don’t talk to me about cat stevens, i’m not following anyone, except the earth i guess, but don’t blame gravitational pull on me, i’m not here to illuminate your first kiss, that is love’s domain, craters aren’t my fault either, malicious kamikaze asteroids, neil armstrong’s one small step tickled, glad he & the other boys left, scarred me with their flag, took pieces of me, worthless rocks really, like whiskers shaved off in the sink, i will take credit for the tides, those undulating liquid waves, curling, crashing, little surfers smashing, love when they get barreled, even more when they wipeout, don’t trust my words, after all, i don’t care, you can stare up at me all you want, make your own meaning, i’m nothing without you.
Author: @DwPolk
Sports Card Investing. Photography. Poetry.
Murmur of Pianos
mozart touched tusks, how often did he think about trunks, thick brownish-gray skin, when alive they reached out to one another, comforted, said hello, intelligent creatures, emphasis on creatures, hunted by the hundreds of thousands, dead after gunshot, 4-bore rifles held by money, by music, status symbol, steinway, chickering, must have a baby grand, or an upright in church, pray for the dead animals, they are the keys that ring out, beethoven’s moonlight sonata, chopin’s nocturne in e-flat major, tchaikovsky’s nutcracker suite, you name it, such beauty, haunting beauty, listen closely enough & you can hear their demise.
Drunkards of Honduras (1993)
the roadkill don’t have fur, they aren’t even dead yet
early sunday morning and the streets are littered with corpses
pulses intact, mouths askew
unnatural drool-like vomit in puddles under snoring faces
men with white shirts & straw farmer hats tumbled aside
menial labor temporarily forgotten
they litter the curbs & streets
cars & horses swerve to miss these alcoholic speed bumps
this happens every weekend in gracias, honduras
aptly named, thank you for such imagery
a reminder of how beer & guaro can waste a life
leave it limp on concrete
Mori Point
We are exploring the California Coast from Ocean Beach, San Francisco, to San Diego. Today we visited Mori Point, then swam at Linda Mar Beach.
When I Met Hemingway
tell me about the time you met Ernest Hemingway, sure, i was a fencer, prodigy, too strong? he had heard about my riposte skills, fighter, he was, you could tell, mostly with staccato sentences, had a bottle, always tucked into his sports jacket, whisky of whatever sort, we were in alicante, long copper top bar, anyway, he was curious, listened well, slurred his words, still wanted to learn, i was young, impressed with his name, hemingway, like a british rainstorm, a small torment, wet human, sad inquisitive eyes, could you sense how he would end? this was a few years before ketchum, before, well, you know, and no, i couldn’t surmise, it was the 50’s, eisenhower, golf, before sylvia plath, anyway, i thought he’d live forever, i guess he kinda did.
Tiktoker Watches TikTok
stare, keeping staring, so cute, my little wiggle smile, perfect timing with that clothing/music change, they will love me, they do love me, do they? eye roll, you know, that i know, all that rizz in sixteen seconds, i’m going viral, will i go viral? do they care? wait a couple minutes, check how many likes, keep checking, i’m gonna be famous, i’m not obsessed, i’m obsessed.
Long Distance
& we think all communication is emails, text messages, phone calls, coffee dates, but then there is the metaphysical, that word, like transcendent, beyond birthday greetings, simple salutations, how are you? reflexive, i’m good, words, words, words, when really everything is energy, on the surface we call it miss you, but underneath it is love, we don’t call it at all, it visits us, whether we like it or not.
Manor Beach
Our coastal adventure has begun! We will be traveling the California Coast from Ocean Beach, San Francisco, to San Diego, exploring beaches and various places in segments, until we have driven/swam the entire coastline!
When You Left For College
at first it feels like summer camp in september, you will be back soon, but days become weeks, become more than a month & you aren’t home
at night, sometimes i think i hear your late arrival, as if you were still a high school senior, i thought those saturday nights would go on forever, they don’t, they can’t, time waits for no one, certainly not for some middle-aged man
sad in still moments, memory is love
you the dancer, the big sister, the teacher, the basketball player, the driver, the instagram addict, the celsius drinker, the friend to many
& so i just stare at this screen & wait for thanksgiving.
In A Waymo
touch a screen, little jaguar steering wheel turns, autonomous ghost driver
i wave to the world through tinted glass & white paint
inside the robot i am jonah, trapped by this modern god
offers me music, urges me to buckle up
i am mortal after all
spared from uber or lyft, they will eventually disappear, with their needless human chatter
i am in control now, my app does it all, my phone controls it, controls me
i don’t have a name anymore, just initials perched on top of this vehicle
this thing
my new metal deity, my mindless destiny
Daniel W. Polk 