dog surgery

the mill is in it's annual outage 5-6 days originally planned, but IP decided to try and push a price increase (for transportation costs - I suspect) and added 3-4 more days to the outage for just our mill .... so that's not a real good thing. i am scheduled back to work on Monday. Hopefully that is all that is going on. Still lots of talk of the “rationalization” suggestion by the big German bank … but at this point (it appears) to be merely talk. The job in shipping is slowly making a little sense, but I’ve got a long way to go before I really understand and even further before I am “signed off” and considered qualified.

but the biggest news around here is Nancy's dog. Nance noticed her limping about a month ago, and so took her in for x-rays. they noticed a crack in her upper leg bone and we decided to have it fixed. seems as if it was a lot more than just a crack, the top of the bone was crumbling, along with some muscle damage. They had to take off the top of the bone. it could have been caused by a puppy injury, or maybe someone had kicked her before we got her (more what we think). Anyway, she also has hip dysplacia ... not common for her breed. So all in all, it was something that would have had to be addressed anyway. So for the time being, Cocoa is limping around on three legs, but doing well. A long rehab, but things should be normal or close to it, once that is finished.

Today’s poem is from 10:97


DAILY GRINDS

so, what did you really expect from life ...

frost on the pumpkin,
starlings drunk on the odors.
the witch beside you retains a sorcery
you never fully understand:
she is beautiful when you need her the least,
damned bitch when you are weak.

stained glass ornament reflects the wrong colors.
you really don't care if the semblance is changed
if you could only figure out
how to put the fragments back together.

the dirt on your hands is testament
you have earned your dollars well,
& as you wash your hands, the dollars dissipate.

wind rests on the fingers of trees,
while fog mumbles of visions squandered.
rivers turn a cold shoulder.
blue heron merely waits for supper
beside the muddy waters
while the open wings of the red tail hawk -
is a sure sign of desperation.
empty talons, like the fingers of lost love,
ache to caress something soft & warm.

is it a promise if it's not kept?

This poem is from 6:93

The training in shipping continues. I feel dumb as a stump, having trouble grasping some of the ever changing combinations of roll sizes that can go into different sized trucks or railcars. Guess it’ll come, but even as my co-workers say I’m doing fine, I feel as if it’s going to be a long, difficult transition. As far as the work, it is easier on my sore body parts, so I will continue to work at it, during my 45-90 trial period. At the end of that time period, I will know if they will let me continue in the department, or if I want out … or ....

On other news, IP has already started closing facilities it acquired in the Weyco deal, even though they indicated at the time of the buy-out that there was ‘very little” redundancy that needed to be addressed in the two systems. One mill in Valiant, OK (60 employees affected) is closing by the end of Nov. and one testing site in Oregon (5 employees affected) is closing by the end of Oct. There is talk by a German bank (one of the major lenders of the money for IP to buy Weyco containerboard) that one of the two mills in Oregon (Albany or Springfield, where I work) might need to be closed as well. At this point, it’s speculation and nothing being said up front, but the fact that the talk is there and is pretty specific is rather unsettling to say the least.

So, as usual - the turmoil continues and certainty is as vague as truth in a presidential election!



FATMAN KNOWS GOD

1 fatman knows god is bogus
2 has theorems to prove it
3 in calories & idle time
4 carbohydrates shout at withered bones
5 of another closet dream
6 fatman knows
7 displays his disgust

a real Summer COLD

today's poem is from 8:97 - and it's another prose poem - and an appropriate one, as I have come down with one of those wonderful summer colds … well, it’s not 90+ degrees as described in the poem, (not complaining either ). actually it’s been a pleasant day, except for the cold. Back on night shift starting tomorrow ….

Week one in shipping is history. Actually a LOT more to learn than I realized, probably more than anyone who hasn’t done the job realizes. But I do think it will come eventually - but it will take time. Just a lot of little things, what rolls to double stack in what rail cars, the pattern to place rolls in a truck (all depending on size of trailer, and number of axels on the trailer) …. Little stuff that like.

And I got to call Vanguard again this morning … to reply to a letter from my rep. Nothing much, except the paperwork has finally arrived from Weyco, and should be processed and finalized by Oct. 1 - seems a long time to me, but I guess it’s the way the world works now days. At least I have a time frame - and I guess Vanguard will handle everything for the actual reallocation - at least that’s what I’ve been told. We shall see.




