy club. Somewhere along the way abnormalcy seemed a better fit. 

Whether I am or not is relative. Too bourgeois for punk rock, too much otherness for any prescribed behavior. Being odd is being individuated. On the spectrum between Norman Rockwell and Norman Mailer? Maybe but I only know I am who I am and I ain't who I ain't. *

And then there’s the heritage of my name. I owe it to those warriors from Denmark and Norway who settled in Northern France and then saw no reason not to invade England in 1066. William the Conqueror crossed the channel with ten thousand of his closest friends. Hence the Norman Conquest which joined the romance language with the Saxon.

Though my nominal ancestors were Norsemen, fierce, bellicose, plunderers. (everyone needs a hobby), those traits are missing from my double helix. The last thing I plundered was my piggybank 85 years ago and my most recent conquest was a poke salad with some fresh tuna.

My guess is that my name was chosen by my parents as a way of disidentifying with the so-called Old World of Eastern Europe driven by the urge toward assimilation. It was to be nothing biblical. No matter what I may think of Norman, it's better than Nebuchadnezzar.

I’ve come to embrace my name as I’ve grown fond of myself, even as I stumble and bumble along. I just noticed that my name is embedded in the word enormous. It must be from the milk of kindness which flows, by the quart, in every vein. **

* John Prine

** Alan Jay Lerner 

 

Midnight Riffs In The Long Night City (From the Archives)

The high-rise office building with random lights for the cleaning crew looks like a computer board from a distance. And here's an all-night laundromat. Great place for co-conspirators to meet during the spin cycle with plans for a revolution. If you came to launder money, your limo made a wrong turn. Lester Young on sax.

This may be where John Le Carre did his best writing. Insomniacs congregate and bore each to sleep or watch single socks slither out the door…and then show up in a yard sale next month.  Thelonius Monk. 

Those round windows remind me of early television screens by Philco or Zenith. Who does their laundry in these wee hours? Maybe folks on their way to early Mass or nurses coming home on the graveyard shift. John Coltrane. 

Dog-walkers on the verge of finding the meaning of life and dogs answering the moon. Shut-ins thinking great thoughts. Who is that painter outside the Nighthawk Cafe? ...and is that you Vincent releasing stars onto your canvas? Miles Davis.

Some guy just spilled ketchup on himself eating at a 24 hour diner. I don’t see any diners anymore with the We Never Close sign but they must be out there at truck stops. Eighty-six on the egg salad. I can smell the java perc-ing and hear Sinatra singing, Strangers In the Night. his phrases making stanzas of the nocturnal air.

CVS pharmacies with their lights on in this city that wishes it could sleep for shoppers who hate crowds or suddenly wake up in a panic because they ran out of Q-Tips. There's the pharmacist on the night shift left all the routine paperwork by the crew working days. Frederic Chopin.

I was a night-prowler once or twice cramming for final exams in college. With two friends I rode the subway through the wee hours to stay awake, tunneling under the boroughs with structural formulas in my head or botanical origins for a course called Materia Medica. Our brains stuffed with a glossary of Latin names, from rhizomes and roots to the inner rind of fruits. Facts as dead as those stars in the firmament with not the slightest relevance to my life as a pharmacist. Just an exercise in rote learning to prepare us to drop a name at some cocktail party that never happened. Gilbert and Sullivan.

At the midnight hour, white sheets from the laundromat float over to the pharmacy like ghosts of alchemical ancestors over a smoky cauldron to do their sorcery in the dark shadows of a CVS inner sanctum. This is the hour of miracle healings and spontaneous remissions. Igor Stravinsky.

Around 3 A.M. millions of fellow seniors bumbling our way into bathrooms lit by night lights to empty our bladders. It's getting easier to not think. Now let’s see if we can inch our way back to bed, perchance to dream. Handel's Water Music.

Unstill

A distant desert sirocco wind

reaches me as a breath barely felt

yet something in me stirs.

What seems at rest is movement unrecorded.

My heart pumps like a hummingbird

hard at work to stay still, while

kidneys filter, pancreas secretes,

skin sloughs, organs conspire, some wither

yet stay juiced in this grand commotion.

 

Maps, too, look settled with colors fixed

yet a mistral has shifted tectonic plates

under the halls in Washington.

There is a stench from the wreckage

and carnage trembles the body politic,

fertilizes a seismic rage

from the debris of bogus vows

and hollow slogans that do not buy eggs,

cure measles, or open factories.

