I know that language is skin deep

and I'm no scholar but

I know what mint is when

spoken of by Seamus Heaney.

I've read that Neruda questioned

when lemons learned the same laws as the sun

and knew the scent of the iron in horseshoes.

I know what lost loves are

but nothing of their whereabouts.

I know what my father

kept hidden in the glove compartment.

I found out late in life

whose faded phone number was

scribbled in pencil on the wall near

the heaviest phone.

I know the son’s vision regarding most things

did not come from me or me alone.

I know of friends who have gone away and not by my invitation.

and now at long last I know what my grandfather felt like.

 

the very old man

old by many standards

but not by all

has skinny arms

mostly skin over bone

with dark veins

fat with blood, dark blue

and tentative, where a needle’s

prick will send

it flowing outward

like a slow river

as if searching for another source.

the blood knows

it has no chance as the very

old man knows.

a little can, red and white, of french onion soup

will go untouched,–– will outlive

the very old man, most likely.

he has little taste for french onion soup.

he’ll show-up in other places

nearly like in a rerun, another him so to speak

but only slightly so.

soon the very old man will have his dinner

in a bowl on a table without history.

he remembers the history of dinner tables

set for more than one while he eats and then he’ll die.

 

 what goes on at “pier 14”?

most people see two billboards but there are three.

the distance between the little narrow building

and the scaffolding is the width of a common street.

the square shape on the right protruding from the sidewalk

is a large pane of reflecting glass either going in or coming out.

farther to the right is a traffic light.

most people would like to see more traffic lights but there are no others.

there are three parking structures. one in the distance appears to be senseless.

the bucket and pail on the sidewalk lower left are a mystery to most people.

there are four telephone poles if counted one time. additional counting will confirm the arithmetic although a fifth pole appears with its reflection.

the structures appear to be compressed but there is idealogical space between them. chimney smoke was an afterthought but a good idea.

the splotches of ink are added features to display a devil-may-care attitude.

there may be something strange going on behind the single window of the building

beneath the big billboard which remains blank as are the other two billboards.

there are no people nor cars nor trucks to be seen at pier 14.

If you conclude it’s another early Sunday morning, so shall it be.

 

what was I thinking?

last week, long enough ago as to smear

clarity with the fog of remembrance,

I found myself wanting to beat someone up;

a loudmouth from the lineup, the crackpot across the street,

the Witness at the door hawking reservations to Kingdom Come.

but the last time I simply raised my voice at someone I got dizzy

and stumbled backward into another entirely different room.

occasionally, I'll consider buying a small calibre handgun

justifying the acquisition as a self defense mechanism, although

it's unlikely that anybody out there is actually out to get me.

I saw myself standing at the counter looking as guilty as a robber.

maybe the guy back there will give me instructions

on how to properly load and clean the workings of the little,

deadly apparatus in my hand. "hmm..good balance" I said, stupidly.

while I'm there I might go out back to shoot some paper.

of course none of this will ever come to be.

I mean, christ.

another white old-timer with a gun?

christ.

 

                     when I’m out and about

when I’m out and about

the busy cars on the street

travel east and west each

in its proper lane in single file

at the same speed.

some are moving forward

to take care of business.

others snatch people from

the sidewalks to parts unknown.

the older cars speak to their identities.

the newer ones keep me guessing.

none are Nash Ramblers

and may they rest in peace.

It’s like another world out there.

the hum of rubber wheels.

the occasional horn.

some cars have two doors others have four.

they stop and go when

the traffic light tells them to.

all of them stop on red.

even the maniacs stop when told

to do so by the mighty traffic light

which hangs from a wire swaying

in windy conditions like a crazed, inverted Wallenda. 

the people seen out and about seem to

keep to themselves and to be in a hurry

but are silent when I, too, am out and about.

                 

the people in the audience

want to laugh when Bukowski

reads his poems from the stage.

they anticipate the language

as Bukowski readies them.

they laugh.

they laugh because Bukowski

wants them to.

they laugh because they’re

uncomfortable because

their mothers might hear

because they’ve got kids

because some have vaginas

and others have dicks, I guess.

who knows why?

Bukowski doesn’t even know

they’re there.

                 

there was a time long ago

when some said

that my son “looks like me”.

nobody says than anymore.

my son is young enough

to move the entirety of his

physical life from location to location

and his skin is wrinkle-free.

I look like a pasty raisin.

a pasty raisin Sunkist

tossed from the box like the weakest

nestling from the home weave.

I’m convinced that kids are deciding

whether or not to throw stones at me

as I walk to the 24 hr. convenience store to buy eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.

I miss the jingling bells

hanging atop the doors of the old, neighborhood stores.

they carried a pleasant tune of welcome.

now the guy behind the counter seems

uninterested in everything beyond his nose.

he looks at me like I’m from Mars.

maybe he thinks I’m up to something.

makes sense. each morning mirror

thinks I'm up to something. but

what I’m up to in the immediate 

is clearly defined in my brain. a dozen eggs

and a gentle, yet reasonably fast-acting laxative.