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100 Days in the Wintering World
Monday, November 21, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Playing Cards with Connecticut Light and Power
"Two trump." my father would say into the flicker
ing firelight of the cabin's eaves, it meant
don't fuck this up we are going to win, and after
the spouse of whatever couple they were playing
offered a bid, my mother would answer, "Pass."
which meant, I've got nothing, you are on your own.
For the first two days cut off by the oak the town
bulldozer scraped across our drive we sat frozen
but patient, a snowman waiting for the raisins
that would surely be found in the pantry to form
a mouth....then broke out the chain saw and saw
why they had only replied a pass; tree
after tree lay thrown in a desperate ante
no bid could answer. Logs burned
into the town air reeking of sad familiarity;
elephants recognizing the bones of the lost,
we nodded and smiled over bad coffee
and gym showers to show we understood.
At each cross road to the shelter we would pause
to discern who we were playing with this time,
those who thought it at last a world wide game
of red rover cross over, and those of us waried by dodge ball.
When the power finally came back on, what surprised
me the most was my love for the traffic lights:
what a clear signal they shone over the roads.
Stay in your lane, it is not your turn,
this idle is a way to make sure
you are not cut off too soon. Pass.
I want to arrive safely home
with what I hold in my hands.
ing firelight of the cabin's eaves, it meant
don't fuck this up we are going to win, and after
the spouse of whatever couple they were playing
offered a bid, my mother would answer, "Pass."
which meant, I've got nothing, you are on your own.
For the first two days cut off by the oak the town
bulldozer scraped across our drive we sat frozen
but patient, a snowman waiting for the raisins
that would surely be found in the pantry to form
a mouth....then broke out the chain saw and saw
why they had only replied a pass; tree
after tree lay thrown in a desperate ante
no bid could answer. Logs burned
into the town air reeking of sad familiarity;
elephants recognizing the bones of the lost,
we nodded and smiled over bad coffee
and gym showers to show we understood.
At each cross road to the shelter we would pause
to discern who we were playing with this time,
those who thought it at last a world wide game
of red rover cross over, and those of us waried by dodge ball.
When the power finally came back on, what surprised
me the most was my love for the traffic lights:
what a clear signal they shone over the roads.
Stay in your lane, it is not your turn,
this idle is a way to make sure
you are not cut off too soon. Pass.
I want to arrive safely home
with what I hold in my hands.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Day After Murder: Even If Everyone Thinks Its Good: Did We Make This? Oct. 21, 2011
The hurricane has passed. The week
has ended in success. I follow the road
by the river to Grama's: Mom's. It is
open once again and so clean: I can
see the way the machines have smoothed
the water and sand as if by the hand
of God or my childhood. My favorite brother
(there is no such thing) (David) and I would
meet at the blacktop by the front door
of the lake house which was really the back
door DUH water is where it is at and why
we were all there and commence the smoothing
of the community. I can still see one
of our hands, feel the sure glide of the curves
of our town, the designation of homes approved
by our small town think zones. The matchbox
cars lay waiting for their driveways;
our tongues waited their turns to tell
who was driving where and why.
I loved the hill up to Sandisfield
by Steve's even if the rest of the map
was backward and the summer houses
down instead of above--we worked
with what we had without question.
When did we lose that skill? Driving
today on Nod Road, I breathe in
the desire of those who chose to suck
clean the edges of where I am
supposed to go. I am checking on Mom.
O Brother, where art thou?
I could use your view
of the road ahead.
has ended in success. I follow the road
by the river to Grama's: Mom's. It is
open once again and so clean: I can
see the way the machines have smoothed
the water and sand as if by the hand
of God or my childhood. My favorite brother
(there is no such thing) (David) and I would
meet at the blacktop by the front door
of the lake house which was really the back
door DUH water is where it is at and why
we were all there and commence the smoothing
of the community. I can still see one
of our hands, feel the sure glide of the curves
of our town, the designation of homes approved
by our small town think zones. The matchbox
cars lay waiting for their driveways;
our tongues waited their turns to tell
who was driving where and why.
