too hot for a fogman

A poem from 8:93.

Record heat for the past few days for May at least …. And I am NOT a fan of the heat. Rain, fog … that’s perfect weather in my book. Oh well. Back to night shift tomorrow.

Not much really to update. Work is continuing. The markets are good right now, it appears and the paper machine is running at full speed. It’s a mixed blessing, as it means a LOT more work, but at least it does mean work and a pay check. No complaints on that one.

Decided to post at least a little longer., though it will be erratic most likely, sort of how it’s been all along, I guess. Thanks to all who added some feedback to the previous update. Good to know someone is out there reading (and even better appreciating) the poetry. Thanks to all.



THE FATMAN STARES AT GOD

the fatman stares at god
with one angry eye
corns on his toes
& a limp that wins no races
no fans

the fatman finds rejection
an art form
wears dull masks
to match his rhetoric
perfectly visible to at least himself

the fatman watches truth
lay naked before a setting sun
protected by salted weeds that guarded more than surf
he has felt truth
but never honestly experienced it

what now?

OK, it's been a while, and i am still uncertain if i'll continue much longer with this effort. i am inclined at the moment (obviously since i am posting today) to keep it alive, even if minimally, as it's really the last link i have to my poetry being made public. i haven't written anything new since shortly after the 2001 lay-offs ... and there is nothing i can see right now that will alter that decision.

anyway, who knows if the end is near for this blog, or if this is just a SLOW phase, or a pattern where i will post now and again. it's not like i don't have material available. There are literally thousands of poems in rough draft form in my desk drawer, from over 30 years (although it's all at least 10 years old now). i really have no idea if or where this is going at the present. any thoughts?



this poem is from 7:93.



ELIJAH'S IN THE CLOSET

i tells you, Elijah's in the closet
counting skeletons. hearts of fire
burn to imperfect ashes.
frost in my touch. corn cobbs
my palace. it is insanity,
they tells me, that i be -
loon on the pond, dancing in the rain.
hurrah for heroes willing to be sacrifices.

i names the little black dog jesus christ
ankle biter with a smile,
not a bit of sense. i laughs a little
at whimsy, unwilling to partake fully.

i speaks with a lisp
tongues foreign to even me.
eternity wears a dress. no panties.
& me without a condom. ha!

lots actually happening behind the scene

For lack of updates … lots actually happening behind the scene.

Either the economy is slowly turning, or someone is crazy, but the mill is resuming full operations, after 3 months of running at 70-80%. That means, lots more work and hard driving in the shipping department. There is also a slight (not likely, but a possibility) that I will be bumped to the truck dock. While that is an easier job, straight day shift, it is also a significant reduction in pay, like 35%. Someone has taken that job, on a month trial basis …. We’ll see how that plays out. As is, it’s back to night shift starting tomorrow night.

Today’s poem is from late July 93, and it’s a montage poem.

Also, not certain where this blog is headed (again). The lack of updates make it obvious it’s not a top priority at this point. It’ll probably limp along for a while before I make a decision to keep it alive (and hopefully keep it updated on a regular basis) or let it fade off to the obscurity it appears to be in at the moment.



THE RESIDUE OF DREAMS

1
the residue of dreams shattered
wears just like a nimbus

we are heroes in our own idealism
perfect bastards worth suffering

so we strut our stuff just like the emperor
in new clothes

2
but in the alone
of our dreams
we formulate miracles
in an empty sky

carve intricate epitaphs
upon the bones
that nearly support

3
& who will be our next jesus
when they have cut down
all the trees

upon what secrets
will they nail
our vulnerabilities

4
autumn leaves
rattling in a wind
lacking incantation

we stand
monoliths
waiting for discovery
upon the plains of uncertainty

5
immortality is within our grasp
dust the immediate legacy
just like adam
who believe hell was paradise
worshiping ignorance
waiting still for canonization

the little dreams of bastards
do not amount to a hill of beans
to deranged gods

i will be the curse uttered
upon the fulfillment of damnation

not a lot to report

Today’s poem is from 9:97

Not a lot to update or report. Things at the mill remain pretty much the same - in a slow back mode due to the economy. Things are expected to pick up in March, when the fruits and vegetables in California are going to need boxes for harvest. Of course, that all depends on the demand ….

