that year we
all held towels
over our heads looked
neither
right nor left
let the hydrangaes go
unnoticed,
unkempt (they knew
how to carry on – we
couldn’t) prayed
for our babies that
they might sleep
a full night without waking
in a fit just
because,
because they
are accustomed to seen things.
PGBK, 11:45, sleeve–
randomness written here and
there on my desk (although I am
a typical perfectionist who loves
organization) causes any other
person but me to scratch her head,
and I chuckle at my models.
Mom used to (and still does)
complain to Dad about the need
to organize his garage. His reply
boasted knowing in absolution
where anything was (is) located if
he needed(s) it.
She scoffed(s).
He grinned(s) like the Cheshire.
One’s disorder is another’s order.
A modulus–
(“mod,” the Latin root for “manner; kind”)
a quantity (organization style) by which
two given quantities (two different styles) can be
divided (managed) to yield
the same remainders (absolute retrieval)
OR
organization = |Mom| or |-Dad|.
Bottom line…
perfectionism and/or Post-Its that is me and
Mom and Dad
all arrive at the same answer–
I love ’em.
I have no one here for me
I’m a nice person
And easy to see
I loved to cook
But now its gone stale
Sometimes it rains
Sometimes it hails
I laugh a lot
And see things funny
Don’t care for slapstick
Don’t have much money
Cannot do housework
Don’t like it sunny
I like to putter
And I do it plenty
I like a good read
Watching birds take a bath
Seeing flowers in bloom
Not think about past
But sometimes I would
Like a hug from a man
Not a ‘just friends’ kind
But one with a plan
A romp in the hay
A toss in the sheets
That would be lovely
And so very sweet
This time on my neck.
The nurse apologizes
for the pin prick and sting
of the needle, numbing
tender skin. No,
I don’t feel anything sharp
There?
There?
There?
So the doc proceeds
to slice, excavate, cauterize and stitch me up.
No pain,
just pressure, the smell of burning flesh, tugs and snips.
Beneath the surgical drape,
my vision is reduced to opaque white;
the paper crackles next to my ear.
The doc and I chat about the vacations
we’ve decided not to take, this pandemic year.
I feel both acutely aware, and disembodied.
Afterward, the doc says,
You know the drill
(for post-surgery wound care.) Yeah.
I could write the instructions myself.
His eyes smile above his mask. He pats
my shoulder.
And that’s that
until next time.
Notes to myself—
Check word choice & syntax
from Papa Hemingway’s SAR
for matador poem.
Review Ariel & Daddy stuff.
Am I stripping enough veneer
off the reality?
Lighthouses & Fear make
uncomfortable combinations
but great imagery.
Sexton. London. Wallace. Berryman.
I shouldn’t be this comfortable in the dark.
But when I re-read them, they shake
the grip of the earth and live again.
I used to think that everyone who was creative
Had good morals
Naive, I know
My own mother, for instance
She threw away her art, her poetry
For a man full of vinegar,
An abuser,
Her and him both
I used to look at other girls with tattoos and colorful hair
And think, “Wow! cool!
They must be awesome!”
Then I would talk to them
And they believed
Women shouldn’t have a choice
It sickened me
It hardened me
I soon came to believe that not everyone
Is who you think they are
I had trust issues anyway,
You know the abusive parents and all,
But they put on such a good show
Just like those girls
Poor things
Thinking they have no choice
Their bodies belong to old white men
Who think women are just devises
For sex and parenthood
Where a mask is an embrace,
an open palm is a shelf for the cosmic,
a ripe strawberry is a long and tender meal,
a blade of grass is a meaningful conversation,
a barking dog is meditation,
a crack of lightning is a cool balm,
two palms pressed against glass is communion,
a blooming flower is a field of stars,
I ask: what room is there for dust?
Frank was a singer,
Frank was a swinger,
He made movies,
He ran with the Rat Pack.
But he was also a cowboy.
Remember the song “South of the Border”?
He also made a movie called JOHNNY CONCHO,
With cowboy hat, gun in holster,
Kind of like Gary Cooper in HIGH NOON,
Only with Frank as more of an anti-hero,
The cowardly brother of a feared gunfighter
Who has Johnny’s back–until he dies (the brother).
OK, he was no Roy Rogers,
But Roy Rogers was no Frank Sinatra.
Also, Roy Rogers wasn’t Roy Rogers,
He was Leonard Slye.
Frank was really Francis Albert Sinatra,
But that’s close enough.
Happy trails.
