Saturday, August 29, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 3, Draft #2

There were always a lot of cats on the farm,
to the extent that we even had irrational fears of some of the mothers,
like Black Mama;
her a dark mottled calico,
suckling her litter out of the way
in one of the pig sties,
lookout posted in case she might come around the corner.

Another mama had one tell-tale eye glazed over,
pussy green
and one leg curled up useless by her side;
mangled and uncared for fur tan colored rooted with burs.
And she, in spite of her hard-road ways,
reliability had kittens two or three times a year.
Some one thought she was sexy. Someone thought she was too good to resist.

In fact, most of our kittens survived barely long enough to remember,
and far too short for names.

I remember kittens crushed under the right rear wheel of our shit brown Suburban;
kittens stalked and eaten by wild animals, left to rot as hollow shells of ribs, headless,
empty of innards;
kittens shocked fried stuck stinking
caught up in the electrical underbelly
of the freezer that stood on our porch;
but the death I remember most deserves a short story all its own.

To keep kittens off the front porch,
my dad built a wooden plank across the top step.
This was done in response to the electrocution incident
and because cats were always getting hit by one of the two doors on the porch.

One day a friend of my brother must have been in a hurry leaving our house.
He rounded the corner, as our porch was enclosed by an age-old stone wall,
and stepped right through the wooden plank, kicking it far ajar.
The wooden plank, now dislodged, scraped stone,
but could not hide the sound of kitten crushed
and killed probably faster than it ever knew what hit it.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Smell Like Poop (formerly This Ancient Thread; Strand 2)

When I say I grew up on a farm, I always add that it was only for 5 years. I say this just to clarify that I didn't spend my entire childhood on a farm. However, it was a significant time because up to that point of my life I hadn't lived anywhere more than a couple years; my dad built and rebuilt power plants, and you don't keep building power plants in the same town for too long. The work moves on, and so my family did. That all changed when we moved to the farm in Pike township. From that point on, my dad would do the moving and we would stay put. How would that work out?
Our driveway made a large loop around the corn crib: on the southeast side sat our stone farmhouse, and on the west side sat the great barn from the 1780's. To get to our bus stop, you would have to round the loop and then pass the north side of the barn. South of the barn was the barnyard, and dusty and musty though a shorter distance, we were instructed to instead keep to the driveway.
I once went to school with sheep shit on my clothes; there I was sitting in class, and I guess the kids sitting next to me starting to smell something. I started to smell something. But you know, I didn't really think it was me, just sort of smelled a bad shit smell. What could I have done to get sheep shit on my clothes? I did cut through the barnyard to save time walking to the bus stop. I did climb the fences to get into and out of the barnyard. And though I didn't realize it was me until after I sat alone in the nurses suite in a back room near the washer and dryer, somehow, surely I must have wiped my body up against some sheep shit.
Lucky for me the school had an extra set of gray sweat clothes. It didn't look very cool, but it was better than smelling like poop. Looking back, I am glad I was only in 5th grade; not yet old enough to care or to feel the sting of estrangement.

Friday, August 21, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 1, Draft #2

This memory could be of any day, so let us say _____.
Clammy hands, quiet looks at girls,
my ass on cracked plastic, lower half of a warped wooden desk.
Shifting in my seat I slide my back down then up
awkward in my cramped chair.

Shorts too short, the price you pay for homemade looks,
shorts too short, Daisy Dukes, says a friend.
Bad enough that here I am, young man spinning clay
into forms bestial and ugly, one of only three guys
in a class run by a middle-aged hippie in new-aged rags.
The price of adolescents, attempting to stand out by not standing out.

My stomach turns over and I feel the pale pink puke
splashing my throat like magma spattering the rim of a caldera,
Accompanied by the fear of being called out,
being singled out as someone other than them.
Daisy Dukes, they would say over and over, not all at once, but still
from time to time, Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes.
The General Lee was parked out front at my high school,
so how was I supposed to feel?

We grow out of this, so some say, we grow older,
but memory yet keeps the past alive
as embers snug in cow dung,
carried from camp to camp.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

This Ancient Thread; Strand 1, Draft #1

A sample of austere efficiency,
copper brown but mixed with black.
Memory of any day, so let us say _____.
Clammy hands, quiet looks at girls,
In need of something, of what? Of what was I certain?