Sores fester and simmer

under the dome and the oval.

The quake may not yet register on the Richter

but tremors can be felt in my bones.

Clocks

In more ways than one we are off the clock. We have been out of time long before Salvatore Dali melted that watch in his 1931 painting. Climatologists have been warning our deaf ears of impending doom for decades. Time and tide are tired of waiting. 

Clocks don’t tick anymore. Many have lost their limbs. A generation has been raised without knowing what counterclockwise means. Wrists are going unadorned in favor of genius-phones. There is nothing to wind in the digital age.  Remember how we learned how to tell time? I don’t either but I think I regarded it as a milestone.

The notion of clocks came as an imposition on the natural rhythm of human existence. Eating, sleeping, and working all yielded to the tyranny of the clock as if to an alarm. Being punctual became a virtue. Pre-literate societies had no such need to punctuate their lives. 

When Big Ben strikes on the hour, all fourteen tons of it, you’d better check your timepiece and hurry up or else. The great London clock came at the height of the British Empire upon which the sun never set. It was the symbol of uniformity and authoritarian rule. In a culture of domination, everyone knows their place and when tea is served, one lump or two.

Harold Lloyd hung for his life on the big hand in one of the most enduring images of the silent film era as if to mock time itself. Orson Welles had his licks in a moment of levity during the zither filled Third Man movie when he ridiculed the Swiss for their neutrality and cuckoo clock as their sole contribution to Western Civilization. In fact, everything in that memorable speech was about as accurate as a broken clock.

Mrs. Dalloway, in Virginia Woolf’s classic novel, measured her life by the gongs of Big Ben. But her noon was altogether different from the other character’s twelve o’clock. Woolf's use of time was a way of giving relativity its due and give voice to the inner lives of her characters. In her masterpiece, time is subjective; for some an occasion for buying flowers or accepting a lunch invitation; for another a time for dying.

The clock gives us the illusion of quantifying our lives just as commodification monetizes it. It provides us with the idea of our existence being a chronology. World War I shattered this sequential narrative. The myth of progress was laid to rest along with millions of dead bodies to fertilize the fields of Europe. 

I wonder how many were killed just waiting for the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. A generation was lost, and survivors were also lost in the stupidity of it all, a life left in fragments and the dread of a world without God to write the fable.

In fact, life comes at us with simultaneity. Ideas, images, information and impulses in fragments we've learned to make into a coherent whole. Time hangs heavy one moment and the next we run out of time. Perhaps time is not of the essence, at least, according to the clock or watch. 

To each his own clock. If we listen hard enough, we might even hear it toc.

Writing While Watching

The thing I love about baseball is what most people don’t like. Too damn slow! But how else could I write a blog while watching? Poets need their space to roam, their outfield grass. The batter steps out of the box, calls for time, knocks at the dirt, that isn’t there, from his spikes. The poet takes out the comma he put in ten minutes ago. He is looking for a startling phrase, a fat fastball down the middle but instead he’ll take a walk.

Slow is under-rated. It is why time-lapse photography was invented. Give the game its due. If you want action turn on the basketball game. I’ve been ignoring the season the way I have no taste for fast food. Eating a taco on the run doesn’t stand a chance next to high tea.

Yet here I am watching the last two minutes of the Laker game which can take half an hour; the clock seems to slow down. The season is over and now the real season begins with the playoffs. LeBron James is a dribbling Baryshnikov. Michelangelo would have yearned to render him in marble. His look is menacing to the opposition. His body twists and spins into unexpected stanzas. His quick release is like a charged language, sprung.

Grown men in their colored underwear are running back and forth across the page talking fluent trash even with the mute button on. Two zebras with whistles among the gazelles as words roll beyond the margin like loose balls.

It’s all about that hole bigger than the sum of its dimension. Athletes live for holes, from little to big.....golf, billiards, hockey and soccer. A space to be filled, but none to match this game of basketball like a gush of participles dangling on the rim, dropping or sputtering away into the delete button. It’s about getting into the right juxtaposition. Fakes, double pumps and slam dunks when that line, that leaping image brings it home.

This is not baseball, slow-mo and stoic on a summer day. If the National Pastime is that unhurried refuge basketball has caught the zeitgeist. It is the inner-city ferocious tango of finesse and power. Each point scored a punctuation, an assertion to redress a grievance. A riff from Charley Parker.