I loved the hill up to Sandisfield
by Steve's even if the rest of the map
was backward and the summer houses
down instead of above--we worked
with what we had without question.
When did we lose that skill? Driving
today on Nod Road, I breathe in
the desire of those who chose to suck
clean the edges of where I am
supposed to go. I am checking on Mom.
O Brother, where art thou?
I could use your view
of the road ahead.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 Algebraic Statistic Alchemy 101
New glasses. They make me see
better, but look worse, or is it
the other way around, The cross
frames on the screened porch
form a perfect X and Y axis
that place the north star firmly
in the quadrant of familiarty if
only I could remember which
one was across and which up and
down: but my data is false:
it is the streetlight on the corner
of Farmstead and my lenses betray
what I know: there is one light, still
my eyes see two unless I look just
the right way! Oh clarity, you bitch.
Close enough to believe in, but not
the way it usually looks.
better, but look worse, or is it
the other way around, The cross
frames on the screened porch
form a perfect X and Y axis
that place the north star firmly
in the quadrant of familiarty if
only I could remember which
one was across and which up and
down: but my data is false:
it is the streetlight on the corner
of Farmstead and my lenses betray
what I know: there is one light, still
my eyes see two unless I look just
the right way! Oh clarity, you bitch.
Close enough to believe in, but not
the way it usually looks.
October 18, 2011 Scrabble
I had an idea for a perfect
poem; it made such sense
it didn't seem at all risky
to take a turn on line first.
I was wrong. the effort
of unscrambling random
letters on a virtual rack
erased what I saw written
in eternity and left me with
only thirteen more points.
poem; it made such sense
it didn't seem at all risky
to take a turn on line first.
I was wrong. the effort
of unscrambling random
letters on a virtual rack
erased what I saw written
in eternity and left me with
only thirteen more points.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Day in October Off-Duty Scarecrow
Finally feeling the truth in fallow:
so full of filling in nitrates missing;
soil slightly warming in its breakdown.
A worm is turning, has he lived here
always? I hadn't noticed his nose so close
to the center of the field, but yes. He has
always been underfoot and hungry. Head
first, face down, hands up, surrendered
to the season, sucking in what must be left.
Be off. Be off. There is nothing left to pick
over in this field, the yield has moved on
like gypsies gone south. The wind
is all that is left. It makes the fabric
on my skeleton dance in relief.
so full of filling in nitrates missing;
soil slightly warming in its breakdown.
A worm is turning, has he lived here
always? I hadn't noticed his nose so close
to the center of the field, but yes. He has
always been underfoot and hungry. Head
first, face down, hands up, surrendered
to the season, sucking in what must be left.
