1. They said
Jupiter's moons
Would be visible
Through binoculars
In June but I
Never saw them
Because I never
Even looked.
2. Last weekend,
final day of June.
I was walking Hugo
when I noticed a misfit
Star piggybacking Scorpius. I
thought: that doesn't
Look right. Could that be—
...What follows is my translation—a flawed translation—of part of a Pablo Neruda poem...
We do the tired math of eggs
in the land between the lands.
We don't remember their happiness,
we forget their dentures.
They sleep the sugared sleep
on extrapolated divans.
That they would know certain stones,
carrying light and secrets,
bearing a greenish hue.
What is the reason not to exist?
Where are we carrying ourselves to, otherwise?
A good change of clothes
and shoes and socks of work
Introduce a little land
to give our love new kisses.
Drink up the clean air
from now until you rule.
When I went from broom to broom
guided only by my hat
I didn't find anyone who knew the way.
They were all worried.
They were trying to sell things
no one had ever asked for
until it was clear
that we'd played out our sunrise.
And half the sky, the whole ramp
conformed to the song.
And spoke with all the people,
even with those who were picketing.
We forgot how quickly
our teeth lost their enamel.
We forgot about our fevers,
our slew of minor ailments.
We had a newfound prowess
as we turned our mother's earth.
What follows is a thorough, categorical examination of what I took with me to Tijuana when I traveled there on a mission trip with members of the Burlingame Presbyterian church this past July. I wrote this mostly for my own benefit, in order to pack smarter next time I travel, to Tijuana or to anywhere. Writing this out, which I did on the first full day I was back at home, also serves as a sort of trip debriefing. It's a different way for me to record an account of the trip, albeit in a more straightforward and less lyrical style than what I wrote while I was actually in Mexico (which can be found here)...
13:04. I'm in my room, 1415, at the Westin San Diego. This is two hours in the room I didn't think I'd have. Because check-in isn't until three o'clock. I'm grateful.
I've looked at myself in the mirror. I look rough! My cheeks are approaching brick red, or burgundy. I stink!
First order of business is a full-on shower. Then some walkin' around, looking perhaps for a notebook store. Then I'm going to that burrito place I went to a year ago. I'm-a get two burritos, one for this afternoon, one for dinner...
I gave praise
to steel you confidence.
You gave welcome
to feel me love.
Rooster sang crow
to share us morning.
Eugene broke fast
so we'd build house.
Water washed clean
so we felt ourselves.
Earth sprang mountain
to keepsafe sun.
Wood took flame
so we'd have fire.
Wind gave owl wing
and we had night.
We're between mountains, like in Colorado, or Utah. Wall! Border wall. To our left, to the north. Contiguous. Iron? A rusty red. Eight feet high? It cuts into the hillside.
Suddenly it's a little greener. Wind in the palms. Some flattening out. By the looks of it, the playa at camp will be windy. Stones, boulders on the hillsides. I've lost sight of the wall as we've tended south.
This is a smooth road. Turning to the south. Large round boulders. Accesso planta dart. Windmill. This is the back way into camp. It has a rural feel but there's actually quite a few plants or factories back in here. The road has gotten very rocky. A metal structure manufacturer. Galvanization. A burned area. Car carcasse. Lots of old tires. A guy in a chair under the shade of a tree just looking out at the road. Railroad.
We take a right onto a much smoother, paved road. There are lots of cars stopped on the side of this road. There are canopies set up. Lots of them. Is it a market? We're close to camp. Turning right, I know this road. There's the old, snub-nosed flatbed lorry. The silo-like red cylinder lying on its side. Dust! At 14:42 we are at the Amor Hacienda Camp...
Every new phone is going to be the best. Sleek, dark, touchless, smart. I look at my phone now, an older model, practically obsolete. My fingerprints are dirty smudges on its protective film.
It took me fifteen minutes to write that paragraph. In those fifteen minutes, I could instead have saved fifteen minutes on car insurance. I didn't. I made a mistake, I missed the boat.
I bought a blood pressure cuff recently, at the recommendation of my doctor. My first home-read was just a moment ago. It wasn't as high as the ones in the office, but it was still too high. Ice cores, volcanic ash, a barleywine that's been recast as an Imperial Red IPA. Do you believe in miracles? Yes!
Earlier today I saw something I would describe as not quite a miracle but something approaching a miracle—a stupendous oddity. I saw a gal struggle against the side of her car in the parking lot at the grocery store. I don't think she was drunk. She just got hit with some strange sort of gravity. All of a sudden. It was a kind of gravity we haven't explained because we can't even detect it. I'm not sure anyone else knows it's even here....
Continue with this short story...
There is a lone goose on a vanishing dock. The lakewater is up. The floating dock’s platform is gone from sight but a railing moored to the dock is still above the surface, barely. Like the railing, the goose appears to be standing on water. As the dock dips further the goose has three options: sink, swim, or fly.
Rattle across the water, washboard blues and white streak through the air. Look out minnows! It’s the kingfisher, flying from weeping willow to vanishing dock. It finds purchase on the railing, stuck there like a feathered magnet.
Saturday morning, more rain overnight, the dock is further submerged but inches below the surface the platform still remains. The heron knew it was there, trust in its water landing. In the fog, the heron keeps watch o’er the lake.
She noticed a stack of books by the door. One she picked up, showed the cover to him.
“Were you getting rid of this?”
“I was planning on getting rid of most of them. You can have it if you want it.”
“Maybe, I’ve never read him. Would you say he’s good with relationships?”
“Oh, yeah. He does a ton with relationships. He’s the relationship master.”
“Interesting. I think of Beattie as the relationship master. Recycled love, mother stuff. But she could also leave me feeling worse about relationships.”
“What do you mean?”
“She can make you paranoid because a lot of relationships don’t make it through her stories. Her characters have a tendency to leave their spouses.”
“Oh.”
“What about him, though? Better or worse after reading?”
“Not better. He’s not therapeutic in that way. I’d say I feel weirder after reading him. Fanciful, if that’s possible?”
“Probably not. But it’s better than feeling worse. Say, while we’re on this subject—have you been doing any disco art?”
“I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
Creepy jazz music defected from the attic. An old gramophone was playing new tunes. He was scrobbling to last.fm. They went up there.
“What are all these pieces?” she asked...
The beginning of the end of
The last history. This side
Of a black hole, a big bang, the
Epicenter, the mother lode, the lode star.
A star that leads, especially the
Polestar, the North Star of the Universe,
What is always in the center, 'lode' meaning
'The way,' the journey, the journey star.
From here to there, back from
Where we used to exist, via intergalactic canal,
Rowing upstream, rowing home,
Going back in time, into the place we
Go when we dream, time there
Suspended, fact there garbled and twisted.
It is all very real but also
Very far away, as if
It never even happened.
JBR.com 