They are putting it to the gods. The god of normalcy, of margins, making it jagged. LeBron is Icarus defying Newton; he is the apple that won’t fall…yet, graceful beyond any gothic arch with his game-face a gargoyle, the way you might strain to reach for a word not yet grunted, hang-time longer than a sentence by Proust and when he returns to that wood, this page... cartilage might tear as if the small syllables of breath denied his ancestors and his brothers. The score is settled for a moment. The blank page is filled, never quite saying the unsayable.

 

Dogs

Story of my life. Not those adorable four-legged creatures but the dog as in dogma or doggerel barking into other unexpected places.

My adolescent years, which may have extended into my late 20s, were marked first by a no-pet apartment building which prohibited any non-human species except for pet rocks. As I recall, I didn’t even have any stuffed animals or inflatable ones.

What I did have was unshakeable political opinions which found a home in Marxist ideology, the pure form of which has never been tried. Absolutes were a good fit. Somewhere along the way it was pointed out to me that my unyielding beliefs were a kind of dogma. That opened the door a crack.

Enough for me to take up the pen and write bad poetry. Light, juvenile, meaningless doggerel came easily to me and it was, at least, a way to get unserious.

Being un-seriously serious, finding levity in the gravity is one way to weather the storms of life. Not as a strategy, but when it comes naturally, I let it happen.

Take the dogwood tree, for example. It is both cursed and blessed by Christians. Reviled for allegedly furnishing the crucifixion branches and then revered for being associated with redemption and resurrection owing to the floral crosses of their petals. One doesn't question doggedly held metaphors.

My dissertation on dogs finds an ignoble ending with the seriously serious DOGE. Whereas dogs offer a deep emotional attachment, extended compassion and companionship, Musk’s DOGE are dispassionate hounds that bark and snarl. Unlike St. Bernards, famous for rescuing, they have pit-bulled their way into dedicated lives biting off the careers and good work of thousands. They see humans as fire hydrants.

I still have a nose for dogma and the rabid actions of DOGE are no less dogmatic in their acts of despotism. These are the dogs of Bull Connor terrorizing civil rights marchers or the Doberman Pinschers and Rottweilers set upon inmates at Auschwitz. May they soon be muzzled.

Brisket

It seems like everyone is talking about brisket these days. Well, maybe not everyone, but Adele mentioned it the other day and Fred talks about it so often it sounds like a chorus. To top it off I was just listening to Ella sing, A Tisket, A Tasket so it must be calling to me.

In fact, I know nothing about brisket. But I know nothing about many things including fly fishing, subatomic particles, Gregorian chants, the Third Punic War and how just about anything works. 

I can tell you that it may be the only word that rhymes with biscuit… unless you consider Triscuit a word. Brisket, Google says, comes to us from the Norse word busket meaning a felled tree. I suppose some brisket must taste like the gristle of a fallen tree if it hasn’t been slow cooked properly.

Brisket may be one of those staples one should always have at the ready in case people drop in. There are occasions when pickled herring just won’t do. This might be why I don’t get invited to dinner parties anymore. Do people still give dinner parties? It’s been so long I forgot which fork to use.

I’ve always associated brisket with Jewish tables. In fact, I thought it might be a Yiddish word. A derivative of Bris as in circumcision.... but let's not go there. It seems to be standard fare for high holidays, what everyone is waiting for after the words of worship. After all, there is holiness in unexpected places. 

At the last supper, is it true that when the apostles all ordered brisket, Jesus asked for separate checks? We'll never know. 

A map of your average cow shows the state of Brisket bordered by Shank or Shin to the south, Flank to the east and Chuck above. The brisket is Tennessee-like in shape on some Google sites and more New York on others. But always located in the chest area and nowhere near the Sirloin or Tenderloin. I’m glad we’ve settled that much.

Any notion I had that brisket was religiously based were delusional. Texans called it BBQ. My mother called it pot roast. For all I know the Chinese may have assigned it to column B as number 37 on the menu presented as beef-broccoli. It’s also a favorite in Korea, Thailand, Germany and Italy. It could be the universal dish over which summit meetings are held…. unless the leaders are vegetarians, in which case a brisket-like substance must be concocted with transformational soybeans and massively worked tofu.

However, brisket is always a mainstay in Kosher or non-Kosher delis. It is the mother of corned beef or further devolved into pastrami with the right spices. Pile it high and grill it between two pieces of rye bread slathered with Swiss cheese and sauerkraut and the next thing you know you might be looking at a Reuben sandwich. Of course, this wouldn’t be served in a Kosher deli due to the sacrilege of meat and dairy …. a marriage impermissible around orthodoxy; yet another reason why I have strayed far from the flock.    