Be off. Be off. There is nothing left to pick
over in this field, the yield has moved on
like gypsies gone south. The wind
is all that is left. It makes the fabric
on my skeleton dance in relief.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Dr. Mom, Uncle Sam, Antibiotics and a View from Buenos Aires
"These are the hood codes-I am untouched as well as any friends, family, etc., that visit me because I live in the hood and everyone knows me. The unfortunate result of not wearing my "I'm american, I'm here to save the world" attitude means tourists will lose their backpacks until the next police crackdown. I've watched the hood get safer and safer while I move about relatively calm night and day for 8 years. It seems almost unamerican my behavior, which makes me proud...." Mike Boludo Farrell
I crush the pills carefully, stir them into Skippy,
making my own brand of super chunk I then spread
over crackers. What is medicine
has been mashed, what is poison
has been mixed in. You've got this
I tell the patient so full of snot
and fear he does not want to swallow
at all, let alone this papery plate of distrusted
chemotherapy. No really, I assure him:
even though we are killing all the good bacteria
along with the bad bacteria, and all your cells
will feel mugged of the sustenance you rely
on without thinking as you sightsee through
the seconds of your days; we don't have to
sweat it; surrender your resistance like
a wallet in Argentina, we are here for the long
term; we are looking to build up the whole
neighborhood in your body, make it habitable
long term, the loss of a few unlucky tourists
pales in the face of your pale face; the system
needs to right itself, this is not a time
to pull off your street clothes and reveal
superpowers, this is a time to duck into
a phone booth and not make a call, believe
your team can take the hit while others teem
through your alleys unchecked and you can't see
any long arms of the law only feel the hard
knuckles of the unlucky. For now, healthy bodies
are swings and misses in an evolutionary process
that may or may not crawl back out of the swamp
to stand up again; it isn't pretty, it feels pretty shitty,
but until I can conquer my need to conquer
your pain, I will send in my drones to annihilate
parts of you that you have no control over;
they are not surgical strikes. I believe there are places
in the world where people know better; shame
toxins with patience; just keep watering the city
until it is able to hold more blooms, but we do not
live there. Here we are expected to nab
ne'er do wells before they ruin the windshield
of the bus that appears like an alarm every morning
at exactly 7:42 to take you to exactly 180 days
of school where you must see each of the 11,763
pages of what they want you to see before answering
211 carefully selected questions, 173 of which
you must actually get right before progressing.
So yes, what is knowledge is mashed up
what is numbing is mixed in, we've got this,
I tell myself as I squeeze in season two of spongebob
and chicken soup before the next dose. We will
remain untouched, beat the invasion by surviving
as fit as we can. I will stay by your side until you feel
safe again. But I can not promise I will not run outside
to see if I can help if someone else starts screaming.
Posted today for Open Link Night at http://dversepoets.com/
I crush the pills carefully, stir them into Skippy,
making my own brand of super chunk I then spread
over crackers. What is medicine
has been mashed, what is poison
has been mixed in. You've got this
I tell the patient so full of snot
and fear he does not want to swallow
at all, let alone this papery plate of distrusted
chemotherapy. No really, I assure him:
even though we are killing all the good bacteria
along with the bad bacteria, and all your cells
will feel mugged of the sustenance you rely
on without thinking as you sightsee through
the seconds of your days; we don't have to
sweat it; surrender your resistance like
a wallet in Argentina, we are here for the long
term; we are looking to build up the whole
neighborhood in your body, make it habitable
long term, the loss of a few unlucky tourists
pales in the face of your pale face; the system
needs to right itself, this is not a time
to pull off your street clothes and reveal
superpowers, this is a time to duck into
a phone booth and not make a call, believe
your team can take the hit while others teem
through your alleys unchecked and you can't see
any long arms of the law only feel the hard
knuckles of the unlucky. For now, healthy bodies
are swings and misses in an evolutionary process
that may or may not crawl back out of the swamp
to stand up again; it isn't pretty, it feels pretty shitty,
but until I can conquer my need to conquer
your pain, I will send in my drones to annihilate
parts of you that you have no control over;
they are not surgical strikes. I believe there are places
in the world where people know better; shame
toxins with patience; just keep watering the city
until it is able to hold more blooms, but we do not
live there. Here we are expected to nab
ne'er do wells before they ruin the windshield
of the bus that appears like an alarm every morning
at exactly 7:42 to take you to exactly 180 days
of school where you must see each of the 11,763
pages of what they want you to see before answering
211 carefully selected questions, 173 of which
you must actually get right before progressing.
So yes, what is knowledge is mashed up
what is numbing is mixed in, we've got this,
I tell myself as I squeeze in season two of spongebob
and chicken soup before the next dose. We will
remain untouched, beat the invasion by surviving
as fit as we can. I will stay by your side until you feel
safe again. But I can not promise I will not run outside
to see if I can help if someone else starts screaming.
Posted today for Open Link Night at http://dversepoets.com/
Friday, September 9, 2011
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