waiting around for paperwork gods

Today’s poem is from 12:97 - it was accepted by Cedar Hill Review in Feb. 98, but not used. It was then put in a manuscript called The Shared Dream, that was junked, but later - most of the poems, including this one, ended up in a manuscript called Humbly I Offer These Awkward Poems, which was also accepted for publication by Cedar Hill Publications, but not released before the press went defunct (for at least a while) ... a montage poem.

Called the boys at Vanguard this morning (investment specialists handling my 401k & IRA) about the status of my Weyco pension being rolled over to an IRA. Well, nothing is happening. All they need to process the piles of paperwork is a confirmation from the dear old Weyco officials of my last Date of work. Two weeks have passed and they still haven’t passed that onto Vanguard. I am not the only one in limbo over this. Seems that once they got rid of the Containerboard Division, everything to do with us has become of secondary importance. Oh well, at least Vanguard knows I am monitoring it and my representative said once they get any confirmation paperwork, he will notify me. Eventually it will happen I guess. At least the phone call confirmed all the paper work is in place and was done correctly. (Another well done for Nance!)

Now, onto the poetry … I need to go through piles of old poems pretty soon and get a few dozen more typed up for future use. I doubt after this vacation I’ll have a lot of free time, so I best set some time aside one of these extremely hot afternoons (just 99 f. or so the past two days!)



STONES
-after charles reznikoff

1
2 stones out of my left pocket
(no scared chips
from the pyramids,
just rough granite,
talus slope debris.)

i fling them as if curses
from this darkness. the sun
unwounded, continues to shine
upon the damned & righteously damned.

2
David, who returned Goliath
to dust,
surely faces legal problems.

hero or not, premeditated. The Infidels
suing for loss of plunder,
profits.

i send my name. class action
windfalls. mostly snow
gathers on my balding head these days.

3
blood in the gutter.

vagrant with no respect,
dying next to the garbage can
of Mr. Perfect Neighbor,

who, with rubber gloves,
opens the lid, deposits
morning scraps of burnt toast

then calls the proper authorities,
certain they bring
ammonia.

i do not believe he was Goliath
reincarnate, though certainly
just as worthy.

4
these stones are not signal flares
for the Deities
lost in eternal sleep.

i wish it were possible.

Prometheus welts upon my hands.
i have stolen more than fire.

Lucifer, i am certain,
grateful for my contributions.

5
all these temples in my heart -
stone upon stone -
the hecatombs as magnificent
as sex.

6
if God were a woman,
i believe,
sex would taste like chocolate.

7
we are the bones of a lost society,
homeless, decadent,
visionaries on the wrong side of success.
we are the very bones
someday someone to discover
& misinterpret.

8
yellow lizard upon
stone fence.

if i could sleep like that
i probably would,
gladly.

open skies all the way
across the dark bay - wind
mumbling the fragrance of apple-blossoms.

she painted emotions, dreams,
primary colors -
forms far too limiting.

9
what was it about here
that allowed me to sacrifice myself?

what about those eyes?

yellow silk in her hair
tangled in lost winds
from the tombolo at the Little Sur,
certainly more haunting
than ghosts summoned,
but seldom responding.

O, grandfather bones! O sacred sister bones!
what was it about her fingers
that i call yet
into the voids
for deliverance?