the beginning

for the young woman who was born in Somerset

who moved to New York who lives in London

and here I am surrounded by the echo of running cloth,

working alone in a room which is what I do all the time

and she’s intriguing and futuristic and panoramic

and I'll toss into the ring, exotic.. and she sings like a bird

and that’s the heart of her journey.

my pain-in-the-ass phone warns me of updates with a ping

but this time there is no ping. I’m older than the fucking ping.

older than the young woman who lived on the stage,

the stage she wears like a cape through the props of her early life

learning on the march the crucial measurements of what to do for love.

so this is a silent knock at her door from a poem-writer in the city

of granite and she’s living her life anew in the city of London.

                    a poem which comes to this

sometimes I'll sit on the couch.

sometimes basketball is on television.

somewhere, somebody has fallen down the stairs.

somewhere, somebody washes the dishes.

somebody else lives in Paris.

someone shoots somebody sometime

before its broadcast hits the local news.

walking outside

I'm aware of what surrounds me

but not everything penetrates my senses.

exhaust fumes sicken me

but in moderation I enjoy its scent.

if pungency was reduced

the fumes would rival the scent

of lavender.

it rains a light, windless rain.

it's a warm rain and when it beads

on my face I wipe it away

with nothing more than my sleeves.

there are other goings on in the world

and most escape my attention.

It's not that I'm disinterested.

I'm too old to cultivate unresolved opinions.

I’m too old to outlive much of anything.

all the genuine blonde

bombshells of my youth are gone.

                    the dead bird

from the balcony five floors above ground

something penetrates the crosshairs of my sightline

a dead bird on the grass near the benches

the sun in perfect attitude to smear its coat in light

the day bright enough to encourage visitors to the outside.

this can never include me.

they may not notice what I notice or see things the way I see them.

some speak a language foreign my sensibilities.

the dead bird has entered the space of its paradise. 

inside, the soprano Kristine Opolais is singing the wrenching

“Addio” from "Suor Angelica”

and at the kitchen counter I prepare a creamy peanut butter

and seedless blackberry jam sandwich for lunch.

elapsed time: from the balcony sighting

to the kitchen counter:  23 seconds

                   an essay in the form of a poem (so a poem) and birthday greeting

It’s true. I wanted to name

our newborn son “Dark Green”.

of course his lovely young mother

put an immediate stop to it.

her insistence willed-out and that’s good.

my last name would not have been

appropriate as to syntax.

(three syllables, accent on the middle)

“Dark Green” needed a one syllable 

last name like "Duke” or “Ham” or “Mace”.

two syllables, accent on the first might’ve been okay,

like: “Salad” or “Plumber”––

but this is our (come to find out) one and only son.

Frank Zappa had it right with “Moon Unit”

for his daughter because “Zappa” has two syllables,

accent on the first and that works well with "Moon Unit".

in time we settled on “Zak”  but between contractions

she changed her mind and went permanently with “Josh”.

also, history will show that "Zak” was taken by the son of a drummer

in a British rock n' roll band some 10 years beforehand.

                   epitaph / vignette

what more can be said of a singular life

no more consequential after death than a broken

mechanism too complex to reassemble.

stilled-blood looks dark-red, cadmium red

with a Prussian blue chaser; darker than red,

darker than blue,  a stage-set built within an empty, 

perpetual space.

what more can be said of a singular life, born

on the year of the invention of synthetic rubber?

  

                   where somebody lives

not someone known.

just somebody.

no name no face no

obligations or criminal

record.

the somebody who is no one

in particular. to call him stranger

is too closely affiliated with somebody

who has weight and occupies space.

just “somebody”

who lives someplace.

a pinprick of a living

person living someplace

on this Earth.

never to be known

but for the few who do.

a whole life will be there.

an unknown life to most.

fulfilled, maybe. who knows.

a wretched old geezer.

who knows.

an ordinary person who

went to school

learned his lessons.

worked hard at his job.

but hasn’t died yet.

I’m thinking of that guy.

my friend in the ozone

in the clouds, the marrow

in the clutches of sweet

anonymity.

that’s the somebody.

the real, tactile everybody

who is not seen nor heard.

but it’s not me.

it’s, well, you don’t know who.

                    202 / during the young days of true romance

the door marked 202 was locked, a last stand

against entry unless one had tools

like a sledge hammer, a key, or plastic explosives.

I had one of those: a key because I lived inside.

I knew where the couch was and the sinks (there were two)

and where we used to leave the cat’s plates for food and water.

treats were given by hand for the simple joy it gave to us..

one day the plates were gone and the treats were tossed

because the cat died. I know this first hand.

I remember wrapping the cat in a bath towel

and driving her to the A.R.L. on the other side of town.

she had a name because we named her while she was living.

one late afternoon after notating certain images around town,

I found taped to the door of 202 a note scribbled in my young love's hand,

a living woman, brilliant, impossible and warm to the touch.

this is the note she wrote:

“I was here

you were not

then I left

then you came”.

much of what a love poem might be is there;

life, love, happiness, fulfillment and planetary destination.

"Gracie" is what we named our cat.