Cinema
In the swoop of the curl
of a near-undone cursive letter
lies the truth.
Something to come-over
and search for,
holding the page to the light.
Blatantly it flashes
in front of the camera
spelled out
in blocky
comic sans.
Impossible to miss.
To hell with thinking
Inside or outside
The box
Isn’t the point
To simply think
Ahhh, but thinking is never simple
It is complex and layered
Let your mind be the compass
Leading you on a journey
A journey of discovery
Discovering who you are
Discovering your purpose
On this planet Earth
The Earth we seem destined to destroy climate change pollution
Think
Just think
I once heard a pastor remark
That to think
Is to ask if it is
Thoughtful
Helpful
Inspiring
Necessary
Kind
Amen? Amen!
Thinking doesn’t require a box
It requires action
Think about if you are engaged/indifferent
Think about if you are preserving/destroying the planet
Think about how you treat/mistreat others
Then act for the common good, man
I’m not driving
But I’m fighting
Don’t make me think
I wasn’t made for love
Can’t close my eyes yet
I’m still surviving
An angel told me that my heart’s enough
I thought I could bear this cross on my own
I say if only I had wings like a dove
I thought I could mend my own broken bones
Born by an angle from above
A helpless wanderer
I would dwell within His love
I’m searching for a home
Now I dwell in a lost place
I’m still fighting
Barley surviving
If only I had wings like a dove
I would flee instead of crying
Alone in my hiding
My heart is faint
My strength is not enough
But He laid down His life
So I could stand
He is my hope
He took my hand
He lit a fire in the ash and built a city out of sand
Now He’s driving
He’s fighting
Don’t let me think I wasn’t made for God
Can’t close my eyes yet
Now I’m alive yet
An angel told me that His heart’s enough
Learn to read the face of a clock
A face with no hidden meaning
We stopped at the crosswalk to stop look and listen
There may be a car coming, the right of way
They taught us cursive, no cursing aloud
Writing in long hand rarely short, always flowing
Walk or bike to school
Classmates on traffic patrol make sure you are safe
Once inside, our pencil is busy
Across light brown lined paper
On special occasions, a television appeared
Arriving on a squeaky cart
When Kennedy was shot
The school, the world, fell silent
***
The Magnavox lays silent, unless the occasion arose
To pull a black vinyl disc from its cardboard sleeve
The latest ball game, the Beatles, Motown
Emanate from transistor radios, they fit in your breast pocket
Talking with another in-person, a real live person
Humans at the kitchen table, over coffee, toast and tea
The phone rings and rings
Who is it? no one knows
Somebody pick it up!
Before they hang up
The people of the analog time
They would call, write, or stop by for a visit
Excuse me while I relate
On analog time
If pop tarts were sentient
would I still eat them?
Countless flavors of YUP!
Hm.
After stopping for food
after driving 8 and a half hours,
a young waitress came to my table.
“How much did they pay for that gun
above the mantle?” I asked her.
“We don’t sell them,” she said.
“But it is plain what they gave
for it.”
“How can you see that?” she shook
her head while asking me.
“What is above it?”
“A deer,” she answered.
“A buck,” I said.
“That’s a good joke,” she said.
“What can I bring you to drink?”
I tell her.
“When she returns, I ask her,
“What do you think my profession is?”
“I have no idea,” she said
“Do you know what Emily Dickinson
was by profession. I am one of those.”
“Not a clue,” she said.
“What about Robert Frost?”
“I don’t know anything about him!”
“What about the Beatles?”
“They were singers!”
“Do you know what a poet is?”
“Yes and no,” she said.
I asked her to write my name
on her note pad.
” Do you have internet?”
“Yes.”
“Do a search for my name
and ask how many books I have written
and you will know if I am lying to you.”
“That’s cool,’ she said.
Come back and see me again.”
The moon is silvery white in the sky reflecting off the sun we can no longer see on this day, we assume it will return to our field of vision in the morning but there are no guarantees. Will we awaken to a different world? In some ways it is different every day but lately it is just one gripe after another, about vandals and perceived slights and denials and blame and absolutely under no circumstances is there any accountability, only childish behavior all day. The moon will come back tomorrow and shine again and try to reflect off a pool filled with algae, the same algae and even new algae that’s always been in that pool but of course the fault is someone else’s, someone who was never responsible for the pool. And while those of us just trying to finish the day with our families fed and the bills paid and no one sick will try to sleep through the night, a man-child will be on his phone or computer dreaming up conspiracies and excuses that are ludicrous and ridiculous and nonsense. Will anyone speak out or stand up and make him sit down and behave? Slowly it seems some are waking up to the fallacy of allowing one person to run amok while pretending to give a damn. How many moon cycles will we survive with this guy?
Find a photo
from the 1970’s
maybe developed
at a Photo Shack
located on black top
in a now half-empty
shopping mall.
The shiny surface
all smudged up &
there is a border
around it
like a white picket fence.
Bob
in his signature navy blue
Hawaiian shirt:
sunny pineapples,
leafy palm trees swaying &
on the pocket–a lazy crescent moon.
Cut off jean shorts, bare feet,
hair pulled back in a thick ponytail
with a red dime store yarn tie,
scratched up Coke bottle
glasses eschew.
He is passed out on one of his mom’s
plaid aluminum lounge chairs–
we have ring-tossed Rold Gold
pretzels all over him,
(2 or 3 bags worth) &
in the tall grass that surrounds him
like a tropical island,
that he was supposed to mow
before we all showed up.
We are so young.
Home from our freshman
year of college–it’s summertime–
we are all drunk,
high as kites,
we refer to his mom
respectfully as ma’am,
she shares her smokes,
goes inside to watch
the portable tv in the kitchen.
a 20th century still life
in the palm of my hand–
Please don’t ask me
what my favorite color is
ever again.
It’s a mean game.
If I say blue
to pacify you,
it reaffirms your vision of me
as male.
If I tell the truth
and say pink,
you get to act shocked
and probably even poke fun.
To shut you up,
I say, “I don’t know,”
as if I’m the only fool on earth
without a favorite color.
It’s cruel,
the way you gaslight me,
the way you taunt.
As if you didn’t force me
to come out to you as trans
years ago.
But now you pretend
it never happened.
You love to jab at me
and twist the knife in.
Asking me the question in front of others,
purposefully trying to embarass me.
Buying me cards and books and
underlining the male pronouns
and the word “son.”
I’m tired of avoiding your wrath
and punishment.
It’s exhausting
pretending to be someone
you find acceptable.
Keep pushing.
I may eventually reach my breaking point
and tell you,
My favorite color is
the shade of pink
on the dress
I will wear
to your funeral.
