Sunday, February 26, 2017

spring does not arrive in february

At fifty-five degrees old snow shrivels like old soap in the sun we leave the door open going and coming, coming and going as we please sitting in the sun replenishing Vitamin D the sky, blue again, seems immense its lid off and drips large and small from the roofs of snow entertain, mesmerize, refract the light, plop plop plop and plink-a-plink inside Josie gets a bath, winter fur curling, waving, smelling sweet – does he feel new? washed clean? – locks released glowing in the sun blowing in the breeze and that night Elliott sneaks a dead mouse into the kitchen and I listen to the crunch crunch crunch and a slow motion fly
circles
         the
light.

Lunchtime and an ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE shows up in an episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show.
“OMG”

“Awesome!!!


I see I’ve been indoctrinated since I was a youth.

A New York Times obituary tells me of a dancer who plopped down for life in the Mojave creating a theater and something you can’t quite name and in an interview somewhere this dancer who lived in this desert town population two, maybe three, was asked, well, don’t you ever get lonely? and she says something like no, I have my imagination.

MUSICAL INTERLUDE
Extended family informs new music as always now listening to those old familiar tunes and melodies and words familiar and in them sometimes hearing something new / I like to believe that / but here now true new
and perhaps you see: good drivin’ tune.

now
seems to me

When a member of That Group There shoots ’em up, bombs ’em down, claims the same: We must delete All of Them All of Them quit being bleedingheart goody2shoos open your eyes
get them outta here!

But when a member of This Group Here shoots ’em up, bombs ’em down, claims the same: Well, you know, He was just an Extremist, He was just a Nut.
Duh.

I am glad my heart is full of blood and yes bleeds sometimes because hearts are blood not stone not turnips and for sufferin’ shufflin’ feet two good shoes are a must
⟳⟲
Nice to see grass again, the green and the mud and the slime and the mold that heralds spring, tracks of turkey and rabbit and weasel across the thin old snow, Josie studies each track with staccato snorts but it is false fake spring, we learn to discern, wind resumes bitter North howling spewing ice chips, pillow down. Spring does not arrive in February. Not yet, anyway.
Give it time.

And as my ancestors head west in a covered wagon Spring 1837 Sheldon, Fidelia, and baby boy James relying on horsepower and taverns and whiteness to get to their future, a bob-bob-bobbin’ along free and unfettered paving the way over those in chains and those who lay bleeding and mostly those who are just plain gone and praise the lord for small favors: food for the belly, water for the thirst, the beast for the burden, safe travel and a clean board for a travellers’s rest, pleasant visages all around, rivers and lakes and prairies dehabited, occasional congregations
for prayer.

But what if – those who had settled before in these roads and along these roads and despite these roads had not been savaged, dismissed, gathered up, labelled up, tied up, lied to, cheated, deleted, removed? What if – the people had not been forcibly
violently
removed?

Where would I be?

We keep removing people 
as if we are a plague

                        this child never chained but for those quirky social mores, expectations, of a white 1960s semi-religious intact suburban household where Dick Van Dyke played on the idiot box and never ever really moved by much except
emotion.

Would I be swaying gently covered wagon moving forward pious temperance, prayer, I listen to the plop plop plop plink-a-plink of winter softening just a bit and notice this false fake spring bringing forth clusters of catnip in the garden it invades.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

flurry of flowers & the potato has eyes

Flurry of Flowers
The other morning
I was reading
the weather forecast
to Josie and Elliott
because this is how
we get on with our day
that begins with a flurry
of fun
as they eat, they poop,
they jostle for position
in front of the fire –
cats and dogs being this way –
and me, I just drink tea
and the sun rises
I read the forecast aloud.
blah blah blah snow flowers.
– pause –
I mean, snow flurries.



For those yet befuddled by Donald Trump’s presidency, I suggest reading the first few chapters, more if you like, of A People’s History of the United States 1492 – Present, by Howard Zinn.




Potato Poetry
with gratitude for a press conference
that explained everything
He said:
The news
is fake
because
so much of
the news
is fake.

I thought:
The sky
is blue
because
so much of
the sky
is blue.

The grass
is green
because
so much of
the grass
is green.

The world
is round
because
so much of
the world
is round.

The truth
is hard
because
so much of
the truth
is hard.

The world
is flat
because
so much of
the world
is flat.

And I thought:
Winter
is cold
because
so much of
winter
is cold.

The lie
is easy
because
so much of
the lie
is easy.

Life
is intolerable
because
so much of
life
is intolerable.

Life
is a gas
because
so much of
life
is a gas.

Reality
is false
because
so much of
reality
is false.

Later I thought:
The light
is bright
because
so much of
the light
is bright.

The way
is long
because
so much of
the way
is long.

The poetry
is madness
because
so much of
the madness
is poetry.

The day
is glorious
because
so much of
the day
is glorious.

I had an idea:
The idea
is great
because
so much of
the idea
is great.

The news
is real
because
so much of
the news
is real.

The man
is crazy
because
so much of
the man
is crazy.

The woman
is beautiful
because
so much of
the beautiful
is woman.

Killing
is wrong
because
so much of
killing
is wrong.

War
is deadly
because
so much of
war
is deadly.

I could not stop:
The speech
is hilarious
because
so much of
the speech
is hilarious.

The person
is alien
because
so much of
the person
is alien.

The sorrow
is sad
because
so much of
the sad
is sorrow.

Shouldn’t it stop?
The hair
is fake
because
so much of
the hair
is fake.

The gun
is blameless
because
so much of
the gun
is blameless.

The woman
is man
because
so much of
the woman
is man.

The man
is woman
because
so much of
the man
is woman.

The man
is woman
because
so much of
the woman
is man.

The heart
is heartless
because
so much of
the heart
is heartless.

The bald guy
is bald
because
the bald guy
has no hair.

The baby
is fat
because
so much of
the baby
is fat.

The truth
is the truth
because
so much of
the truth
is the truth.

The poem
is rhymeless
because
so much of
the rhymeless
is poem.

And the orange
is orange
because
so much of
the orange
is orange.

The potato,
however,
has eyes.


Sunday, February 12, 2017

eave of construction

was it picasso who rang?
sat on the roof
made me a woman


was it walt
who fell from the sky?
quick! duck!


was it zero?
fiddling around
switching up letters


or aazhawigiizhigokwe
drawing on
power of snake


ah ginger,
i recognize you:
wild rhythm / woman / within 


you move through
this impoverished land