SUMMER COLD

i cough. another summer cold. 89 degrees three hours after sunset. the farmers are cutting mint in dusty fields tonight. & the sweet smell is enough to gag you. their harvesters are old & dirty, as the farmers themselves, working well past their prime.

neighbor tinkers with his 63 Ford, new cam shaft & headers. this son-of-a-bitch really screams. & it does. 11 p.m., bastard machine born in heat of teenage angst & middle age crisis. he rough idles it well past midnight - maybe he evens believe it is a fountain of youth. but i don't. last virgin he saw in it was 6 month old cat, on the way to the vet for spaying.

Niquil - & an hour later i am awake to a groggy moon, watching possum (mother & 3 youth) cross through the fresh cut mint, ugly & awkward, delighting in both. i wonder if god felt this way after rebirth & hallelujah parishioners quit filling his coffer with pristine $20 bills. i cough & go back to bed, hopeful of sleep.

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?

shipping awaits

today's poem is from the end of 10:93. thought i'd post something a little less morose, as i am on vacation and not doing a whole lot but trying to relax, listen to some old 60's music and watching some baseball on TV.

The work changes are in place. Got to become International Paper officially on Aug. 4th. So far, not any changes i can see other than new name on the entrance gate. Maybe behind the scenes there are some things going on, but not on the paper machine thus far, with the small exception of we are now making some paper for a couple of West Coast IP box plants.

the major change is i start training in shipping after my current vacation is over. i don't really know what to expect, and i do have 45 days to change my mind and go back to the paper machine if i feel it won't work for me. There is a cut in pay to go to shipping, and at first some major reduction of hours. Oh well, i'll survive the reduction in my pay-checks (even if i don't like it) and the less hours may be beneficial for my sore feet and shoulder.





CROW WITH A VIPER TONGUE

crow with a viper tongue
in casual conversation
with the wind

through your autumn hair
& ambitious arms

sun coughing rainbows
across a placid river
going nowhere in particular today

through your autumn hair
& resplendent eyes

c-c-changes

8:97 is the time frame of today’s poem.

Actually some news to report. One - before I get to add another update, I will be working for International Paper. The take-over is supposed to happen on Aug. 4th. I’ll be on night shift, 5th handing (yuk), on overtime that week. I suspect it’ll be more a symbolic change for the first few months than anything major, other than new names on the paychecks and paper rolls.

Two- the other big change (and really bigger for me), is I have decided to try to work in a different department of the mill. It took some behind the scenes negotiating (I am really amazed that some union officials actually went to bat for me and while they didn’t get the rules rewritten, they did get around the rule that was preventing me from going to the shipping department and giving that a try. And obviously the company had to agree, so it appears they worked out something that worked for both of them, to my benefit.) I am scheduled to start training in shipping the 11th of August, which is also the first day of my vacation. So, don’t know how that will work exactly, but I am certain it won’t become an issue. Now all I need is my knees and neck to hold out on a Hyster for the next half-dozen or so years. (The idea was to get off my feet and quit plugging core so my shoulder wouldn’t ache all the time, as it does now on the winder area of the paper machine. Time will tell how well the great scheme works out, I guess.) Anyway, now to the poetry.



YOU SPEAK SILENCE WELL

you speak silence well.

fog is on the river tonight.
to curse it is futile,
but i curse it anyway, as i have cursed your ambivalence.

the wind writes no sonnets
on the bills of the egret,
one leg on his dark stump
beside the shallows.

i pull my collar tight,
shiver as i watch
the graffiti artists work
the darkness
behind the performing arts center,
as we all work in the thick darkness,
some more rewarding than others.

no pens in old mugs on your table,
no fibre optics connect our lives -
you dance angelically without audience,
upon the stage of the self ....

indeed, you speak silence well.

slavery never was intended to be pretty

todays poem is another from 4-93. the poem sort of reflects the mental state of becoming a pawn for another mega-company. slavery never was intended to be pretty, i don't think.

nothing new from the Day 1 realm. Just waiting around, dealing with a lot of nervous managers and uncertainty about just about every sort of detail. Lots of paperwork to be presented, and some obvious changes, like a new employee number. Pretty mundane stuff so far. Too bad the jobs won't be upgraded and all. These bones are really telling me they dislike working on the winder anymore. Ah, poor old bones. There ain't no relief anytime soon.

Summer continues. Pretty nice days lately. Not extremely hot, and actually cool in the mornings. Not like autumn and those wonderful rains, but not too terrible.


