We have the meats, only the latest siren call, the odysseus watchers of televised oracle know our happy must be fed, we must eat fresh, the highway signs urge us, next exit, final exit, on the conveyer belt of factory farming, where environmental earth comes in last, profit 1, addictive ingredients 2, advertising 3, yet we continue to drive thru because america runs on dunkin’, and somewhere a marketer reads this little piece on the internet and thinks, free publicity, the number one rule of fast food? there is no fast food, because i’m loving it, slow bites for the camera, finger lickin’ good, says the colonel, the conveyer belt is overpowering, cannot be stopped, won’t be stopped, so don’t fight it, get smarter and eat mor chikin.
Month: August 2023
Swimming As Meditation
i’m experienced in walking meditation. one step slowly in front of another, ball of foot, then toes, and finally the heel, like a dog carefully touching december’s first snow. the point of walking meditation is to go nowhere, except within, and this can happen while breathing each breath, one inhale, one exhale. in the pool where i paddle pushing water with palms and legs and arms, maple leaves glide near me on the surface where i pretend to walk in deep water, treading instead. i sometimes pray, that my back heals, that i can be kinder, that i will live without fear. with glances i watch the trees, today it was a pileated woodpecker, the birds know more than i, about when to move quickly and when to just sit and wait. my quick days are over, the waiting days are here, breathe in, breathe out.
Yearbook 1990
we care, we don’t care, ballpoint pen, sharpie, maybe a pencil, use words like dude, sign with love, air out grievances, i guess we did have a few little arguments this year, address complicated romance, i suppose we’ve said before that everything was a mistake, but i really don’t feel that way, attempt humor, have a nice winter! make fun of teachers, doesn’t ms. earle look like grimace when she wears the purple lab coat? express bland kindness, you’ve been really cool this year, and i hope to see you around, give unwanted relationship advice, make sure to keep your girl in line, she’ll run all over you, talk sports, oh and by the way, the Braves do not suck, comment on music, STRAY CATS RULE! forget who’s yearbook it is, jim, chemistry wasn’t great but we made it to june, and this quasi-document, could be pompeii, everything, and nothing
Meditating In A Church
Rome in the summer is heat and tourists. The crowds are always too much for me and I don’t shop. My favorite thing to do is simply sit in churches, breathing, meditating. Most people enter the churches with their cameras, meaning their phones, they shuffle around, snap a couple of photos of the stained glass and leave. Others approach the image of Jesus and make the sign of the cross, perhaps kneel. Occasionally, a person places two hands together and prays for several minutes. For the first few moments I notice these things, then they disappear as my eyes close. I focus on my breath, but often my mind wanders and i become someone else, perhaps a parishioner from the 18th century, or perhaps it is easter mass 1946, just after the war, i imagine myself in time, of time, back in time, the musty air speaks to me. This traveling can last 50 minutes, maybe longer, i’m there, but i’m not there, like the shoes moving around me, they exist, but only when i open my eyes. This has become my Roman ritual, the highlight of my summer vacation day. After almost an hour, i open my eyes, bow my head, silently pray, walk back out into the ancient Italian piazza sun.
Mosquito Bite No More
somehow mosquitoes know how to bite without being seen, back of the arm, an ankle, they love me and i love them back, sort of. let me explain. mosquitoes mean summer, they mean i’m outside, maybe by a sea, a pool, a river, a lake, or somewhere at night, under the moon, or stars, and i’m not paying attention to their fluttering about, their quest for blood, because at the moment they bite me, i don’t care. but then there is that sweet itch, the phantom slap, as if they were still sucking. a few minutes later i forget the bite, and rejoin the happenings of july or august. the next day i might itch the bite, or near the bite, contemplate how far the swelling has spread over skin, this can be tormenting and enthralling. sometimes i rub it with hydrocortisone cream, sometimes i drown it in scalding water so it itches even more. it is my souvenir, my summer tattoo. a couple days go by and the redness diameter is less, the scratching urge disappears. another day or two and i search and search for where it once was, but like time, it is gone.
Remembering Sinéad O’Connor
piercing voice of a banshee, perhaps she already knew an early death was coming, her force pulsating from the stereo of my friend heather’s volkswagen bug, top down, summer night and we are all soaked, wrapped in wet towels, late night lake swim, virginia full moon overhead and sinéaid’s lyrics surround us, i don’t know no shame, i feel no pain, a moment captured by a song, o’connor held us with her on that june drive, a small slice of my life, may her spirit live ar feadh na sioraiochta
When Capri Spoke
i have seen the goats nibbling on me, and the tan skin glistening with mediterranean sea that surrounds me, i grow perfect red and orange tomatoes, green arugula, and lemons, never to be forgotten, my sun is famous, kids even drink it with a straw, i’ve changed since the roman days when tiberius used to throw unfortunates from my steep rocky cliffs, now yachts undulate near my shores, celebrities film me with their phones, visit me in july and august, i am the mastic trees, bougainvilla, the bees, and cicadas, i am shady pathways through woods, and luxury hotels, i am the smell of grilled octopus and aperol spritz, summer in the square, i hear it all, dutch, spanish, italian, german, english, arabic, french, tamil, russian, swedish, i am the world on an island, but when winter comes i hibernate like a bear, rain, fog, and wind engulf me, daylight disappears in the afternoon, the caprese families stay on me, i hear their children, watch them walk to church on sundays, they slumber softly at night, i bless them all.
What is Good?
suffering, the buddhists say, because then we can accept what is, rather than grasping for what is not, gelato in late july, saying thank you and meaning it, crisp sparkling water, watching john travolta in grease, mother teresa, love, being of service, apologizing, peaches in early august, dusk, snow on pine trees, cold lake water, dancing to miriam makeba, sitting silently in a church, being grateful, making a snow angel, dreaming you can fly, deciding to be happy
Teenager After Airplane Flight
Don’t call it madness, there is a method, a way to best reconnect with my…..phone. Snapchat photos must be sent to dozens and dozens of people, this proves that i’m alive and have a face, or half a face, depending on my mood. Next, i check snapmaps, see who is alone, who is with others, who is traveling and where. 10 people in one place means a party i wasn’t invited to. That kid is in paris, i’ve never been, jealous, oh well, i will be in greece soon and then they will be jealous, karma. I don’t really know what karma means. Next, birthday wishes via snap messages, shows i care, although, if 80% of the people i snap with showed up at my house i wouldn’t know what to say, i mean, we are friends, sort of. Snapchat update complete, insta time: scroll, photos, videos, pause, beautiful dress, nice nail polish, that cat is so cute, like, like, like. If there is time maybe some tiktok, if not, back to snapchat, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Doo Wop
sing me on street corners under glowing lampposts, harmonizing vocals, black, white, race is no matter, sweet sound knows no color. sing me in philly, in brooklyn, in baltimore, i am your love, your longing, your heartbreak and your joy. a cappella, alive on 45’s and chevy stereos, cruising, because there’s a moon out tonight and life could be a dream. never-ending youth, ephemeral song. doo wop has died, but the music lives on.
Daniel W. Polk 