Still loads of rumors about what is going to and not going to happen with the elimination of the regular paper tester job. The job isn’t going away, just some people with idle time (HA!) on their hands, such as the back tender or 4th hand, will have to do the testing now. Rumors are just that, and no managers seem to be willing to address anything until it something actually comes to pass.

Warmer nights (but not actually warm), and lots of rain the past week.



SONG OF THE GEESE

moon echoed in her dark eyes then,
more than a riddle to be solved.

rain. her wet hair
magnified the vision.
i could feel the essence, but i
was myopic then, as perhaps i am myopic now.
no longer roses in my fingers.
these calluses less than magical.

autumn. the santa lucias
black moss & alabaster rivers -
her thin fingers etched
the answers in my pale skin:
30 years to be deciphered.

here where rains
are merely wet. geese in one way
formation. not even omens,
their songs like epistles
long ago written.
my bones have not forgotten.

plodding along

Work plods along … of course, never smoothly. The mill remains in a slow-down mode, at least through February, due to the poor economy and the sad shape of our boiler. The latest news is the papermill is officially eliminating the paper testers job sometime in the next three months … and two of them have asked to go into the shipping department. That could spell trouble for me, as I COULD be bumped out, back to the paper machine. One group says that won’t happen, another says it’s inevitable. So, who knows? Time will tell I guess. Back to night shift tonight - whoopee.  

Winter is still around, though no snows, just ice and frost most mornings. Snow seems to be just on the nearby hills, but avoiding the valley floor, which I can appreciate.

Today’s poem is from 8:97

ON POETS

each word, a stone in the pocket
of your ragged jeans.

you can beat back demons with some
(though never as far as you wished),
& barter with the old woman
at the end of the highway for dreams
with others, though she has no real need of them.
mostly she just throws them at crows
in her corn patch.

some allow privacy.
some even buy pleasures
in the right economics
but that too is temporal.

they are just agates: voices
you cannot ignore -
even if no one else seems to hear.
the world is full
of the deaf & mutilated.

agates with visions
you spend long nights trying to decipher.
stones that do not allow
you to float on the tranquil waters.

still, at dawn, as mist rises off the dark sea,
you can be found, wet socks in your
trousers, collecting more.
it is, after all, your own voice you seek.

still alive n well

finally - another poem, this one from 6:93.

Not really much going on, trying to survive the cold, wintry passages. Nothing compared to what Spokane (and my sister) has endured, but it’s been a colder, icier year than normal around here. Ice and cold aren’t my favorites, then again, come August and that heat isn’t on my wish list either. Fall and spring (cool and damp) I guess are more to my liking.

Work pretty much continues. The slow down (due to the economy) is supposed to last through at least Feb, and the last week has been really bad for production and safety at the mill, neither which bodes well for our mill in the big picture. 

Sorry for the lack of updates. Just been tired, busy, lazy and/or a combination of all three.



STUTTER FROM THE LIPS

i am the stutter from the lips of god
an unfinished curse on the backside of the wind

come when dawn is late
& frost is the language spoken
geese in broken formation
chant either threnody or ecstasy

i walk the lesser taken road to golgatha

the best laid plans of mice and men

Today’s poem is from  10:93.

Wasn’t it Robert Burns that said: “ The best laid plans of mice and men oft times go asunder?”

Well, changes - and more changes. Seems the cracks in the boiler drum are pretty bad and the chance of it failing are much greater with any prolonged shut-downs. So the great Gods in Memphis had decreed Springfield IP Mill can continue to run through February without any downtime, although we must do so at a greatly reduced speed. While this is good news, it comes with a personal price - I get a ton of overtime over the holidays as a result. So, tomorrow I begin 8 nights in a row. (There is a slim chance the last two days can go to someone else, but it’s not in stone yet.)