I TELLS YOU, POOR OLD HENRY

i tells you, poor old henry, busted shoes & socks wet as a river.
sing boohoo for idealism. weez just footprints in sand again.
but visions aint my cup o tea, i whispers, blinded by lights of my own desperations.
no sugar in my bed. no hot chocolate in my sack. just torn pages
i have failed to read. fantasies die cruel-like in this world i knows.

i tells you, god was born a mean bastard, sucking on hard tits
of disillusionment. he bites like dogs in heat when it feels a hurt.
poor old henry, sore & bleeding. no knee pads in his arsenal of dreams.
drinking hard liquors of damnation. sober aint bliss, he weeps.
god, like a pimp, selling pleasures for prices of slavery.

not much info on Day-1

4-93 brings us today’s poem.

Not much new on the DAY-1 info. Really all we are doing is getting bits and pieces of very minor information (such as how to direct deposit your pay-check once IP takes over), but nothing of significance, at least from my point of view. I think most of the work and effort is being done on the electronic and computer stuff, so it will integrate seamlessly. People are a lot more pliable it seems.

Other than that - just damned hot. Summer is certain making itself evident. It’s back on night shift tomorrow night, which states the rather obvious, not any updates until I get some more time off. No overtime I can see for the coming rotation, but a whole load of it after that. Booo and hiss!!



YAWNING GREY SEAS NEVER DID NOTICE

1 yawning grey seas never did notice. eternity in your eyes for the right questions. broken winged gulls conversing with the ambassadors of death. the winds of november in dialog with your hair.
2 forests wept & iris bloomed. pathways into primal dream where jays conversed in the language of rilke. only we were the unknowing.
3 apple blossoms upon the river. hearts that never did learn the perfect dialog of love. where lizards sunned themselves inconspicuously.
4 i have become the curse you sighed. thick fog absorbed the word & i walked into the darkness to become that which was undesired.

ground control to Major Tom

Today’s poem is from 11:93. No I haven’t fallen off the face of the planet, just been on night shift, with a load of overtime … so the updates tend to be few and far between when that happens.

Speaking of updates - mailed my “retirement” packet off to Vanguard, so when “Day 1” arrives, I should have that issue taken care of. Still can’t retire of the amount I am being “given”, but it won’t hurt to get it invested and maybe working to make a little money. (Well, maybe not in the economics of Wall Street right now!) The union finally called a meeting on our retirement “rights”, of course, that was 4 days after I mailed my packet, and coming off night shift with overtime, I sort of just skipped that fiasco of a meeting. Lots of rumors about what will and will not be changed under the IP regime. I suspect some of it will come to pass, but picking which ones is probably like trying to pick lottery numbers at this point.

Very warm here in the Pacific Northwest this week. Summer is certainly here. boooo! i still prefer autumn and the cool rains.

Onto the poetry….



POEM FOR ROBIN A.

1
Avenues in which shadows live -
listening to the echoes of mission bells -
cobblestones & perfect for pictures
(except the lighting):
trashcan hearts laughing at nothing:
i walk as if a saint seeking for canonization.

The rocks of disenchantment are before you.
Gulls dance in an awkward breeze
& serpents speak with an eloquent lisp.
No one comes here to die intentionally -
rather to gaze upon the disgusted & disgusting,
then to pass onto higher plains, at least spiritually.

No one comes here to die intentionally,
but it is here the dead congregate -
vile & angry, an eclectic collection of bastards
all ready for a second chance,
here in the avenues where shadows live,
before the very cliffs of disenchantment.

2
All gods little children lost, out on the highway,
waiting for Moses to lead them
back into the promised land.
But, the desert is plentiful
& the company at least entertaining.
Damnation comes well disguised.

All gods little children lost, somewhere or another,
wearing the gowns of deliverance for a price,
walking like Egyptians, right into extinction
believing the message of the blind prophet
that lacks only vision & truth to be credible.
Damnation comes well disguised.

All gods little children lost, right here in paradise
fallen into disrepair, red rockets grounded.
But the company is at least entertaining
even as the skies are frigid & look like rain.
The word for today, as everyday, is:
damnation comes well disguised.

3
So, flip another dirty quarter.
My money is cheap, loose change for hookers,
& the dialog can be disgusting.
Bet your soul against mine -
the falling sky is the radioactive remains
of a god gone on permanent vacation.

Call a dream. Someone or something,
need know nothing of it for credence.
The cold roll of fog in your hair
& the rattle of the wind
past a milepost that is our life
nearly forgotten by any but ourselves.

The clock keeps false time.
Life is an illusion. Mirrors tell no lies.
Flip another dirty quarter.
It is all, ultimately, loose change for hookers,
here in the avenues where shadows live
looking for the remains of idealism.

slogging through the Void without a road-map

Today’s poem is from 11:93 ooolalal .... a prose poem .... haven't used this format much lately, but still like it.

