8/30/2008
Beginnings
Beginnings
I.
The steam, low and palpable,
and filled with the bitter stench
of soy, hides the figure of my mother,
the taste of milk.
II.
At night, the wind carries
poetry of insects. Lilies answer
with white anther.
III.
In my wallet the young girl's
face curles in the damp
light of age.
IV.
I put my hands inside
my pockets, but I can't stop
touching my face.
V.
The way body language betrays
a person's words, I fill these blank pages
with water--
Interpretation
Interpretation
Off-road, amidst yellowing leaves and crudely
painted in white, a sign: "Fresh Oranges Daily,"
and an abandoned wooden fruit stand.
I plan the drive around this ritual, arriving
in time to catch the sun bowing in the branches
of those cedars, basking on the opposite bank.
For now the lake ripples along in slow torpor
with the crisp air, made dusty by drought.
At sunset it is different. For the first time
in my life, all I can think of are oranges.
The way one slice so effortlessly peels away
from another, perfectly suited for the mouth.
I drift into this slow perfection, where the sky breaks
into dusk, thin slices of orange cut through the clouds,
and I catch myself thinking of the spirituality of machinery.
I imagine this erosion as some signature of our failures.
Any sort of metaphor fails here, I know; the sunset
is already gone, like the sound of a passing train.
All that's left is an interpretation.
Again, this sunset is different. To sleep
in its sight is to curl into the arms of a lover.
I breathe the air of the light, become its latticework.
I glide over the black trails of crows, into shade.
I plunge my hands into a mound of wet leaves,
the only damp part of this country.
It feels like breath and flight and escape.
Mishima Today or Mishima's Guide to Productive Tennis
Mishima Today or Mishima's Guide to Productive Tennis
If you were here now, I would tell you the way I love you.
It is the same way a whale catches the red of the northern lights
in the gleam of a harpoon, clutched by a Japanese whaler, poised
to let it fly.
Which is to say it is difficult. I heard somewhere that
Harry S. Truman, right before he died, was asked if he had
any regrets, and he responded,"I'm dying. I regret that
I'm dying. And love. I wish I had loved as often
as I died".
I think that was Truman, I'm not sure. Love is hard,
stubborn, and rigid as a bad serve. I've been practicing.
If you were here now, we could play,
and I wouldn't have to waste time hitting against a brick wall.
Serve and return. You should have been named
after Konohana-Sakuya, translated, "Symbol of Flowers".
If you were here now, I would tell you how
in Japanese mythology, the marriage of Konohana-Sakuya
and Ninigi, the grandson of the sun goddess, led to the gods
being stripped of their immortality.
(She also set fire to her bedroom during childbirth).
Serve and return. I grip the racket tightly, and remember
how you would grab my arm, correct my form, guide my swing
like a sword.
The court is lit by one lone floodlight, and behind it, the stars
wane like fireflies. You and I are always fighting for something
and we're always failing. If you were a war, like the oh so futile
Keian Uprising of 1651, I would be that revolutionary writer
who thinks of you a century later as he barricades himself inside
the headquarters of the Japanese Self-Defense Force before committing seppuku
in shame.
Serve and return. I think you're turning Japanese. Me too. I think
that if we were to stop fighting, lay down our swords, and just fall
into a long sleep, we might disappear, the way the color spreads out
from a rising sun. We could fall asleep and never wake up again.
If you were here now, I'd tell you not to worry, that I'm not afraid
of dying or fighting or dreaming or dissolving into the sky overnight,
or however long it takes.
Everything and Nothing
Everything and Nothing
In his youth, the boy had been a worshiper of rocks. His father had given him his collection, something like a cigar box the boy thought was a chessboard. The father told his son he'd had it for over 40 years, and every time he looked at it he remembered his youth, when he found fool's gold by the creek. He had wrapped it up in a rag and given it to his mother, as a gift. But those were just memories, and he had no use for memories anymore, and so the collection was given to his son, the boy. The boy learned how to know a rock by color and weight; to identify lime and sandstone; to wash and dust and care for rocks like treasure.
Everyday the boy dug into the soft dirt around his school, hoping for an emerald, a ruby, quartz, diamonds. By springtime, he had mined the length of the baseball field, caked dirt permanently under his fingers, which had swollen to the size of boys' hands three times his age, and found nothing. But he continued. One day, the boy was resting under a bush of honeysuckle, which grew around a chain link fence. Through the fence and leaves the boy could see the other children playing softball, hear the dull tunk of metal against leather, the softball slowly plummeting like a fat bird. Gretchen was there, with the red pig-tails and brown overalls, a German girl resented and feared for what passed as exoticism in elementary school. At this time, she walked over and sat with the boy.
To him, she wore a crown of light when she stood in the sun, and for her, this daily excavation was the scant human interaction for which she starved. They never talked; Gretchen would hold up a rock and the boy would squint at it for a few minutes. Inevitably, he would shake his head and the rock would be discarded, being not a gem, not a ruby, not a treasure of any sort. The boy and Gretchen eventually moved past the ball field, across the ditch, past the grass so short it never grew back, past the dead blackberry bush, and all the way to the street paved with cars, and back again. This entire endeavor lasted all summer, and was rooted in silence the entire time.
