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.
Category: Poetry
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.
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
Alone in Winnipeg
how odd that I am here in october, scarred
scraped streets, waiting for the return of snow, searching for eleanor, a name, my mother, the one who let me go, adopted, how many times have i said the word? euphemism for unwanted, union of man & woman, for a minute? an hour? a lifetime? questions for canada, where she danced before moving to the u.s. to birth me-
alone in the archives, sifting through microfiche, obituaries, royal winnipeg ballet documents, playbills, eleanor christie, just a name, everything & nothing-
at night i dine on foie gras at resto gare in saint-boniface, flickering french lights, wine’s floating ether, who was she? who am i?-
shiver of winter air’s arrival, i tried, but you are gone.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This piece is poetic fiction. I am not adopted.
How I Found Etta James In San Francisco
late night, july, reading poem of the day, “megan married herself” by caroline bird, english poet, younger than me, fifth line- she strode down the aisle to “at last” by etta james, what do i know about etta james? (1938-2012), looking for connection, internet, internet, doo-wop, her love, my love, when? me, family basement, arlington, virgina, listening to smooth vocals with my father, 1981, etta, between ages 12-16 in the fillmore district of san francisco, 1950-1954, her group the creolettes-connected to creole- a mixture of european, african, and sometimes native american heritage, me, lived at 1550 fillmore in 1996, not creole, but i mix, time, place, words, people, takeaway? we walked the same pavement, liked the same music, never knew etta james, knew her a little bit.
Tanning While Listening To Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam
incongruous, fancy word, me, tanning, me, listening to “lost in emotion”-from 1987, incongruous, but isn’t that all of us? how well do we really know anyone? 24 hours in a day and what do we do with them? hopefully a ton, and some of that isn’t what you think, isn’t what i think, maybe you collect stamps? puffy stickers? or you read salinger, who knows? i guess that is the point, we don’t know much, instagram likes to tell stories, but who are we really? or maybe this is just me, a little bit of mystery, 80’s music out of puerto rican hell’s kitchen while getting ready for the almafi coast, who knew?
Death Of A Volvo
2011, my son was a year old, brand new family suv, you’ve seen it, know it, this is america, owning an suv is like brushing with crest, nothing special, just the passing of time, we only have so many cars, dogs, years, so here i am sitting in the carvana parking lot, check engine light on, brakes barely working, suspension in need of repair, surgery for someone else, time to say goodbye- to booster seats, school drop offs, oil changes, regular unleaded, sports radio, squeaky wipers, and all the rest, temporary rolling home, no more.
Gazing at Longevity Peaches
this is that poem, the one where the writer visits a museum, stares for a long time, tries to transcribe, translate, imbibe one artform into another, so here i am, san francisco, qi baishi, his peaches, better than super mario bros., ty cobb, safeway’s produce section, sickly sweet del monte in a can, better than ice cream, shout out sarah mclachlan, maybe not better than ice cream, but i’ve never seen frozen dessert so delectably hung on a wall, and to think he lived (1864) & died (1957) fully immersed in art, the way i want to swim in letters, inspiring, the colors, the colors, spheres, juice-filled suns on earth, made by human hands, human hands.
Daniel W. Polk 