rather symbolic

another poem from 8:95. rather symbolic of the feelings lately - esp. from the containerboard mill ....




OLD MEN WITH LANGUAGES OF THEIR OWN

they spoke in riddles
old men with languages of their own
old men who had their own myths
from places so far away
they never were real

they fumbled with napkins
as the waitress tried to hurry them
they counted pennies & dimes for tips
like it really made a difference

when the dark wind spoke to them
with fog & blackened leaves
they seemed deaf
they just hobbled along avenues
like they had all day to get somewhere

dandelion seeds in the wind

another 7:95 poem, published in April 1998 by Vantage Point. Gotta love them small presses and their dedicated editors, and of course gotta love all those that help support those presses.

back to the linerboard machine in the morning ... so most likely no updates for four or five days ...



POEM FOR LEONARD

words are dandelion seeds in the wind
beautiful as they spiral
into the cracks of broken sidewalks
- all too easily ignored
& stepped upon
by non-believers

call the night lover, as fog slips
from the river
& peers through your window
you stare into dark eyes
reach for pale flesh
darkness is no comfort

the price paid - from our vantage point
the sun is a curse & inspiration
-as is the rain, the wind
to the dandelions
they are merely tools
of existence

words are dandelion seeds in the wind
the estate gardeners may not see beauty
but the children laugh
as they blow the seeds
into a dark wind -
the perfect incantation

we shall see

today's poem is from 8:97 .

late April and the past two mornings, there has been snow before daybreak. Nothing major, and it's melted as soon as the sun manages to get through the clouds. just a twist in the weather, but pretty interesting stuff for late April.

we hear August is the earliest before the IP transaction of the papermill could happen. i suspect lots of rumors and uncertainty by then. i'll keep you posted, as i hear things. right now, the biggest concerns are if the mill will continue to run and for how long. We already know that the retirement issues will be pretty messed up. we shall see.



URBAN LOVE
-after carruth

you can look for love
the way old men wait for buses -
wondering when they changed the time-table.
frost on the hood of cars that no longer run,
all bundled -or it is gift wrapped-
for the season.

or you can search for it
like a spelunker,
in all the hard to find places of strip malls,
as if it were a discount bin treasure.

neither way works well.
if you find one that does,
send proofs. you have my address.

the wind scatters cup & napkins
from the McDonalds down the street.
i tell you, they don't pay me
to keep this street clean.
ain't no love worth finding
on dirty napkins anyway.

in memory

Today’s poem is from 1:5:94 - i wrote quite a few poems about my sister Lori, after her death. she was born a year and week after me. we were best of friends. this one was written on what would have been her birthday. She died of cancer in her early 30’s.



IN MEMORY: LORI


i tells you, ghosts in this frozen wind
bites the balls off angels.
whispers
in a gale. intellectuals finds uncomfortable ways
to dismiss it. me: i pees my pants
in solemn worship.
ghosts - i seen 'em
wearing gowns of stars,
wearing fallen leaves in their hairs,
like the wind itself.

i tells you, january ain't no time for canonization.
water wears a crazed stare & the wind
hobbles on one drunken leg.
ghosts whispers
in a gale. holy men worship stone,
swearing ghosts be demons. fools, Ha!
ghosts be the loneliness of dreams. i tells it proud,
even if i pees my pants in worship.

only a pawn in the game

8:93 is the time frame for today's poem ... but the sentiments are pretty much what i've been feeling since Weyco put the containerboard division for sale, and esp. since the "sale" to IP has been announced and all the either non-information or misinformation that has proliferated since. As of now, all we have been told for certain is August is the earliest the sale can be completed and the Weyco pensions (as crappy as they are) will not be carried over to IP, thus everyone now employed by Weyco will be retired the day the sale is finalized (with all the penalties of early retirement levied?). The "seminars" promised by the big company to clarify all this are now surfacing as "webinfo" gatherings. nothing like that personal touch, you know, from the Mother Company, letting her children go forth into the wicked world .... damn, i should be putting Bobby Dylan's "Only A Pawn In Their Game" up as the theme of the day ...