It was an autumn evening when they at last returned to the honeysuckle bush and the chain-link fence. The bush was alight with an orange glow. Gretchen ran ahead of the boy towards the bush, and she disappeared for a moment. The boy looked around the field, at the other children, and they all looked back. Gretchen returned with a firefly in her hands, held together as if in prayer. As she held her hands up to show the boy she felt the firefly in her hands getting larger, heavier. All around them, the light blushed from an orange glow to green. The boy felt as if he were sliding, as if he were stretching out, like ice. The children were there on the field, and Gretchen's foster parents were there, waiting in their car, and Gretchen's real parents were there, spying from the shadows of the dead blackberry bush, and the boy's father was there, asleep in the ditch, and I was there too. I was there watching, with everyone. We were becoming part of their imagination.
Neighbors
Neighbors
On the floor above, a man drops something heavy,
or a gun fires, and you can barely hear it except
for the muted bark, the slight tremble of the wall
you feel inside your fingertips, the hardness
hiding amidst softness, the ripple in your coffee.
The girl sitting next to you looks up,
and you are amazed, because you are also looking up,
and what you both feel is the same concealed mixture
of wonder and fear that disappears
a second later like a lost memory.
Upstairs, something is said about the moon,
about its blackness, how it stares like a stranger
lit by the starlight, but what was said is drowned
out by the sound of a man's heel, bearing down
on the spot where someone else once stood,
and who now calls out to him, from very far away.
8/26/2008
Cutting the Ribbon
The Delirium Waltz
And the dance was slow And into the hall years later came Tom and Em Holding each other and turning and turning Then came Jules tall and thin Across the wide floor Looking better than ever came Jessie and Steve Leon and Judith Muffie and Jim And Charlie and Helen were eating and dancingAnd then came Bob and Sonia
And the dance was slow
And joining them now were Chip and Molly
And Joseph dear Joseph was dancing and smoking
And into the hall years later came Tom and Em
And Joseph dear Joseph was dancing and smoking
And off to the side were Mark and Jean leaning together
Holding each other and turning and turning
And off to the side were Mark and Jean leaning together
And Bill and Sandy and Jorie and Jim
Then came Jules tall and thin
And Bill and Sandy and Jorie and Jim
Everyone moving everyone dancing
Across the wide floor
Everyone moving everyone dancing
Harry was there and so was Kathleen
Looking better than ever came Jessie and Steve
Harry was there and so was Kathleen
And Peter and Barbara had just gotten back
Leon and Judith Muffie and Jim
And Peter and Barbara had just gotten back
And others were there
And Charlie and Helen were eating and dancing
And others were there
Wearing their best
And Glenn and Angela Wally and Deb
Wearing their best
Around and around dancing and dancing
And our shadows floated away beneath us towards sunset and darkened the backs of birds, and blackened the sea whose breath smelled slightly of fish, of almonds, and of rotting fruit. A blizzard of coastal aromas had come to collect our attention, and we drifted through all it tried to impart, not knowing where we were going. And soon the air was soiled with dust and iris-colored clouds. We were standing, watching everyone else afloat on the floor, on the sea of the floor, like a raft of voices. "Hi there," they said, as they sailed by, "may we have this dance?" And off they vanished into another room with pale blue walls and birds.
And birds flew back and forth A golden haze was everywhere And Jeannette and Buddy were dancing And Roz and Denis were talking Saying that blue slides into black Rosanna was there and Maria And Rusty and Carol were there And Charles and Holly were dancing
And birds flew back and forth
People roamed the veranda
Under the limbs of trees
A golden haze was everywhere
Under the limbs of trees
And Howie was there with Francine
And Jeannette and Buddy were dancing
And Howie was there with Francine
Angels must always be pale they said
And Roz and Denis were talking
Angels must always be pale they said
But pale turns round to white
Saying that blue slides into black
But pale turns round to white
And Jules was there in heels
Rosanna was there and Maria
And Jules was there in heels
And day and night were one
And Rusty and Carol were there
And the day and the night were one
And the sea's green body was near
And Charles and Holly were dancing
And the sea's green body was near
Hello out there hello
So thin they were and light
Hello out there hello
Can anyone hear out there
And the rush of water was suddenly loud as if a flood were loosed upon the ballroom floor. I seemed to be dancing alone into the absence of all that I knew and was bound by, the sight of the sea coming close, the spread of solvency, the smear, the blurred erasure of differences, the end of self, the end of whatever surrounds the self. All that I saw was a vast celebration of transparence, a clear dream of nothing. And I kept on going. The breakers flashed and fell under the moon's vacant gaze; scattered petals of foam shone briefly, then sank in the sand. It was cold, and I found myself suddenly back with the others. The sea, that vast ungraspable body, that huge and meaningless empire of water, was left on its own.
And the silver sparkled a little So many doors were open And there was Eleanor dancing And Don and Jean were waiting Hours and hours would pass Now enter the children of Em There was nothing to do but dance Would never sit down togetherThey drifted over the floor
And the silver sparkled a little
Oh how they moved together
The crystals shook in the draft
So many doors were open
The crystals shook in the draft
Nobody knew what would happen
And there was Eleanor dancing
Nobody knew what would happen
Now Red waltzed into the room
And Don and Jean were waiting
And Red waltzed into the room
The years would come and go
Hours and hours would pass
The years would come and go
The palms in the hallway rustled
Now enter the children of Em
The palms in the hallway rustled
And here were the children of Tom
There was nothing to do but dance
And here were the children of Tom
And Nolan was telling them something
They would never sit down together
And Nolan was telling them something
And many who wished they could
The season of dancing was endless
And many who wished they could
Would never be able to stop
I cannot remember when it began. The lights were low. We were walking across the floor, over the polished wood, the inlaid marble, through shallow water, through a dusting of snow, over the shapeless figures of fallen light. I cannot remember, but I think you were there, whoever you were.