Can anything more be said about brisket? I’m sure there can but I’m too hungry to go on. Pass the horseradish but hold the gristle. 

What Bounces and Rolls

They are round like oranges and grapefruits, but they bounce, and they roll.  That was my childhood. Throw the tennis ball against the wall and it comes back.  Dribble and it obeys the bounce. A simple return. You learn about action and reaction.

Of course, better not try that with the citrus but they answer with juice and slurp. Young and easy under the apple boughs, said Dylan Thomas. The music in that line has transit, returning me to those languid summers with creative bursts.

And yes, there was an apple tree or was it a peach or lemon? The elbows were for climbing and the shade under those leaves lent itself to hatching movie plots or flights of fantasies higher than a pop fly.

The wall I struck was unusual. It had a ledge and if I struck that perpendicular the ball would carry to distant planets, still in orbit. Better for high bounce was the pink Spaulding which was a rubber ball like the core of a tennis ball without the felt cover.  

Did I bounce and roll? My imagination did, not as huntsmen or herdsmen as in the Thomas poem, but as Astaire or Tracy, with grace and equipoise. If I was mild-mannered Clark Kent, there would be a phone booth close by and a cape at the ready to set the world right.

That particular wall was no ordinary one. It was also the exterior of my father's corner drugstore and became my portal as if I had beaten through it with repeated poundings. I was to become my father. I didn't roll but I did enroll in pharmacy college. 

The bounce eventually propelled me out of childhood. By age 21 I bounced across the country to Los Angeles. In one leap, I had a marriage license and a pharmacy license. For the next 25 years I dribbled my way to a poetic license.

The secret pleasure of growing old is keeping that child alive with what ifs and exclamation points. My two tennis balls are now the back wheels of my walker, but I am still that kid bouncing ideas against the walls of this world.

 

Color Wheel

Residents of Yorkville guzzle beer in vats. (mnemonic to memorize the spectrum) 

 

Crimea river / said Donald to Vladimir /And we'll cut a sliver just for you.

In this great spinning, 

even though the man of no substance

is a colorless man,

yet garish with superlatives, 

must each day be dark and stormy

from smoldering graves and molten

metals gone to particulates?

Gaza is caged and parched

while Ukrainian air is ashen with malice

to make over colors on the map,

while his nothingness, wrapped like a flag

with red tie, white hair and blue suit, 

waves in star spangled subversion.

 

Or can we breathe with green yearning

for the unconditional victory of meadows?

Am I allowed to celebrate 

the forty-watt lamp of sunrise,

the yellow number two pencil?

Even purple prose must be forgiven.

What is the color of silent guns?

I’ll settle for the blue green

negotiation of a teal sky,

a golden cargo on the Black Sea

from a ceasefire across amber waves of grain.

Where a crop of grey landmines

once shadowed the land,

common yarrow now grows wild again.

 

Now, It’s Our Phones, Then It Was…

Radio with that Art Deco speaker, our family's version of the Chrysler Building, out of which came words and music to fill the room. We stared at the wood and fabric design in wonder, mesmerized by its arches and angles framing the dials and knobs. It was modernity itself, both visually and acoustically.

Turn it an eighth of an inch one way you got the philharmonic or the Hit Parade, the other way was the Quiz Kids or Ma Perkins putting a pie in the oven. We believed what we heard. When FDR gave his fireside chat, sixty million Americans were transfixed.

None of us doubted it was Charlie McCarthy’s voice, not the ventriloquist Edgar Bergen’s. Radio conjured images as if our own inner television screen. We exercised the muscle of our imagination.

The speaker was like the grill of a car. It distinguished the radio and attracted architects and designers to strut their stuff. Even Ferdinand Porsche had a snazzy one on the market in Germany. The R.C.A. brand was advertised in magazines with models swooning over the latest color and shape. 

We were becoming world-class consumers by the 1930’s as we feasted on cereals, soaps and cigarettes. Who could resist those broadcasted jingles?

The radio, whether a console or the size of a shoebox, commanded our attention. If the room was a drug store it would have been that raised place where the pharmacist presided between globes of colored water. If this were a synagogue it would be the bimah where the sacred text is stored. Maybe the druggist was a secret shaman performing miracle healings. I thought of my father that way. Remedies worked because he said they would. 