And on the weather front, winter - as in ice for three days, then snow - and more snow. It seems to be coming in waves - just as the crud on the streets begins to melt, it drops below freezing and another 2 inches of snow gets packed on top ….  Haven’t seen weather quite like this in 10 years or so, as best as I can recall. Oh well, I guess the local “global warming” buffs will find something other than Mother Nature being unpredictable to blame it on. A few billion years of the solar system, and man thinks he’s got it figured out in a decade or two of studies? Oh well, the soap box is getting slippery and I need to get ready for night shift …. Boogie on, ya’all.

BEYOND THE MISTING RIVER

1

beyond the misting river

(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)

beyond the fallen timber

(houses for a farmer in Dubuque

shelves for books never to be read)

i stand: a shadow within a shadow

- sounds that echo & distort

- sounds changing until they are no longer sounds

but emotions

the voice you understand: so easy to reject

turn the switch

the light is extinguished

darkness, comfortable as an old sweater, caresses

i stand as if the dissipating mist

(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)

the wind down from the Aleutians’

carries the hard rains of November upon its torn wings

& you stand Eastern - umbrellaed -

waiting for miracles.

2

the Great Lakes cry: fog gathers upon your window

& you study the quandrum with nonchalance

epistles wait to be written

but there is no theology in shadows

worth celebration

- you remain a dream not knowing the source

soon snow:

flakes darting

& alive

bundled against the freeze

you will trudge

into the next stanza

winter time is coming

Here is another poem accepted by Semi-Dwarf Review in Dec. 1998, but never got into print before the press decided to quit publishing.

Winter is arriving, no doubt about it. Cold nights and not so warm days. On night shift this week, so I guess I’ll need to bundle up before I get ready for work tonight.

Work? Ah, back from the Nov. lay-off (worked one day  this last week). There will be more down-time in Dec, though no one is certain exactly how much. At first it was going to be 8 days, then 13 …. But that last figure we were told in a safety meeting yesterday could shrink, or grow, depending on circumstances as the month progresses. There will “certainly” be down time in February, as they have to inspect the boiler-drum (part of the machinery that creates steam to run the mill) and that could be a 7-12 day thing, depending on what they find ….  So, looks like the dire forecast for 2009 isn’t changing at the moment.

THE SEER

on the edge of an occluded front

me in my faded blue jockeys

wait for the end of the world.

with my Nostradamus eyes

i have witnessed omens.

3 blackbirds in a broken apple tree

reciting the plays of Sam Beckett

with the ghost of the goddess

i forgot how to worship.

i tells you, it is a terrible thing

to understand eternity,

to have the spirits whisper of the future

when you would rather sleep

or indulge in the luxury of romance.

here, wind do more than cry Mary

down these pot-hole streets.

it moan grunge,

as it also whisper of bebop.

it be buffoons that walk these highways

& sees paradise.

i tells you, the rain to come

will wash more than soiled jeans.

if you be the offspring

of the wicked north witch,

the best you can do

is wear your rubbers.

dog attack

Nance and Cocoa were attacked by a pit bull this afternoon, owned by a group a what looks like semi-gang types - the dog has a few scrapes, Nance is upset and a bit shaken, but fine. A family from Portland were driving down the street and saw the whole thing, stopped to help her and chased the dog off, yelling at the "owner" (or someone from the house where the dog came from) - your dog just attacked this lady, and you're responsible - the guy yelled back "The fuck i am!" ..... the Lane County animal authority went to visit the house while Nance and i (and the mutt) were at the vets, but no one was home (well, no one answered the door). The Animal authority left a stern note and wanted the dog's license number .... but i am certain the dog was just visiting ..... and is long gone.

