In the Guitar Store

Weary from last night’s
gig, I wander in—
walls of iconic shapes:
a Strat’s angles
an SG’s pointed horns
a Les Paul’s tiger stripes
an arch-top’s womanly curves.
The scent of lacquer and wood,
and the riffs:
Wasted Years,
Shine,
Blackbird
and anything pentatonic,
ragged but real.
Boys with small hands,
fumbling, stretching.
What will they come to know
of the late nights,
audiences alternately
adoring and indifferent?
For now, it’s me, and their
patient parents,
spectators in an
unplanned ensemble.

The Gig

On satellite radio
the Stones play
you can’t always get
what you want—
Keith’s guitar and the
French horn sound like
a blessing
an epitaph
a fortune
a card reading that’s
always accurate.
A bartender with
silver hair
hey buddy
puts a smooth
gin and tonic in my hand,
a glacier in a glass,
sweet pine rising,
water clinging like sweat.
A clock and calendar says
it’s 10:22, July 9, 1989—
Close enough, it’s showtime.
Four stick clicks through
thick air, and we’re off,
waves of sound, chasing
night into early morning.

House Talk

Things flow in and out
of this house
through tight, dark places
rarely seen
sharp bends and
serpentine paths
the work of many hands
over the years
layers of labor
secrets behind walls
and under floors
always something more
things visitors don’t notice
water draining in a strange way
a creak in the floor
someone shutting a door
after many tries
and I’ll note it, to myself
consider the usual options
repair it
replace it
let it be.

The Last Hill

Forty four miles under the wheels
untold elevation
dirt and flecks of sand
the sun’s sharp slant
still burning, evening fire
answered by the flames
in my legs, two matchsticks
against the flinty bite
of grade and wind
the land spinning off to my sides
as the string is stretched—
two riders ahead
offer a minuscule pull
the frame, a pendulum
counting slow time
as the bicycle rocks
a crude lever on two
silver hoops
clicks and squeaks play
over deep breaths
maniac music
as will drives me on
up, almost to the blazing sky
the music slows, stops—
and a new movement, quick tempo
whoosh into shadow and
the promise of gravity
a ride paid in advance

Haiku

I hope I'm more than
drops of rain in this river--
this river of you.

Reception Dancers

Their picture hangs, still—a sphere in my mind,
bathed in white light, one moment, one night.
Her dress a blue blur, his shoes brightly shined.
These two, I felt, had it all just right.
They made it look easy, like fine dancers do:
arms smoothly extended, fingers gently held.
He, slim and proud in Navy dress blues;
she, smiling shyly down as love surely swelled.
I see, then—still—a moment so pure,
a delicate bubble in uncertain air.
Maybe it’s only of moments we’re sure—
and of those, how many are shared?
White light refracts and bends—
might a perfect moment hold and mend?

Independence Day haiku

Drawn by loud and bright
things, they fill the city on
Independence Day.


Circling cars stop, and
people get out at the first
boom and flash above.


Bright colors distract—
eyes closed, nothing but the deep,
fearful explosions.


Fireworks’ booms, they
echo sounds of war, far from
tonight’s street party.


A city stops, as
people fill the street: colors
bloom in the night sky.


Independence Day:
freedom of assembly, right
here, now, on my block.

7-3-10: The Rock and the River

I am the rock, and the river
of time moves over me.
I am still, and things pass—
the view only appears the same
through the rippled mirror above.

Time moves, one way, taking parts
of me while smoothing my roughness.

I am the water, moving over the rock.
As I move over what seems eternal,
I observe and remember:
turns, noisy and shallow, and the quiet depths
all feel familiar.

Everything moves, and even my reflection
isn’t truly me.

Stillness is an illusion. Do you ever see
a river at rest? An ocean?

7-2-10: Things a writer in a hurry almost missed

Evening sky like an x-ray in blue
Onion domes and four golden crosses
My receipt says Joshua
served my coffee
Pennies in my wallet
A moth on the wrong side
of the glass
Music of machines keeping
things hot and cold
David Gray reduced to
wallpaper over
the clink of change
in a hard plastic drawer
Radio towers crowning a hill,
transmitting
something
to somewhere

Quiet House

A time, a place to live—
summer rhythms and I rise when I do
work for a time
rest and eat
voices in the street
the UPS truck, mailman,
cars chuckling in reverse
paint on my clothes and stubble on my face.
Old houses--
things settle, become quiet
mostly level and plumb, nothing square
molding undulates along bricks
grown comfortable with each other.
The ritual of painting--
smooth strokes over new wood and old,
uniform white spanning the years.

I imagine showing the apartment to someone
seeing the new paint
the terracotta floor
the water-smooth ceiling--
this person who knows nothing of last month’s
bows and bends and sags overhead
or the old floor, rippling underfoot,
a shape just fine in nature but not in
a living room.
This person will not know of
the dusty mortar behind the walls
the cracked tiles that were replaced
the crumbling brick, now patched
the shelves where windows were.
Maybe he or she will notice that curve in the
molding and raise an eyebrow
or balk at reaching for the checkbook.
“150 years, things happen,” I’ll say.
“This house is settled, it’s not going anywhere.”
A time, a place to live
a security deposit
one month’s rent
a year lease
a fraction of time
the blink of an eye for this quiet house.

Stuff my students say

Me: The next play we will read is Fiddler on the Roof.

Student: Why is he on the roof?


**************


Student: Extended metaphors? This writing isn't realistic. No guys think in extended metaphors!

Me: Well, I do.

Student: Well, then you're a keeper.