footnote

a poem from 87-89 - influenced by Walt Whitman - sort of - and a prose poem .



FOOTNOTE TO AN UNWRITTEN POEM

i will keep my hands upon the stone and as i weep the stone will weep and as i laugh the stone will laugh and as i crumble the stone will crumble into such finite ash the wind itself will hardly notice it being passed upon its wings.

they love my sweat, most of all

another from 3-93, this one published in the Fall of 1997 by The Poet's Attic Quarterly, another of those ever important small press 'zines that need your support. this poem is about the time i was a night watchman at Cuddeback Lumber Co.

not much else going on, back to work in the morning - with a whole bunch of overtime on my plate later next week. Oh, them guys love me at the mill, that is for certain ..... or well, maybe not - just love my sweat i think.






CARRY CLOCKS

it is of carrying clocks i speak
& broken hands that fumble them

shards of glass

& steel

that measure nothing

it is of eternity stopped

that vigil without purpose
those peering eyes that see the same thing until it is the only thing

dante on the gramophone singing delta blues
it is
it is no longer a necessity to be coherent
coherency is a virtue of the vibrant living

now i dance nervously to the chaotic chords

them rumor mills are still alive

6:93 brings us today's poem - accepted and printed by Melting Trees Review in 1997 .. i keep saying it, because it is important - support local and small presses ....

still rumors persist about a sale or merger, but with little facts to support it, but just enough not to dismiss them. Oh, the joys of papermill work!! as usual, the future is as clear as mud and as tasty.




FOG STUMBLES FROM THE DARK RIVER

fog stumbles from the dark river
the wind coughs, almost a whimper
dawn, not yet a silver streak
in a black horizon, exhales
a dank whisper. i am four
days without the moon. as usual
the temple is vacant. no one
in the vestibule to canonize.

i hear voices saying night shift is next, darn.

night shift starts tomorrow - oh, joy of joys ... oh well, it's a pay-check and i guess that still is the real name of the game.

today's poem (well, tonight's) is from Nov. 92.

other things OK around here. rather warm, unwintry weather the past couple of days. of course colder weather is expected when i get to night shift. pretty ho-hum statement when the big news is nice weather ..... onto the poetry.



EVEN JESUS HAD NO IDEA

even jesus had no idea how absurd it would all become
me with my broken bones (looking for golgatha
& finally - peace) - you before the sun coast
dancing in the warm waters (nimbus seem
only by true believers)

even jesus had no idea how magnificent pain could make you feel
how it can justify just about anything
all of us performing miracles
praying to gods yet to be discovered
each a galaxy in formation

one for me, two for the taxman

oct 92 is the source of today's poem, which somehow i think was either posted once, or is in a manuscript or something. anyway, it seems terribly familiar, not that it really matters.

off to the taxman later today - getting another of my very patriotic duties taken care of.

other than that - life is pretty ho hum around here lately - outside the paper world, which remains on the auction block and rumors again are flying of potential buyers and all the doom and gloom that can accompany these sort of things. we shall see. this week we have our quarterly state of the mill address, which may or may not express movement on that issue.



I TELLS YOU, MAN

i tells you, man, life is a bitch. we with no spoons,
our dirty fingers in the soup. alchemists
we sadly aint, snorting the vapors
of the industrial revolution. not exactly the elixirs
of inspiration. ha! i tells you, does the best that can be done
within circumstances.
upon the golden road, no sign-posts signal our arrival -
but weez here, undoubtedly, singing the songs
we finds a necessity. sour voiced, as always, my loves
gone awry.

a wintry poem

today's poem is from march 93. a rather typical wintry day here in the Pacific Northwest.

not a lot going on today. just trying to recover from a hard night-shift past ... preparing to head back to the salt-mines in the morning.



WINTER IN YOUR POCKET

winter in your pocket.

scarves upon your heart. no dancing shoes
as rain turns to ice
& no crows visit your window sill

with miracles.

broken rock

in the shade of josuha tree. no dreams
as the wind carves tales into your face
you cover with the oils

of max factor.

unprayed rosary.

salvation waits, as if an apparition
lacking only form. vapors of your breath
linger in a frozen sky, as you query

the cold of faith.

back from death by overtime - for a bit

Today's poem was accepted by The Hunted News - printed June 1998, written March 93. support them small presses, of your choice, whenever you can.

well, i am sort of back from a long stretch of overtime and really rotten nights at ye olde paper mill. sore, tired and feeling very used-up ... oh well. pretty normal stuff any more it seems.



THE DYING UNDERSTAND VISIONS

the dying understand visions, i tells you,
upon the threshold gallantly observant
of nothing. ha! the underwear clean as
tide. see the face of jesus in the armpits
of the deranged. i walk the line, mama,
right into oblivion. hurrah for heroics.

i tells you right. the scum will inherit the earth,
whored to its potential. my mama didnt raise
no fools, even if unholy. i salute corporate
america, where only here can a full fledge
idiot rise to unpure wealth.