We took the dog to the emergency vet, and she has a scratch on her nose - but nothing else visible. The vet gave her some antibiotics, just in case there were any puncture wounds that she didn't find when she examined the dog .... so it's wait and see ...


todays poem was accepted (2:98) and printed (but i never got a copy) in another small press First Class. written 9:97. as usual - if you can, please help support small presses.


MY HOME TOWN

wind (NNE) hard off the river
smelling of sulfur
-manure plant has documentation
they are non polluters.
***
kid in his Air Jordan's
(open game for the less fortunate or
more powerful) fills out half an application
leaves empty the parts he can't read
believing it an invasion of his privacy.
***
3 in the morning
asphalt is stained with rain
& blood. black hooker cries
for help (or deliverance). the age of reason
dead. on-lookers
filled with far worse diseases.
***
the home town team
rallied late for a miracle finish.
heroes. champions.
but fuck the fag at the mission
handing out needles
& condoms - though the editor
didn't put it in quite those terms.

good news and the Bad News

Well, it's been an interesting week. 

One - i have been officially certified as a shipper this past week. while i am technically still part of the paper machine, i do not work on the paper machine unless there is a break-down or scheduled maintenance and shipping is not operating. And that means i get shipping rate (which is .75 more than i was getting on the paper machine as a 5th hand) - which is cool, since i am on vacation this week. 

well, that's the good news stuff ... now onto the reality grim stuff .... 

two - the IP gods decided the economy sucks enough to not only close one more paper machine (in Virginia), but to close almost all their paper machines for 8 days starting next week. Another round of 8 day closures in Dec, and most likely again February. But unlike Weyco, when they stopped machines from operating due to the economy, they did repairs on the machines, education and so the workers never got laid off. Nope, IP is hurting so bad for cash, they are laying every hourly employee (with the exception of 5 needed to operate the boiler and keep it from exploding) for 8 days, and so i not only get a vacation, i get a lay off on top of it .... trying to be a believer in the goodness and deep insight that great companies hold and this is all just their way of making certain familiar are together for the holidays - (NOT) - i get an uneasy feeling that this could be the beginning of the end of the IP colonization (or is it just expansion) of the Kraft Liner world.  let's hope i am direly wrong in that feeling ...

onto the poetry - 

6:93 is the source date of today’s poem ... 

THE COUGHING WIND

the coughing wind i hold in my pocket offers no wisdom

but i tell it secrets

we share with the grotesque.

stumble over concrete mountains in the insatiable pursuit

of a happiness that has ceased to exist.

the coughing wind i hold in my pocket knows there is no freedom

only boundaries

we stretch ever so carefully.

erect palaces of sand

upon concrete being dismantled a molecule at a time.

the coughing wind & i, like an apparition in the fog,

dance in the haze

almost real enough to believe.

passed 1st review

Shipping review was delayed a day, but went OK. I am not “certified” as a shipper yet, but should be within the next month, or so i was told. I was changed to a different crew, as my boss felt I’d learned all I needed to from the crew I was on, and the “new crew” will be the one I will be on once I am certified. So … I guess progress is being made.

Last month, the editor of NIGHTSHIFT (an anthology from Five Leaves Publishing - out of England) asked to use a poem “Fighting Foam” he discovered on this blog. I gladly agreed. As I’ve asked before, support those small presses if at all possible.

Other than that - not much happening, except winter coming and work continues, but with the world economy as fragile as it is, even that is an uncertainty for anything but the present.

Today’s poem is from 9:97


CONFRONTING THE DEMONS

1
"Eat shit & die" i told the priest
when he demanded i forgive
the sins of the best friend
who beat the crap out of me on a $2 bet.

Father Buckley screamed i would rot
in hell, but offered to forgive my sins
if i was willing to confess.

30 years later, i wonder if his ghost
is still willing to forgive?

2
"Love is all you need"
but the emptiness i felt
was filled only with pain.