I also remember that December Sunday when the radio even overshadowed him. I was in his store when a program was interrupted with the news bulletin of Pearl Harbor. We all stared at that walnut wood and cloth speaker. Of course, I didn't know Pearl Harbor from Pearl Mittledorf but I knew it was bad news. I was a few months away from my 9^th birthday; the radio initiated me into the adult world.

Peggy’s Poetry

To celebrate May 2^nd, the birthday of my late wife, Peggy, I thought I'd offer some excerpts from her poetry onto this page. She wrote from her own singular perch. Her language startles with its disparate leaps over a vast inscape. Well into her nineties, she was writing a poem every day with over 150 published in literary journals. Peggy's poetry was an extension of her irrepressible appetite for life, how she met each day with exuberance, gratitude and love.

  ____________________________________

He sees her face half shadowed tilted upward / in the curve of promise, smooth as an early apricot. / He will marry her and plant skyscrapers in their backyard. 

If there is champagne enough / let's give another hoist to the boy / who laughs at the tired shadows on the wall / and paints his reckless masterpiece / with no further expectations.

The sound of blues, not my own / but the low-down songs of women. Love stirs my coffee / the velvet of Yes / A white horse gallops. 

Her fingers trace highways along his arm / In a moment there will be wings, a blue heron / He moves in her direction / as though singing were a map.

Arithmetic leads to ultimate divisions / land mass under water / Yet a boy paddles a bark canoe / confident of the current.

This hiding in the tunnel of myself / denies the chairs their rightful place. Light through the window creates a momentary event / shadows in a drift toward after.

The man I meet on page 125 is now in pieces. / The mirror slants but will not lie / I would prefer to wander the streets of Paris with the artist /despite the chill.

In the hum of murmurations / every bird adjusts astonished air / Clouds contort, these mindless wheels / in the world without allegiance / Horses, round-rumped, dare me to look away.

Women survived in the dark, like feet in pinching shoes until / they turn from Molly Barnacle’s, yes to / Bartleby’s, I prefer not.

The sky bends with the hawk / you answer, your words like water … / and then, the ocean, the wedge / partial like us. / Your look rests on the curve of my cheek.

Can these days really be winter / with your words that match / the fingers as you touch / what you know of me / and even what you don’t?

Everyone looks out the window / wondering if the headlines / move the earth or what / brings hot lentils to the table.

Death has no et cetera / I borrow a motley palette from myself / The canvas will not stretch. / Still-life does not hold still. / Blue oranges turn to mauve, turn to gray. / Unfamiliar music enters the room. (A Mother’s Lament)

As the self pledges its allegiance / to a tidiness of napkins on the table / we stir the gibbous moon into our cups.

The flap of disappearing wings through the open window / This day was for sleep, the accuracy of dreams / closer to words on the notebook’s page / the loss of love.   (for Elizabeth Bishop).

The woman at the piano wears a hat. / His black trousers hold his impatience. / It is 1891, a coachman with tired horses knocks. / At the opera, singers will break the air. / She thinks of his mouth, the taste of wildwood cherries / yet, returning, knives hang in the clock.

Breakfast on the balcony / unlike the insistent birds I wouldn’t interrupt / your timbered voice carrying its sex / filling me with all I know and cannot know of you.

I watched them talk at Sunday supper / My uncle had lost his thunder into buttered toast / waiting for events that already happened / My eyes fixed on the enameled porcelain table / its corner nicked to black. (After the market crash, 1929)

My knees need grease / but the mellow sax delivers me from evil. / Growing old is a privilege, faith / its own vehicle, even as the cab keeps its motor running / and the eucalyptus tree bends lower every year.

Inspiration is drawn to pushy tides / away from headlines and oratory / she hears instead an empty glass on wood / shivers her to what lies below/ Images find their words in the telling, / A cold stone appears in her hand.

I wear the enamel pendant for the shy unsaid / A woman in Japan looks through a rim of tears / He has not gone far, but away / still, she will not say to him / “These days remove me from myself” / her mouth, thick with silence.

For me, a bite of crusty bread / its center soft, a little sour. / Just yesterday you told me / that my love of pan rests in the middle of companion / break bread indeed with the taste of your touch.

Words proclaim the sacred in the unlit candle, / a chipped cup in the sink / This holiness isn't waiting for Godot.

In the airport fog, under his slouched hat, there is Rick / deciding for teary Ilsa, that for them / the slings and arrows might only amount to a hill of beans / and Paradise lost was just as good as Paris regained.