2010
01.31
01.31
Weather‘s cold, words fragile
I am a silent hummingbird
In a context of struggle
Sometimes
They arrive in packs
I’m like a dream
The one
Bukowski never had…
Weather‘s cold, words fragile
I am a silent hummingbird
In a context of struggle
Sometimes
They arrive in packs
I’m like a dream
The one
Bukowski never had…
don’t
young
ones take root
where
the old oak has
fallen?
is
the
soil poisoned
with
rotten wood …
was
solid ground
robbed
of its very fertility—
or
strangled, for
all
the opportunity?
The same day the body of a missing 16 year-old boy was found nailed to the trunk of a Redwood tree in Northern California, the Crescent Center police department received a painting depicting the horrendous murder. Its extraordinary, if ironic, beauty and obvious mastery caused sheriff Ralph Taymor and his deputy, Ernie Cowell, to stare at it in awe and admiration for several minutes even though they knew it was the work of a psychopath. By now four such paintings had been received by various law enforcement agencies up and down the West Coast. Each shared one prominent characteristic—dominance of the color blue. Because of this and the paintings’ somber subject the perpetrator was labeled the Blue Killer, a sobriquet inspired by an art historian who compared the works to those of Picasso’s Blue Period.
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It always begins
like indigestion,
slowly at first,
then full bore.
Either way,
I need relief.
But no antacid
can abort a poem
so I have to stop
and take dictation.
I’m no Matthew, Mark
Luke or John.
They wrote the Gospels
by Divine Inspiration.
I’m on my own. And so
when words cascade
I grab my quill.
I have no choice.
I have to stop
and take dictation.
I try to get into the library.
They tell me to come back tomorrow.
The drunken man comes outside with me.
He offers me some of his beer.
Then he offers me different things.
I say no to all.
Then I say goodbye to him
And realise that I am still afraid.
I go into the metro to keep warm.
Sit on the seat and write some poetry.
Look at some women.
They don’t look at me.
Another train stops.
A woman goes up to the door.
It opens and in front of her is a man asleep.
She goes to another door.
The door closes and the coat of the man catches in the door
But it closes anyway.
I sit there for a few minutes then board another train.