Wednesday, April 25, 2012

The Golden Ticket


In late 2009 I took advantage of a unique opportunity, an at the time unprecedented offer by JetBlue airlines: travel, for one month, on any JetBlue plane, from any airport JetBlue serviced, to any airport JetBlue serviced, for the cost of a single $600 ticket.  I jumped at the chance for adventure, and for one month, with no driver's license, little prior knowledge of my destinations, and only the luggage I could carry in a black canvas backpack, I set out to explore thirteen US cities.
Charlotte, NC, my third destination, was a personal challenge: how would I fare in a place about which I knew nothing, not even apocrypha?  I'd never heard, or read, so much as two sentences about Charlotte.  But this journey was about discovery, and so, late on the night of my 30th birthday, I boarded a flight from San Francisco to Charlotte.   Arriving in Charlotte early in the AM, I bused to a nearby Motel (I couldn't find a hostel) and caught some shut-eye.  Early in the morning I bused to the nearby business district and began exploring.  After a few hours I began to feel discouraged - I'd footed to every corner of the downtown grid, and found little to do.  More worrying, there seemed to be little beyond the business streets.  Convinced no city could be this dull, I questioned the locals.  A few mentioned "NoDa", Charlotte's arts district, as worth a visit. I'd found my grail, now I had to claim it.

Friday, April 13, 2012

not a poem

The kid turned his head to the right, and caught an eyeful of his own eternal glory in this moment - his image, reflected in a glass display window of some sporting store. His reflection matched almost a the mannequin behind the glass: a sleek alabaster plasticene model, arm at 90 degrees in perfect running form, torso pitched forward in the midfall of a stride. The model's clothes were pastels, robin's egg and one of two hundred shades of pink, and impossibly clean. The kid wore a grey hoodie, scuffed at the elbows, dark green with greying black tentacles printed all over. His face was almost as smooth and sharp as the mannequin, but his eyes had not just life but glee. He grinned and saluted the mannequin, stolen pipe still in hand, then his left foot pounded pavement and he was past it.
He tossed his prize from right to left hand, and glanced over his shoulder. His newest victim, a portly man in a checkered jacket and newsboy cap, had quit the chase after only a few steps, and now stood impotent, square, amid the mid-day pedestrian flow.
Mischief in full flow, the kid hopped out of his run, turning to face the poor son of a bitch who'd had the misfortune to stand too close to an impulsive moment. He grinned and brought the pipe, still lit, to his lips, and blew as hard as he could, spraying sparks and red tobacco into the air.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Open, closed

How joyful
And how shaming
to encounter you
How funny
Shying in your sight
And dancing naked
Wanting to be seen and see
how foolish
to peer hands cupped over your eyes
Kissing a circus mirror
our two distorted faces
Wondering

Anger

Under  city hall philadelphia
From 15 to 13 hearing old man penn
Stomping to be heard over the  indifferent roar of
Train
Council
Pacing police
and the men whose hands he shook
Are exiled to casinos and midwestern enclaves shouting unheard proclamations :
"independence" "betrayal" "renewal"
As in greece a retired worker pulls the trigger in the town square "dignity"
He says he is preserving
And he falls with the prediction of public hangings
Meanwhile signs from 13th street shout "buy"
"clothing""buy"
"freedom" "buy"
"pizza" "buy"
"companions" "buy"
Andeven vanity metal signs say
"cynical frustration" "buy"
So if you shout "fuck you"
They'll sell you back the echo as the train rolls past and Willie Penn points wrongways with his exposed scroll toward northeast philadelphia and the waters waiting to rise

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

an injury

I have discovered I am trailing blood
and walk to the garden to water what I find.
Healing, perhaps, is a hopeful dream.
Those injuries one finds -one may lick, and sorrow over
but as in the parable of the wagon,
the blood is not the injury,
nor the exposed muscle the injury
nor the uninjured skin at edge the injury
and often I imagine the cause
but the imagining is not the injury
and the flowers can not drink my memory
even if I pour it over them in words or tears
the scab is not the injury
nor any pain the injury
nor the dull pleasure of the suffering, the injury.
still, the planted rows, and the unplanted weeds, and the creeping grasses
drink what blood they can
and grow if they are wont to grow.





Monday, April 2, 2012

When daphne cried

she cried as veins that branched like fibonacci's dreams pale blue and downy hair like faint calligraphy found alchemy to bark and bud each sinew rising from a central bone a small ballet of spoking twigs
her eyes beholding it
so wide
her mouth an O
as she first drank the sun



observations, possibilities

the trash bags
The many electric lights
and sockets
The stairs
or the window above them
a bottle of cleaner
scissors
pens
glass shelving panes
the little brown ibuprofen
that rattle in a large bottle
so like rain
the passing cars
and trolley

song like faroff thing

a love song
like a mountain
seen at distance
from the road
lyrics murky in morning mist
rising with the tune
under the beat
of your steps

but you can't see it all
until you run
your first real one
to sing

the song is rising
and it's closer
as you walk there
knowing, now
it's yours
to give

and on that hill
you're looking down
and you can see it's
bigger but it's
meant for you
to understand it

then the road is past
you've run too fast
and
in the distance
looking back
it's oddly small
and slightly stupid
in the way it leans

there's a love song
by your shoulder
if you bother
looking over

but it
tends to hurt
your eyes
the way it gleams
Oh daphne,
daphne cried
and veins that branched pale blueneath olive skin like fibonacci's dreams
and downy hair above like faint calligraphy
all turnied crisp to bark and bud
each sinew rising from a central bone
a small ballet of spoking twigs
her eyes beholding it
so wide
her mouth an O
as she first drank the sun



The promises
When she says no
The tales you learned
When she says no
The songs you sang
Don't matter
And the faithful dog
Snot there
In wandering
she won't be
The white deer
When you find her
the moon
You can't reach
won't be her wish