Some updates … got my “packet” from Vanguard … it’ll be like going through the Encyclopedia Britannica, and while the amount is hardly enough to actual retire upon, I do need to get it reinvested - so dear old Uncle Sam doesn’t take it all in taxes, though I am certain he feels more entitled to it than I should. After all, I just gave blood, sweat and years for it. Anyway, working a bunch more overtime it appears, so I won’t be getting the forms filled out and returned before the middle of July it appears. I think I officially have until sometime in August.

And while the company (and union) promised meetings and clarification on all sorts of things, I have yet to see any of these posted. So it’s slogging through the Void without a road-map, as usual. Oh well, things progress and all the chatter is about life after Day 1, so all we can do is assume IP actually plans to run the mill, for a while at least. We shall see ….

Now onto the poetry ----


FOR ROBERT CREELY

the Rolling Stones, 30 years later still moaning for Mona upon a vinyl dream no longer in print. & you upon Goat Mt. pondering the universality of buffalo grass & rats. (rats, i tells you, are angels watching the world go down the tubes.)

clouds over rancid skies in search of thermal inversions, updrafts, clouds wander as if visions waiting for mountains to crash into - wonderful thunder & the flap of wings. & you gather on Goat Mt. take it all in - as if by osmosis.

roll over, fido, you mill-worker

Today’s poem is from March 1993.

No real new information, except that everyone under 55 will be terminated the day the sale becomes official. (Aug. 4 in theory). Everyone over 55 (hey, that’s me) will be “retired”. (i am being told we then become IP employees, but so far, no one has officially stated that.) What that means is my pension needs to be taken within 90 days, either requesting an “annuity” or a lump sum (to be rolled over). oh, the paper work is just short of gargantuan. But today I began the journey. Actually, the people at Vanguard were very helpful, thus far. Next week I get to talk to a financial advisor as to specifics and terms of the roll over.

Other news? Summer is finally starting to appear. The long (and wet) spring is about over. Actually If it weren’t for the work fiasco, I would have enjoyed the spring being wet and all. Now all I need is my foot to quit aching. 12 hours (8 straight days) on that wonderful concrete floor are starting to take a toll I think. And more overtime on the horizon. So much for streamlining the work force a few years ago!! Oh well, such is life for an old paper-mill worker. Now back to the poetry. I think that’s the reason for this blog.



THE RIVER STILL SMELLS

the river still smells where blackbirds dance in the thickets & carp dance in the reeds.
the same old river that dumps a grey ooze into turbidity current of the cold bay no one loves forever.
my soul on the edge of the wind
obsidian rock from the belly of the sea
angry knuckles that scrape the sky
her hands sails before sunset

but it is the river - stench of sugar beets & tires burning - before which i stood.
manzanita housing skylarks - & rats
the wind whispering of turbulence
temptation the very taste of her lips
succulent grapes upon vines tangled in scrub oak, where jays curse the very smell of life
perfumes that intoxicate
imaginations that refuse to forget

waiting around for DAY 1

today's poem is from 10:93.

really no word on the great DAY 1, coming around Aug. 4th. some things remain completely mysterious - such as if we actually have jobs waiting (but it has been implied we will - but nothing official has been said). a few things, nothing really significant, have been clarified - our insurance will not change until Jan. 1 (when that will be "renegotiated"), our years of service only will count towards vacation and job position seniority.



RAIN. I TELLS YOU.

rain. i tells you. falls. no umbrellas as we watch.

i sees cracks in america. profound
theologians blames everybody but jesus
who was seen -NOT- with his finger
in the hole of another failing dike.

i tells you. the sick are not always
hospitalized. & the damned aint always
in obvious pain. ha! the eagle laughs
with one eye. no snakes in his pockets.
hungry little children watching empty skies.
no manna today, dudes - but tomorrow ...
another story, i tells it well -
same old shit in the same old underwear.

Ain't loyalty wonderful?

today's poem is from 8:97.

no new news from the magic kingdom about the coming of "DAY 1". which means thaty there's no new news, and not much more. so far, no meetings on anything, no meetings scheduled as far as i can tell. Limbo lingers.

but after last week, i am still sore and tired. i am simply getting too old for this type of work, i think. And i haven't had to do the worst job (5th handing) in over a couple of weeks. Oh well. No vacation or time off at all this summer, nothing on the books until September, and by then we should be the new and wonderful IP mill. To be honest, i have no idea if they are pulling our chains about keeping our plant running, and i have no idea what part of our past (vacations, senority, etc) will be honored or tossed into the DAY 1 scrap pile. Ain't loyalty wonderful?