Old Father Buckley can rot in his hypocrisy,
covered in satin & lace,
while a wetback froze to death on the back steps
of the old rectory.

i, at least, confronted my demons
unable to defeat them,
i lay myself in the luxury of their lusts -
satin flesh & hot tits.

reviews to be held

Today’s poem is from 8:97 .

This week (tomorrow in fact) I get my review in shipping, part of that will determine if I will remain in the department or be thrown back to the paper machine. Last night shift was a rough one, lots of mistakes on my part and a taste of export (which will continue all this week). I do not expect a terrible review - just not a glowing one i guess, but really have no idea what will be included, as no one I’ve worked with directly will be in the room. I still feel as if I don’t know enough to be qualified yet. Oh well, will let you know when I post again, probably in a week or so, how it all went.

Cold is creeping into the valley at night, along with the fog and frost. Ah, as Dylan once said “Wintertime is coming, all the trees are filled with frost ..” or something along those long.

Well, onto the poetry …. 


FOR A DIETY

i do not lay false sacrifices.

the bamboo shoots someone called
a tree: the red clay pot
fired in your own kiln -
if this was not Paradise
i would gladly have exchanged 
it as such.

two roses on your doorstep,
as dawn broke (silver to cyan)
over Gabilan hills:
my footprints in the dew.

someday you to know
such a love: greater than dreams -
where afternoon fogs are dirty
as the river itself -
it will make no difference.

you hold a rose
for each of the decades,
still uncertain of the magic.

My parting footprints in the dew ...

The Limpskis

The Limpskis here …. Nance has twisted her knee again, I’ve twisted my ankle (again) and the brown dog is slowly using her surgically repaired leg, but still limps or “bunny hops” more than walks … Ah, the joys of getting older.

Not much else going on. Fall is in the air. Colder (OK, Cold) nights and the leaves are turning colors and falling off the trees. Some see it as a delight, others a pain in the butt to clean up. I enjoy the fall, the rain (which is coming in a few days, according to the weather gods), so the falling leaves are somewhat of a delight to me. Though the cold nights I can do without, if I had my druthers.

Today’s poem is from 5:93, expressing concern about the world economy. 

THERE IS NO GOD

there is no god upon the plains of despair

repeated the sad faced clown juggling no balls of his own

no god & no bliss he whispered as if someone should hear

misery loves company he quoted most gallantly

but he quite alone stutters a lonely

it was the hour of not quite rain & clouds smelled of urine

he checking his pants looked to the infinite unknown

no beauty in pain but he knew that was a lie

was the only beauty he would ever know perfectly

ask & you shall receive he remembered

empty pockets that graced no american express

billboards spoke elegant poverty & he listened impressively

thumbs up his nose no crack & a high that could not last

surely god has been caught with a flat on the expressway to his door

updates and another daily poem

Updates:

1 - the brown dog surgery went well. She is still not using her back leg, but there is nothing preventing her from doing so, except her own trepidation.

2- the pension roll-over went through finally. So the money (while not enough to retire on) is at least in a IRA that I can control. Better than nothing, I guess.

3- the #2 paper machine in Albany, OR is going to be indefinitely shut-down (a minimum of 3 months). The official word is they will restart after the first of the year, UNLESS the economy worsens. Guess that’s another of wait and see. Still it’s bad news for those folks.

Today’s poem is from 8:95 - it was accepted and printed in Semi-Dwarf Review (#4). Too bad this wonderful zine bit the dust, but the editor Leonard Cirino is still out there, writing great new poetry and publishing some unknown but very talented poets - so support his press Pygmy Forest Press, if you possibly can.



WEYCO CONTAINERBOARD HYMN

no hymn in these concrete wall
no hymns in these concrete floors

sweat is obligatory
as are steel toe shoes

knives are no sharpers than tongues
here where pay checks are not complete salvation

pulp into paper - dryer cans that do not sing
merely moan

there are only two things important here
neither of which are dreams or beauty

but who expects THAT here
where the skies too are concrete

dripping condensate steam & sweat
covered with smoke & dust & fatigue

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.