Trip to See My Siblings, Sept-Oct 2019

Game via radio, Chicago feed. Pat Hughes, Ron Coomer, Zach Zaidman. The Cubs take the lead on an Ian Happ double. The regular season is almost over. Can you believe it? Like a wink. Wild pitch, Cubs add a run, it's 3-1.

We say it every year, and not just about baseball, but: where did the season go? Where did the time go? The months like water, like sand, like air. A temperature that will change and what can you do about it? No, nada.

As we drove north-northeast from Springfield today the skies were mixed. To the west, dark skies. Confused, malformed clouds. A blue darkness. We were along the flatness of Illinois. The sky extended as far as we could see in any direction...

North, to Chicago, go on...

From Cabin to Cave

Greer Spring, Oregon County, MO.  Photo courtesy Anne-Marie Vaughan.
Greer Spring, Oregon County, MO. Photo courtesy Anne-Marie Vaughan.

And then this
A spring, the water
feeding on air

I thought,
Let the world be replenished
But, no, the world
replenishes itself

Loud current, green leaf
The fallen log
be runneth over
until rock:

Nature smoothes its future,
becomes hard as a fossil
in the tumbling flow

We are warned.

A funnel, an umbrella
The reverse of an umbrella

The force washes me now
downriver, everything
left behind
and I cannot
go back
to get it

Burlington Northern

My uncle, a climatologist,
suggests that global warming
could cause the melting of the
Northern Passages once impassable
to the likes of Henry Hudson
or John Cabot or his son Sebastian searching
for a route to the spices & silks
of the East Indies at the behest
of royalty, their county’s or not.
Imagine: the northern passage is a convenient
shipping route from, say, Shanghai
to NYC forget the skinny Panama Canal
or slow trains or coffeed truckers.

Go Home, Ocean

You would think that the ocean
would just give up finally.

The coast is our immovable object,
its sand a sliding ruse selling the waves
on a false hope
that they can take back the land—
stretch their sea legs with a walk in the grass,
rise and fall with the curves of the coastal highway...

At least when the ocean shows up
to our mainland party
uninvited, drunk and stumbling
all over the beach, it’s been so
thoughtful as to bring food
(even if it hasn’t bothered to
wrap the fish in the seaweed).
Like last time, we kindly accept the fish
but have to turn the frenzied tide
away because it smells like
the savage ocean and wears no clothes.
Foaming at the mouth, it drains away,
ripping straight out horizonward with
the hooks of a thousand drowning horses,
taking with it our surf boards and wetsuits,
occasionally someone’s car or sunglasses.

Out past the shelf, the ocean strikes
up a little party of its own
attracting only a few
narcoleptic pelicans, who fall like
feathered stones out of the sky
and crash the barrier-reef buffet
while skittish fish refuse to dance
with smiling sharks...

More of the ocean poem...

Stayin dark longer


jopo wrote a poem said
so i make bologna
said staying dark longer
said (what was that
eye-talian phrase you used?)

oh god...i've fried
myself on yet another night,
stayin out longer,
flush with small bills and
reducing my
legal costs by
going to law school?

dance, mon frer, stop
biting your nails. let other
countries make the dollar bills
let us make the art. search for
these terms in google:
miami car dealer suicide and fire.

random is beautiful, e.g.
impatientist painters
burning down buildings
paranoid and planting
their faces in concrete? ...

Continue with this poem...