I TELLS YOU, GOD IS A WHORE

i tells you, god is a whore
on the rag,
looking cross-eyed at the world
no favors to grant.

i speaks to him in eloquent soliloquies
& he does not understand,
nothing but cold cash
keeps his attention.

i shaves with a dull razor,
the old face knows the terminology of pain
& is not made beautiful.

my limp could have been heroic
had it been upon a rare visionary,
rather than an old man.

i cuts sunlight into broken patters
misplaced in pockets
& limps around the darkness,
seeking places to enlighten.

rainbows ignore me
as they cradle mossy mountains
& i caresses rust.

no explanations.

vacuum cleaner blues

today's rumor mill contains a hot one - seems our mill manager (and thus a company vice president) "resigned immediately", as explained in a note sent out to all employees yesterday (ie the personnel to be sold in the mill change-over) .. but the talk in back rooms is he was removed due to inappropriate statements made to some secretaries. Who knows? Well, someone does, and i doubt they are saying anything beyond the official statement.

spring is sort of arriving. cool and cloudy today, with a chance of rain - but still in the 50's and nights above freezing. but hey, i am on vacation for a week, and the weather isn't really an issue. Besides, soon i am off to really celebrate - buying a new vacuum cleaner, as the old one bit the dust (oh, well, bad pun) yesterday ..

the poem for today comes from 2:98. a pleasant piece, for a change.


WHERE THE CAT ONCE SLEPT

afternoon sunshine where the cat
once slept. two shadows converse
about the latest government crisis.
old woman in a dark kitchen
cooks the same dish as yesterday,
the thin cat between her feet.
in the streets young boys at football
until curfew.

a slave - on vacation

today's poem comes from 7:93.

i am on vacation this week and hopefully will get a couple of new posts up, or at least get a few poems typed up for possible future use...

no rumors lately from the great Kraft Linerboard machine. Of course, there remains a HUGE uncertainty about what IP (International Paper) plans to do with us. One of the Weyco webpages said, so matter of factly, that IP bought the containboard as well as the employees. (Gee, i thought they fought a war in the 1860's to do away with buying and selling of humans ... must not have had to do with the paper industry ....) Anyway, whenever the deal is finalized, August or there abouts we are hearing, though nothing is confirmed, we will become the property of IP. Here's to hoping they are good masters.



THE CANDLE NEVER LIT

the candle never lit
remains perfect
as the prayers rehearsed but never offered

rain off a window
that sees the mundane repeated
until it past boring
now a vigil

two arms aching
as they hold the stones of despair
bones that ultimately fail
& dreams that keep life a possibility

the candle waits
a dream
yet to be ignited

surviving the blue meanie of colds

another from Nov. 92 - the 92-95 era was one of my most prolific times. This poem expresses the way a lot of people seem to be feeling at work - as well as life in general.

No news from the reported sale of Weyco containerboard …. Things seem to be pretty much the same as before the announcement. Lots of concern, lots of uncertainty and simply nothing that resembles facts. Both Weyco and our dear loving union plan seminars on the retirement issues before the sale is finalized. As of yet, no dates for those seminars has been set.

The cold seems to be fading, slowly. Still have a lingering cough, but it is less frequent and less hostile than the past week or so. The chances of survival seem to be extremely high at the moment.



THE ANGRY WEAR MANY MASKS

the angry wear many masks, each of broken hearts & dreams as vague as miracles.
dying is no easy task. but the dead are boring & become accustomed to it.
the angry smile through clenched smiles. curse with laughter.
& saints be beautiful - even if invisible. they radiate as a comets across desert skies.
the angry stare with stone eyes. hearts of iron, warped & disenchanted. they are flowers never to bloom & are walked upon in irreverence.

no rumors, just some bitterness

another poem from nov. 92. the uncertainty and to be honest, bitterness at the current dealings of the Rogel led Weyco - it seems rather in tune to my feelings at the moment. Of course, i am not privy to the wonders (and dollars) of how big business deals with profit margins ... only how it affects the lower tear levels of mankind - ie the workers.

we really know nothing new about the sale situation. IP has gathered enough funding from 5 world banks, and US government approval (IP would become the leading paper manufacturer in the US) is easily expected. If they will keep our mill running, or if they will sell us, or shut us down in favor of other mills is one of the great unknowns. Another of the unknowns is how any of this will affect retirements. After all, i'm only 6- to more likely 8 years from that magic time .... more as it unfolds, but i really expect no REAL news or updates to be clear until about the time the sale becomes final - which is expected to be in the 3rd quarter (June to August time frame).

now, onto the real purpose of this blog ... the poetry.


NO ONE DANCING ON MY GRAVE

no one dancing on my grave. i tells you. ashes
in a daisy scented wind.
i admire the laughter of stone. pristine women
passing. not a miracle to be savoured
as i lay in waiting.

st. pete was not a friend. best or otherwise.
rolling loaded bones in dirty corners of paradise,
hookers on his arm, as was my watch.
st. pete snickering. me a lonely broke
counting loose change for pleasures
not to be granted.

you tells me it pays to be idealist.
god fearing weenies laughing
in dark rooms of heaven
ungranted.

stage two for the rumors

well, one part of the rumor mils was put to rest yesterday. The mill is no longer for sale - upon government approval - we will soon be IP (International Paper) . If this is a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen. Certainly a lot of fodder for the rumors to get going until some things, such as, if we will continue to operate, job selections, pensions , vacations and minor issues such as those get resolved. The buy-out is expected to be finished in the 3rd quarter (June to August). i'll keep you posted.

on another issue, got a really wonderful cold that's simply kicking my butt. Feel like - well, crummy. Of course, we are on heavy weight export orders, just to make certain there isn't a chance of feeling a tiny bit better at work.

and here's a poem to celebrate that crummy cold feeling we all know so well .... it's from 3-93. some formatting issues, so it may look a bit strange in the blog ...