POSTER CHILD FOR REJECTION


Is it the alignment of the planets
or predestination?
mama, i cannot be great!
damn, my hands ache, no worse
than my heart, ache none-the-less.
stars ain't twinkling eyes.
winds ain't caresses.
here, where my shirts is dirty,
where my sheets is dirty.

There is still snot in my nose.
i never learned to blow right, did i?
man, i ain't nobody's baby
no more. just old & ugly,
waiting for summer to tell me
skin is beautiful - mine like
a plague, even friends avoid contact,
if i ever had friends..

Dark skies. severe weather warnings!
all my TV screen are blank.
so, what i supposed to do
in my terminal world? my fingers
is black, as my heart is black.
mama, when i dies, bury my bones,
my dreams & scatter the ashes
over the desks of these bastard
that have made me the definition
of rejection.

some info - none of it binding

yesterday we got a bit of "news" from our interim mill manager. IP managers will be visiting our mill on June 3rd. They are part of the "transition team", but i believe i am on night shift that week, plus that is the day of felt changes and repair work to the paper machine, so not much of a chance they were going to talk to anyone but managers. (Is that a coincidence?)

there is supposed to be a commitment by Weyco to supply chip (or logs for chips) for the nexst 15 years, since IP has no timber. (They diversified about 10 years ago, on Wall Street pressure, or advice, depending on your point of view). IP is now supposed to be committed to a "West Coast" presence .... which would mean our mill has a good chance of staying operational - for a while at least. August 4 or 5 is about the time frame papers should be signed, and we will need to change our Weyco tattoos in for new IP ones, or as the new lingo goes, when "Day 1" arrives.

anyway, today's poem is from 6:93. not certain it is really non-relevant. i am hoping all the above stuff is going to happen, but something deep inside is telling me it is just hope at this point



CATHEDRAL BELLS NEVER ANSWERED

1 cathedral bells never answered: i listened through perfect fibre optics
2 no magic in the formula that draws silence into an existence all its own

3 we were a rush of wind through broken pines
4 a mist linger after unholy rains raged through our souls

5 then came the Visigoths that we mistook for saviors
6 & we gladly followed them straight into hell

7 now we are old bones along discarded highways
8 laughing at the follies of youth, that we yet envy

almost a toon here

sort of on the down side of sunshine today, both literally and mentally. vacation is nearly over, and all the uncertainty of the mill and well, life in general is feeling pretty heavy of late. Oh well, tomorrow creeps on it's petty pace .... i think Shakespeare wrote that idea first.

today's poem  is from dec. 92.  might get one more update (or not) before heading back to night shift later in the week, and the lovely joys of 5th handing on the paper machine .... getting too old, it feels lately , for that type of work. oh well,  tomorrow .... is another day.




I TELLS YOU, NO BODIES

i tells you, no bodies wearing black arm bands
celebrating my demise.
me of all people - reading great art with a yawn.
me: ha! oaf & overweight - majestic limp
as i serve papers to myself.
guilty as assumed - boring.

i tells you, doctors aint god, or heroes,
smelling of fresh dollar bills & golf courses,
wonderfully caring - caress the pain & smiles.
squeezes blood out of turnips - alchemists they be! hurrah!
i have the face of discovery under my nose.

i tells you it is miserable being unholy & unwanted.
no clerics in litany.
no nuns in drag prayers.
just me - old & oaf-like, limping into the next blank stanza -
almost a toon.

first step to sale is approved

today's poem is from 9:93. i am on vacation this week, the last one while with Weyco i think. The Justice Department gave the OK on May 5 for the sale of the containerboard division to IP . So, things should begin to progress rather quickly and as early as August 5, or there abouts, we will be IP. Maybe they will keep us running. So far, no indications on anything has surfaced. Hopefully some answers will be forthcoming soon. We shall see, i suppose. After this week of vacation, i again start nightshift, so the poem was some immediate relevance, to me at least.




I.E. GRAVEYARD SHIFT

no sleep
i stand before the threshold
guardian of visions
i cannot understand

water runs
down the backside of dawn
colors run
& stain my heart with imperfections

no sleep
i am uncertain if dawn
is a blessing or a curse
the moon laughs as if a whore rejected

i wear the garments of fatigue
as if the cloak of joseph
waiting for the rains of winter
& skies that are forever dark

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.