Shorts too short, the price you pay for homemade looks,
shorts too short, Daisy Dukes, says a friend.
Bad enough that here I am, young man spinning clay
into forms bestial and ugly to look upon.
The price of adolescents, the eternal search for cool.

Black is a pit in my stomach, a constant ache
or fear of being called out, being singled out as someone other than them.
Daisy Dukes, they say over and over, not all at once, but still
from time to time, Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes.

We grow out of this, so some say,
we grow older but memory
imperfect though it may be,
keeps thoughts and feelings alive
as embers snug in cow dung.

A Thousand Threads In One (formerly Thread Prologue); finished poem

I bend to look at a thread:
it runs ahead too far to see
and the beginning of it, far off behind,
a dot in the endless distance.
This thread worn but not frayed,
copper brown through the long passage of time.
And as if peering down a microscope
I see that it splits into a thousand smaller strands,
some thin but well worn burs whose itch tell a tale;
others robust, full and smooth to the touch, lightly used and ready for any task;
some long, pulled thin but still clinging with what little it might pull;
some stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life;
pale gold and silver reflections of starlight.
One thread in a thousand. A thousand threads in one.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Reflections on Driving East: Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon: Draft #2

The Pacific Northwest falls away behind me.
A haze of dust masks distant mountains
turn to shadow in my driver side mirror.
With every slight bend or curve of the road,
glimpses from my past glide slide to my left
slide to my right:
Three Sister's all too soon fade from view,
but remain white-capped cindered cones
splashed across my memory.

Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads wind betwixt
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes as far as the eye can see.
And even in this high scrub-land out of way place,
runs blistered and cracked two lanes of blacktop.

The need for repair evident in
work crews and work trucks:
I smell the tar and crushed stone
as it mixes with the fumes of air I breathe.
and I wonder as I drive
fast as thunder shoved across a storm stricken sky,
or as a lightning strike knife stab
thrust from coast to coast,
piercing this mighty body in two.

This Ancient Thread; Prologue, Draft #2

I bend to look at a thread I see before me;
it runs ahead too far for me to see,
and the beginning of it runs far off behind me,
a dot in the endless distance.
This thread is worn but not too well worn,
copper brown after the long passage of time.
And as if peering downward through a microscope
I see that it frays into a thousand smaller more intimate strands,
some thin but well-worn, burs whose itch tell the tale;
others robust and strong, full and smooth to the touch, unused but nevertheless ready for their task;
some long, pulled thinner still but clinging with what little might pull;
some stained with blood, stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood from iron wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life of the sun; pale gold and silver glittering reflections of starlight.
One thread is a thousand. A thousand threads is one.

This Ancient Thread; Prologue, Draft #1

I pull on this ancient thread
copper brown with the slow passage of time,
and it frays into a thousand smaller more intimate strands:
some thin but well-worn, burs that itch but help tell the tale;
others robust and strong, full and smooth to the touch, unused but nevertheless ready for their task;
some long, pulled thinner still but clinging with what little might pull;
some stained with blood, stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood from iron wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life of the sun; pale gold and silver glittering reflections of starlight.
One thread is a thousand. A thousand threads is one.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Reflections on Driving East: Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon; Draft #1

The West falls away behind me
as dust clouds mask distant mountains
turned to shadows in the rear-view.
Glimpses of the past slide to my left
and to my right with every curve of the road.
Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads winding
and winding between
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes
as far as the eye can see.
And even in this out of the way place,
only highway and scrub highland,
I ride fast as lightning, a thunder strike
knife stab, thrust from coast to coast
piercing the body in two.

Free Write B: Draft 2

Language
like love desires, demands to communicate,
but words
more than just body.
Love without language
lusts for body,
as animals without language.
Language
comes from life, or a dream to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen.
To make known, and to connect
without body.
Language
also as light, piercing molecules of air.
Connects without touching. Communicates without
body. Moves without moving.

Friday, August 7, 2009

My hand in time

My hand in time
motive-spread like jackals
seen scattered cross the savanna:
a backdrop of boom-clouds
puke pale white-dry their tongues,
wag and await the photographic memories
of rain bursts and shadows wrought
not in pigment.

Free Write B: Draft 1

language is likened to love, a need to communicate
but more than just the body. Love without
language, lusting for the body like
animals without language.
Language comes from life, a desire to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen. To
tell, to make known, and to connect
without body.
Language also as light, piercing
molecules of air, passing by
tiny pieces of matter. Connects
without touching. Communicates without
body. Moves without moving.