THE COUGH THAT COMES

The cough that comes with the morning fog & stays the afternoon

(it is mine)

the ache of bones in disrepair

(i have known them)

i tells you, i am old

pain is my smile

& anger my religion

my prayers to a god who is feeble & blind

bleeding the system for all it is worth

i tells you, i am dying

slow & imperfect

the distress of cells enraged

hurrah! for therapeutics that dont work

come, cough with me, in the darkness of dawn, when venus is bright & the sun begins to slither over black brooding mountains
we can exchange miracles or simply dialog

our shirts still stained with the filth of dreams failed

& our hands bloodied from gallant but futile effort

come, let us be heroes in our last hours

visionaries believing in the unknown

voyagers waiting for passage

it is all subjective, as the river sweats & dawn is a whisper

totally unseasonal poem

end of Oct 92 poem. OK, so it's not exactly a seasonal poem ....

spent the afternoon trying to install a new kitchen light fixture. first new one simply failed to work. second one works, but the "manual" and installation procedure seems to have been written by some sort of sadistic figure in a dark room that never has had to deal with public feedback whatsoever. i mean, how hard can you make it ... well, obviously a lot. anyway, it reminded me why i am not a handyman, and reconfirmed why i never want to become one.

no news on the work front, except the rumors have not died down, just the names of potential buyers changes on a regular basis. i certainly hope no one is trying to keep score on this one. so, it's still up in the air, still causing a lot of bubbling in the guts .... and still as unresolved as ever!

at any rate - onto the poetry .....

A HALLOWEEN POEM

1
pumpkins that smile, even as they rot. the rain that smells of sugar daddies.
& the ghost of all the dreams that never came true: out of the closet & up on your back - door to door, as a hobo, seeking truth.
the song of dark leaves swirls in your hair. the laughter of some else’s happiness echoes. it is all as haunting as you allow it.

2
will you hunt down the witches in your heart
or finally take to reading their awkward manuals

no candles allow in these haunted hallways
where the wind is merely the screaming of tormented hearts

will your god finally listen to your elegant prayers
or will you ultimately learn to speak the tongues of the desperate

3
someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic

& i am on the hobo train into the land of forever rain
watching the dark skies for the glow of your halo
not knowing what lost is, not knowing what it means to be missed

someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic

potions of regeneration?

today's poem is from 3-93. not much going on here today. what was supposed to be a rainy day, is pleasant, nearly 60 F. it's back to the salt mines in the morning, more of those ever lovely export orders. i can hear the bones creaking already ...... "where are the magic potions?" i asked the floor.




SEARCHING FOR THE POTIONS

1 searching for the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
2 tired & old, as the wind upon summer days that make not a ripple upon the lost rivers
3 that inhabit these dark mountains
4
5 wake me when there is magic in the dawn
6 & the rats are full of dante in evening skies
7 more than willing to share the secrets
8
9 seeking the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
10 sick & feeble, as the moon over the city, whispering no incantations worth remembering
11 unable to remember much of anything
12
13 wake me when you are willing to disclose your ancient magic
14 & the sound of summer is in your voice
15 falling down upon me as morning rains of these dark mountains

a previously published poem

OK, to take a short break from the unpublished, unsolicited poems, here's a poem from The Fatman In The Mirror -published by Pygmy Forest Press (editor Leonard Cirino). Again, a chant of approval for small presses, and for the editors that put their heart, soul and money into keeping real poetry alive. Leonard Cirino is one of those great people. Besides being a wonderful editor (and great friend) he is a master poet. Difficult, interesting, intellectual and important. If you are interested in getting some of Cirino's poetry, there's a link to some of his poetry on the right - and his email address is on that site.

now here's a baseball poem, so this post serves two purposes, one to toot the Pygmy Forest Press (and Leonard's) horn, and another to get closer to the feel of the American past-time.



NINTH INNING

it was the ninth inning. john wayne stepped to the plate, pointing to the centerfield bleachers, exactly as ruth in the '27 series.

jesus christ was on the mound, relief specialists par excellence. he had a fast ball that was a blur & a change-up that made no sense.

it was the ninth inning.

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.