Here's the pitch, it's low,
Ball four. The next batter
Is awaiting his test results.
The game will resume
Intermittently.
I am feeling average about it all. I saw an angry person spit in the face of an elderly woman who asked him to cover his face. Outside, naked people slept peaceful in the street.
2
Imagine the sound of that comet,
Its tail a contrail split in two,
Dust and fried ice, the Sun
Seething with impotence
As the comet passed it by,
Somehow staying together.
Then I saw it the way I saw it,
Wicked blue morning,
Cows in the field with
Better eyes than me
But there on the horizon
A comet
Upside down, breeching, glowing with
Prank light
An hour before dawn...
I like your socks, someone says to me,
What do you call that pattern, they ask,
Argyle, plaid, paisley?
No, that’s sleep, I say, that’s what
My sleep looks like, circadian rhythm,
Fly by night, circadian constellation.
Is that, they ask pointing, the mark of waking
Or of falling asleep? That, I say,
Is what an instant looks like,
The instant of falling asleep,
Slight as a moonbeam,
The moment of twilight turning to dark,
Of dark to dawn to sunrise.
Then nothing. All day nothing happens,
Solid colors here, all through this part.
Then day becomes dusk, dusk gloaming,
Then it’s night all over again.
Here, the moon sets, I roll over. Suddenly,
A meteor streaks overhead.
You see this brightness here?
That’s another asteroid, then another.
These are the meteor shower socks,
An excellent pair, but not the best.
Best are the ones I made
When the comet appeared.
I'm out at Farm. Yeah, I know, surprise, surprise. Small green bugs—gnats, aphids—swarm the lightbulb overhead. They cling, somehow, upside down to the ceiling, making a marina out of faux-wood paneling.
It's finally dark out. June bugs fling themselves against the front door. Something dots the back of my neck, I try to chase it away. Today, June 14th, Flag Day. I'm here to mow, an insane endeavor depending so much on a car, a push mower, gasoline, and this forty-year-old body. Wall sounds, probably the pack rat. My approach to this old farm house, earlier today, descending the gravel road, sent two groundhogs scurrying across the front yard I would soon get to clipping. They disappeared to somewhere, probably into that hole slipping under the front of the house, just west of the stoop...
Goodbye to the poetry of Beethoven!
The dog jartles, looking
At me like I just
Went after the mailman.
I’m a wasp in a nest of dirt
I’m the armadillo in your garden
Armadillo armistice
Armadillo armband
An armada of armadillos
Carried an armoire away.
I crossed my arms when
Neil Armstrong landed
By mistake in Armenia.
I clean my clothes in the sun.
I sharpen my nails on rusted wire.
I am a dangerous animal,
A vociferous vole. And
I am here to assure you
If, like me, you have
Lost your mind,
It can’t have gotten far.
I was a motheater, loved
Bugs and other caterpillars.
I planted a bunch of
Pills but none of them
Grew. I sought transit across
A star, pinprick on its
Glaring tongue.
After I suggested baking soda
You used instead my cologne
To wash your hair. We
Traded old photos from the fridge
For blue skies reflected on future lakes.
Querido,
If when my
Brow no longer rises
Like milk
In steepest tea
Unbarb the wire,
Steady the skreeking gate,
Prescribe my final burn.
The weather forecasts are wonk. Something to do with a sharp decrease in the number of airplanes in the air. It wasn’t forecast to rain today. But it has rained, and not just a few drops. My wife and I console each other with talk of silver linings. The air quality is improving, just ask the stars.
Here in St. Louis, as March slogs on, the rain has been a cloying companion during days of isolation. I can’t recall going on a walk when I didn’t have to watch out for puddles and dreck as the dog Hugo and I walked in our desultory fashion, neither one of us leading the way. This month hasn’t been atypical in its raininess but I suspect the total rainfall is at the upper end of its historical range.
If only weather were the wackiest aspect of March 2020....
A universe of
eponymous tuber.
I've got limbs stemming
out from me, from
my muscles in every
impossible way. Am
I to climb with them? Or are
they for others to do the climbing?
If, like me, you’re starting to climb the walls during this coronavirus lockdown, you’re also asking yourself: what can I do, within these newly instituted, claustrophobic confines that doesn’t run afoul of the Stay-at-Home order? How can I look after my own mental health, the quality of which has for years depended on being able to locate myself as needed in wide, open spaces?
Under the Order, residents of the county are still allowed to go for a walk in public parks. Indeed, the County Executive has urged operators of public parks—presumably he is speaking to municipalities such as my own, University City—to keep their parks open. To console myself, I think about all of the county’s various parks remaining open. Whether it has been for the purpose of playing disc golf, going for a run, or taking my dog Hugo for a walk, I have spent a lot of time in the parks of University City and St. Louis County over the past decade. One of the parks nearest to me, which I have come to appreciate despite its faults, is University City’s Heman Park.
I offer my elbow, tap yours with mine, it means hello...
What follows in the link below is a snippet from an essay that I started writing earlier this month, on the eve of a trip I took to Savannah, Georgia.
Follow link for essay snippet...
JBR.com 